At least with the floaty toys, it took me about five seconds to realize I’d be better off grabbing each one and hurling it poolside. If only Fashion Show could have been solved so easily. Instead, I got more and more wound up, and then—poof—it was all taken from me. Everything I’d been working for was gone like a puff of smoke. All my dreaming and my planning—it was like they didn’t count for anything. I never imagined that could happen. I guess I always figured if I wanted something enough, and worked hard for it, everything would go as I hoped.
Onscreen, the video is panning across a rundown city neighborhood—smashed cars, boarded-up windows. A homeless lady sits on a doorstep, drinking from a bottle in a crumpled paper bag. The cat runs by.
Take Sofia’s ankle, for example. I mean, she’s got real problems, right? No fashion-show act is worth that.
Oh, here we go—the story is going to make me choose what happens next. Dev likes this game. The idea is that all these fairy-tale characters are stuck in our world, and they have to hide. I’m sure the homeless lady and the cat will turn out to be fairy-tale creatures. Right now, there’s a redheaded kid named Fox trying to jack one of the old cars while a massive guy in a tank top is threatening him with a tire iron. This big guy is going to be a giant in disguise, or an ogre. But I have only a few seconds to choose from the options for what happens next or the story will continue in default mode.
“Guess what?” I tell the screen. “I don’t care!”
So the guy with the tire iron chases Fox away and goes back inside.
“If you let the story run on its own, it’s going to be very boring.” Dev has come out of his room—he must have heard the game. I make space for him on the couch. He picks up the controller and starts clicking, popping up a new screen and adjusting all kinds of settings. “I thought you hated this game.”
“I’m not really playing. I’m bumming about the fashion show.” I stretch my arms and feel my neck crackle. At least Dev has got me sitting up again. As he clicks forward through the game at lightning speed, I tell him all the sad details of my life. He’s obviously not interested, but it makes me feel better.
“Fashion Show always causes drama,” he says as Fox sprints through dark hallways with a little toad leaping after him. Dev starts clicking madly. Fox and the toad are in a fistfight. “Last year we had trouble borrowing a trumpet. Dawn was in tears when she thought I was going to have to use my French horn.” Dev is sniggering, but I don’t know if it’s because of the French horn or because Fox flattened the toad.
“I can see Dawn’s point of view,” I admit. “No offense, but French horn is not as cool as trumpet.”
“I don’t know.” Dev sighs as he puts the game on hold. He leans back so his head rests along the low, puffy top of the sofa. He stares at the ceiling. “I always thought it would be easier the older I got, but problems have a way of growing up with you, you know?”
Uh, no. I don’t know. Everything’s easier for Dev now that he’s expected to graduate this spring. Mom and Dad never pester him about homework assignments. I don’t think he even has a curfew anymore.
But I don’t say it out loud, because Dev never talks to me like this. So I burrow deeper into my corner of the sofa and hug my knees up to my chest. I nod as if I totally relate.
“I’m sick of this school thing year after year—it’s enough. If I want to take a year off and travel in India, what’s the harm, right?” He slides his head around to look at me for a second, then rolls it back to the ceiling.
What? What’s Dev talking about? He’s doing pre-engineering next year.
Dev glances at me out of the corner of his eye. “Didn’t you know? You must have heard me talking with Mom and Dad about it.” He closes his eyes. “You must have heard Dad yelling.”
I never heard anything. “What do you want to do in India?” I ask, which may seem a stupid question, because we have tons of family in India, and there are our roots to explore and all that. But Dev has never been into that kind of thing. “Oh, wait—your music?”
Dev’s eyes widen like he’s thinking, Way to figure it out, Sherlock. “They’ve sent me to a music school since I was four years old—what do they expect?”
He’s got a point. Mom and Dad expect us to excel in music, but only as a hobby to make us well-rounded. They must be freaking to think of Dev trying to make it something more.
“I told Dad I’d come back after a year and do the degree. Just give me a break, okay? They should be happy I’m interested. They’re always babbling about moving back to India. Auntie Lakshmi would put me up—and cousin Govind. I would still be working and learning—about music, that’s all.”
