Competition

By Roberta Olsen Major

Pep squad drop-out. Barbara's giving the high school speech team a try this year—but she's burned out on practices before the school year even starts! Maybe pom-poms aren't so bad after all….

• Language: English
• Publisher: Wings ePress, Inc.
• Release date: Aug 7, 2023
• ISBN: 9781590880425

Book preview

What They Are Saying About Rising Star

Roberta Olsen Major

T he Prince In The Flower Bed is smart, hip and hysterical.

—Rob. Lauer,

award-winning playwright

...filled with real personalities, interesting twists, imaginative details—and just the right touch of magic.

—Rosemarie Howard,

Storyteller

With wit and humor that will appeal to every kid and every one who ever was a kid, including those of us wishing we could be kids again, Roberta Major has woven another tale in her fairy tale series...that will leave you begging: WHERE’S THE NEXT ONE???

—Sara V. Olds,

author of Hanne’s Farewell To Juarez

"For ‘kids’ of all ages, The Seventh Dwarf is a delightful tale that kept me smiling from cover to cover. Not unlike the immensely popular and entertaining Shrek, Dwarf takes ‘happily ever after’ a hop, skip and a jump farther, leading the child in us all on a merry romp through ‘what if’."

—Pam Ripling,

author of LOCKER SHOCK!

Competition

Roberta Olsen Major

A Wings ePress, Inc.

Young Adult Novel

Edited by: Lorraine Stephens

Copy Edited by: Sara V. Olds

Senior Editor: Robbin Major

Executive Editor: Lorraine Stephens

Cover Artist: Pam Ripling

All rights reserved

NAMES, CHARACTERS AND incidents depicted in this book are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of the author or the publisher.

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

Wings ePress Books

Copyright © 2002 by Roberta Olsen Major

ISBN 1-59088-042-0

Published by Wings ePress, Inc.

Published In the United States Of America

Wings ePress Inc.

3000 N. Rock Road

Newton, KS  67114

Dedication

With thanks to my mom—who survived my high school years without having to resort to violence...

And for Anne Linne—teacher, mentor, coach, and patron saint of calmness in a turbulent sea of teenaged angst and hormones...

And in memory of Kevin Borgeson, who still lives in a special corner of my heart...

One

Itook one last look in the mirror and dredged up a massive sigh, a sigh that, like Helen of Troy’s face, could have launched a thousand ships.

Unlike my face.

Not that it’s a bad face. A little on the round side maybe, but that’s genetics, not chocolate doughnuts. Brown eyes. Naturally straight teeth, which is good. Naturally straight hair, which is not so good.

No extra eyeballs or stray nose hairs. The occasional zit, but nothing of epic proportions.

All in all, a perfectly acceptable face. Nothing special. Nothing that’ll be launching a thousand ships any time in the immediate future. If ever.

Nothing like Elaine Duncan’s face.

Don’t get me wrong. Elaine isn’t perfect.

It’s just that everybody thinks she is.

I mean, her thighs are a little heavy, but with that thick wavy black hair and those deep blue eyes, her flawless taste in clothes, unfailing sense of humor, brains, confidence, and genuine niceness, who the heck bothers to criticize, much less even notice, her thighs?

Ever since I got to know Elaine two summers ago, when we both signed up for a three-week theatre camp at the college, I’ve wanted to be just like her: the style, the humor, the brains, the confidence, the niceness. The whole enchilada.

At first I thought maybe a haircut and dye job would be a good place to start, but my imagination, one of the few things I have that’s truly excellent, kept me from creating a Red Cross level disaster. Elaine’s hair on my head would have been really awful.

In the battle between cosmetology and genetics, genetics wins every time.

It’s not that my hair is exactly bad. It’s just that it’s straight. And brown. Nothing dramatic. Nothing stylish. Nothing special.

And that’s me, Barbara Louise Jensen, in a nutshell.

So why, on my first day as a junior at Travis High School, did I even bother looking at myself in the mirror? Sure, I had the skirt and matching top and the classic Elaine Duncan shoes, but isn’t there a saying somewhere about making a silk purse out of a sow’s ear?

Why couldn’t it still be yesterday? I muttered.

At least yesterday all I had to worry about was Andy.

ANDY, IF I HAVE TO do this one more time, I’ll scream until I turn thirteen shades of purple.

Just one more time. I have fifteen minutes before I need to go mow the Petrie’s lawn. That’s enough time for one more run-through. Andy ran his fingers through his hair.

His hair is orange, and, since he’s always running his fingers through it, it always stands up in little spikes like a rooster.

No, Andy. I hate the lines, I hate the characters, and I hate the scene. Andy finally took a good look at me so I got louder just for good measure. We’ve rehearsed it all summer long and I’m sick of it!

I just want it to be good.

It is good, okay? In fact, it’s perfect. It’s so perfect that we’ll never need to practice it again. And now, I think I hear the Petries’ lawn paging you. I talked through my fist in a pretty darn good imitation of an operator’s voice: Andrew Prescott. Andrew Prescott. Please report to surgery for your five o’clock grassectomy.

Why are you two out here yelling at each other? My mom poked her head out the back door. I swear, the two of you argue like an old married couple.

