"...As such," Lucy concluded, with her hands poised daintily upon the end of the lunch table which served as a temporary podium, "if the school were to keep boys and girls separated for all classes, they would be depriving the boys of viewing this vision of beauty" — she swept a hand toward herself — "every day, and so they might continue to think girls have cooties well into adulthood. So, in conclusion, to force boys and girls to have separate classes in all subjects would be depriving students of important experiences, like boys learning how to give cute girls valentines, and it would unintentionally promote continued sexism through ignorance. Thank you."
She glanced expectantly at Sunny, and her teammate pressed the button on the stopwatch.
"And — time!" Sunny beamed as bright as her name.
Lucy let out a sigh of relief and triumph.
Cookie broke into an enthusiastic applause, wearing her trademark motherly smile. "Not bad, hon! You're getting better at staying within the eight-minute limit! And that earns you a cookie."
She held out the bag of chocolate-chip cookies from her pink lunchbox smothered in magazine pictures of assorted cookies pasted on by hand, and Lucy accepted the reward as she retook her seat. Since the three of them were on the same team for this week's debate, and they all had the same lunch period anyway, they had been getting together since Tuesday to practice and give each other feedback over the drone of the crowded cafeteria.
"How did I do?" Lucy asked as she munched.
"I see you're going for a pathos method of persuasion," Sunny remarked cheerfully, tapping her pencil against her notepad. "Playing on the emotions of your listeners is a nice strategy, and drawing from your own experiences is acceptable — to a point — but make sure that you put more emphasis on facts and cited resources than personal opinions alone."
"Yah," Cookie nodded. "As Sebastian says, come prepared with more research than you're likely to need, and you'll never have to worry about reaching the time limit — except going over, don'tcha know."
Lucy jotted that down on her own notepad. Within two weeks, she had already learned a lot, both in improving her public-speaking skills and in gleaning mountains of interesting (and argument-crushing) facts from newspaper articles and other sources in the library. She could actually feel her mind stretching the more she took in. It was all too easy — childish, really — for a fussbudget to make herself crabby and to win an argument through intimidation and criticism, but to keep her head, to handle herself with a calm but impassioned delivery, to list off all the facts she could find to refute her opponents' arguments made Lucy feel almost like a grownup.
I didn't know what I was missing out on before, she marveled. She could have negotiated with her parents for later bedtimes or increases in allowances, or she could have silenced Violet and Patty during a verbal altercation without ever slinging one insult, or — maybe — she could have already convinced Schroeder that copying Beethoven by remaining a bachelor was a major mistake.
I could do it too, once I get better at debating, she told herself. She could see it vividly: after a month or two of being a topnotch debater, she would confidently stroll into Schroeder's house while he was playing the piano. She would calmly slip onto the bench beside him, and he would stop playing, happy to see her back in his house after being gone so long. Then she would lay out her whole argument, explaining why a cute girl who loved him was better than devoting his life to playing Beethoven music. He would be so floored by her reasoning that he would throw his arms around her, pull her close, and then—
Don't get ahead of yourself, Lucy, she cautioned herself. She still had to wait a while before she could even attempt to visit him at his house, much less get a proper declaration of love out of him — but that did not stop the wide smile from spreading across her face.
"By the way, Lucy," Sunny cut into her cheery thoughts in a casual tone, but her eyes gleamed, "I noticed you brought up the topic of getting valentines from boys. Was that from personal experience too?"
"Ooooh!" Cookie clasped her hands against her cheeks. "Spill the tea now, hon!"
Lucy had to shake off her lingering daydream and return to Earth.
"Unfortunately, that's mostly speculation," she told them flatly. "He's never given me a sincere valentine before, and no matter how much I do for him, he doesn't know I'm alive."
"Oh, so the guy himself isn't hypothetical," Sunny smirked, "just getting a valentine from him.'
"Who is he?" Cookie asked eagerly. "Does he go here? Is he an eighth grader?"
