Show Mode

by Raquel Rivera

“That’s okay—we can squeeze in.” Dawn smiles. She’s one of the girls in the other act. They’re in Dev’s class. I secretly call these three the Prima Donnas—after Dawn, get it? And also because they are perfect. They’re pretty, popular and invent great acts.

  Every year the Prima Donnas have performed an act in Fashion Show. They outstyle pretty much everyone else. Last year Dev played the role of cool jazz cat in their act. They got him this fedora, which he tilted over one eye. The Prima Donnas dressed up like 1920s flappers, shimmying in their fringe dresses, while Dev waved around a borrowed trumpet. It was kind of sexy but with funny moments—like when Dev accidentally blared the trumpet in Dawn’s face. Dawn did this hilarious stagger-dance, weaving down the runway.

  I think Dev and Dawn were going together at the time, but Dev wouldn’t spill. Anyway, it’s likely that Dev has gone with pretty much every girl in his grade at some point. They like his dark eyes and floppy hair. Obviously, they don’t have to see him first thing in the morning, scratching his bed head and other parts, which I will spare you by not mentioning. Let’s just say it’s not a good look. Yeah, Dev owes his love life to hair products.

  “Both groups practice in here?” Prima Donna Jill looks around, eyebrows rising. She laughs. “You guys haven’t seen my brother dance yet. Elephant, much?”

  In a gesture of brotherly love, Seth does a slow-motion roundhouse kick at Jill’s butt, and she bats it away like she’s done it a million times.

  Prima Donna Sofia is the only real dancer among us. She studies ballet, and it shows—she’s got amazing posture. Sofia is probably the reason the Prima Donnas’ moves are always so good in the fashion show. “But seriously,” she says, “if you guys want to use this space, we can practice in the hall. Then maybe switch halfway…”

  “It’s okay—I know another place.” Seth hoists his backpack and turns to us. “Follow me.” Spinning on his sneakers, he takes off.

  Sandra, Willow and I pound down the stairs after him. He’s taking them two at a time. In this school you become a stair master pretty fast. Instrument cases, heavy backpacks and five flights of stairs—I guess it makes up for our puny phys-ed program.

  Seth slows when he hits the basement level. We follow him through the old halls. The school building is more than a hundred years old. I remember this whenever I’m in the basement. With all these arched tunnels and turns, it looks like a medieval dungeon with a paint job. We move past the big gym and dozens of locked rooms. By this time, we all know where Seth is headed. He creaks open the door to the Sub Theater.

  The gloomy Sub Theater is a black-painted performance space that used to be a swimming pool. This was ages ago, when students wore pinafores and boater hats. Back then a kid drowned, and they emptied the pool forever.

  “We’re probably not supposed to be here,” muses Willow.

  “Nobody’s ever explicitly said, so we’re not not supposed to be here,” Sandra reasons. Meanwhile, the door slams behind us.

  On account of the black walls and no windows, we are in total darkness. There’s a massive lighting system for jazz-band concerts and plays, but it’s controlled from the booth behind the seats. There must be an ordinary wall switch in here somewhere. “Ow!” I smack my shin against the metal frame that holds the seating tiers together. So at least I know where I am.

  “You okay, Adina?” Willow’s high voice sounds creepy in the dark.

  “Where’s the door gone?” Seth says.

  “Someone prop it open until we find the light,” Sandra calls out.

  “My leg freaking hurts,” I say. It really does, but I’m laughing because this is so stupid.

  Then my laugh catches in my throat. Something is brushing across my face. I freeze—except for my heart, which is pounding so hard it feels like it’s coming out my ears.

  It’s a hand! There’s a cold hand on my face!

  “Oops, sorry.” Seth is giggling in my ear. “I’ve got something here—” His textbook-stuffed backpack thuds to the floor, landing on my foot.

  “Yow!” I collapse against him, and he holds me up. He can barely speak, he’s laughing so hard.

  “The zipper is stuck—” He eases me down to the floor as I’m moaning and laughing. I can hear Willow and Sandra shrieking, so they’re probably smashing into each other too. We could all be murdered down here and no one would hear us.

  As that thought starts creeping up my spine, a light pops on—right under Seth’s face. I can’t help screaming because he looks like a total ghoul.