I see Dev with a dusty backpack, hopping crowded trains for different cities and towns. I see him in market squares, listening to street musicians. I see him playing tabla and dhol. I see him at raves, checking out new DJs, and in traditional nightclubs where musicians sit on the floor and play ragas for hours on end. And I can see why our parents don’t want him to go. But what Dev wants to do is really cool.
“Dev, I hope you get your wish!”
Dev’s frown softens and his eyes crinkle, like he’s about to smile. He’s looking down at my hands. They’re clasped, just like we used to do when we were little and we really wanted something. We used to kneel under this painting Mom has—a traditional-style picture of a wedding couple. We must have thought they were gods, because we’d clasp our hands and ask for kids’ stuff, like McDonald’s for dinner or a snow day from school. Dev must be remembering the same thing, because he clasps his hands too.
* * *
We’re in Dev’s room listening to some tracks. “When Pandas Attack,” he calls it. I don’t know if that’s the band or the name of the tune. I let the sweet melody drift over me, supported by the gentle tap-tap of the percussion. The sounds of old-style-recording crackle, water dripping and some kind of animal squawk weave around one another. It’s like being taken to another world.
While Dev is playing me his sound tour of Indian electronica, I’ve been telling him the whole story of Fashion Show, what happened to us and to the Donnas.
“Whoa—poor Sofia.” He reaches into the bar fridge under his desk and hands me a Coke. “All she talks about is ballet school in Alberta.”
I’m careful when I pop the can so it doesn’t spill. We’re on the rug, shoulders propped against the futon mattress he chose to replace his old bed. Mom was disgusted that Dev wanted to sleep on the floor, but he got his way in the end. Outside his window, the trees are bare. I tell him about the new act that Seth, Jill and Dawn are planning and how I almost feel like it’s too much trouble.
“I never thought I’d give up on Fashion Show—I’ve been wanting this forever.”
“You’re just burned out,” Dev assures me. “If the others are still into it, let them take over for a while.”
That’s a thought. I consider it as the music fades. Yeah—what if I just let go? What would happen then? Dev clicks on another track. In this one, whisper vocals come in under an eerie riff of keyboards.
What about Sandra? Seth’s voice comes back to me as if it’s still echoing through the front hall at school. Do we ask her to join?
Whenever I think about Sandra, that’s when I most want to quit Fashion Show. I haven’t told Dev anything about Sandra and me. I don’t know why. I haven’t really sorted it out for myself, I guess. I’m not ready to talk about it like it’s a story.
So what is it?
It’s as if all the wild, wacky things I love about Sandra are blowing up out of control, like tumors. Talk about turbo.
But maybe, if I’m being honest, some of my own tumors have been getting pretty big too. She’s right that I like things to be perfect. I probably get hard-core about it.
That day in the big gym, I could’ve dropped everything and sympathized with Sandra. I know she’s sensitive about her weight. What’s the loss of one practice, right? Especially when you consider how the act ended up anyway.
Sometimes plans don’t turn out the way you expect.
But Sandra went too far. She could’ve apologized for the singing trick. She shouldn’t have knocked me over when I was blindfolded. She could’ve accepted my apology instead of holding a grudge.
So what is it? I ask myself—and finally stop avoiding the answer. I feel like Sandra hasn’t been acting like a friend.
No wonder I’m tired. I gulp down my Coke. I guess I let Sandra down. But she let me down too. So the question is, will our friendship get through it?
The track is filling with more synth layers, and my head starts moving to the beat. Dev is doing the same. He’s staring out the window, but I can tell his eyes are really on the music.
“If you need another guy for the act, I can do it,” he says.
It’s funny what happens when you let go. At the beginning of this year, I never would have dreamed the Donnas would be in our act. And now here’s Dev offering too! We’re still bobbing our heads in unison, nodding. Yes, yes, yes.
“Hey, thanks, Dev.” The tune trails out as the next begins. “But you’ve got enough on your plate. We’ll be okay.” Yes, yes, yes.
Nineteen
The bus is pulling away from the metro station. I’m in the best spot, at the front of the raised level. I like to sit high, but if I go too far back, I get motion sickness. My iPod is playing my new fave download, DJ Megan Hamilton doing a set at some club last week. I bet Seth’ll like it too.