Sunny squealed, "Does he play sports, or is he more of an intellectual type?"
Both, actually, Lucy almost said, fondly recalling Schroeder's predilections for baseball, football, skateboarding, and hockey, but she stopped herself just in time. While she had always been pretty open (and public) about her feelings for Schroeder, including her desire to marry him, she had the feeling that if she said too much now, her teammates might try to seek out Schroeder themselves in order to help Lucy with her romantic problems, and that could potentially cause a butterfly effect of tragic consequences.
"Oh, I'll have to point him out to you another time," she said, waving her hand. "Just remind me."
"Is he cute?" Sunny asked eagerly. "What does he look like?"
"You'll see soon," Lucy replied evasively, focusing on the last bite of her pizza slice.
"Are you going to introduce us?" Cookie asked. "Does he have any cute friends who are single?"
Sunny smacked a fist against the table. "I know! You should invite him to tomorrow's practice debate! We're allowed to invite our parents and our friends to come watch on Fridays, if we let our supervisor — or in this case, Sebastian — know in advance. Then we can all meet him at once — and we'll help you strategize to get his attention!"
"What kind of cookies does he like, hon?" Cookie asked, grabbing her notepad. "I can make sure to have a batch ready for him!"
"I'll have to get back to you on that," Lucy said with an evasive shrug. "He's been preparing for a concert lately, so he might not have the time."
"Oh, a musician," Sunny grinned.
Cookie clapped her hands. "Oh! You should introduce him to Sebastian! Maybe we could get the two of them to do a duet sometime."
Schroeder doing a duet with an accordion player — that'll be the day! Lucy snarked to herself, but she gave only another shrug in response.
"So, I'm guessing he doesn't have lunch during this period then?" Sunny observed, pouncing on any scrap of information.
Realization struck Lucy.
Frowning, she half-rose, scanning the sea of kids for the familiar head of blond hair, but in vain. She exhaled, knowing all too well where he likely was, and grabbed her lunch tray.
"Can we cut practice short, girls? There's some place I need to go before my next period."
The two agreed and started to pack up their lunchboxes.
"Can we all try again at lunch tomorrow?" Sunny asked. "I want to practice my argument before the debate."
"And let me know what kind of cookies your dream guy likes when you have the chance," Cookie reminded Lucy.
Lucy gave them vague hums of affirmation and carried her tray to the large, round trashcan by the exit. Once in the hall, she quickened her pace to a power walk, just fast enough as not to count as running, and she made her way over to the music room. Just as she suspected, Wellington's Victory on the piano met her ears as she approached. Reaching the door, she went inside without attempting to be quiet and stormed around the rows of empty chairs over to the dais where the blond boy poured over the keys of the school's aging baby grand.
Schroeder did not even notice her stomping steps approaching, nor did he look up when she was right beside him. Lucy grabbed hold of the piano cover and quickly (but gently) pulled it out. Schroeder jolted and swiped away his hands before the edge could touch his knuckles, and Lucy was now free to close the piano with an authoritative clack! For good measure, she rested her arms on the cover.
She glared at him. "I knew it."
He let out a long breath, not even looking at her. "I don't have time for this. I have to get as much practice in as I can before my next class."
"Where's your lunch?" she demanded.
"In my locker," he returned, trying to lift the cover despite her weight.
"Go get it," she ordered. "Then you can play."
"I can eat later," he answered, waving a distracted hand. "Beethoven would have done the same."
"Beethoven also went outside in his underwear," she threw back. "Are you going to imitate that too?"
He rolled his eyes. "You just don't get it, Lucy."
Glaring, Lucy acted swiftly. She swung one foot up onto the piano bench, using the momentum to jettison herself up and onto the lid of the piano itself, where she planted both her feet on the cover. (She was glad she had decided to wear jeans today.)
Schroeder leapt up, appalled as though she had just keyed the Mona Lisa. "You'll get scuff marks on it! That's school property!"
