“Ruby knows music,” Momma says. “We listen to records and tapes all the time.”
“Your records,” Nana Dottie says pointedly. “Your tapes. The poor girl’s stuck in a disco time warp while her peers fly toward the future.”
I glance at Momma. She’s looking at Nana Dottie, eyes wide, mouth open.
“And while we’re at it, you need a new car.” Nana Dottie’s voice is light, matter-of-fact.
“No, I don’t,” Momma says.
“Oh? Then how do you suppose you’ll make it to all these mysterious appointments of yours? Walking? Skipping? Closing your eyes and magically teleporting yourself there?”
“I’ll get a new engine. That’ll just have to do for now.”
“A new engine costs three thousand dollars. Do you have three thousand dollars, Francine? To spend on something that will only end up costing you even more money?”
“Then I’ll rent a car. Or take the bus. I’ll figure it out.” Despite a second glass of water, Momma’s sweating more now than she was when she first came inside.
“Renting a car will set you back a thousand dollars a month. The public transportation system is completely unreliable. And while I give you credit for figuring out many things on your own, this is different. Your life is different. Changes need to be made—before it’s too late.”
Questions zip through my head like silver beads in a pinball machine. What kind of changes? Before it’s too late for what? And why are Nana Dottie and Momma speaking to each other like enemies instead of like mother and daughter?
“I have an idea,” I say before either can launch another attack. “There are two perfectly good cars in the garage right now. Maybe Momma can borrow the Jaguar for a little while? Just until she decides what to do about our car? And maybe Nana Dottie can drive the yellow convertible, just until the situation’s resolved?”
Personally, I think this is a perfect solution and one of the best ideas I’ve ever had. I almost expect Momma to dash around the counter, Nana Dottie to jump out of her chair, and both of them to embrace me in a big grateful hug.
So I’m really surprised when Momma excuses herself and goes outside. And Nana Dottie stands up, says she’s going for a drive, and disappears into the garage. And I’m suddenly in the kitchen, all by myself.
After a few minutes, when no one returns, I sit down and try watching the Citrus Star routine online. Thirty seconds in, I decide I’m too distracted to focus. I think about calling Gabby, but I don’t really want Momma or Nana Dottie accidentally overhearing our conversation, so I find my notebook and continue my letter to her instead.
That doesn’t work either. All I can think about is what just happened and what it might mean. And since what it might mean is Momma and Nana Dottie never getting along and us going back to Kansas and Nana Dottie living alone the rest of her life, I close my notebook. There must be a way to work it out. We just have to be honest and talk about it, as difficult as that may be.
I head for the front door. I start to open it but stop when I hear laughter coming from outside. Peering through the window next to the door, I see Momma and Oscar standing next to our car. The hood’s propped up, but they seem to have forgotten what’s inside. Oscar leans against the driver’s side door, talking, smiling, and waving a wrench around. Momma leans against the back door on the same side, one hand on her chest and her head thrown back as she laughs.
I grin. This is promising. Besides with me, Momma seems more like herself with Oscar than with anyone else here. Maybe he’ll keep her relaxed enough to handle Nana Dottie.
Instantly reassured, I skip back through the kitchen toward the garage. I haven’t heard a car start or the garage door open, so I assume Nana Dottie’s still searching for her keys in her purse or adjusting her mirrors, which she does every time she gets in the Jaguar. I’ll just ask her to stay and see if we can get to the bottom of this before it gets any worse.
I open the kitchen door that leads to the garage—and then immediately close it. Because I was wrong. Nana Dottie’s not getting ready to drive away in the Jaguar. She’s sitting in the passenger seat of Papa Harry’s yellow convertible.
And she’s crying.
16.
“One-two, one-two-three. Kick, bend, jump-squat-shake.”
I follow Ava’s instructions. I’m so focused on matching the moves to the music booming overhead I barely see my reflection in the floor-to-ceiling mirror lining one wall of her bedroom.
“Faster, Stephanie! Sharper, Hilary!”
