Been There, Done That

by Mike Winchell

  “I broke my leg at softball practice,” she says. “The cast doesn’t exactly match my dress, but orange is my favorite color.”

  Livi explains how we can still eat dinner together, just not dance. I’m numb. The room spins. Everything moves in slow motion.

  Dinner begins. Livi sits at my right; Loud Andi at my left. I figure that since Loud Andi is not my dinner partner, I don’t need to talk to her. She sees differently, though. She’s like a yakking machine turned up to full blast—she won’t shut up! Every time I try to talk to Livi, Loud Andi cuts in. I wonder where her date is; who is her dance partner? Next thing, Loud Andi turns and stabs her fork into my salad. I guess all those sessions about grace and poise and table manners were wasted on a girl like her.

  Mr. Oxley scurries over to our table, a dark fog seeming to follow him. “Being that Miss Livi is incapacitated this evening, and being that Miss Andi has no date, she will be your dance partner.”

  Loud Andi’s eyes bunch up into an angry frown. So do Livi’s.

  I almost puke my brains out right there.

  The lights dim and the crowd applauds. It’s time to dance. Our table is called to the floor first. I look at Livi. Her frown disappears. She leans in, whispers in my ear, “Dance like you draw.” More rockets launch inside of me again.

  Couples enter the wooden dance floor. It’s polished so shiny, I can see my reflection. It’s an image I haven’t seen before. I look assured, brave, like Sly Jamma.

  Loud Andi and I clasp hands. She leans in. “You’d better not mess up and embarrass me,” she says, crunching my hand in a death grip.

  My blood races. My body temperature explodes. But this time, Loud Andi’s threats do not scare me. They make me angry; they pump me up.

  From a nearby table, Moms snaps a picture. Dad beams with pride.

  The soft roll of a piano precedes the um-pa-pa—um-pa-pa—um-pa-pa bouncy music.

  I look up from the floor—away from Loud Andi—and imagine myself at home in my room with a pad of paper, a pencil, and my hero Sly Jamma holding his sword.

  And then, just like Livi said, I dance like I draw. I waltz and fox-trot and tango and swing. All the dances we learned. I may not perform them perfectly, but it feels so good to cut loose and just be myself. Loud Andi struggles to keep in step.

  Swoosh!—my mighty Sword of Doom crushes Loud Andi, which I’m sure would please Sly Jamma to no end. Moms, Dad, and Livi are pleased, too. When I spin around on the dance floor, I see their faces all glowing with pride.

  Kelly Starling Lyons

  WHAT REALLY HAPPENED

  THE COOL IN ME

  When I walked through the doors of my Pittsburgh middle school, I felt awkward and out of place. I was a skinny sixth grader with too-big glasses and braids crisscrossed on my head little-girl style. I gaped at the hugeness of the school. I marveled at the fashions of kids who looked like they had stepped off the cover of a teen magazine. It felt like everyone rocked designer jeans like Jordache, Sergio Valente, and Gloria Vanderbilt, while I wore no-names from a discount department store.

  My favorite pair had an embroidered patch of skates on a back pocket with real laces you could tie. I couldn’t wait to show them off, but when I got to school it took just one comment to make me wish I had left them on the rack.

  “Where did you get those from?” a girl said with a sneer.

  It wasn’t her words that stung, it was her tone. Oozing with scorn, it made me feel foolish for thinking I would get compliments. I pretended like I didn’t hear her question, but my shoulders slumped for the rest of the day.

  I was in the gifted program, could spell like a champ, and was the only girl in the percussion section of the jazz ensemble. But I wanted more. I ached to be cool.

  When tryouts were announced for cheerleaders for the Mini-Globes basketball team, I signed up. I had no dance lessons or experience cheering, but I had drive. I looked at the other girls, who seemed so poised and perfect, and anxiously waited for my turn. I stilled my nerves by going over the moves in my head. I had the motions and chant down:

  Strawberry Shortcake, Huckleberry Pie, V-I-C-T-O-R-Y.

  “Next.”

