Off the Page Read online

  The fear of these men was nothing compared to the faces of the students surrounding me as Mr. Elyk begins to pass out the SAT Reasoning Test. A cheerleader sitting behind me is swallowing convulsively, as if her breakfast is about to come face to face with my back. Raj keeps checking the battery life on his calculator. Even Chris looks a little pale.

  “I don’t understand why everyone’s panicking,” I whisper to Chris. “All you have to do is color in the circles.”

  “It’s not about how you color the circles. It’s about finding the right answer to know which ones you color. Based on this test, I could wind up at Harvard or bagging groceries for the rest of my life.”

  “No more talking,” Mr. Elyk says. “We’re about to begin.” He lifts up a piece of paper and begins to read from it, a litany of directions that has something to do with sections and time and point systems that sounds like gibberish to me. I stare at the grid of circles that will apparently decide my destiny.

  “Now everyone break your seals,” Mr. Elyk says, “and begin.”

  I do as he says, then look down at the first question in my booklet:

  For pumpkin carving, Mr. Smith will not use pumpkins that weigh less than 2 pounds or more than 10 pounds. If x represents the weight of a pumpkin, in pounds, he will not use, which of the following inequalities represents all possible values of x?

  a. | x – 2 | > 10

  b. | x – 4 | > 6

  c. | x – 5 | > 5

  d. | x – 6 | > 4

  e. | x – 10 | > 4

  What the devil is wrong with a man who doesn’t even know how to use a proper scale? If it keeps reading x, it’s time to purchase a new one.

  Clearly this is a trick question. So in response, I decide that the best use of my time is to fill in the circles in the way that will be most pleasing to the eye of the person who is grading it.

  I must say, the picture I create is really a masterpiece. There’s a silhouette of a fire-breathing dragon, and a swashbuckling prince holding his sword aloft.

  “Put down your pencils,” Mr. Elyk says. I glance at Raj. He seems to have forgotten how to blink.

  “Now we will begin the next section,” the teacher reads.

  I pick up my pencil, delighted. I think this time, I’ll draw a castle.

  On Mondays during Activity Period, I drop Delilah off at the school library, where she works shelving books. We move through the halls holding hands, which seems rather tame when compared to couples like BrAngelo, who are basically mating as they navigate the building, blindly slamming into lockers and terrified freshmen.

  The buzz that morning in school is still about the dreaded SAT test. “It wasn’t that bad,” I tell Delilah. “I don’t want to brag, but my dragon was rather creative.”

  “Is that a metaphor?”

  “No. I drew a dragon. Literally.”

  She bursts out laughing. “The guidance counselors are going to have you committed.” Delilah releases my hand and links her arm through mine instead, hugging me closer. “So I was thinking . . . you and I have never been on a real date.”

  “We’ve had supper with your mother.”

  “That does not even begin to count.”

  “Then what did you have in mind?” I ask.

  “Well.” Delilah looks up at me; it’s like the sun coming out from behind a cloud. “I thought maybe—”

  “Yo, Edgar,” I hear, and I turn around to see the captain of the school hockey team passing by. He fist-bumps me over Delilah’s head. “Hey, thanks for the help in English. I totally passed the test.”

  “Anytime!” I say, and turn back to Delilah. “You were saying?”

  “I was thinking we could go out to a restaurant, like—”

  Suddenly James appears in front of us. “You coming to Friday’s meeting, Edgar?”

  I nod. “Wouldn’t miss it. I’m bringing the snack.”

  “Awesome,” James says, and at the last minute, acknowledges Delilah. “Hey,” he says, nodding before he walks past.

  Delilah’s grip tightens on my arm. “Anyway.” She exhales. “I was thinking maybe you’d like to try Chinese food—”

  “EDGAR!” A gaggle of girls surrounds me, pecking at me like chickens with their questions. Did you do the history reading? Should I get a pixie cut? Can you show me how to throw a Frisbee sometime? Is it true that you went to camp with Harry Styles?

  I can feel Delilah’s nail dig into my skin. “Girls,” I say. “I’ll catch up with you later.” Then I turn the full force of my charm on Delilah. “Where were we?”

  “I was making dinner plans,” she answers, her voice tight. “You were signing autographs.”

  I watch her turn into the library, completely confounded. The problem is that Delilah brought me into her world. But now it’s mine too.

  At Ms. Pingree’s urging, I’ve joined the drama club. They meet during Activity Period as well, in the school auditorium. Every week, we act out scenes from different plays. Last Monday, it was Tennessee Williams. This time, it’s Shakespeare.

  I must admit, Shakespeare is a more comfortable fit for me.

  “Now, Romeo and Juliet is something you all should be able to relate to: two teenagers who can’t keep their hands off each other, even though circumstances are forcing them apart. Edgar,” Ms. Pingree says, “would you like to take the reins as Romeo today?”

  This is not a surprise. I’m the only male in the drama club. “It would be my greatest pleasure,” I say, and Ms. Pingree’s hand goes to her heart.

  “Now. Who shall be our tragic Juliet?”

  The hands of the fifteen girls in the room shoot up. “Claire, dear.” Ms. Pingree points. “How about you?”

  Claire has an upturned nose and a cloud of fuzzy red hair, and she favors a sweatshirt with a sequined unicorn on the front. She rises, unable to make eye contact with me as she steps forward, giggling uncontrollably.

  Before she can reach the stage, however, Allie McAndrews slaps her aside. “I’ll take this one.”

  I reach toward Claire, trying to help her up, but I’m yanked away by Allie, who pulls me into the center of the stage with the brute force of an ogre. She tosses her shining hair and looks up at me from beneath her lashes. “You ready?”

  I toss a sympathetic glance toward poor Claire, who is still attempting to get up from where Allie shoved her, and then clear my throat. “ ‘If I profane with my unworthiest hand / This holy shrine,’ ” I say, “ ‘the gentle fine is this: / My lips, two blushing pilgrims, ready stand / To smooth that rough touch with a tender kiss.’ ”

  It figures. The most romantic scene in the most romantic play in all of literature, and my stage partner is Delilah’s worst nightmare.

  I draw in my breath. For years, I acted as if I truly were in love with Seraphima. This can’t be any worse.

  So I stare into Allie McAndrews’s eyes, and I imagine Delilah’s. I reach for Allie’s hand, and I pretend I am holding on to the love of my life.

  “ ‘Good pilgrim, you do wrong your hand too much / . . . which manly—’ ”

  “Mannerly!” Ms. Pingree interrupts.

  “ ‘Man . . . nerly,’ ” Allie repeats, “ ‘devotion shows in this; / for saints have hands that pilgrims hands do touch . . .’ ”

  I raise the flat of my hand and press hers against it.

  “ ‘And palm to palm,’ ” she says, transfixed, “ ‘is holy palmers’ kiss.’ ”

  Stepping forward, I gently brush a strand of her hair away from her cheek. My voice drops to a whisper. “ ‘Have not saints lips? And holy palmers too?’ ”

  Allie stares at me. Gaping.

  “Line!” I call out.

  Ms. Pingree reads, “ ‘Aye, Pilgrim . . .’ ”

  “ ‘Aye, Pilgrim,’ ” Allie parrots. “ ‘Lips they must use in prayer.’ ”

  I groan. “ ‘O, then, dear saint, let lips do what hands do; / They pray, grant thou, lest faith turn to despair.’ ”

  Her gaze is steady, luminous,