Page 114 of Hate You, Maybe
“Yeah,” I say. “Me too.”
After the theater kids celebrate their glorious tie game with traditional post-game handshake on the fifty-yard line, the announcer directs everyone’s attention to the enormous stage taking up all the real estate of the end zone. That’s where thefootball players are set to perform their scene fromRomeo and Juliet.
While the orchestra starts up the score midfield, the entire team jogs out from under the bleachers and up onto the stage. They’re wearing vintage costumes that, I’ve been told, resemble clothing authentic to Verona, Italy, during the Renaissance. The players quickly assemble into their formations to act out the Capulets’ masquerade ball. As the acting performing arts director, I’ve got my fingers crossed their efforts will hold up to the theater kids’ ball playing.
And good news: The play goes even more spectacularly than I hoped.
To be clear, this isn’t about beating Sayla. Our group alone isn’t any better than hers is. We’re way worse, actually. We’ve got guys tripping over each other while they dance, the main characters bungle multiple lines, and the action pauses for more than one bout of uncontrollable laughter.
But ultimately, the play succeeds because students representing all parts of Stony Peak join in. And by the end, the event becomes one big collaboration.
Just like we’d planned.
Our scene started out like a traditional Shakespeare play, literally, since all the actors were male, and that’s how things rolled back in the day. Not just at The Globe Theater. But all the plays. (Sayla taught me that.) Midway through the masquerade ball, however, other students from various clubs start trickling onto the stage.
Sign language.
Mathletes.
Gamers.
Ornithology.
Then the theater kids join in, still wearing the football players’ jerseys. Our dance team takes their spots on the grass in front of the stage. The marching band splits up to assembleon either side. Even the choir comes out in their robes to sing some old song from the 14thcentury. A madrigal, apparently. And as the grand finale, more than a hundred kids representing Stony Peak High perform “Steal My Girl,” by One Direction.
Unironically. Or ironically. Depending on who you ask.
Afterward, we all transition into the school’s alma mater, the band and orchestra playing at the same time, and everyone sings together. Led by yours truly. With an actual microphone. On a stage. In public. Of course Sayla’s there to walk me through the whole process, step by step. She’s amazing.
We’reamazing together.
And in the end, as the crowd gives us all a standing ovation, I can’t help checking the stands for the familiar faces I know will be here. Of course my parents showed up. And Kendal came with the kids, too. Everyone else had to be at work, but she’s taking video to save for posterity, as she put it. This means proof exists now of me singing a boy band song in public. Forever. But I don’t care. Because I’m doing this with Sayla. I’m for her.
Always.
As soon as we finish belting out the Stony Peak alma mater, while everyone else is still applauding, Sayla drags me and the microphone over to the center of the track right in front of the stands.
“Hey there, Gray Squirrels!” she calls out, and everyone in the stadium erupts in waves and cheers. “You all did a fantastic job today,” she continues, “and I sure hope the school board, Superintendent Dewey, and the Southern Accreditation Committee for Secondary Schools are impressed by what we’ve achieved.” She pauses for a moment while the people in the stands applaud again. Then she turns to the students. “By whatyou’veachieved, I mean. We GraySquirrels may be the underdogs of the Mountain Valley School District, but we have just as much pride as the Harvest High Bobcats. And we deserve just as many accolades. Both schools are worthy. And we Squirrels don’t give up when the odds are stacked against us. We keep fighting.” She shifts her attention back to the stands where our VIPs sit.
“We’re fighting now for another four-year accreditation. And I’d like to think we’ve earned that this week.” More cheers and applause. The energy is palpable. “But there’s something else we’ve been fightingoverthese days, not fightingfor,” she says. “Mr. Michaels and I have been pitted against each other, trying to win a grant we were told only one of our departments could get. But the truth is, both the performing arts department and athletics need funding for important renovations. And I’m not trying to put anyone on the spot today, Dr. Dewey—” She lets out a shaky laugh. “Or maybe I am. But our performance today wasn’t just so the accreditation committee could see how hard we Gray Squirrels work to collaborate. We want the district to see this too. When we put our heads together and commit to cooperation, we can achieve anything. So I’m asking you now, Dr. Dewey, and you, school board members, to figure out a way to recognize our worth. The solution may not be easy, but I’m begging you. Please don’t divide us. Find a way to fund both our departments. If we all work together, I believe we can find a way to make this work. After all, that’s what true collaboration is really about.”
Sayla turns, her eyes bright and her breaths coming quick. Then she reaches for me, lifting our clasped hands high for everyone to see. “Thank you!” she calls out. And the crowd goes crazy.
So does my heart.
Oh, man.
I’m in love with this woman.
Chapter Thirty-Five
Sayla
I’ll spare you all the suspense.
The district turned us down.
Of course, they didn’t tell us that on the spot. After all, Dr. Dewey and the rest of the school board were up in the stands, and Dex and I were standing on the track at the fifty-yard line, surrounded by the theater kids and the football team.