  I was up. I gave the cheer my all. I don’t know if I didn’t muster enough team spirit or jump high enough at the end, but it was a pass. I left humbled and determined to try something else.

  My next mission was diving into my secret desire to be a hip-hop queen. Breakdancing, deejaying, rapping, I wanted to do it all. I watched in amazement kids who broke out cardboard and hit windmills and back spins. I tried to scratch records and spin on my knee in my bedroom. I wrote raps about school, hanging out with my friends and cousins, and battling rappers like Roxanne Shanté. Some buddies and I pretended to be a crew, the Glamorous Gang, named after Sheila E’s hit “The Glamorous Life.” I was Lady K.

  I daydreamed about spitting rhymes that made kids throw their hands in the air, and imagined popping and locking like I was an extra on the movie Breakin’. I even went to school one day armed with Mom-approved rhymes to lyrically take down some boys who were a pain. Ready to spar, I called one a roller skate and said I wanted to use his head to do a figure eight. Supercorny, but it cracked him up and me, too. I had imagination, but an MC I was not.

  But something happened as I tried and failed at cheerleading and rap—I started feeling good about who I was. My cool came from making up secret codes and passing notes to my best friend, Nikki, between classes and sharing our own special jokes that made us giggle and lock arms.

  My cool came from making good grades and being selected to be part of a special science club. Mr. Scott, a teacher who made learning the meaning of inertia as awesome as watching a new music video, was my hero: “Objects have a tendency to resist the changes in motion,” he rapped while we kept time with cowbells and tambourines.

  My cool came from Mr. Powell’s band room, where I played synthesizer. In Jazz Ensemble, I jammed in the back with the guys who played drums, electric piano, and bass. Mr. Powell, brilliant, quirky, and exacting, pushed us to improvise and shine in solos. We played songs like “Sailing” and “Ride Like the Wind” by Christopher Cross and performed for students around the city. Then, one day, Mr. Powell wrote “Kelly’s Blues,” a song just for me.

  Even in the out-of-date black tuxedo pants and gold butterfly collar shirt that was our uniform, I felt as smooth as Herbie Hancock playing “Rockit.” My fingers danced across the keys during my moment in the spotlight as my friends and family cheered me on.

  As I came into myself, I discovered my style groove, too. Who needed designer gear when you had creativity? I mixed flowered jeans with my mom’s pastel ruffled shirts and wore cha-cha skirts with leggings and fluorescent high tops with a hat slung on my back. I rocked my glasses and sported hairdos that felt just right. I still heard an occasional snarky comment, but louder than that I could hear my own voice telling me to raise my head to the sky and strut. By the end of eighth grade, I didn’t need anyone’s approval. I was the kind of cool only I could be.

  Kelly Starling Lyons

  THE STORY

  THE JACKET

  I pushed through the steel door into Three Rivers Middle School and felt as puny as a guppy in an ocean. The winding hallway streamed with kids, some nervous and shy like me, some with teen swagger and style. Friends laughed as they plastered the insides of their lockers with patterned paper, mirrors, and stickers and posters of singers like Michael Jackson and Madonna. Everything seemed louder and freer than elementary. No walking in line here. Kids owned these halls.

  Inside my sixth-grade classroom, I hoped to see a familiar face. But I knew going to a school with kids from around the city made that a long shot. I looked and came up empty. It took just a few minutes to figure out which girls would be popular. Tonya Prince and her crew rocked Jheri curls and feathered hair. The labels of their designer jeans—G
loria Vanderbilt, Sergio Valente, and Jordache—flashed as they strutted around the room. Looking at them made me wish I’d picked something else to wear.

  With a bow in my hair, patent leather Mary Janes, and a new-to-me fuchsia jumper from Moms’s “special store,” I knew I stood out. And sure enough, when we changed classes, Tonya zeroed in on me.

  “Are you lost?” she asked with a sneer.

  “No.” Weird question. We were both going to the same place—math across the hall.

  “I think you’re lost. Church is a block down the street.”

  Her friends high-fived and cackled. I sighed and trudged to my desk. It was going to be a long year.

