Show Mode

by Raquel Rivera

  But I’m stuck with them, at least until Fashion Show is over. I’m not going through all this only to give up at the last minute. I won’t go turbo all over them—as they would say—even though they deserve it. There’s too much at stake.

  Don’t you hate having to rely on other people?

  Fifteen

  There are masses of us back here—all in preaudition panic. This is nuts.

  There’s no real backstage in our auditorium. For Fashion Show, a huge curtain divides the stage in half. There’s plenty of room left up front, plus there’s the runway.

  The stage is deep, because it has to hold a large choir and a full-sized orchestra. But even in this big space, we’re pushing and shoving. People are running around, trying to find their fellow performers. Costumes are breaking down. Panicked scream-whispers hiss though the crowd. But we have to keep quiet out of respect for the act up front, auditioning before the judges.

  “Boyz to Zen! We’re ready for you!” A group breaks out of the crowd. I recognize them from the junior a cappella chorus. They’re wearing bow ties, and they’ve spray-painted their hair Day-Glo green. One kid looks like he accidentally sprayed his face too. They disappear behind the curtain. The perky sounds of a scratchy, old version of “April Showers” filters backstage.

  “Where’s Willow?” I ask. We’re up pretty soon.

  Seth has planted himself by the curtain. He’s gelled his hair into spikes. It looks as if he’s slept in his shirt, probably to get the wrinkles just right. His tie glistens as he curses the sound guy—or maybe the sound system. Everything sounds okay to me.

  Sandra’s laughing at him. “Chill out, goofus. All that gel must be seeping into your brain.”

  It’s not only her tone, like she knows better than everyone else. And it’s not only that Seth has been working like a dog to make this happen, and she could have some respect. And it’s not her dirty trick in singing class, or that she practically ripped off my kneecaps during drama exercises—although both are flooding back now, almost as if I’m living them again.

  It’s all of it. The pressure, the details. All the hoops I’ve been jumping through. Mostly on account of Sandra. Something inside me snaps.

  “Shut up, you!” I’m whispering, but I make sure my glare is harsh. “At least Seth cares about the act—he’s put in a ton of work. What have you done? Besides prancing around like a miffed diva, that is. You’ve been grand at that!”

  Sandra’s eyes widen, and she goes pale. She doesn’t snap back, as I might expect. She doesn’t nod and get on with it, like I’d hope. Instead she turns and walks away. She’s going… She’s left. She bumps past Willow, who’s arriving late, as usual.

  Just. Freaking. Perfect.

  If we weren’t backstage right now, having to be quiet, I would be screaming my head off. Willow is waving goodbye to Sandra’s back—clueless as ever. Could I have chosen two more difficult friends? They’re like stones in my shoe. I’d punch a wall to get rid of these shakes in my hands, but there’s nothing around except curtain—and soft bodies.

  Don’t tempt me, I tell myself.

  The Day-Glo bow ties come rustling back through the curtain, brushing past us. I can feel the heat coming off them. They are practically buzzing, they’re so thrilled with their performance. Congratulations to them. I hope they broke legs all over the place. I hope they have to drag themselves home on bleeding stumps. The next act hustles onstage. It’s an all-girl act this time, dressed in hoodies, ballcaps and low baggies. They’re already in character, full of limping swagger, as they disappear behind the curtain.

  Our costumes are prettier.

  When I realize I’ve backed myself to a wall, I lean against it—and slowly sink to the floor. I don’t want to punch anymore or scream. I want to pass out.

  Seriously, I’m feeling a bit faint. Willow is talking to me, but I can’t hear anything through the mist. She’s pulled off her tunic. She’s handing it to Seth, waving in the direction that Sandra went. I put my head between my knees, and the blood begins rushing back.

  It’s all gone boots up. All the work, all the stress, and now my dream is shot. I couldn’t make it happen. I couldn’t even bring it to audition—which is the true fail, now that I think about it.

  “I’m kind of relieved,” I hear Willow saying. “It turns out that Fashion Show is not really my thing, you know?”