"Grab your lunch and eat something," she charged him, "then play. Even Beethoven took breaks now and then."
"I had a big breakfast," he retorted, trying to force her school shoes off the cover. "I'm not hungry."
"Eat something anyway, if only for my peace of mind."
"Skipping a meal here and there isn't a big deal, Lucy," he glared. "I still eat breakfast and dinner."
"But you're a growing boy and need all your vitamins, and your mother went through the trouble of making you a bagged lunch, so you might as well eat it out of gratitude."
"I really don't have time for this, Lucy." He took hold of one ankle and yanked her foot off, but just as his hands moved to the other, she returned the first foot to the cover. He let out an aggravated breath. "Why don't you talk to my secretary and make an appointment to nag me later? I only have a few weeks before my concert to practice."
"You rarely have more than ten people show up to those things!"
"Ten or ten thousand, I still have to do my best," he retorted. "Beethoven's honor is at stake. Many believe he considered Wellington's Victory his worst piece, but if I lived back then, I would have done my best to show how his genius shines through."
Lucy wrapped her arms around her knees, leaning more of her weight onto the cover. Schroeder tried a few more times to budge her feet, but he clearly did not want to harm Lucy and so did not use his full strength to haul her off. Giving up, he plunked back onto the piano bench, leaning one elbow on the cover. Lucy knew she still had not won, since he would simply wait her out until the next bell just to prove she could not control him. She decided to change tactics. After all, she was on the debate team now.
Softening her features, she removed both feet off the cover and climbed down to sit next to him on the bench. She took hold of his right arm before he could grab the cover and start playing again.
"You know I don't want you dropping dead, right?" she began. "You mean the world to me."
He exhaled but did not shrug her off, looking rather like a cat who had been caught at a time when it did not want to be held and was only playing along until its owner's grip loosened.
"Look, Lucy, I appreciate you being concerned," he said patiently, "but there's no need to overreact. If I went too far, my mom would step in. You know that."
"But big problems start small, Schroeder. Any psychiatrist would tell you that. I'm just trying to help you nip this in the bud while you still have a chance to turn back."
"Again, I ate a big breakfast," he reminded her. "Eating when you're not hungry is unhealthy too."
She tried a different tactic. "Schroeder, getting super fixated on Beethoven was cute when you were a kid, and even though you're still cute, you're not the spring chicken you used to be."
He scoffed. "I'm not an old man, you know."
"At this rate, you'll be weak and frail long before you're old enough to be called a young man. Skipping meals can also affect your school work, and if you did poorly in school, your parents would take your piano away altogether until your grades improved."
"Ah, but I'm actually thinking of playing Wellington's Victory for my history teacher for extra credit," he returned. "We'll be studying the Napoleonic and Peninsular Wars soon."
"That's not the point." She wagged a finger at his miffed face. "Now, in debate club, we're supposed to argue with facts, not just opinions, and I think you can agree that I have a pretty compelling case against skipping meals for music. This would be called a logos persuasion method, where you use logic and reasoning — and a little ethos, which means ethics, because trying to be a starving artist in middle school is hardly ethical, Schroeder!"
He rolled his eyes again but did not argue. Lucy sat up a little straighter.
"Plus," she continued, "someday I'm going to be the first woman president, which will make you the first ever First Gentleman. How would it look to the American public if the first ever First Gentleman was fainting all the time? What would it say to our foreign allies if the first woman president's husband focused more on Beethoven than his health? Your meal schedule could undo the fabric of American society, Schroeder! Now, what do you have to say to that?" — she released his arm, leaning back to plant her hands on her hips.
Schroeder raised an eyebrow. "Since when did you join the debate club?"
Lucy threw up her hands, rolling her eyes. "Where do you think I've been these past two weeks, Mars? Didn't you wonder what I'd been doing after I stopped showing up at your house?"
"I honestly didn't notice you had stopped."
Lucy stared at him — then shot to her feet.