Very funny, Mother. I felt my face get hot. Mothers can be so embarrassing.

The way you were hollering I thought maybe Bob was home.

Bob is my older brother. I’ll take Andy over Bob any day of the week.

We were just rehearsing our scene, Mrs. Jensen. Andy has learned from long years of experience to take my mom with a grain of salt.

You’ve been working on that thing all summer. When are you going to do it for an audience?

The first speech tournament is in Austin at the end of September, Andy told her. We’ll do it—or duet—then. But I want to have it in good shape before we show it to GeeDub.

GeeDub?

Gail Walker. G.W. GeeDub. Andy waited until he could see she’d gotten it. The speech coach. She goes with us to all of the tournaments.

Lucky GeeDub. Mom laughed. And I thought I had it tough just keeping track of Barbara and Bob! I can’t imagine chaperoning a whole team of teenagers on an overnight trip. And why the trips have to be overnight is beyond me.

It’s because we’re three hours away from everywhere. A nice way of saying that Travis, Texas, is in the middle of nowhere. We’re too far away from all the big cities in the state, and the big cities are where the really good tournaments are. Andy had the intense look on his face he gets whenever he’s talking about one of his passions.

Makes sense, I guess. Well, Barb, it’s almost time to eat. I need you to set the table, please. Would you like to stay for dinner, Andy? Mom likes Andy. Adults usually do. Just like they like Elaine, which goes without saying.

I wish I could, Andy said. But I’ve just heard from a very reliable source that the Petries’ lawn is turning into a jungle. I promised I’d mow it for them before the homeowner’s association got after them.

Well, maybe next time. Mom went inside then, thank goodness.

So I’ll see you tomorrow, Andy. Maybe we’ll have a few classes together this year.

If not, there’ll always be scene rehearsals. Andy waved as he left.

No more rehearsals! I yelled after him.

That was yesterday.

TODAY WHEN I SHOWED up for breakfast wearing a skirt, Bob choked on his chocolate milk.

What’re you all dressed up for? he asked, his own hair curling naturally the way I’d just spent half an hour torturing mine to do. The prom isn’t until spring. And you probably won’t get a date for it anyway.

Thanks a bunch.

You look very nice. That was good old Mom, slugging down the last of a cup of milky coffee like she did at this time every morning. I hoped there was a young lady under all of last year’s worn out jeans and baggy teeshirts. Mom rinsed her coffee cup out and set it on the counter by the sink. I have to run or I’ll be late. Have a good first day of school, kids. The soles of her white Reeboks squeaked on the kitchen tile as she picked up a sweater in case the hospital was too cold again today.

The door slammed.

When Dad was still alive, the first day of school was always a big deal. Even after Bob and I were old enough to get embarrassed by all the fuss, Mom would serve up a special breakfast and Dad would print out banners on his old PC, and then Mom and Dad would stand in the doorway together waving us off like we were going to the Crusades or something.

At the time it had been horribly humiliating, of course, but moments like this I’d give anything for just one more wave from Dad.

Barbara, Bob said, derailing my train of thought, don’t think things are going to be different now that you’re on upper campus. You’ll be with the same people you went to school with at lower campus. Even the seniors will be the same ones you went to school with as freshmen.

Thank you. I’m aware of that. Bob, after all, is a senior, even though he’s basically clueless. Now may we please change the subject?

You just want to be like Elaine Duncan, Bob said, pouring chocolate milk on his cereal. Sixteen going on thirty-five.

Okay, so Bob does have a clue. What a shock.

Of course I want to be like Elaine. Who wouldn’t?

And this was the year I’d make it happen.

BUT NOT WITH SECOND period gym class.

By the time I headed toward third period competitive speech class, my hair was droopy, my pantyhose were saggy, and my face was as hot as a fresh poached egg.

Elaine was talking to Mrs. Walker as I dragged myself into the room and flopped into a chair.

Phys Ed? Elaine’s eyes were full of genuine sympathy. I did mention that she’s nice, didn’t I?

I nodded and pushed my hair back from my hot face. Laps on the first day. I couldn’t believe it!

Great. Elaine fingered a pearl earring. I should have left these at home, I guess. Then she shrugged. Oh well. I can’t complain. At least I have gym at the end of the day.

Of course you do, I thought as I sagged another inch lower in my seat.

Andy sailed in seconds before the final bell, his hair still wet from the school swimming pool, and planted himself next to me. Will you be ready to preview our scene next week?

I’m ready today. I still felt hot and cross—like those buns from the nursery rhyme. Hot Cross Buns. And then I never want to do it again.

Underneath all those negative remarks, Andy said, I keep telling myself you’re as jazzed as I am to try the scene out at competition. He looked at me hopefully. You are, aren’t you?

I studied his freckled face for a moment, and then sighed (which I seem to be doing a lot of lately). Of course I’m jazzed, Andy. Haul out your trumpet and I’ll prove it.

Just then a tall, dark-haired guy strolled in with a smile on his perfect face that almost knocked my socks off, except that I wasn’t wearing any.

Mrs. Walker, who has salt-and-pepper hair and a great