by Tami Charles
My stomach gurgles when Nasser calls me his friend. I’m not so sure if I like that title. Also, I’m not so sure how I feel about Nasser’s friend Shakira, with the perfect ballerina bun. But I smile back because that’s the right thing to do. I think.
“Nice to meet you,” I say.
“You too. You’re keeping up nicely.”
For a second I wonder if she’s telling the truth or putting on a front for Nasser.
“Enough small talk, everyone.” Señorita Amaro claps us all back into reality. “Next up is choreography.”
For the first part of class everyone was quiet, serious. But when Señorita Amaro mentions choreography, they lose their minds.
“Raise your hand if you’re auditioning for Fame next Friday,” Señorita Amaro says.
Every single hand shoots to the sky. All but mine. Everyone looks at me like, Girl, are you crazy?
Nasser presses his hand in the arch of my back, sending electric sparks up and down my spine. My hand joins everyone else’s. Pointed up, loud and proud.
“That’s what I’m talking about!” Señorita Amaro smiles so deep, I notice the dimple she has in the center of her chin.
“Showing up is only half the battle. Showing up on time is the first step.” She doesn’t look at me when she says the “on time” part, but I already know who it was meant for. I wasn’t as late as the first class, but I was still a few minutes behind everyone else tonight.
She paces the room, pointer in hand, continuing her speech. “The casting directors won’t care about who can do the highest kicks or who has the perfect pirouette. It’s about more than that. It’s about the journey. Are you willing to take it?”
Her every word melts into the deepest parts of me. I want it. So bad. I close my eyes and picture myself dancing behind Debbie Allen. Our feet and hands and arms become one with the beat.
“Do you have the fire?” Señorita Amaro screams.
Yes! Yes, I do!
“Up! On your feet! Pay attention, because I’m only going to show you once. No one will coddle you at the auditions.”
Señorita Amaro shows us a series of four eight-count moves. Each move different from the next. A perfect blend of ballet, jazz, African dance, and street dancing.
“Miguelito, hit the play button!”
Music fills the space, making its way to my ears, fast-paced, heart-pumping. Together, we begin. Five, six, seven, eight! Leap up, bone straight, kick and pow! Legs lifting, feet tapping, arms thrusting as we leap through the air.
My eyes are wide open, but I don’t see the bodies and the movement around me. Just my own reflection in the mirror. The story that each shape my arms and hands and feet make.
Pirouette! Chassé! Each move takes control. I shift, I stretch, I rock; I dance away the bad. Papi’s hitting, Mami’s pretending, Junito’s hiding, my wrongdoing. Dance away every night that me, Junito, and Mami spent together in Newark, cold, hungry, damn-near penniless, despite the three jobs Mami held down. That island pride would not allow her to accept help from no one. Not from the family that took us in when we first got here. Mami packed us up after a week, moved us to the Grafton Projects. She wouldn’t let the government help. By the umpteenth time the lights shut off, Junito knew he had to do something.
Junito got taken under the wing of a guy called Chacho. Folks around the ’hood knew him as a hustler, supplier, and real one-man show. Junito learning the streets from Chacho took us out of the projects, moved us up the hill, helped Mami get the bodega, and got us all a better life. Fly clothes. Street cred. All of it. Within a year, Chacho took off, said it was time to retire. Junito claimed his spot, and the Diablos grew fast as weeds in spring.
I’m grunting now at the memory and the music, which has changed from African drumbeats to Run-D.M.C.’s “Rock Box.”
“That’s it! I can feel the fire!” Señorita Amaro screams wildly. “Form two lines like they do on Soul Train. I’ll give each of you a chance to freestyle for an eight count.”
We separate ourselves into two equal lines and, one by one, dance the way our heart guides us. Shakira does a series of split leaps from the start of the line to the end. Nasser backflips twice—I didn’t know he could move like that—and then does a B-boy windmill, finishing with a headspin for four seconds longer than the allowed eight count. The whole class is cheering, though I’m probably the loudest one. I’m so impressed by Nasser that I don’t realize it’s my turn.
