my vocal cords hurt

from practicing my song so much.”

“Who?” I ask to be nice,

because of course I already know the answer.

“Trevor!”

“Trevor?” Lizard asks.

“Trevor!

From the play!

And he tried to act like he didn’t see me,

but I know he did because the tips of his ears

turned red in this super-cute way. And then—”

And then Lizard and Zoey and Zari and I

all smile at one another

and let Veronica go on talking.

A Month Later

The play is much scarier

than I thought it would be,

and much more thrilling, too.

You may have heard the expression

“blinded by the light,”

which sounds like a contradiction,

because if you are blind,

your world is dark all the time,

so how can you be blinded by light?

But it’s true.

When the hot, bright theater lights

hanging from the auditorium ceiling

shine straight into your eyes

with their full glaring intensity

for a moment you can’t see anything.

You can’t see out into the auditorium

where now instead of playing-card boys

horsing around and driving Mr. Delgado crazy,

every seat is filled with parents

and siblings and teachers and friends

who wait in expectant silence

for you to begin your song

and you hope—hope—hope—

you haven’t forgotten the words.

Veronica’s Big Moment

Before all the flowers sing our song together,

the five real flowers with actual names

have to start speaking their lines.

Lily’s one and only line is supposed to be:

“We can talk,

when there is anybody worth talking to.”

But when Alice says the line

that comes before this,

“Oh, Lily, I wish you could talk!”

Lily doesn’t talk.

Lily doesn’t say

anything

at all.

Veronica stands there

rooted to the stage,

as if she were

a real flower.

No longer a girl pretending to be a flower,

but a girl who has turned into one

and now can’t speak

a single word.

My Big Moment

Standing directly behind her,

I whisper to Veronica,

“We can talk!”

She repeats the words

so softly I can hardly hear them,

and she forgets to toss her petals,

and swivel her hips,

and although I can’t see her face,

I bet she forgets to roll her eyes

to show her scorn for poor little Alice.

“When there is anybody,”

I whisper next.

“When there is anybody,”

she repeats like a flower puppet.

“Worth talking to.”

“Worth talking to.”

So don’t let anyone tell you

that being an extra flower

isn’t an extremely important job.

If you are ever a real flower

and you forget your only line,

hope that you have

a quick-witted extra flower

standing behind you.

At the End of Our Song

The applause is so loud it startles me.

It was such fun belting out our song,

preening and strutting in our mean-flower way,

I almost forget the audience was there.