Compared to the Curly Creek Junior High auditorium, with its ripped vinyl seats, peeling walls, and patched canvas curtain, the Sweet Citrus Junior High auditorium might as well be on Broadway. (I haven’t been to Broadway, of course, but from what I’ve heard and read, the Sweet Citrus auditorium would fit in perfectly.)
“Pick it up, Megan!”
I jump. You’d think Ava Grand would want to save her voice, but she keeps bellowing like a foghorn.
“Did someone stomp through a puddle of wet cement this morning? An elephant is lighter on its feet.”
My heart races as if this insult is directed at me, though I know it can’t be. I’m still standing against the back wall, where I’ve been standing for twenty minutes. Ava doesn’t know I’m here, and I’m just waiting for the right time to tell her.
Onstage, Megan, Stephanie, and Hilary run through what I assume is supposed to be a dance routine but what looks more like a futuristic version of the Hokey Pokey. They’re in a circle, taking turns popping various body parts in the circle’s center, but their movements are rigid, awkward. They look like robots in black leotards and fuzzy pink leg warmers.
“Enough!” Ava calls out over the thumping music. “Enough! You’re giving me a migraine. I need a break.”
The stage lights dim and the overhead lights come on. The dancing robots sit down, their legs dangling over the edge of the stage. I’m tempted to dash into the hallway before anyone notices me but know the longer I wait, the worse it’ll be. And now might be my only chance—this is the first break they’ve taken, and from what I’ve seen of Ava’s directing so far, it might be the last.
Besides, how bad can it be? It’s not like I asked to be in their group. If they have a problem, they can take it up with Miss Anita.
I take a deep breath and slowly start down the aisle. I’m halfway down when the song the robots were dancing to ends and the auditorium falls silent. The only noises are the soft whooshing of a feathered fan Ava waves frantically in front of her face . . . and the loud clomping of my Converse.
“This is a closed rehearsal!” Ava shouts without turning around.
I stop. I’d run out, except I’ve been spotted. Two of the dancing robots see me and hop off the stage to alert their leader. The third, who I know is Megan from her unfortunate missteps and Ava’s scolding, watches me curiously.
“Pluto? What do you think you’re doing?” Ava storms up the aisle, blond hair flying behind her. “Are you lost in orbit?”
“Pluto’s not a planet,” I say.
She stands two feet away from me and puts her hands on her hips. Behind her, the two robots that alerted her to my presence take turns waving the feather fan at the back of her head. “Excuse me?”
“It was a planet, but now it’s not. It was downgraded to nonplanet status a while ago.” I realize I’m venturing into dangerous territory, but if all I’ve got on Ava Grand is some silly astronomy trivia, I’ll use it while I can.
She starts to fire back, but then adjusts her aim when Megan half snorts, half laughs onstage. “Something funny, Dumbo?” she shoots over her shoulder.
“That was a sneeze.” Megan sniffs. “Sorry.”
Ava turns back to me. “The auditorium’s ours until four o’clock.”
“I know.” Any triumph I just felt vanishes. Fear returns. What was I thinking, trying to one-up Ava Grand? No one could ever one-up her. She’s un-one-uppable.
She closes her eyes and rubs her temples. “I know you’re new, so I’m going to let this little security breach slide.”
“Security breach?” I glance behind me. The door wasn’t locked. Did I miss the bodyguards?
“Stephanie,” Ava says with a sigh, sounding the way Miss Anita did when I was wearing her patience.
“Our rehearsals are top secret,” one of the robots says. Up close I can see that, like Ava, she’s quite pretty. She has chin-length brown hair, green eyes, and freckles that cluster together when she smiles—which she does now, probably because she’s excited to be the chosen one that gets to explain the breach to me.
“Top, top secret,” the other robot says. By process of elimination, this one, with the black curly hair, brown eyes, and dimples, is Hilary. “You don’t want to know what happened to the last girl who tried to copy our act.”
She’s right. I don’t. Because given the way they all exchange smug smirks and giggles, that poor girl is probably still doing time for the crime—if she hasn’t already changed her name and fled the country.