I scan the mirror’s length. Whatever mistakes Ava’s seeing must be visible only to a trained, professional eye. According to my eye, we look pretty good. Our movements are crisp yet fluid. We’re in perfect sync. And despite going into our third straight hour of rehearsal, we smile like we’ve never been happier.
“Sloppy feet, Megan!”
I try not to cringe as I wait for my turn. Any time I haven’t been spending eating, sleeping, studying, or rehearsing with Constellation in the past ten days, I’ve been rehearsing on my own. I fall asleep replaying the routine in my head, dream of standing ovations, and wake up early to rehearse some more. I sing in the shower and practice the arm choreography in the car. Momma thinks I’m going overboard, but I think I can’t do enough. If I’m laughed off the stage during Citrus Star, I don’t want it to be because I didn’t try.
“Ruby . . . not bad.”
This, of course, almost makes me trip on my feet and fall to the plush pink carpet. Not bad? That’s the highest praise I’ve heard Ava Grand give anyone but herself.
We do the routine three more times. Ava’s just about to start the music from the beginning again when there’s a knock on the door. A tall woman with light blond hair enters the room. She’s wearing a floor-length, strapless black sundress, silver sandals, and more diamonds than the Curly Creek Jewel Box has probably sold in its entire existence. As she walks, her jewelry catches the sunlight, making her glitter from head to toe.
“Hi, Mom,” Ava says.
I’m standing still now, but almost trip on my feet again and fall to the plush pink carpet. This woman is Ava’s mother? She looks young enough to be a big sister.
“Everyone’s gathered on the lawn,” Mrs. Grand says. “Are we ready?”
“As ready as we can possibly be, considering.” Ava walks to the mirrored wall and fixes her hair. “How’s the space?”
“Done exactly as you requested. Your father oversaw the process.”
“Good.” Ava puckers up and applies a fresh coat of lip gloss. “Daddy wouldn’t accept anything but the best.”
“I’ll let our guests know the performance is about to begin.”
“What performance?” Megan asks when Mrs. Grand leaves the room.
Ava gives Megan a small, sad smile in the mirror, like Megan’s a baby bird that just can’t figure out how to work her wings. “Megan. Sweetie. You know we give a performance preview every year.”
“Yes . . . but you usually tell us when it’s happening.” Megan sounds confused.
“You didn’t know?” Ava turns to Stephanie and Hilary. “Did you know?”
“Yes,” they both say innocently.
“I’ve known for weeks,” Hilary adds, trying not to smile. “That’s why rehearsal was here today.”
“I thought rehearsal was here today because the auditorium is closed for cleaning,” Megan says.
“I guess someone was so busy playing Little Miss Phantom of the Opera she misread the memo.” Ava shrugs. “Nothing we can do about that now. What’s that they say in your world? The show must go . . . ?”
“On,” Megan mumbles, looking at her feet.
“That’s it.” Ava grins and snaps her fingers, triumphant. “The show must go on. And so must we.”
I squat down and pretend to tie my shoelace as Ava, Stephanie, and Hilary file out of the room. When their whispers grow softer as they head downstairs, I look at Megan. She’s pacing back and forth, wringing her hands.
>
“What’s a performance preview?” I ask.
“A run-through of our routine for Ava’s parents, her parents’ friends, and her dad’s colleagues. Ava’s publicist says it’s essential for generating buzz and getting feedback before the main event.”
I want to ask what a publicist is and why Ava has one, but before I can, Megan makes a sudden U-turn and darts toward her tote bag.
“I just don’t understand,” she says, frantically sifting through her stuff. “Why did she tell them and not us? We’ve been to every rehearsal. We practice like crazy and don’t complain. And she always used to tell me about things like this, so why not now? What did I do?”
I watch her turn her bag upside down and dump its contents onto the floor. “You were nice to me,” I say, certain this is the reason. “When she didn’t want to be, and when she didn’t want anyone else to be. And lately we’ve been hanging out during breaks, which she doesn’t seem to like either.”
“But why not? What’s the big deal? She should hang out with you too—you’re so much fun.”