Señorita Amaro points at me. “¡Ve, baila!”
Just then the music shifts to a beat so familiar, so natural, that I don’t have to tell my body what to do. Celia Cruz’s thick, deep voice begins singing “Quimbara.”
It’s the same song I auditioned with for the school pageant last year. For eight counts, the world is mine. I close my eyes, curl the tips of my fingers, and arch my back. My feet quicken with the beat as I picture myself floating.
When the last student is done on the Soul Train line, Señorita Amaro lowers the music.
“Excellent job today! Since everyone is auditioning next week, class will be canceled. Be sure to practice. Also, don’t forget to take your headshots with you. That’s very important for any audition. Make sure it is labeled with your name and contact information.”
As soon as she says that, I realize I don’t have a headshot. I got a few pictures of me and my Diablas that we had done downtown at the graffiti wall, but nothing professional looking.
Great. Just another wake-up call that maybe I should give this up.
“I’m hyped up for next week!” Nasser says, packing his things.
“Yeah, me too, I guess. I just need to figure out the picture part.”
Señorita Amaro must have overheard me, because she butts in. “I can take a picture of you, Beatriz.”
I take a look at myself. Every part of me is drenched in sweat. And I don’t need a mirror to know that my hair has turned into a carpet piled on top of my head.
“But I look a mess,” I say.
“This is a dance audition. They’re not looking for a special type of photo. They’re looking for a special type of dancer. You want a picture too, Nasser?”
“Sure, I’ll take one.” Nasser shrugs.
Señorita Amaro runs into her office to grab her Polaroid camera. Meanwhile I dig through my bag, praying I can find a brush and maybe some lip gloss to help.
The light of the camera flashes in my face as she takes my picture. It takes some time for the photo to develop, the image slowly coming to life. The face that stares back at me is unfamiliar. Happy. Hopeful.
I’ve only been home a half hour or so when the phone rings ten minutes into studying for Mr. Hankerson’s test next week. Shocker that I’m studying on a Friday, I know. Especially after an exhausting dance class. Nasser’s been basically kidnapping me every day after school and taking me to the Newark Public Library, and it’s apparently rubbing off on me.
“How’s the inventory and basement repairs coming along?” It’s Julicza.
“Um, yeah, the repairs are gonna take longer than I thought,” I tell her.
Translation: setting up my excuse for why I’m gonna miss next week’s meeting too.
“Mmm-hmm, I bet.” Something tells me that Julicza is smiling on her end of the line.
“What’s up with you lately? Spit it out,” I say.
“I could easily ask the same thing of you, princesa. Something you wanna tell me?”
Silence. Seconds pass with only background music playing on her end. Héctor Lavoe and Willie Colón’s “Todo tiene su final.” The same song Junito and I danced to on my birthday.
“Turn it off,” I demand.
“Excuse me?” Julicza fires back.
I speak louder this time, just in case she didn’t hear me the first go-round. “The song. I said turn it off!”
I
s it possible that words can cry? Because that’s what my voice feels like in that moment. Maybe Julicza can sense it, because she does exactly as I ask.
“Okay, okay.” Julicza softens her tone a notch.
“Did everybody sell their share?” I ask.
“Almost. Juan messed up again. Strike two.”
“How did DQ handle that?” I ask.
“Oh, you know exactly how.” Julicza laughs. “And since you weren’t there, DQ let me take your spot. Next time you see Juan, just know the chichón above his eye was all me.” I swallow hard at the thought. Julicza doing my job. And what do I say to her for bashing Juan in the forehead? Great work? Well done? My stomach hurts.
“I’m tired. I gotta go.” I yawn out the last few words.
“Tired, huh? From what?”
“Inventory.” I yawn again, this time with more force.
“Yeah, I bet.”
Julicza cuts the line before I get a chance to respond.
