Page 33 of TJ Powar Has Something to Prove
“You’re having a crisis,” Simran surmises.
TJ downs the rest of her coffee and wonders what gave it away. Was it how quiet she’s been throughout this five-hour bus ride, or maybe how her eyes look red-rimmed and cried-out no matter how much makeup she caked on this morning, or maybe because the breakup was public and humiliating enough that everyone on earth knows about it and probably the Martians, too? Her phone’s been blowing up all day, but she’s too exhausted to check it. She barely slept.
But by sunrise, her emotions had dried up, leaving her numb enough to look at the situation in an entirely different way. That was, in the context of her personal debate resolution.
She’d pulled out her cue card to study the wording.This House Believes That TJ Powar can be her hairy self and still be beautiful.Never mind how she felt about Liam; suddenly, the breakup became a contention from the opposing side. Sure, his rejection was a devastating blow to her argument, but that doesn’t mean shelost. She just has to rebut the point with something better.
What that something is, she doesn’t know yet. And besides, she has bigger fish to fry at the moment. “Iamhaving a crisis. It’s about the fact that you’re writing your speech an hour before our first debate.”
“If you don’t want to talk, that’s fine.” Simran lifts her pen from where she was scratching a bunch of stuff out, admiring the absolute carnage her edits have left behind on her notes. They’re almost at the school where Provincials are being hosted, yet here she is still making drastic changes to her speeches. This habit of hers always gives TJ anxiety. Simran twirls her braid absently as she adds, “I just want to make sure you’re okay. I know something happened yesterday.”
“Oh?Something, is that it?” TJ snorts, then stops herself. She’s keenly aware of all the other Southern Interior debaters on the charter bus with them. And sure, the engine is loud and Simran is quiet, but TJ’s not taking chances. Especially when Yara’s in the seat in front of them and probably only pretending to be absorbed in her book. “Never mind. It’s not a big deal.”
The bus turns off the highway and finally, the hosting school—a private school in North Vancouver—comes into sight. Everyone leaps up and plasters their faces to the windows to catch a glimpse of the war ground. Mrs. Scott yells fruitlessly for everyone to stay in their seats.
“Our school looks like a jail compared to this,” one of the novices from Northridge comments as they pull in. TJ silently agrees. This building makes even Whitewater look like a shed.
“That’s because Northridge’s design was based on a prison,” someone else says.
Someone else scoffs. “That’s whateveryonesays about their school.”
“But in our case it’strue—”
From the back of the bus, Nate’s super-fast voice floats over as he gives questionable commentary.
“Here come the elite kids,” he whispers. A small group of debaters march by the bus, dressed to the nines. Charlie’s sense of fashion would probably fit in well with them. “They’re going to eat us all alive.”
He pauses. Some poor sap takes the bait. “Why?”
“Their private schools hire debate instructors for twenty thousand a year.” Nate lowers his voice further. “It’s not just a club for them, it’s a way of life. They’re in another league.”
There’s a hush at the back of the bus before someone says, “Jeez. Any advice for if we have to debate them?”
“Yeah,” Nate says. “Wear a jockstrap.”
TJ rolls her eyes; scaring newbies is Nate’s favourite pastime during Provincials season. She sorely wants to turn around and chip in, but decides against it. It’s time to detach fully from the other senior debaters. Only two debaters from the Southern Interior region will move on to Senior Nationals. It all depends on how they rank against each other this weekend. It will be fiercely competitive; neither TJ nor Simran, Nate, or Charlie qualified for Junior Nationals back in ninth grade, so this is their only chance to make it all the way.
She side-eyes Simran beside her. Technically, Simran’s the enemy just as much as Nate or Charlie, but she doesn’t feel like one. They’re a team. In TJ’s dreams of going to Nationals, it’s always Simran at her side. She can’t imagine anyone else.
The bus jerks to a stop in the drop-off zone. The next few minutes are chaos, as the debate coaches and parent chaperones attempt to herd everyone off in an organized manner.
When it’s her turn, TJ steps out onto the sidewalk, the chatter of hundreds of people reaching her ears. The bus behindthem pulls away to drop their suitcases off at the hotel. She takes a deep breath. It’s time to focus. No more thinking about what happened yesterday.
As they’re walking up the school’s steps, Simran nudges her. “Hey, look. Someone’s handing these out already.”
TJ looks down to see Simran’s holding a sheaf of paper. The schedule for today’s events. TJ scans it and groans. “Seriously? We’re against theTurnerstonight? Tell me I’m having a nightmare.” But their opponents are printed on paper, clear as day: Jenna and Isaac Turner, from Brixton Academy.
“Should be interesting,” Simran says, voice very neutral.
“Interesting?” TJ scoffs. She scans the schedule further. It shows only today’s round matchups, with the other four rounds tomorrow. Nate and Charlie are facing some of the aforementioned elite private school kids. She almost envies them. “Yeah, that’s one way to put it. Pricks.”
Simran doesn’t comment, which is the closest she’ll come to agreeing. She just puts her earbuds in and pushes up the volume on her tablet, presumably to hide away in her cocoon of shabad kirtan. She claims it calms her before a debate. TJ wishes she had a similar strategy; maybe then she wouldn’t feel like she’s about to hurl.
They enter the school—just as fancy on the inside, with gleaming floors, a vaulted cathedral-like ceiling, and even a brick water fountain next to the registration desk she and Simran sign in at. Once they have their registration packages, Mrs. Scott beckons them over. “Group picture, over here!”
The rest of the Southern Interior group is already lined up against the wall. Mrs. Scott directs TJ to the end of the row asusual, since she’s tall, where she’s positioned next to Charlie.
“Say cheese!” Mrs. Scott says from behind her camera. One click of the shutter. “TJ, come in a little closer, please. Charlie won’t bite.”