I’m going to his place. We’re all meeting for a massive-blast rehearsal of the combined disco-monster act. The audition is tomorrow.
Whoa! The bus lurches to a sudden stop, and I almost fall into the stroller in the aisle. The bus driver opens the door and a passenger rushes on, huffing and puffing. It’s Sandra.
Yeah, we invited her to join the new act. Not that I made the decision. I was taking Dev’s advice about letting go.
As Sandra moves down the aisle, she sees me perched in my usual spot. Our usual spot—she likes it too. A sickly, nervous smile twitches across her face. It must look exactly like the smile I’m wearing.
“Hey.” She grabs the pole near my seat. The bus is pretty full, so she stands.
I pull out my earbuds. “Hey.” She’s streaked her hair with pink. It matches her fun-fur scarf perfectly. She brightens up the cold, dark day. “So, pink, huh?” is how the thought comes out of my mouth.
“Yeah.” Sandra shrugs. She looks shy—kind of miserable.
“Looks good,” I say.
She makes a face. “Yeah right.” She looks through the window behind me.
I gaze out the window across the aisle. This is going to be a long ride.
I try to imagine the rumbling bus is really a massage chair, like they have on the top floor of the mall. I’ve put in my coins. I’m relaxing against the knobs as they churn up and down my spine.
In the bus seat next to me, there’s a toddler on his mother’s lap, but now she’s stuffing him into the stroller—the one I almost fell on. He’s not too happy about it—until he spots Sandra’s scarf dangling above him.
He makes a few grabs for it. Sandra gives him a jokey, back off look, with flaring nostrils and buggy eyes. The kid doesn’t even notice, he’s so into the scarf. The mom’s busy tapping on her phone. He strains against his seat belt and succeeds in grasping the scarf. Sandra’s face galvanizes in fake horror as she tugs back.
This is better than the Three Stooges. The kid is laughing—I’m laughing—when the bus lurches to a hard stop. Sandra topples—she can’t steady herself with the stroller pressing her knees like that. She’s going to tip right onto the kid.
I reach out with both hands. Flailing, she manages to grab at me. I hold firm as she pulls herself upright again.
“Thanks.” Sandra smiles at me—a real smile. Wow. It feels good to bask in that glow. Has it been that long? “I mean, thanks for asking me to join the act again,” she explains.
Ah! That. She doesn’t need to know I didn’t vote one way or the other. I’m glad she’s back now.
“After the way I walked off, I would have understood if you guys ditched me. That was so unprofessional…” Sandra’s voice trails.
“Look, there are free seats in the back,” I tell her. “We’ll go sit there. This driver is a maniac.”
“No, you get motion sickness,” Sandra says.
“It’s only a couple more stops. I’ll be fine.” I start to get up, but Sandra presses my shoulder back down.
“It’s better here,” she assures me.
We argue it out for the rest of the trip.
Twenty
The rec room at Seth and Jill’s place is now stuffy and rank. I’ve almost passed out from all our practicing. I’m rolling a cold can of lemonade across my forehead. I would heave myself up to slide open the little basement windows—get some air in here—but my muscles are quivering like jelly.
Jill is squatting, pressing her elbow into the charley horse on Sandra’s calf.
“Ow, ow, ow.” Sandra’s reaching my way, half laughing, half crying. “Save me,” she moans.
Jill keeps pressing down, biting her lip in concentration.
“It gets rid of the cramp fast,” Sofia assures Sandra. Sofia’s bad foot is resting high in the old recliner chair. Her walking cast lies nearby, like a rejected bit of storm trooper.
Her leg finally released, Sandra curls up as if she wants to cradle it. “How about yours?” She nods at Sofia’s foot, ensconced in a long white athletic sock.
“Six weeks, they figure.” Sofia shrugs, taking a swill of her lemonade. “Then I can start physiotherapy.”
Dawn’s looking down on us all, hands on hips. “Sofia knows what it’ll take to get back on both feet.” She manages to make it sound like a lesson for the rest of us. She still isn’t happy with the act just before Sandra’s bit. “Instead of doing the monster stomp in sync, let’s get the front row to come in late.”
