Best Kept Secret by Debra Moffitt Page A

vibrated, almost in unison.
    â€œAnd there’s another one!” Piper said. We all looked at our screens.
    We all watched a new e-mail message appear in the box. The subject line said “SLOW-DANCING SCARES ME!”
    â€œWell, I wouldn’t know how to answer that one,” I said, looking at Piper.
    â€œI don’t know either,” Piper said, “since my date is either playing music or outside with his friends.”
    Piper looked both angry and sad, but I didn’t care if she was having a bad time with Forrest. In fact, I was not-so-secretly pleased.
    â€œAre there any emergency questions?” Kate asked.
    â€œThere are a few from people who didn’t come and are kinda lonely at home,” Piper said. “And some others are from people here at the dance who, like, don’t know what to do or say to the people they like.”
    Our phones vibrated again.
    â€œThere’s another one!” Piper said.
    As I looked back through the evening’s mail, I saw the usual mix of questions about the PBBs (periods, bras, and boys). But as Piper and the other girls chitchatted behind me, I noticed one message that stuck out.
    Dear PLS,
    I am sad, sad, sad, and you are the only one I can talk to. I am not being conceited but I am very talented in a particular sport, so much so that if I told you which sport, you’d immediately know who I am. Let’s just say that I have been in the newspaper and the principal is forever mentioning my latest achievements on the morning announcements. How I wish he’d stop!
    This did bring to mind a couple of girls—one an ace basketball player, the other an all-county soccer player. Whenever anyone mentioned these girls, a parent was likely to say, “Must be nice to be college-scholarship material.” I, on the other hand, despite my former flirtation with gymnastics and my new affiliation with the track team, was not scholarship material, apparently.
    Well, the trouble is that I no longer want to do that sport. I wake up in the morning, wishing I didn’t have to go to practice. I’ve even started “forgetting” required pieces of my uniform or equipment. But that hasn’t worked. Someone always finds me a replacement this or that. My mother has twice interrupted her workday to zoom home and retrieve the “forgotten” item. I can’t bear to tell my parents, coaches, or teammates the truth: that I just want to stop playing right now.
    I don’t care if I’m good at it. I don’t care if I could make it to the Olympics or get a free ride to college. I’m just done, done, done with it. If I tell the truth, everyone will ask why, and I can’t really explain. I’ve even thought of doing something like breaking my finger or toe or something so I’d have to take time off. I’d do anything to stop. Pleeeeease keep this message a top-secret secret.
    Signed,
    Queen Quitter
    Just as I was sifting through my memory to try to match Queen Quitter with one of those alpha athletes in our school, another message came in.
    â€œSee?” Piper said.
    But the latest message wasn’t from anyone at the dance or Queen Quitter or any one of our usual customers.
    Girls,
    Really, it’s time to close up shop. I’m not the enemy, but you’re on dangerous ground!
    A P.F.
    â€œDangerous ground?” What did that mean?
    But I still wanted Piper to feel dumb for calling this impromptu meeting. Really, what could the four of us do at this minute, standing in the hallway outside a dance?
    â€œI say we answer these on Monday, like usual. I really don’t see why you called us here,” I said.
    Piper dropped her chin to her chest and spoke these words to the floor: “I guess I just wanted to see you all. I feel alone here even though I’m with someone.”
    That was about all I could take, so I walked away and Bet followed me. Kate stayed behind with Piper. To talk about