  When I look up, she’s gone. Seth is kneeling over me. “Are you okay?” It’s the worried expression on his face that does me in. Have you ever noticed how the most horrible things may be happening to you, but it’s easy to keep it together—until someone shows a bit of sympathy, and you turn into a blubbing mess? I bury my face in his shoulder so no one can see me cry.

  Sixteen

  It’s up to Seth and me to tell the judges our act is wrecked, and we won’t be auditioning. We keep to the shadowy edges of the stage as we creep around the curtain. It’s not difficult to hide. The stage lights are bright on the runway, and there’s plenty of distraction from the swagger-girls running back, holding up their jeans and punching the air.

  By the time we get behind the judges’ table, the next act is coming on. Wouldn’t you know, it’s the Prima Donnas.

  Sometimes life comes along and kicks you in the stomach. Then sometimes, as you’re going down, it smashes your nose into your head. It’s bad enough seeing another act audition. That it turns out to be the fabulous Donnas is making my eyes tear up again. Now I get to watch how it’s really done—the opposite of failure. My nose pricks. I sniffle.

  They’re wearing the dreaded unitards. Jill’s put on a tattered denim miniskirt too. They’ve teased and piled their hair à la Bride of Frankenstein. They’re clomping into position in towering platform shoes. I’m impressed they plan to dance in those. Plus, their monster-goth eye makeup is very effective.

  The music goes on. I recognize the hard horn riff at the front even before the drums come in. They’ve chosen “X Gon’ Give It To Ya” (must be the clean version). The Donnas start their act lying down. I get it—they’re being Frankenstein before he comes to life. As the vocals come in, growling low, they start twitching.

  And then, as DMX is saying, “Listen up, listen—hear it, hear it,” the Donnas go all stiff, like they’ve been shot full of electricity. Then they sit up fast—whoosh!—arms outstretched.

  I can’t help feeling shivers as they each do their own version of a stiff-limbed monster struggling to its feet. The platform shoes convey an amazing, clunky vibe. As always, Sofia’s dance training shows in her clean, expressive moves.

  They’re moving in sync now, stomping forward, off in three directions, then back together. They bump into one another, turning into a dancing monster knot. Jill’s got great rhythm, and Dawn knows how to be funny.

  Excellent moves, amazing music, cool theme. I can feel the thrill start down in my stomach, just like at last year’s Fashion Show, and the year before. The Prima Donnas are killing it. And I’m sad and glad and grateful I get to watch.

  They’re popping and locking their way forward, platform shoes sliding under stiff knees. They move into triangular formation to squat into some light twerking before they stomp off in three directions, stiff arms and legs flailing.

  From back here, I see the judges fidget and murmur at the twerking, but the sexy moves are gone before anyone can get too upset. Plus, the ugly Franken-moves are pure genius for taking the edge off twerking in a unitard. In the shadows, I’m smiling and swaying, and I can feel Seth grooving next to me. DMX is singing, “Ka-blam—open that door, for real!”

  You’ve got to hand it to those Donnas.

  Halfway down the runway they start doing partner stuff. Jill falls back, one platform foot outstretched. Dawn catches her and pushes her upright again. Then Dawn swoons and falls toward Sofia’s arms. That heavy shoe must take some strength to lift high, but she looks good—very Frankenstein. Only this time, something happens with Sofia, who isn’t ready to catch her.

/>   Sofia looks like she’s dizzy. Her hands go for her head instead of Dawn’s shoulders, and she totters—not a good idea in those platforms. She cries out as Dawn crashes into her and they both go down…and over.

  I can’t believe it—they’ve fallen off the runway! Jill shrieks. The music stops. The judges rush out from behind their table. The tallest (our bass choir singing teacher) vaults off the runway to where Sofia is wailing below. The other two judges (our English and drama teachers) take the stairs. They huddle over the girls, asking them to move their arms and legs.

  “I told you guys!” Jill is yelling down at them like a crazy person. “You have to eat!” She stamps in her dangerous shoes. “Now look what you’ve done!”