KEEPING SECRETS
UN SECRETO ENTRE DE DOS, se quede entre los dos. Pero un secreto entre de tres, sabe todo el mundo. I think I might be turning into Abuela. Because it’s her words that get me through the week. But I’ve also heard this refrán in English: the secret of two stays between two; but add a third, and a hundred will be all up in your Kool-Aid.
So for now, what I got going on ain’t nobody’s business: my dance classes and meeting Nasser in the basement of the library, where he tutors me in algebra and adds in some etymology. And thank goodness too, because I’m finally getting the hang of simplifying algebraic expressions.
My tutoring sessions with Nasser are stolen moments where words and poetry and numbers fold into each other, far away from the nosy eyes and ears of any Diablo. And tomorrow? Well, November ninth is the day I’ll add to my growing secrets. A day of doing something that’s just for me.
Things are looking up lately, and it’s hard to hide it.
Dr. Brown catches me in the hall, smiling through my daydream. “Doing better I hear, Ms. Mendez!”
The dismissal bell jolts me back to reality. “Yeah, Dr. B, got a seventy-three on my last algebra quiz. How ’bout that?”
“Not bad. Keep pushing!” Dr. Brown slaps high five with me as I make my way to my locker, happy-dance smiling, not even hiding it.
Julicza, Maricela, and four more Diablas are waiting for me when I get there. As soon as I see them, I remember that I gotta tell DQ that I’ll miss the meeting again this week. Up front.
Part of me cares, ’cause I hate keeping things from my girls. But the other part of me doesn’t give a flying piece of caca. I’m not missing that Fame audition for nobody.
I start coughing uncontrollably. Maricela runs up to me real fast and pats me on the back.
“Yo, Julicza, get that bottle of water in my bag!” she shouts.
But Julicza doesn’t move one bit. Tiffany reaches into Maricela’s bag on the floor and hands me the bottle. I take a long gulp and let it cool my throat.
“Thanks, girl.”
“Not feeling too good?” Julicza asks.
“Yeah, I don’t know what’s been going on lately, but I think I’m coming down with something. In fact, I’m probably gonna miss school tomorrow.”
“Oh, and the meeting, huh? You’re gonna need all the rest you can get,” Julicza says.
I’m not sure if she’s being nice or sarcastic. As soon as I open my locker, a few of my books and a folded-up piece of paper fall to the floor. My heart stops for a split second, thinking back to the Polaroid picture I found in my locker. But so much time has passed, and I haven’t gotten anything else since. I pick up the paper and open it slightly. The first thing I see is the title and author: “The First Day” by Nasser.
“What’s that?” Julicza reaches for it, but my hand moves quickly, and I stuff it in my pocket.
“Just some algebra notes from last week,” I lie, placing the books back in my locker.
“Oooh, no thanks! It’s probably covered in dragon breath,” she says, and everyone laughs.
The halls are emptying. At the far end, I catch sight of Nasser glancing back at me. No one else notices.
He’s smiling, and the look in his eyes reminds me that some secrets are worth keeping to yourself.
My fingers become a magnet, clinging to the paper in my pocket for the whole bus ride home. My face plays a game of pretend as I smile my way through Julicza and Maricela retelling the best and worst parts of their school day.
My feet fly up the steps to my apartment, hands trembling as I slam the bathroom door, back sliding to the floor.
I drown myself in every word.
* * *
The First Day, by Nasser Kervin Moreau, November 8, 1984
On the first day,
you introduced me to the word possibility.
Do you remember that moment too?
How the whole world stopped
beneath our feet
when the music swelled in the room?
Still you push away what’s obvious to let in.
Me,
us,
this.
Electricity sparking again, again, again.
REMEMBER MY NAME
I NEVER EXPECTED ANY of this. Auditioning to be an extra on my favorite show in the whole wide world. The dream and my hope fill me up as I stand in line, hands folded into Nasser’s. I feel his heartbeat pulse through my fingertips. The audition line is wrapped for what seems like miles.