  But when Mrs. Richardson started reading word problems for us to solve, I perked up and sat taller. In elementary school, buddies called me Encyclopedia Brown because I could figure out anything. Every time, my hand was the first one up. Kids looked impressed. I just knew I had it made. Until I heard a nasty whisper.

  “Know-it-all,” Tonya spat just loud enough for me to hear. Her girls giggled.

  When Mrs. Richardson read the next question, I kept my hand down, though I had figured out the answer in my head. I studied her black-and-gold Steelers pennant when she asked for a volunteer to solve a problem on the board. As soon as the bell rang, I grabbed my notebook and pencil case and rushed to the door.

  “Don’t let them get to you,” a girl with a puffy ponytail and braces whispered as she hustled alongside me. “My mom said girls only tease you when they’re jealous.”

  Jealous? Of me? I looked at her and smiled.

  “Thanks,” I said. “I’m Cassie.”

  “Zoe.”

  “What do you have next?”

  “Band,” she said.

  “No way,” I said, grinning. “Me, too.”

  We entered the sunny room filled with rows of black metal music stands. Flutes, clarinets, and horns beckoned from tables. Mr. Jamison called over kids with no experience to figure out what would be a good fit. Zoe got flute—something I always wanted to play. I had been taking piano lessons since I was five, so it was a no-brainer. Keyboard for me. Zoe said she always wanted to learn how to play piano. We giggled and promised to teach each other.

  At lunchtime, I patted a seat next to me for Zoe to sit. We poked at the meatloaf covered with gravy, which oozed like brown slime on our trays, and we grimaced at each other. We took a couple of bites, then stuck with the applesauce, green beans, and tater tots.

  “Ready?” I said.

  Zoe nodded.

  We dumped our trays and headed outside to the courtyard. Music from the local radio station pumped through speakers. A crowd formed around a group of boys rapping back and forth, trading rhymes like they were Run-D.M.C. We rocked along with their flow and cheered when someone delivered a zinger. Then came the dancers. Kids popped and locked, did the worm on the grass, and spread out cardboard and nailed moves that made them look like spinning tops.

  Tonya and her girls stood along the side bopping back and forth. But they were no match for Zoe. She tilted her head to the right, and her body followed like a snake. She tilted her head to the left and brought her body back the other way.

  “You got skills,” I said, making a mental note to work on that dance move when I got home.

  “So do you. You take dance, too?”

  “Nope,” I said. “Just love it.”

  While we jammed, I didn’t see Ricky Holmes, one of the cutest boys in class, walk up alongside us.

  “Cassie, take off your glasses for a minute,” he said.

  “What?”

  “Just take them off.”

  I slipped them off my face and watched his features blur. Ricky smiled.

  “You have pretty eyes.”

  He walked away. I grinned and quickly slid my glasses back on.

  Tonya, standing in earshot, frowned and looked me up and down. She had seen and heard everything.

  • • •

  Whenever she could after that, Tonya took a swipe at me. She was there when I dropped my books.

  “Butterfingers,” she called.

  She was there when I broke the arm of my glasses and had to squint throughout the day.

  “Look at Miss Magoo,” she said.

  She was there when I checked out the poster in the cafeteria inviting kids to try out for the talent show. You could rap, dance, sing, play an instrument. The winner would win $25 and a homework pass.

  “I know you’re not thinking about entering,” Tonya said.

  Her buddies yukked it up behind her.

  That did it. I hadn’t really thought about entering. But instantly, my mind was made up. Not only was I going to enter, I was going to take it all. I didn’t want to win. I had to.

  At lunch, I told Zoe my idea.

  “I don’t know, Cassie,” she said, chomping on a French fry. “Have you ever been in a talent show before?”

  “No, but I’ve played in recitals. Same thing.”

  “Not really,” she said, running her tongue over her braces. “I’ve been in dance performances, too. But this will be in front of the whole school.”

  My stomach plunged at the words whole school. I felt like I was on a runaway roller coaster racing toward disaster. What if I messed up? Instead of instant fame, it would be epic shame. I gulped and kept talking.