"Fine!" she cried, marching to the door. "Do what you want! What do I care? I was just trying to keep you healthy because I love you, but go ahead and starve yourself! Get as skinny as a skeleton! Lose all muscle tone and be unable to play baseball or hockey! What does it matter to me, huh?"
"Lucy—" he tried to call after her, but she slammed the door behind her.
She stalked through the empty halls toward her locker in order to grab her books, but she did not feel like she could concentrate on homework in the library. A part of her wanted to find Sunny and Cookie again, just to vent and find out exactly which debate tactics could get through a musician's thick skull. ("I might need a power drill just to get anything inside Schroeder's head that doesn't involve Beethoven," she spat bitterly to herself.) Another part of her wanted to hunt down Linus to demand what he had to say now about his "absence makes the heart grow fonder" advice.
Oh, Schroeder, doesn't any part of you miss me, even a little? she mourned.
The bell rang before she could reach her locker, and soon waves of students flooded the hallways, going to and from the cafeteria. Through the din of chatter and sneakers squeaking on the tiles, someone called her name, and Lucy stopped to see Sebastian weaving his way through the masses to her. He ducked around a pack of eighth graders and skidded to a halt beside her, a sacked lunch in his hand.
"I'm glad I ran into you," he grinned. "You have study hall this period, right?"
"Yeah, Captain," she said dully. Like Lillian, she had started calling him by his title on occasion.
"Mind if we talk in the debate room while I have lunch?" He held up the brown bag. "I won't take up too much of your time."
"You're having lunch today?" she asked. "What about your accordion practice for your dad's birthday?"
He shrugged cheerfully. "A man's gotta eat."
She raised an eyebrow. "Are you sure you're a musician?"
He rubbed his neck, looking suddenly embarrassed. "Nah, my dad's the musician. He's played in professional orchestras, and he runs the music shop downtown and gives lessons. Compared to him, I just do the accordion as a hobby."
Lucy found herself smiling. "Really?"
"I'd much rather be a lawyer when I grow up," he admitted. "That's why I joined the debate team, to get practice with constructing sound arguments and stuff."
"A lawyer makes more money than most musicians anyhow," she told him breezily.
"Only if they're good."
"Well," Lucy said, tucking her arms behind her back, "then we better get practicing, huh?"
"Indubitably."
The two started upstairs for Room 302. Sebastian asked Lucy about her classes as they climbed, particularly if she needed tutoring in any subject. Since school policy stated that students had to maintain at least a C average to stay in clubs, Sebastian kept a list of phone numbers of tutors to pass on to his members, and he had also taken it upon himself to help Duke pass his recent math test. He looked pleased when Lucy told him that she typically got As and Bs.
"That's excellent!" he beamed as he held open the door at the top of the stairs for her. "It would be a shame to lose such a promising member because you flunked science or something."
Lucy smiled and smoothed a strand of her black hair behind her ear. "You think I'm promising, Captain?"
"Usually, with newcomers, I try to give them another week of practicing before letting them be in a debate," he told her as he led the way down the hall, "but you've shown you have a lot of confidence, on top of potential. That's why I included you in the drawing for this week's practice debate."
Every Monday before the close of the meeting, they drew names to see who would be participating for the Friday debate, with the leftover members acting as judges. Sebastian picked the week's topic, and each team had to research and practice their arguments. Last Monday, Sebastian had announced, with a bit of fanfare, that Lucy was already good enough to have her name added to the drawing, and Cookie had brought out an extra plate of cookies which Sebastian had asked her to prepare in order to commemorate the occasion. ("You're one of us now," he had congratulated Lucy.)
Lucy had ridden that high throughout the week, and to hear Sebastian mention it again made her stand up a little straighter and broaden her smile.
Inside the quiet Room 302, Sebastian pulled two chairs over to a folding table and unpacked his lunch. As he unwrapped a tuna sandwich, Lucy took the chair beside him, resting her elbows on the table.