  It looks cool, actually. He’s shining a little flashlight under his chin.

  Then Sandra’s got the door open, and light filters in. Seth is casting his beam around, and he pulls out three more flashlights. “I thought these would be perfect for the act. Check it out—microphones for the backup singers!” he announces. “These are military grade. Small but powerful.”

  “You got these from your uncle?” Willow asks. Seth nods. His uncle is in the armed forces.

  Seth shows how these will make good props and add lighting effects to the act. He tosses, gestures and, of course, sings into the flashlight like it’s a microphone. This last bit transforms his face. Under stage lights it will look even better. Yes! It’s a brilliant idea. It will really make the act stand out. With the mics in our hands, we seem to gesture naturally, as if we are backup singers for real.

  Seth pulls mini-speakers from his backpack and plugs in his player. We start our routine with two of us in front and two behind, all doing hip twitches in sync. The funky intro on the Gigamesh remix demands attitude. Even low-key Willow is giving off a supermodel vibe.

  We move forward, stop, bop, then step forward again. When the vocals come in, we backup singers start to lose our cool. First we fan, four across. I suggest a move I saw on YouTube—a front-back step with raised arms, like we’re a choir singing “Hallelujah.”

  “We should all clap once, right here”—Sandra demonstrates—“when there’s clapping in the tune.” We run through it a few times. We keep the moves sharp and tight, the same as the keyboards in the song. It looks good. When Seth’s mix goes into the next song, everyone agrees that he should be the first to try cutting in front, grabbing the lead-singer position.

  He steps out, flashlight under his face. He does some spins and locking, pretending he’s all Bruno Mars and Michael Jackson and whatnot, lip-synching into the flashlight. He looks hot.

  Then I remember the rest of us are supposed to be acting annoyed, so I say, “What if we take big steps, like we want to crush Seth—we have to keep moving forward, right? And he turns to us, taking big steps backward, as if he’s scared?”

  Willow says, “I like how the vocals start singing about love right at that moment.”

  “We should ham it up,” Sandra adds. “Seth, you lip-synch the lyric to us.”

  Seth mimes a sappy crooner.

  “Yeah, like that!” she cries. “And we pull at you, to get you back in line with the rest of us.”

  Everyone is laughing while Willow cues the music again. This is so good—we’re going to get a spot in Fashion Show for sure! I suggest that when we three are pulling Seth back, we switch on our flashlights too and swing them in angry, random directions.

  “Yeah!” Everyone agrees.

  The ideas keep coming, each new move bursting from the one before. This is the most productive meeting we’ve had yet.

  Don’t you love it when things finally start to flow?

  Five

  Oh no. Who knew there would be so many acts practicing for the audition?

  The big gym looks as jammed as during Science Fair. Seth is freaked out too, I can tell. His eyes are popping. It’s a few steps down to the gym floor, so from this level we are looking over a sea of room dividers, set up to create practice spaces. Supposedly, we can all work in privacy this way, but I can see what everyone is doing.

  I feel Sandra’s hand on my shoulder. “It’s too cold out in the quad,” she says. She must know what I�
�m thinking—that even if teachers are sick of being pestered for their classrooms, there must be a better place to practice than this.

  “I don’t like it,” I mutter as we head to our assigned space.

  Willow says, “I think it’s kind of interesting.” She’s rubbernecking through the aisles, peering into each practice stall with a goofy smile on her face.

  “Don’t look,” I hiss. “People will think we’re trying to steal ideas.” Actually, what’s more troubling is that people can now steal our moves. I breathe a bit easier when I see that our space is the last on a row. There’s no excuse for anyone to pass by unless they’re prepared to be obvious about snooping.

  Seth sets up the music. The big sign on the board tells everyone to keep their volume to an absolute minimum or risk losing their space. Meanwhile, Sandra and I try to coach Willow. She needs to sass up her moves when she’s in front. We discussed this privately already. We don’t want to make Willow feel bad, but we’ve been practicing for a while now, and she still doesn’t seem to be finding her character.