For two hours we wait among the masses of people. Together we inhale the cold, exhale the nerves. When Nasser and I finally make it inside the school, the first thing the staff tells us is to warm up. We undress immediately, stripping down to our dance gear. Him in jogging pants and a tank that reveals every line and muscle racing through his arms and back. And me in my leggings and leotard, hair clipped into a tight bun on top of my head.
Nasser and I run through a series of stretches, lunges, and positions, just like Señorita Amaro has us do in class.
I scan the room, looking at all the dancers, many a lot older than Nasser and me. I see a few kids from dance class. Having already auditioned, they’re walking out, unchosen, hope fading, but still wishing us good luck in a way that feels like they mean it.
“Pin this number to your shirt.” A man with a clipboard hands me a paper with the number 307 on it and a couple of safety pins.
“Is Debbie Allen inside?” I ask curiously. The whole train ride here I couldn’t help but hope, wonder, and pray that I could be in the same room as her. Let alone dance for her.
But the dude starts laughing at me, revealing a shiny gold tooth right in the center of his mouth. “Not a chance, young lady. The cast rarely attends cattle calls.”
Disappointment settles inside me. But I pull it together. Focus!
“Name and headshot, please.” The woman standing beside Mr. Gold Tooth holds her hand out for my Polaroid picture.
“Beatriz Mendez.” My voice shakes as soon as the words come out, and I already hate myself for not knowing how this all works, even if it is my first time.
The man writes my name down on the clipboard, and he and the woman move on to Nasser.
We’re in the next group waiting to dance the routine. Through the glass doors, I can see dancers onstage reviewing the choreography before they audition. I’m not gonna lie, those moves look hard as hell. I look down and beg my feet to remember everything the choreographer says.
“Now when you get in, stay in the back of the auditorium while the dancers audition. The choreographer will cue when it’s your turn to go onstage. You guys ready?” Clipboard Dude yells.
“Yeah!” all of us scream at the top of our lungs. He pulls open the double doors as if they are a portal to some magical kingdom. And in a way, they are. The stage is massive, hovering over hundreds
of seats. The walls are lined with posters of some of the cast. Jesse, Ian, Coco, Leroy, and of course the Ms. Lydia Grant—my Debbie Allen!
The dancers are onstage dancing as if their lives depend on it.
I stand there dreaming, squeezing the life out of Nasser’s hand.
“I know, I know. This is crazy!” he says, his eyes almost as wide as mine.
“I’m five seconds from passing out.” I take a deep breath and take in the moment. The music cuts off just as the dancers hit their final position.
The choreographer yells out, “We’d like numbers 291 and 299 to stay for round two. The rest of you, thank you for your time and have a good evening.”
Just like that, people’s dreams are flushed down imaginary toilets, and I start to feel like maybe I need to leave before I even start. What made me think that a couple weeks of dance classes would be enough to pick back up where my training left off?
“Next group!” The choreographer yells for us to come onstage.
“That’s us.” Nasser gives me one of his flashy, happy-go-lucky smiles.
The choreographer separates thirty dancers into three rows of ten. Nasser and I are placed in the last line. Fine for Nasser. He’s tall. But I’m so short I can’t see much. We run through the steps. Eight counts of pirouettes, four grapevines, two back-to-back jump splits, with a split land on the floor. This is all to be done three times, with each line switching at the end of the set.
The choreographer’s every word, every move, comes out like lightning.
“Music, please!” he yells, and the signature Fame song starts to play.
This is it! This is my shot. My eyes find their way to the ceiling, and I whisper a prayer to the heavens. ¡Ay Dios mío! Please don’t let me mess up!
Irene Cara’s voice fills up the room as she sings about wanting the whole world to remember her name. The countdown begins, and my arms and feet and heart remember every move. It’s as easy as breathing. The lines shift through two sets of the choreography, and finally my turn in front arrives. There is a table with five judges seated at it, eyes locked on us, their hands scribbling on clipboards, taking note of our every move, never looking down, not even for a second.