This makes me smile, even though Ava’s just pulled another one over on me and decided to punish Megan, too. The expression falls to a frown, though, when Megan pulls out her Walkman, puts on headphones, and leans against the mirror with her eyes closed.
“Um . . . Megan?” I say hesitantly. “Shouldn’t we go downstairs?
“In a minute.” She gently bobs her head. “I just need a minute.”
I don’t think we have that kind of time, but it’s obvious she’s not going anywhere in the next few seconds, so I distract myself from fear by taking a closer look around Ava’s room.
Not surprisingly, it’s big. Probably bigger than our whole house in Curly Creek. It’s divided into three sections, which are like rooms without walls between them. There’s a sleeping area with a king-sized canopy bed done in pink velvet and ivory silk. There’s a living room area with two pink velvet couches, furry white pillows, and a TV hanging on the wall that’s as big as the drive-in movie screen back home. And there’s the area we’ve been practicing in, which has the mirrored wall, a ballet bar, and a retractable wooden dance floor. Off of that section is a pink marble bathroom and a walk-in closet that doubles as a guest bedroom when Ava’s friends sleep over. I’ve never seen anything like it, and after today’s performance, I probably won’t ever again.
“Oh no,” I whisper when I reach a set of French doors. They open onto a balcony overlooking the backyard, but I don’t have to go outside to see the yard filled with people. There must be dozens of them—maybe more. The men wear light-colored suits and the women wear beautiful sundresses. Waiters weave among them with trays of champagne and hors d’oeuvres. Rows of white wooden chairs face a long stage lined with bouquets of flowers.
The flowers make me think of Oscar, and I wonder if he supplied them. If so, maybe he’s still here. There’s a tiny chance I won’t die of embarrassment if I see at least one friendly face in the crowd.
“Thank you, Andrew.”
I turn toward Megan, grateful for the reason to look away. She’s wrapping the cord of her headphones around her Walkman. “Andrew?” I ask. “Is he a friend of yours?”
“Only in my wildest dreams.” She seems much calmer as she replaces all of her belongings in her tote bag. “Andrew’s Andrew Lloyd Webber, musical magician and composer of some of the best plays ever made.”
“Cats. Evita. Phantom of the Opera.” For a quick second I regret speaking, since she seems so stunned I worry we won’t ever make it downstairs. “My mom loves show tunes. I grew up listening to them.”
“So you understand. Whenever I’m stressed, his music helps. It makes me so happy, I’ve even started composing some of my own.”
My chin drops. “You know how to write music?”
“A little. I’m teaching myself, so it’s a really slow process.” She stands up and fixes her bun. “And it drives Ava crazy, so I only work on it when she’s not around. Since we’ve been rehearsing around the clock, that hasn’t happened in a while.”
I think about this as we head downstairs. We pause in front of one set of sliding glass doors and watch guests start taking their seats. From this angle I can see Ava backstage, barking orders in between vocal exercises.
“Why do you do it?” I ask quietly. “Why do you hang out with her and let her walk all over you? Wouldn’t you rather spend that time doing what makes you happy?”
Megan doesn’t look at me as her lips turn up in a small smile. “You know how the Scarecrow is totally lost until Dorothy comes along? And then when she does, he suddenly has friends and a purpose?”
“Yes,” I say, even though I’m thinking that if Megan’s comparing herself to a brainless sack of straw, the comparison isn’t exactly accurate.
“That’s what it’s like with Ava.”
Now I’m confused. “Ava’s your Dorothy?”
“No,” she says with a sigh. “She’s my Great and Powerful Oz.”
I want to remind Megan that the Great and Powerful Oz ends up being a not-so-great and powerless fake, but she’s already sliding open the door and stepping outside. As I follow her across the yard, I wonder what it is about Ava that everyone loves so much. Sure, she’s pretty. She has nice clothes. She can sing and dance. But is standing in the shadow of her spotlight worth not being yourself?
This has me so puzzled I don’t remember to be terrified until we’re standing backstage, waiting for the music to start.
“How many people do you think are out there?” I whisper to Megan, peering through a skinny opening in the pink velvet curtain.