  The key, our drama teacher says, is to look inside ourselves. It’s not about spouting dialogue or, in this case, executing moves. Actors have to know background stuff about their characters even if it doesn’t appear directly in the show. Maybe they were orphans raised by drunken uncles, or they have an allergy to peanuts. Creating this background helps inform the choices actors make as they play a role, our drama teacher says. I like that. It’s like doing homework. So long as you prepare, you’ll be ready for whatever the test—or the show—throws at you.

  I decided my character is from a tremendously rich family. She’s doing this on a whim. This makes her moves cool, not peppy or bouncy. Sandra sees her character as a desperately talented singer who’s never happy unless she’s in the spotlight. When she shoves her way to the front, she makes her gestures bigger, more radiant, than when she’s stuck in the back.

  Meanwhile, Willow looks like she’s just blocking out her moves. She hasn’t gotten into the spirit of anyone.

  We ask her what she imagines when she’s doing her routine.

  Willow looks bewildered.

  “Is there any feeling, or mood, that comes to you?” I say.

  Her eyebrows rise higher. “I’m doing the steps. I’m keeping time.”

  Sandra and I perform her part, showing different ways she might put more expression into her movement. Willow applauds and nods, but it doesn’t really change her own attempts.

  “Moving on!” Seth cries. “You guys are boring.” He starts the music, and we hustle into position.

  We start foursquare, then fan out. Seth moves to the front, swiveling and locking through his routine while we advance on him. Then Willow boots him back in line with a high kick. See, right there she could really work that move, but she doesn’t. We advance again, and then it’s my turn to scramble up front.

  This is the instrumental bit of the song. The vocals have faded out and the keyboards are rocking the main riff. Then a beat comes in—more synthesizer. I shine my flashlight around.

  I’m pretty happy with my part. Mom and I have a kind of tradition where we learn the dance routines in our favorite Bollywood movies. It’s something she and her cousins did growing up, and I guess she passed it on to me. So now I’m pretending I’m kicking sand, like Madhuri Dixit in Lajja, until the sh-sh sound of the hi-hat starts up. Then I go into a classic disco move, The Sprinkler. (Thanks, YouTube.) One hand is behind my head, the other straight out. My flashlight is shooting rays—sprays—in little jolts across the audience. When the bridge fades to the next verse, Donna Summer comes in, sighing, “You get me—ooh—” and I sashay back to the line, trying to emote reluctance while lip-synching into the flashlight.

  Then the worst happens. We’re being watched.

  The Prima Donnas are checking us out, hips tilted, arms crossed under their perfect chests. How long have they been here? Sandra is starting her routine. The Prima Donnas must learn no more!

  “Stop!” I cry out. Willow, Seth and Sandra turn. They must hear the panic in my voice. “Quit spying!” I shout at the Donnas before I know it.

  Suddenly they’re on orange alert—high risk, all forces ready for combat. Dawn, Jill and Sofia shift and sway, their faces snarly and sour. I step back.

  I don’t know what got into me, shouting at them like that. No one in their right mind goes up against the Donnas. I feel woozy. The gym floor beckons, but somehow I manage not to collapse in a heap.

  “Spying?” Dawn sneers. “What for? You losers are a mess.”

  Jill puts her hands on her hips and leans forward like she’s sharing a secret. “You’re all over the place. We couldn’t see what’s going on even if we wanted to.”

  Sofia just nods, but her superior expression is saying, You guys are sick, and not in the good way. I can feel my shoulders sag as Dawn starts in again, pointing at Willow.

  “Space Case looks like she’s moving through mud, and Chunkmeister”—her finger pivots toward Sandra—“needs more time to get to the front. She runs like a duck.”

  “Yeah.” Jill and Sofia are the perfect chorus.

  All this time, a fuzzy black has been closing in on my vision, until I’m peering through a small hole. Now Seth steps into the circle, and I can see him too.

  “You shouldn’t talk!” His face is flushed. I’ve never seen him so indignant, not even when his phone got smashed in a game of keep-away. “I’ve seen your act—those stiff arms and legs? Some ugly!” Jill screeches. “You little fink—I told you to stay clear of the rec room!”

  I blink, and my circle of vision gets wider. I guess Seth has been doing spying of his own, at home.