“I’m not here to spy,” I say. “I’m here to join you.”
This seems to amuse them even more. “I’m sorry?” Ava says, her wide smile revealing perfectly white, perfectly straight teeth that would make my orthodontist back home weep with joy. “What did you just say?”
I know repeating myself will only fuel their laughter, so I reach into my jeans pocket and pull out a folded piece of paper.
“Hilary.” Ava eyes the paper like it’s covered in spiders as I hold it toward her.
Hilary dutifully takes the note. Stephanie tries not to look disappointed that she wasn’t given this important assignment.
“Dear Ruby,” Hilary reads, “here’s Constellation’s rehearsal schedule.”
Ava’s chin drops.
“You’re already behind,” Hilary continues nervously, “so if you have plans that conflict with any of these times, cancel them. Pay attention. Work hard. Cry if you have to. Give up sleep if you must. Once you hear the audience roar, it will all be worth it. Regards, Miss Anita.”
“Let me see that.” Ava snatches the note from Hilary.
“It’s on her ballet e-stationery,” Hilary says. “It’s really from—”
Ava holds up one hand for silence. Her blue eyes travel from the top of the page to the bottom, and then back again. She reads it five times before shaking her head. “She just dumps the new girl on me without even asking? Is she crazy? Does she know who I am? Does she know who my father is?”
She crumples the note in her fist and spins on one heel. Hilary and Stephanie shoot each other worried looks before running after her. When they reach their big leather purses sitting in the front row, Ava grabs hers and yanks out a cell phone. Hilary tries to fan Ava as she dials, but Ava shoves her arm away.
I stand where they left me, not sure what to do. If I stay, Ava and the fuzzy-legged robots will likely tie me up in blue velvet and leave me on the catwalk above the stage. If I leave, I’m definitely on my own for Citrus Star. I can’t believe I don’t know which option’s worse . . . but I don’t.
“Hydrating! Be right back!”
I look up from my Converse to see Megan waving an empty bottle overhead and running toward me. Despite Ava’s earlier accusation, Megan can move—and fast.
“Thirsty?” she whispers as she passes me without slowing down.
Is that an invitation? A command? What if Ava summons me and I’m not here? Won’t that make her angrier?
“I will not blow this opportunity over some lost little new girl who dresses like a boy and hardly speaks! Constellation has a reputation to uphold, and—”
I’m through the auditorium doors before Ava can finish shouting into the phone about the many ways in which I’m not worthy of sharing her stage.
“Pretty hot in there, huh?” Megan’s standing by a water fountain, refilling her bottle.
“It’s hot everywhere here.” I sit on a bench in the middle of the lobby. After a few seconds, Megan joins me.
“She sounds worse than she is.”
“You mean her bark’s worse than her bite?”
She tilts her head and seems to think about this. “Yes. Good one, Ruby!”
I’d explain that the expression’s not mine to take credit for but am thrown by the fact that she knows my name. And that she used it instead of calling me a planet—or a nonplanet, as the case may be.
“You know how some kids love Christmas? Like, really love it? So much so that every year, they count dow
n the months, weeks, days, hours, minutes, and seconds until December twenty-fifth? Because they’re never as happy as they are on Christmas morning, when they open presents and hang out with their families and eat huge breakfasts?”
I know the kids Megan means. I’m one of them. I don’t share this, though. She seems nice enough . . . but what if her niceness is just an act? Another way to get information they can use to embarrass me later?
“Citrus Star is Ava’s Christmas,” she continues before I can decide. “She looks forward to it all year, every year. As soon as it’s over, she starts researching and preparing for the next one. Last year, she signed us up for a modern dance class at six in the morning the day after Citrus Star. I didn’t know whether to hate her or admire her.”
“Which did you finally choose?”
“Admiration, of course.” Her eyes catch mine as she takes a long gulp of water. “Though I will never, ever show anyone my diary entry from that day.”
Despite my wariness, I smile.
