Free At Face Value by Emily Franklin Page A

elbow him in the ribs.
    Care to Share was last year’s school motto, and Eddie smiles at my use of it. He turns to me and strikes a soap opera stance, clutching my shoulders. “Cyrie, I will always care to share with you.” Then he looks at an invisible camera and says, “Stay tuned for It’s Your Turn to Learn! And other school phrases next …”
    He releases his hands from my shoulders. I can still feel the warmth from where he touched me, but I keep moving, past the science center, past the lockers and classrooms and students staring at us. It’s as though the thought of us together is scandalous.
    “Seriously,” I say, trying again. “What’s up?”
    We’re at the doorway to Drama when Eddie lowers his voice and finally tells me. “I’ve been meaning to talk to you about something. It’s kind of important.” He blushes, again, and looks away from me. “It’s kind of weird to say it out loud … but … I like someone.”
    I don’t know what to say. The cold linoleum school tiles spin as I feel my pulse take off. “I see,” I respond, even though I don’t see at all.
    “This person … this girl … she’s …” Eddie pulls me over to the corner of the classroom and whispers, “She’s different, right?”
    He looks at me, waiting for my confirmation. Then, suddenly, I get it. Right in the doorway to drama class, in the middle of high school, in the middle of Weston, the whole world stops on its axis—he likes me. Eddie Roxanninoff likes me.
    “She is different,” I say. “But …”
    And before we can go any further, Harold Connaught claps his hands and signals that class is starting. “To be continued?” Eddie gives me a special look. A deep look. And a quick hug.
    “Sure—to be continued,” I say into his chest. I try to regain control of my body as I take a seat in the semi-circle of chairs arranged near the small stage.
    Harold stands with his hands clasped behind his back. His corduroy pants are dark brown, his shirt white, and his ever-popular bow tie red-and-yellow striped. He looks like he should be on the cover of a clothing catalogue, but instead has chosen to grace us with his presence in Senior Dramatics.
    “What’s under the sheet?” asks Kristin Murphy, pointing to a covered item on a table in the center of the circle.
    “That is the subject of today’s class,” explains Harold. I’m sitting next to Eddie and trying to pay attention while my brain retraces the conversation we just had—could he like me? As of this morning I’d have said the odds weren’t good, but after the walk to class—and the blushing—and the touching—I’d say it just might be possible.
    “Cyrie, you go first,” Harold says and gestures at me to get up, which I do even though I now have no idea what the drama exercise is about. “Go on.”
    Eddie gets up and says, “I’ll go, too.” He gives me a quick wink, to let me know he saw me spacing out and is coming to my figurative rescue.
    “Fine.”
    Harold Connaught whips the sheet off of the mystery item and reveals … a box resembling an oversized shoe box. “Now—this is where the senses come into play. Step up to the box, place both hands inside, and feel.”
    A collective groan from two-thirds of the class. I have no idea, as I approach the dreaded darkness of the box, how much will change when I put my hands inside. But before I do anything, Harold continues.
    “Sensory experiences are like memories—you don’t know which ones are important until after the fact. But in acting you’ve got to convince your audience that you’re going through something—experiencing it—for the first time.” He waves his arms around, rolling his hands as though singing “The Wheels on the Bus.” “Again and again, for the first time.”
    He motions for Eddie and me to put our hands in the box—which we do, though I can’t help but mumble, “There better not be eyeballs in here.” Halloween isn’t far away, and this is reminding me