Bust a Move

by Jasmine Beller

  And? Devane thought. And, and, AND? Come on, Gina, give it up. Say it. “And so I’ve decided to take you off probation.”

  But Gina just slung her dance bag over her shoulder and started out of the park. She had basically said that the picnic—the picnic Devane had organized—was good for the team and good for teamwork. And teamwork was the most important thing to Gina and to Maddy.

  So what did they want from her? What?

  Get yourself in check and get yourself over to rehearsal. You’re going to be late, Devane told herself. As if it mattered. She was going to be rehearsing for a performance that she wasn’t going to get to perform in.

  Devane slowly walked over to the dance studio. She needed time to get a smile on her face. Even a fake one.

  You think Missy always feels happy when she’s out there in front of the people? You think HiHat always wants to go to work? she asked herself. Na-nay-no.

  But the thought of going into the practice room and dancing made her feel tired. For the first time, she’d rather be doing something else.

  Almost anything.

  Sophie put her water bottle next to the wall and started to head back toward Emerson. Then she caught sight of ill papi and hesitated. He looked so . . . she wasn’t sure of the word. He didn’t look sad, exactly. But he definitely didn’t look happy.

  Vacant. That was it. Like he’d moved out of his own body.

  “I’ve figured you out,” Sophie said as she walked over to him. “Ky’s afraid of the Peter Pan ride, and you’re afraid of—ants.”

  She waited for ill papi to ask her what she was talking about. He didn’t.

  “That’s why you left the picnic early. Because ants usually invade picnics.” Sophie suddenly felt like an idiot. Ill papi was looking at her like he was waiting for the babbling to stop and Sophie to just go away.

  Sophie couldn’t stop herself from thinking of her sister again. Sammi had had a lot of ill papi encounters like this one. She’d been in like with ill papi from day one. Sophie had a hunch that was why her sister had signed up for the Hip Hop Kidz basics class in the first place.

  One minute Sammi noticed ill papi while she was picking Sophie up from dance. The next minute Sammi was asking Sophie all these questions about ill papi. Then lo and behold, Sammi was taking classes herself.

  And one minute after that, she was trying to talk to ill papi—and getting ignored. Ill papi pretty much always ignored the girls at the studio who liked him, liked him.

  Yikes. Did that mean ill papi could tell how Sophie was feeling? Was her inner freak showing on the outside? Did he somehow know she liked him? That even though she didn’t want to go there, she had?

  Was that why ill papi had turned into the human clam? Usually he talked and joked around with Sophie all the time. Now, nothing.

  Abort, abort, she ordered herself. Get away now, before you get another bucketful of humiliation in the face. “Uh, I’m going to go warm up now,” she muttered to ill papi—like he cared—and bolted.

  “What’s wrong?” Emerson asked when Sophie hurried back over to her.

  “Nothing,” Sophie said.

  “Come on. If there was grass on the floor, you’d be the one tearing it up right now, not me,” Emerson pushed.

  But Sophie just couldn’t tell Emerson how she felt about ill papi. Sophie had told Em how she felt about Sammi doing hip-hop—that Sophie really didn’t want her sister at the studio because she wanted one special thing of her own. That was hard enough, even though Emerson got it and didn’t make her feel like a monster or anything.

  Emerson knew Sammi liked ill papi. Sophie just couldn’t tell her friend that now she was in like with him, too.

  “I guess I’m just kind of worried about the regionals,” Sophie answered. She had to say something. And she was worried about the regionals. It just wasn’t what was bothering her right that second.

  “You mean because we’ll be performing without Devane,” Emerson said.

  “Yeah, and because the Storm Lords are really good, Em. And they’re just one crew we’re going up against. Who knows what the other groups are going to bring? I’m not sure I’m ready,” Sophie admitted.

  “Me either,” Emerson said.

  “Are you crazy? You’re amazing. That ballet spin you put on things rocks,” Sophie told her.

  “I just really want us to get to the world championship. I have this fantasy that if we do—and if we win—it will change my parents’ minds somehow,” Emerson explained. “Because of course they’ll find out the truth if I go to L.A. But maybe if I was part of a group that won a world championship, they’d be proud of me. For something that wasn’t ballet. And they wouldn’t care if I told a million lies. And we’d all live happily ever after.”