“For Ava, Citrus Star is a warm-up for the main event. She wants to be a Hollywood triple threat and act, sing, and dance her way to international superfame.” She shrugs. “Just like most kids at Sweet Citrus.”
“Most kids here want to grow up to be famous?”
“Some of them already are, at least on a smaller scale. Ava’s been doing catalog and commercial work since she was three years old and has been trying to get an agent for about as long.”
Megan gulps more water, and I think about what she’s just shared. Back home, kids dreamed of being doctors, teachers, and veterinarians. I personally dreamed of owning a restaurant—someplace fun and relaxed where everyone automatically gathered after baseball games and other events. We wanted to be part of and contribute to a close-knit community. Achieving international superfame—or even local semifame—never crossed my mind.
“I’m starving,” Megan declares suddenly, crossing one arm over her stomach. “We started our low-carb Citrus Star diet this week, and my body’s still mad at me. What I wouldn’t give for some potato chips or chocolate.”
“How about both?” I lift my backpack into my lap, unzip it, and open my lunch box without taking it from the bag. I didn’t get to eat lunch today, since I never found an empty table and was forced to circle the cafeteria all period. “Momma’s a firm believer in the salty-sweet food combo.”
She gasps as I hold up the plastic snack bags. “Me too!”
I smile again. She didn’t even seem to notice that I just called my mom “Momma.” Maybe her niceness is genuine, after all.
“You, Ruby Lee, are a lifesaver.” She grins and reaches one hand into each bag. “Thanks.”
“Sure,” I say, even though I want to thank her, too. If I’m right about her sincerity, then she’s not the only one who’s just been saved.
“Megan Marie Hanley!” Ava shrieks from inside the auditorium. “Wherever you are, you better be prying the cement from your feet!”
“Think that’s my cue?” Megan asks me, pretending to be serious.
I giggle. As she hops up and heads for the auditorium door, I stuff the potato chips and chocolate back into my lunch box.
“By the way?” She stops in front of the door and looks at me. “I’ve seen Mamma Mia! eleven times. ‘Take a Chance on Me’ is my favorite song.”
My hands freeze on the ABBA lunch box still inside my backpack. I’ve kept it hidden since that first day at the metal detectors to avoid further embarrassment . . . but Mamma Mia! is a musical filled with ABBA songs. Is it possible Megan saw my lunch box and actually liked it?
She disappears into the auditorium before I can ask. I finish zipping up my backpack and hurry inside. By the time the door closes behind me, she’s already joining Hilary and Stephanie onstage.
“We’re taking the routine from the top,” Ava shouts over the weird thumping music that’s starting again. “Pluto—which, as a non-planet, is an even better nickname than I thought—will sit and watch until this situation is resolved. She absolutely cannot participate, and I refuse to lose another precious minute of rehearsal time.”
I’m still so excited by what just happened in the lobby that Ava’s latest insult doesn’t even sting. I happily drop into a velvet seat in the back row. As they practice, I think about all the questions I’ll ask Megan as soon as we’re alone again.
“Clearly,” Ava yells several minutes later, “concrete feet are contagious. Who knew?”
My stomach flip-flops sympathetically as Hilary, Stephanie, and Megan stop dancing. They bend over, rest their hands on the tops of their thighs, and catch their breath. They’re still recovering from the exertion when the music changes and Ava stomps up the stage steps.
“Watch and learn, ladies.” Ava strides to center stage. She’s wearing a long white robe and removes it to reveal a silver leotard; silver leg warmers; and a sheer, shimmery skirt that falls to her knees. She holds out the robe, and Hilary scampers across the stage to take it. Ava points to the front row, and the three girls dash down the steps and sit down. “Lights!”
The room grows dark except for the round spotlight shining on Ava. As the funky instrumental intro picks up, she places one foot in front of the other and lowers her head. She stands perfectly still, glittering from head to toe.
I hold my breath. She hasn’t even done anything, and she already looks like a star.
Still looking down, she lifts one arm, then the other. Her movements are slow, dramatic. The music builds, its beats coming louder and faster. Her eyes are closed as she starts to lift her head, one vertebra at a time. The music’s so loud now, the blue velvet seat vibrates beneath me. I’m about to cover my ears against the thunderous drumming when the scream of an electric guitar drowns it out.
