All he manages to say is, “Cool.”

“I’ll see you later!” I call after him. “Good luck with the physical!”

In the cafeteria, I catch up to Kiera and slide onto the bench beside her. “Oscar signed up for JV wrestling.”

“I’ve been thinking about it too!” says Greg from across the table. “Honestly though, I can’t wrestle with my glasses, and contacts make my eyes water too much.”

I try to smile, but I must be doing a crummy job, because his face falls a little.

“I bet there’s some kind of solution for that. Like prescription goggles or something,” I say, with forced cheer, and turn back to Kiera, my voice more hushed. “Oscar doesn’t even like when his brothers want to wrestle. Or even, like, sweating in general. What’s the deal?”

“Maybe he does like doing that stuff.” She shrugs. “I don’t know. Boys are weird, especially about stuff that’s supposed to be manly.”

“Why does it have to be like that? Why does it have to be boys versus girls? Or boys do things like wrestling and girls don’t? I really don’t think Oscar even wanted to sign up. It’s like he just wants to do anything that doesn’t involve me.”

Kiera shakes her head. “I doubt that’s it.”

But I can hear the hesitation in her voice, and I know that I’m not entirely wrong.

Later that day, after school, I try to find Oscar to invite him over, but he’s already gone.

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Causing a Scene

I spend Wednesday night putting the final touches on my Aretha Franklin project. I read just the other day that she released her first album when she was only fourteen years old. That’s only one year older than me, and I can barely get it together enough to finish this project on time. Forget an album.

By Thursday morning, I’m—well, I won’t say I’m ready, but I will say that if I don’t get this presentation over with today, I might just explode.

As soon as we’re done with our pledges and moment of reflection, Mrs. Young asks if there are any volunteers who would like to get their presentations over and done with. My hand shoots up in the air along with Kiera’s, but I guess I beat her to it, because I’m the first to go.

My sweaty hands grip the edges of my poster board, and I could kiss my mother for having the genius idea of gluing my note cards on the back. Maybe she does have some good ideas.

I clear my throat. “I decided to do my project on Aretha Franklin, the Queen of Soul. She was a singer, songwriter, pianist, actress, and civil-rights architect.” No, that’s not right. “Activist, I mean. A civil-rights activist.”

Someone sniggers. I think. Somewhere on the far side of the classroom. Or maybe it’s just in my head. I feel like my skin is on fire and like everyone can see my underwear, which are days-of-the-week underwear, and I think I’m accidentally wearing my Sunday pair.