  Emerson gave a sarcastic snort, like she didn’t mean anything she’d just said. Except Sophie knew she did. Maybe not the happily-ever-after part. But the rest—yeah.

  Sophie checked to make sure Sammi wasn’t in hearing distance. She was on the other side of the room, but Sophie lowered her voice anyway. “I want to be in the crew that wins the world championship, too,” she confessed. “I mean, I know we all want to win. But I want it because it will be something of mine. My one thing. Something Sammi’s never done. She’s taking hip-hop, and she’s practicing with us, but I don’t think she’s going to get in the Performance Group by September. Do you?”

  Emerson shook her head. “So all we have to do is win the Southeast, without Devane. Win the nationals. And then be better than all the other groups in the world championship. No problem.”

  “No problem,” Sophie repeated. It would also be nice if I could find a way to get ill papi to speak to me again, she added to herself. Since Emerson and I are talking fairy-tale wishes here.

  “Time to get started, people,” Gina called as soon as she entered the room. “Watching ill papi the other day got me thinking. I’d like to work a couple more freezes into our routine. They impress the judges as much as power moves. Everyone get stretched out.” She got some music with a slow beat going.

  But the power moves are easier, Sophie thought as she started doing some slow neck rolls. At least they were for her. Freezes were all about sheer muscle strength as you held yourself absolutely still in some outrageous position. With other moves, you had speed and momentum on your side.

  “Let’s kick it off with some hollow backs,” Gina said when the class was warmed up.

  “We don’t get to try that sweet one-armed planche J-Bang got ill papi up to speed on?” M.J. asked.

  “I don’t think all of us are quite ready for that one,” Gina answered.

  “Ills, bring your pops into class to school us,” Fridge suggested.

  Ill papi didn’t answer. Sophie glanced at him. He had his body twisted away from the group in a side stretch.

  “I think I can handle all the schooling you can take, Fridge,” Gina told him.

  Fridge gave her an apologetic grin. “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Into a handstand, everyone,” Gina instructed.

  Sophie got into the position. The blood flowing into her face always felt kind of good. Warm and tingly.

  “Now tuck your chin and drop your legs back like you’re going into a bridge, but don’t let your feet hit the floor,” Gina went on. “Now freeze it. Your back should be arched as much as possible. That’s what gives the move its style.”

  Sophie held the move. Held it. It felt like there was too much blood in her face now. Her head felt heavy with it. And her arms were starting to quiver from supporting her entire body. World champions can take it, she told herself. And that’s what you want to be. So suck it up. She kept holding the position.

  Come on, Gina, end this, Sophie silently begged a few moments later. Her arms were quaking now, not just quivering. But Gina didn’t say a word.

  Sophie’s elbows buckled. She tried to straighten her arms. But she couldn’t. She went down with a soft thump. A world champion could have held it, she thought.
She heard several other thumps as a few of her classmates went down before Gina released them.

  Are we really ready to compete in the championship? Sophie wondered. Are we even ready to take the Southeast? She noticed Devane was still holding the hollow back.

  But Devane wasn’t going to be competing with them when they took the stage against the Storm Lords and the other crews.

  I’d rather be doing anything right now, Emerson thought. Anything. Having my fingernails removed one by one with pliers. Watching Martha Stewart turn a pinecone into a place mat. Anything. How had a week gone by so fast? It felt like she was just at the picnic discussing the ballet recital tragedy with Sophie.

  “How is French going this year?” Grandma Lane asked from the chair closest to the fireplace. All varieties of grandparents seemed eager to hear the answer. Why did they have to be so involved? Why couldn’t they just mail her birthday cards and ignore her? Tonight would be so much easier if she only had her parents to handle.

  “I’ve only been back in school a few weeks,” Emerson answered. “But I started meeting with my tutor on day one. That was the plan Mom and Dad and I came up with.” She glanced at her parents, and they were both nodding approvingly. “I think this year, I’ll do much better. I got an A on the first quiz.”

  “Wonderful,” said Grandpa Tredwell. “I think that’s worth, say, a hundred dollars.”

  “You don’t have to do that, Grandpa,” Emerson said. She was about to lie to him—all of them—and he was trying to give her a reward.

  “I know I don’t have to,” he answered. “I want to.”