  Below, Sofia tries to stand. She cries out, collapsing against our singing teacher. The English teacher is shaking her head and clucking, “Stay off the ankle, darling.” Sofia begins to sob. The singing teacher carries her from the auditorium. I can’t imagine her tears are just from the hurt ankle. Sofia is used to being in pain from her intense ballet training.

  “Is she all right?” Jill’s tear-stained face turns in confusion, and Seth and I rush over. “I told them they were being stupid—they weren’t eating!” The other two teachers are still patting down Dawn for injuries while she unlaces her shoes to stand up. Dawn seems okay.

  Kids from backstage start trickling in, then flooding, to see what’s going on. Our drama teacher rushes up the stage steps, waving everyone back. She bellows in her powerful actor voice, “Everyone go home! All acts that haven’t auditioned, we’ll hold an extra session after school on Friday!”

  Seventeen

  “Friday!” Seth and I look at each other and groan. He must be thinking the same thing as me. We still have an audition slot, but no act. How ironic is that? On the stage floor, Jill is kicking off her platforms, muttering about the nurse’s office and finding her friends.

  “They better be okay,” she growls, “or I’ll kill them.”

  Seth pulls her off the floor. He ties the laces of her shoes together while she smears teary makeup across her face. I don’t have a tissue on me, so I offer the sleeve of my shirt. It’s pretty clean.

  “Go ahead,” I insist. “Your sleeve is so pale, you’ll muck it up completely.” We must look odd as we leave the auditorium together, Jill dabbing her eyes with my arm, Seth with a pair of honking-big platform shoes hanging around his neck.

  I’ll bet Sofia and Dawn are wishing they hadn’t got so carried away dieting for their act. I can’t believe I’m thinking it, but maybe they took Fashion Show a little too far.

  * * *

  Well, this is disturbing. Sofia is super upset. She has to go to Emergency. Her mother is here and everything.

  Sofia’s ankle looks like a balloon, and every time she tries to stand on it, she starts crying again. Her mom keeps begging her to stop, but Sofia wants so badly for the ankle to be okay.

  It doesn’t look okay.

  “I’ll be fine! We’ll just go home and ice it—Mommy, please?” Sofia sounds like a little kid. The school nurse and her mom keep shaking their heads. Even I can see that Sofia is kidding herself.

  “A doctor will look at your ankle, sweetheart.” Sofia’s mom has that overly calm voice, the one parents get when they are freaking on the inside.

  “That ankle needs an X-ray.” The school nurse is offering pills and a paper cup of water. “For the emergency-room wait,” she suggests to Sofia’s mom, showing her the bottle. Sofia’s mom nods.

  Dawn and Jill are huddled around Sofia. They don’t look like the Prima Donnas anymore. They look like wounded sparrows. Since we got here, Sofia’s ankle has been changing color, going a scary blue-purple as yellowing skin stretches around the swelling. I’m trying not to run to the bathroom and hide. Why doesn’t anyone take charge and get her out of here? She needs a hospital now!

  The thing is, even Seth and I know why everyone is being so patient and careful, and why Sofia is trying to pretend her ankle is all right. It has nothing to do with missing out on the stupid fashion show. Sofia is really serious about ballet. She does a class every day—more on weekends. I heard that she was accepted into a ballet school out west this year but decided to finish high school here first. So if Sofia’s ankle is messed up, what does that do to her dance career?

  “I can’t believe this is happening!” Sofia lets out a fresh wail, while Jill and Dawn murmur and twitter, stroking her shoulders, smoothing her hair.

  On the nurse’s desk, the phone rings. “The taxi is out front, Sofia. It’s time to go.”

  We all troop to the front hall, Sofia propped between Jill and Dawn. Her mom’s lugging all her school junk, plus the boot Sofia can’t get on her foot. Good thing it isn’t snowing yet.

  Standing in the great front hall, watching Sofia struggle down the school steps, across the yard and into the cab, I suddenly feel really tired. Only a short while ago I was backstage, weeping all over Seth. I feel kind of embarrassed now. There are worse things than missing an audition, right? I just want to go to my locker, get my stuff and go home. It’s been a long day.