  “We were just working up ideas,” Sofia adds. “Obviously, you have no clue about choreography.”

  “We’re wasting our time.” Dawn turns away, and the others follow. “We were just wondering how you kiddies were doing. Sorry to say, but get ready to look up, waaay up.”

  Sofia and Jill laugh, hair tossing over their shoulders. “Yeah—we’ll be on the runway, as always. You’ll be watching from the seats.”

  * * *

  There are no chairs in the practice space, so we’re on the floor. No one feels like finishing the act. I reach into my backpack to get my sweater. I can’t seem to stop shivering.

  Sandra looks miserable. Willow’s comforting arm hugs Sandra’s shoulders. It was that Chunkmeister comment. I silently curse Dawn. Sandra is sensitive about her weight, which you wouldn’t think, because she comes off as a really strong person. Most days she is. She’s got style, and she’s always laughing. People like her, even if she doesn’t let them get too close. Most days she knows all this. And then the perfect Donnas have to throw her weight in her face.

  “They’re just being little witches,” I tell her. “They’re trying to psych us out—they’re afraid of the competition.” It could be true. And besides, we need Sandra feeling confident if the act is going to work.

  Willow looks at me, jaw dropped in outrage. “Adina, what they did was bullying.” She stands up, brushing floor crud off her butt. “I’m going to report them—right now.”

  Huh? Report what, exactly? Don’t you hate it when people overreact?

  “Don’t report it,” I hiss at her. “It’ll be a whole thing!”

  We’d have to wait for ages to see the vice-principal—and honestly, what would we say? Sure, Dawn was mean. But everyone’s mean sometimes. Sandra regularly calls Seth a fool, for example, and Willow doesn’t go ballistic. Also, Dawn didn’t single out Sandra. That would be bullying, right? She was equal-opportunity dumping on the whole act.

  “We don’t have a lot of time.” I’ve said this so often, it’s like my new motto. But I seem to be the only one keeping track. I hold on to Willow so she doesn’t rush off, making this one of her random causes for justice. We should keep our focus on the act.

  Then, even as I’m speaking, an uncomfortable thought pops into my head. Some of the Donnas’
criticisms may have been a teensy bit correct. We might need to make changes.

  “Maybe if we cut out the little extras,” Seth mutters. He’s thinking the same thing. “Maybe our transitions are too complicated…”

  “We could simplify the line moves when one of us is in front,” I add. “That will make it easier too…” “You guys!” Willow is glaring at us. “What they said about Sandra—we have to tell.”

  Please, no. Let’s not make this more than it is. Willow didn’t even notice the Space-Case comment, which proves that Dawn’s remarks weren’t all that hurtful. I turn to Sandra. She definitely looks unsure about Willow’s plan. Of course she does. If I were in her place, I’d want to forget this and move on.

  “Sandra doesn’t want to report it,” I tell Willow. “Let’s focus on perfecting the act. Sandra can show them with her finale—she’s going to be great. This is a minor setback. We shouldn’t dwell. Show business isn’t for wimps. Right, Sandra?”

  Sandra’s mouth is drooping, twitching a little, but she’s nodding agreement. She probably knows she’s going to feel worse if the school gets involved.

  “Thank you!” I take a deep breath. “We have more important things to deal with, right?” Willow must see that it’s not a big deal—not really.

  But Willow is gathering her things. She’s wrestling with her jacket like it’s fighting back. Her legs buckle as she shifts her backpack. She’s got that stubborn, storm-cloud look on her face. Willow never argues. She’s a force of nature instead.

  “Where are you going? We have to rehearse,” I say.

  Seth adds, “My sister’s friends are a drag—I know. But we can’t let them get to us.”

  “Willow, seriously, I’m okay.” Sandra’s mouth has stopped twitching.

  But Willow marches off, her instrument case cradled in her arms. “Yeah right, I have to rehearse,” she calls back. “I’ve got my flute to practice.”

  Six

  Seth starts packing up his mini-speakers. We’re obviously not rehearsing anymore. If the Donnas meant to sabotage us, they couldn’t have done a better job. Looking at Sandra, somehow I feel guilty. But Dawn was the one being mean. And then Willow got all dramatic, so now Sandra feels even worse.