Ava’s eyes snap open. The spotlight glows a brilliant white.
The sudden light is blinding, and I have to turn away. I try looking again when I hear some sort of commotion taking place onstage, but all I see are a million tiny white spots dancing in front of my eyes. By the time they fade, the spotlight’s gone and the overhead lights are on.
“Are you insane?” Ava howls. She’s still onstage and is now flanked by Hilary and Stephanie, who help her back into her robe. She’s trembling like she’s just been struck by lightning. “What if my retinas are burned? What if I need surgery? What if I go blind? Do you have any idea what you could’ve just done?”
She fires this attack out at the auditorium, and since I’m the only one here, I’m worried she thinks I somehow messed with the spotlight to get back at her. But then I hear a noise overhead, and I realize she’s not just firing this attack out—she’s firing it up. At the lighting booth.
“Sorry about that,” a male voice calls out, not sounding particularly sorry at all. “Technical difficulty. It won’t happen again.”
Protected by shadows, I sit back in my seat and smile. This rehearsal just keeps getting better and better. I haven’t heard that voice much, but I’d still know it anywhere.
Because it belongs to Sam.
12.
“Are you sure I look okay?”
“No,” I say. “I’m sure you look great.”
Momma shoots me a quick smile and turns back to the ice-cream-shop window that’s serving as a full-length mirror. Then she straightens her shirt and pats her hair. She leans toward the window, puckers up, and checks her lipstick.
“They think so too.”
Momma laughs when she sees the ice-cream scoopers puckering back. She blows an exaggerated kiss, which makes them laugh, and then takes my hand and continues walking.
This exchange is a good sign. We’ve been walking for an hour. Momma said she needed to get the lay of the land, with “the land” being the HauteCoco shopping center, but this is our fifth lap. We’re no longer exploring—we’re stalling. If we stall much longer, it’ll be too late to do what we came to do. But since she joked with the ice-cream scoopers instead of avoiding them, the way she had with every HauteC
oco employee and customer we’d encountered up until now, she must be feeling more relaxed. Which must mean she’s almost ready.
“How about this one?” I ask as we near Gifts of the Grove. “It looks like Mr. Lou’s store.”
Momma slows down slightly to peek into the open doorway. “Too fancy.”
We keep walking. Gifts of the Grove, which sells Florida T-shirts, mugs, and keychains as well as other non-Florida fare like candles, figurines, and assorted knickknacks, is definitely the least fancy of all the HauteCoco stores. But I don’t say this out loud. Momma’s squeezing my hand like hers might fall off if she lets go, even though it’s about a thousand degrees out and our palms are slippery with sweat.
“This one looks nice,” I say a few stores later. I understand her nervousness, but I also know she’ll only feel worse if we leave without accomplishing anything.
“Too stuffy.”
I can’t argue that. The suits and ties inside Aspire Menswear do look nice, but the atmosphere’s a bit stiff for Momma’s taste; it’s very quiet, and the store’s one employee is an older man in a three-piece suit who stands near the doorway and stares at a potted fern. It’s a far cry from the Curly Creek Nail Boutique, which was always bustling with activity and filled with happy, laughing customers.
“This one looks promising,” I say in front of Boardwalk. A quick check inside shows three employees helping three teenagers shop for bikinis.
Momma looks in and shakes her head. “Too young.”
We keep walking, and I stop making suggestions. Maybe Momma’s just not ready for this. And if she’s not, that’s totally fine. There’s no reason to rush. Nana Dottie will just have to understand that we’re still settling and that certain things will fall into place when the time’s right.
A few minutes later, we pass the ice-cream shop and head into lap seven. My feet hurt. My camera, which hangs around my neck, feels like it weighs a hundred pounds. And I’m starting to get hungry. I don’t want to encourage stalling, but I could really go for a snack right now. Preferably something cold in an air-conditioned restaurant. I’m about to ask if we can take a break when Momma stops short.
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