Read Online Reluctantly Alice by Phyllis Reynolds Naylor - Free Book Online Page A

Elizabeth, and I—sat huddled together on one seat of the bus, as though somehow we could protect ourselves by sticking together. Of the three of us, Pamela was the least concerned. The same Pamela who got the lead part in our sixth-grade play because she could sing probably knew she could carry it off if anybody backed her against the wall. In fact, the way she was chattering on and on about it, I figured she sort of hoped she would be cornered in the hallway, because she loved an audience.
    Elizabeth was scared, though. She was afraid she would forget the words to the second and third verses and kept wanting to recite them to me to make sure she had them right. Mostly, she was afraid that if she was dunked in the drinking fountain, her hair would look awful, and if she was dunked in the toilets, she’d throw up.
    I wasn’t as worried about the drinking fountain or toilets as I was about the humiliation of opening my mouth and letting pure noise come out.
    As soon as we were inside the school, Elizabeth, Pamela, and I stuck together as long as we could before we had to separate to go to different homerooms. I saw Patrick walking down the hall ahead of me and ran to catch up with him. I knew that if anyone came up to me when I was with Patrick and asked me to sing, Patrick would sing it for me if he could. Or sing along with me. He’s like that.
    â€œHi,” I said, wedging myself between him and the wall and getting in step.
    Patrick guessed right away. “You know what day it is, huh?”
    â€œ Is it? Patrick, are you sure?”
    â€œI heard someone say so on the bus. Nobody’s lettingon until after the morning announcements, because they don’t want the principal trying to head it off.”
    â€œP-Patrick!” I gulped, in a small squeaky voice, like a chicken. “What am I going to do?”
    â€œAbout what?” he said. And you know, that was one of the nicest things he ever said to me, because it meant he’d forgotten all about how I can’t sing. When you think something’s wrong with you, you believe that everyone is thinking about it all the time. Like it’s the only important thing about you. But Patrick actually had forgotten.
    â€œI can’t sing !” I told him.
    â€œOh. That ,” he said. “Well, just pretend you have laryngitis, Alice. Open your mouth, move your lips, and point to your throat.”
    I knew that wouldn’t work with Denise and her crowd if she got hold of me. I’d have to go all day long not talking to anyone, not even teachers, and still, I’ll bet, no one would believe me. “Patrick,” I said, “what are you doing after lunch? I mean, you want to go out and sit on the wall with me?”
    â€œThere’s going to be an extra band rehearsal,” he said. “All the percussion players have to be there.”
    My last hope. As I ducked into homeroom, Patrick said, “Cheer up, Alice. It’s not the end of your life.”
    Maybe not for Patrick, who could play the drums, the cymbals, the marimba, and the piano and could belt out songs like he’d written them himself. But it could be the end of my life in seventh grade as I’d known it up till then. I wondered if anyone ever died of embarrassment, if the heart just stopped beating or something.
    I sat clutching my books to my chest while the home-room teacher collected health forms, then sat some more while the principal made the daily announcements. Finally, when the bell rang, I took a deep breath and plunged into the hallway.
    I hadn’t even gotten to my first class before I saw some guy backed up against the lockers and two ninth graders, holding his arms, making him sing. The poor kid was singing in a soft little voice, and the older boys kept saying, “Louder! We can’t hear you! Louder!” The boy’s face was as pink as bubble gum. Other kids stopped to watch and laugh. I wished my picture had