  I turn around to see Seth, Jill and Dawn by the benches, heads together. It looks like an intense conversation. Above them, the masks of smiling Comedy and frowning Tragedy are carved into the wall. A swirly carved ribbon connects them, showing how they are two sides of a greater whole. After years of drama class, I can figure that out.

  Pale marble floors lead to the red-carpeted inner hallway, which is also the vestibule of the auditorium. Right now an exhibition of sculptures by the eleventh-graders is installed in there. But come concert time, that’s where masses of kids in their concert uniforms will queue with their instruments. Inside the auditorium, hundreds of seats will be filled with relatives waiting to hear them play. It’s pretty cute when the little ones have a concert. They’re made to sit on the floor in tidy groups—like rows of baby soldiers, or stubby lawn gnomes—while their teachers patrol the edges.

  I can hear Seth and the others talking about Sofia, and something about the act. What act? Jill and Dawn have lost their star performer. Their toss-and-turn moves require three dancers. And, of course, Seth and I have no act anymore.

  I wander over to the massive bronze plaque that covers the wall next to the reception kiosk. The receptionist has long gone home. I should too—as soon as I get the energy to climb four flights up to my locker.

  In all my time at the school, I never really looked at this plaque. It’s a kind of monument. I have to look way up to read the heading, which says, Former pupils and masters who served in the Great War 1914–18. In history class we call it World War I. I guess when they made this wall, they didn’t know there’d be another world war coming along shortly.

  This thought does nothing to cheer me up. It’s strange to think of students like us going to war. I bet they didn’t stress about Fashion Show.

  “Adina, what do you think?” Seth calls over. Then he turns back to Jill and Dawn. “We could combine the best moves from each act—make it like a battle between backup singers and monster dancers.”

  “Except this time, Dawn and I will wear combat boots.” Jill has a grim, no-fooling look on her face. Dawn gazes on their platform shoes, heaped on the bench. She nods reluctantly.

  I get what they’re thinking. Our disco-glimmer and their Franken-goth, together in one act. If anyone can make it work, it’s the Donnas and Seth. But in time for auditions on Friday?

  “I’ll catch up with you guys tomorrow.” My voice echoes across the empty hall. Everything can wait until tomorrow.

  “Okay, but hold up a sec.” Seth’s got his hand raised like he’s stopping traffic. “What about Sandra? Do we ask her to join?”

  “Gawd, Sandra.” I feel my shoulders slump. My head drops forward until I’m staring at my scuffed sneakers. They go in and out of focus until I shut my eyes. “Can we think about that tomorrow?”

  Eighteen

  Finally, home at last. I’m stretched
out on our massive sectional sofa that Mom currently has set up in an L shape around the family TV. We’ve got a satellite console, Dev’s old Xbox—we’ve even still got that motion-detector add-on, stuck to the top of the TV. It’s been years since we played any of those games—River Raft, Dance Mania. I suddenly realize that these days none of us use our home entertainment system. Now we watch our stuff all over the house, from whatever pad, pod or cell phone we’re holding at the moment. For old times’ sake, I click the Xbox into life.

  I should be doing violin practice, but I’m too limp to get up. I am completely wrung out. I scroll through the Xbox options. The Wolf Among Us is in the game-disc tray. Yuck. I press Play anyway. The intro movie starts. It’s a closeup of a dented trash can. It rattles, and the lid slides off with a clang as a scruffy cat springs out and dashes offscreen.

  This is the first time in ages that my brain hasn’t been busy with Fashion Show. It should be a relief. It is a relief. But it also feels empty, if that makes any sense. The act was taking over my life, and now it’s not there anymore.

  I wanted everything to be perfect, but it seemed like I’d solve one problem and two more would pop up. It reminds me of when I volunteered at the Y day camp this past summer. I had to put away the kids’ floaty toys so the old ladies could use the pool for their aquafit class.

  Walking around in the shallow end, I was using one of those noodle floats like a sweeper. I had the idea I was going to sweep all the toys into the stair area and then gather them up. But every time a toy escaped my noodle, I’d make a new wave trying to get it back in line, causing more toys to bob away. Which is pretty much how I was feeling about our act for Fashion Show by the end.