  “Come on, Zoe. We can do it together,” I said, hoping my words would convince her. And me, too. “Let’s come up with something great and shock everybody.”

  Zoe ran her tongue over her braces as she thought things through. Then smiled and nodded.

  “Okay, I’m in.”

  “Really? All right!”

  Now, we just had to figure out what our act would be. For the rest of the day, I tried to think of something. I could play piano while Zoe danced. No, that was too ordinary. We could dance together to a song by our favorite singer, Michael Jackson. Or we could . . . I thought about the rapping and breakdancing in the courtyard during lunch. Everybody loved it. What if Zoe and I rapped and danced? It would be totally unexpected and cool. There was no way we could lose. I could picture kids up on their feet, waving their hands from side to side.

  Say ho! I imagined myself yelling, lost in my daydream.

  Ho! the crowd called back.

  “Earth to Cassie,” snapped Mrs. Richardson. I realized I was back in the classroom—all eyes on me. “I just asked you to solve the problem on the board.”

  “Sorry, Mrs. Richardson.”

  As I walked to the front of the room, I heard Tonya snicker. I didn’t even care. Let her laugh. I had a plan.

  That weekend, I used my allowance to buy a book about hip-hop. I tried to spin on my knee in my bedroom and make a wave travel from my fingertips on one hand to the other side. But I didn’t stress about the moves—I knew Zoe would make sure our dance looked good. My job was to come up with the rap. I wrote and rewrote, spitting rhymes to my mom, little brother, whoever would listen. I served the lines and pushed myself harder when they fell flat. It was too late to back down. I had to make it work.

  Zoe and I had a sleepover before Friday’s talent show. Our moms surprised us with matching jackets. We could decorate them any way we wanted. We used an airbrush, rhinestones, iron-ons, the works. Zoe slid on her jacket, spun around, and struck a pose.

  “What do you think?”

  “We’re gonna look good.”

  Just as good as Tonya and her crew, I thought. Maybe better because we hooked these up ourselves. Now, all we had to do was win.

  But as the days got closer, I felt more and more sick. I knew the rhymes and the moves, but I didn’t know if I could do it. Who was I kidding? I wasn’t a rapper. I kept thinking about what Zoe had said: in front of the whole school. I could feel eyes, hundreds of eyes, staring up at me. I saw Tonya and her girls
waiting to pick apart every move.

  “You can do this,” I told myself, when the worries tried to rule.

  • • •

  I thought I had the jitters beat until the big day came. I peeked through the curtains and saw the auditorium packed with kids ready to watch the show. So many faces, so many eyes. The closer it got to our turn, the more I wanted to run.

  “I’ll be right back,” I mumbled, trying to swallow down the bitter taste rising in my throat.

  “Just two more acts and then us,” Zoe said. “Hurry!”

  I raced from backstage, hoping I didn’t throw up before I got to the bathroom. When I rushed inside, I heard gagging coming from a stall. I swallowed down my own sick feeling and knocked on the door.

  “Are you okay?”

  “Just leave me alone,” a shaky voice answered.

  “Wait here. I’ll get a teacher.”

  “No,” the voice moaned, and the stall door slowly opened.

  There was Tonya with tears falling down her face and a stain on her neon yellow shirt.

  “What are you looking at?!” she screamed when she saw it was me and slammed the door. It bounced back open.

  Her face was blotchy. Her lips trembled in anger, or maybe it was fear. I took off my jacket, the one I worked so hard on, the one I couldn’t wait to show off, and held it out to her.

  “If you zip it up, no one will know.”

  Tonya sniffed, and stared at me with a confused look on her face like she was trying to figure out if this was some kind of trick.

  “Why are you being nice to me?” she finally said, wiping her eyes.

  “I don’t know.” I tried not to think about how nasty she had been. It could have been me who threw up. I stretched out the jacket again. “Want it or not?”

  She took it and looked down.

  “Thanks.”

  I turned to leave and gasped when I suddenly remembered Zoe’s plea to hurry back.