“Eighty-four,” Ava says before Megan can guess. She’s sitting in a director’s chair a few feet away, having her makeup done. “Twenty more than last year.”
“Lucky me,” I mutter, which makes Megan giggle.
“Is something funny?” Ava slides from the chair and joins us by the curtain. “Do I need to remind you how important this is? And how much better your lives will be if all goes the way it should? You can laugh now . . . but you’ll be thanking me later.”
I don’t know about later, but right now I’m at least thankful for one thing: my rehearsal outfit. Nana Dottie bought a black leotard, fuzzy pink leg warmers, white tights, and black jazz shoes the day I wore the circus clothes to school, and thankfully, the outfit hasn’t changed since. Knowing I look like the rest of the group helps me feel less self-conscious—and it is my only consolation as we take our positions.
“Smile, girls,” Ava hisses from center stage as the music starts.
Once again, we do as we’re told. It’s hard to tell my hammering heart from the song’s thudding bass, and my legs are shaking so hard I’m pretty sure they’re making the stage vibrate, but I manage to hold the smile. It’s still there as the curtain rises, revealing eighty-four people and a hundred and sixty-eight curious eyes. It’s still there when the music gets louder and we’re about to launch into our first dance sequence.
It disappears when I see Miss Anita.
She’s sitting in the very last row, in the shade of a wide white parasol held by her assistant. Her face is expressionless and I can’t see her eyes behind her sunglasses, but somehow I know she’s watching me. She wants to make sure I haven’t messed up the wonderful opportunity she gave me.
I try to tell myself to smile, but the words aren’t there. My brain is as empty as Nana Dottie’s Scrabble sack at the end of a game. There are no words. No sentences. No memories.
Nothing.
The music crescendos and Ava belts out her first note. Out of the corner of my eye I see the other girls start to move. They tilt their heads back. They lift their arms up and pull them down over and over, like they’ve lassoed the sun and want to bring it to earth. I’ve done the same move a million times over the last few weeks . . . but my body suddenly has no recollection.
A quick burst of light makes me think Constellation’s functioning members have succeeded in lowering the sun. It�
��s so bright I close my eyes against it. When the light dulls before my eyelids, I try opening them . . . and the light explodes again. Shielding my face with one hand, I glance at the girls. No one else seems to notice the ball of fire plummeting toward the stage, but everyone except Ava has noticed I’m not dancing. They’re spinning in small circles, and each time they face me, they flash me different looks. Megan’s is concern. Stephanie’s and Hilary’s are anger and shock, respectively.
I have to get off the stage. If I can just make it to the steps, they can finish the routine without my paralysis distracting the audience. Ava will hate me either way, but removing the problem has to be better than keeping it on display.
I’m willing my feet to move when the light blinds me again. Instead of looking away this time, I search the sky for its source. After two more hits, my eyes adjust to the brightness and I spot where it’s coming from.
It’s not the sun. It’s Sam. He’s controlling the lighting from inside a small white tent on top of a tall wooden platform behind the rows of chairs. And he’s not trying to blind me—he’s trying to get my attention. When he sees that I see him, he waves once and gives me a small smile.
I smile back. Somehow, knowing I have at least one friend in the crowd helps me regain focus. I glance at the girls—careful this time to ignore their looks, which are now all panicked—and immediately know where they are in the routine. As I jump in, I realize they’re not as far along as I thought. The audience doesn’t even seem to notice anything was wrong.
The rest of the routine goes perfectly. I don’t miss another step or note, and my smile doesn’t drop once. The other girls must perform just as well, because when the music stops and we freeze, the audience goes crazy. For a bunch of sophisticated, well-dressed professionals, they sure can make some noise. They cheer, whistle, and stomp their feet just like the whole town used to do at Curly Creek baseball games.
They’re still yelling when the pink velvet curtain lowers. Once they’re out of sight, we all jump out of our positions, squeal, and hug. I’m stunned when Ava throws her arms around my neck after doing the same to Megan, but I manage to hug her back.
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