“Keep it simple, you always say!” Seth is spread-eagled on the vinyl tiles. But then he springs up into a front-back step, gaining speed and bounce. He throws himself down for his helicopter move—leg spinning in one direction, then the other, fast and easy. His practicing has paid off.
“Simple, yes, but not moronic. C’mon, it’ll look good,” Dawn insists.
With groans, the rest of us gather in formation. We face Sofia, our audience. Dawn and Sandra are in front. Seth, Jill and I are in a row behind. This kick-stomp move is somehow both gangster and Riverdance. I love it because it makes a ton of noise and gets out my aggression.
In the back row, we lead, just as we’ve been practicing. With Dawn’s idea, she and Sandra must start a few beats later. When we get it, the rhythm sounds supercool. Now it’s like Brazilian gangster meets Irish clog dancer. Sofia is actually clapping along, so it must be as good as I think.
“Okay, that’s nice,” Dawn announces. I should study her people skills. No one seems to mind when she bosses them. “Sandra, now you go forward for the big finale—” She shakes her head as Sandra moves. “You’re not working it.” Dawn turns to Sofia. “Hello? A little help?”
Jill, Seth and I fall back. Jill slouches, biting her thumb as Sofia and Dawn confer. Seth moves to the speakers. He replays his new mix of Donna Summer and the DMX tune. I bet he’s listening for last-minute tweaks he might make. I creep back to my spot on the couch.
Sofia is now sitting up, making sinuous shapes in the air with her dancer arms. Sandra imitates, with Dawn helping adjust her pose here and there.
“Show her the butt strut,” Sofia urges Dawn.
Me, I’m just enjoying the sight of Sandra being coached by the Donnas in a sexy sashay. I never would’ve dreamed it.
Isn’t it cool when life comes up with better stuff than you ever imagined?
But wait—wow—Sandra is slammin’. Her hips are swiveling forward. Her shoulders shimmy back. Sandra looks…she looks…
“You’re totally smoking hot,” Dawn declares. She and Sofia excha
nge a satisfied nod. Sandra is blushing as she returns Dawn’s high five.
“This may be our best Fashion Show yet,” Jill muses.
Twenty-One
We’re back in costume, waiting behind the curtain again.
This time, Seth has slicked his hair straight back. His eyes twinkle at me through rings of smudgy makeup. My eyes must be glowing back at him, even in this dim light. Jill did our makeup. We look excellent.
We all hung out late last night to keep Seth and Jill company while they made miniskirts out of Willow’s tunic for the Franken-monsters. So even though we have different costumes, the gold theme connects us as a team. I take deep breaths, trying to calm my jitters. I can’t believe we did it. I can’t believe we’re here. We’re up next.
I turn around and whisper in Sandra’s ear, “You look good.” Along with the tunic and smudgy eyes, Sandra has her long hair done in a high ponytail. It juts out with this big Nefertiti-style hair clasp. Sandra knows how to style herself. She looks like a disco goddess.
I’m surprised how Dev’s advice has really worked out. This has been so much more fun than our other act. We’ve all been listening to everyone’s ideas, letting things fall apart, laughing together.
Plus, being off turbo mode has another bonus—I end up enjoying my friends better. And based on Sandra’s smile shining on me right now, I’d say the feeling is mutual.
“Here.” I twist a finger-curl into the end of her ponytail. “Now you’re perfect.” I’m totally satisfied with Sandra’s finished look. Don’t you love how sometimes when you step back, you can see so much better?
I smooth out my own tunic. It glows in the backstage gloom. As I mentally pat myself on the back for picking the right fabric, Sandra gets her wicked glint and says, “Who needs perfect? We got mad talent and personality, yo.”
I can feel my face split into a grin. I’d throw myself on Sandra and give her a bear hug—but our act is on!
As we rush onstage, I remember how I almost quit. Was I nuts? How could I give up the chance to feel like this? It’s like when we perform in the orchestra and in our bands and our choirs. It’s like when we put on school plays. Fashion Show is an amazing combination of the best bits of everything!
Show Mode Page 7