"So, how do you feel about the practice debate tomorrow?" Sebastian asked. "Nervous? Excited? Prepared?"
"Oh, I can do public speaking in my sleep," she answered airily, patting her hair. "Nothing to it."
"Your confidence is amiable," he replied. "Just remember the point of the practice debate is to improve your skills and learn from your peers in order to work on your flaws."
"If I had any flaws, I'd probably appreciate that," Lucy smiled, lacing her fingers and resting her chin on top.
Sebastian laughed. "Confident and funny. That's why I had a good feeling about you." He rapped a finger on the table. "Which reminds me. As tomorrow is your first debate with us, were you wanting to invite any family members or friends? I just need to know at least a day in advance. To invite parents or non-students, I have to drop the list off at the school office for approval."
Lucy shrugged.
"My brother, Linus, goes here. He might come to cheer me on," she reflected. "I'll even insist on it. Rerun, my other brother, might come too. He goes to the elementary school down the street. I'll see if any of my friends at school can make it too."
Sebastian jotted that down on his paper bag with a pencil stub from his pocket. "How about your folks?"
Lucy paused, considering it, but she shook her head. "Nah, my dad wouldn't be able to leave the office for something like that, and Mom is super busy. She's a part of all sorts of clubs, charities, societies and leagues, so her schedule is pretty packed."
"I get that." Sebastian nodded, looking down at a small plastic bottle which held what looked like orange-flavored Tang. "My dad is usually swamped, running his shop or giving music lessons or auditioning for orchestras. Sometimes I can go a week without seeing him because he leaves early and gets home late."
"He sure sounds like a musician," Lucy observed dryly.
"And he's super good," Sebastian continued, playing with the bottle lid. "Some of his students have gone on to Juilliard."
He took a sip, then turned back to Lucy. "Oh, and speaking of practice debates, did I tell you about the suggestion box? If you ever have an idea for a future topic, feel free to submit, even if you think it's weird."
"And it can be about anything?"
"As long as it doesn't get us in trouble with the principal," he replied.
Lucy leaned back in her chair, folding her arms. She thought of her altercation with Schroeder and how he had refused to see reason, even when she made good points, and she could feel the familiar crabbiness rise up.
"Maybe we could argue if Beethoven deserves all the hype," she snorted.
Sebastian touched his chin. "Beethoven?"
"Oh, sure!" Lucy replied, rolling her eyes. "Like, did Beethoven really win the duel against Steibelt? Should musicians stay unmarried just because Beethoven was a bachelor? Was Wellington's Victory the only bad egg he ever produced? Was that countess right to refuse a marriage proposal from such a crabby, self-opinionated, self-centered composer? Should modern-day child prodigies model their lives after a man who didn't empty his chamber pot and who wore dirty clothes all the time?"
Sebastian leaned back, staring. "Wow, you sure know a lot about Beethoven."
"Don't remind me," she drawled, planting her chin on her hands.
He grinned again, shaking his head. "If you know as much about Bach on top of all that, my dad would be standing in line to adopt you."
"Bach, Brahms, Hayden, Handel, Chopin," Lucy muttered, rolling her eyes. It was almost criminal the amount of classical music she had been subjected to over the years while Schroeder never made any compromises for her, always sticking his tongue out like a two-year-old if she wanted to listen to a little rock or a pretty polka that was not written by Strauss.
"You're a pip, Lucy," Sebastian returned. He gestured toward the tall cabinet. "We keep the suggestion box in there, if you're ever interested. Try it out sometime. Be as bold as you want."
"I might just do that," she answered, pushing herself back to stand.
Inside the cabinet, she found small slips of paper and a box of pencils. Selecting a slip, she wrote Is Beethoven overrated? and dropped it into the slot.
With the New Year approaching, some of my lovely FFN readers might be interested in knowing Beethoven wrote a New Year's song: "Glück zum neun Jahr, WoO 165." Can you picture Schroeder trying to get his friends to prefer it to "Auld Lang Syne"?