OyMG Read Free Page B

around her legs. Zeydeh had gone to look at the pasta. Next thing we knew, a woman started to shriek from across the store. I’m not even sure how Mom knew. But she did.
    When we careened around the corner of Aisle 12, there he was. Sprawled flat on the linoleum, a trail of red bleeding from his forehead to the floor. I remember thinking that only Zeydeh would die in a grocery store. He wouldn’t even die like a regular grandpa.
    Then the screaming started.
    It took me a minute to realize it was coming from my own mother. I’d only ever seen her fight with Zeydeh, but now she dropped to her knees beside me. Her whole face sort of caved in on itself. She screamed and sobbed as if she could raise the dead. And she did.
    Because suddenly Zeydeh woke up. Turned out the “pool of blood” was Prego marinara. He’d fainted with a jar of spaghetti sauce in his hand, and it had splattered everywhere. He had a gash on one arm from the broken glass, but other than that, the paramedic said he was fine.
    Mom said otherwise. She took Zeydeh to the doctor and found out he had hypotension, which means low blood pressure. He had to take better care of himself and drink plenty of liquids, or he’d be susceptible to dizziness and could end up fainting again. The doctor said mornings were especially dangerous because blood pressure could decrease overnight. So Mom said Zeydeh couldn’t be alone so much. She said every morning one of us would go to his house and make sure he drank a big glass of juice. Usually, that someone was me.
    Nine years later, I could still picture him dead on the floor of Fry’s. It made me feel sick. Sitting in the Benedict’s auditorium, I squeezed my eyes shut, and sent up my own prayer. Dear God, please watch out for Zeydeh. And could you help me make a good first impression on Mrs. Yeats? I paused. And, uh, Jesus, if you’re up there—nothing personal or anything.

CHAPTER 4
    When I pushed open the door to 6C, everyone stood in the back of the room and a lady was gesturing for them to make a circle. I’d hung around the auditorium as long as I could, hoping to spot Mrs. Yeats and introduce myself, but no luck. Maybe I’d see her at lunch.
    I dropped my pack by a front-row desk that looked empty and took a quick glance around as I joined the circle. It was the nicest classroom I’d ever been in. The desks were a dark, polished wood with matching chairs. There was a bank of windows along the back with black and gold blinds, and walls painted to look like gold speckles. Another door in the far corner of the room was framed by posters of old presidents. A huge whiteboard covered the front wall. Written in green marker were the words “Mrs. Becca Lee, Original Oratory.”
    I slipped in between two girls and checked out Mrs. Lee. She looked thirty-something, with short brown hair that just cleared her ears, straight eyebrows, and intense green eyes.
    â€œI’m Mrs. Lee, your team leader,” she said in a deep, throaty voice. “I competed in speech tournaments for many years and now teach at Benedict’s. According to the NFL, the National Forensic League, an original oratory is an original speech—no longer than ten minutes—about any topic you choose. The speech must be presented from memory without the use of notes or a script. Simple, right?” She raised her eyebrows, as if challenging us. “In fact, it’s not simple at all.”
    I took a deep breath. Someone near me was sucking an orange Tic Tac—I could smell it.
    â€œWhy do some oratories break through the competition when other oratories don’t?” Mrs. Lee asked. “And most importantly, how do you create the kind that will break through?” She turned slowly, her gaze locking with mine for a second before moving on. “That’s what you’re about to find out. By the end of this camp, you will have researched and written an original