  “Thank you,” Emerson answered. She shot a glance at the clock. Almost time to put the plan into action. It wasn’t going to be hard to pretend to be sick. Her stomach hated it when she lied. It was already starting to roll itself into a hard little ball.

  “Are you feeling all right, sweetie?” her mother asked.

  Emerson wasn’t going to get a better opening than that. “Um, I guess,” she answered. She didn’t want to overplay the sick thing. She didn’t want to end up getting a doctor involved. And last year, even if she’d had the black plague, she would have tried to convince her mom she felt fine so that she could perform in her ballet recital.

  “You guess?” Grandma Tredwell said. “I don’t like the sound of that.”

  “My stomach is a little upset,” Emerson admitted. “I’m probably just a little nervous.” If producing twice the usual amount of adrenaline counted as a little. If vibrating bones counted as a little.

  She stood up quickly. “Excuse me. I need to—” Emerson quickly left the room, almost running but not quite. She ducked into the closest bathroom and shut the door. She flicked on the metal towel warmer that stood in one corner. “Please let this work,” she whispered as she opened the closet and pulled a large can of chunky vegetable soup out from behind a stack of fluffy towels. Then she stood on tiptoe and retrieved a can opener from the top shelf.

  Quickly she opened the can of soup. She’d had to buy it herself. Her mom didn’t keep canned soup in the house. Emerson cracked open the bathroom door. It was essential that at least someone in the living room hear what happened next.

  Here goes. Emerson lifted the toilet lid and dumped the chunky soup into the bowl. She smiled a little. It did sound exactly like vomit, just the way Sophie said it would.

  A second later, Emerson heard footsteps coming her way. She shut the bathroom door, flushed the toilet, hid the empty soup can and can opener, gave a couple of loud coughs, then grabbed the warm towel off the metal rack and pressed the cloth against her forehead.

  “Emerson, are you all right?” her mother called through the door.

  “I just threw up,” Emerson answered. “I almost didn’t make it in here.”

  “Can I come in?”

  Emerson glanced in the toilet. There were some very solid-looking vegetables floating around in there. She flushed again, then closed the seat and tossed the warm towel on top of it.

  “I think I’ll still be okay for the recital,” Emerson said as she opened the door.

  Her mother immediately put her hand on Emerson’s forehead. “You’re hot. Why don’t you go up to your room and lie down for a little while? Maybe you’ll feel better in a bit.”

  “Okay,” Emerson said. She headed up the stairs, trying to look wiped out. When she reached her room, she pulled a heating pad out from under her bed. She plugged it in, then crawled into bed with it, making sure the cord was concealed by the duvet. She hoped her mother wouldn’t take too long to check on her. She wanted to get this over with.

  About half an hour later—half an hour that felt like half Emerson’s life—her mother gently opened the door. “How are you feeling now?” she asked as she walked over to the bed.

  The time under the duvet with the heating pad had made little droplets of sweat pop out around Emerson’s hairline and on her upper lip. “Maybe a little better. I really want to dance tonight,” Emerson answered, hoping she wasn’t going too far.

  “I know it’s disappointing, baby. But I don’t think there can be any dancing for you tonight. You’re clearly feverish. We don’t want you to faint onstage. I’ll call your teacher and explain.”

  “No!” Emerson exclaimed. Her mother raised her eyebrows.

  Emerson hadn’t put the possibility of a call to her ballet teacher into the plan. Of course her mom would want to call Rosemary.

  “No, I’ll do it,” Emerson said slowly, to give herself time to think. “Rosemary is probably already at the recital hall. She’ll only be answering her cell—” And Mom has that number, she remembered, too late. “And she has a new cell number. I forgot to give it to you. I have it in my dance bag—I can call from up here.”

  “All right. I’ll call and cancel the dinner reservation.” Her mother turned for the door.

  “Don’t do that.” Emerson was careful to keep her voice low and calm this time. “You all still have to eat, even though I’m sick. I’ll probably fall asleep about five minutes after I call Rosemary anyway.”

  Her mother turned around and studied her face. “It is one of Mrs. Petersen’s late nights. I could make sure that she’s here until we get back.”

  “You should go. Really.” Really, really, really, Emerson silently added.

  “All right, but I’ll have my cell. And of course your dad will have his BlackBerry. You call us if you need us. And I’ll make sure Mrs. Petersen has the doctor’s number, too, just in case.”

  “Okay, Mom. I’ll be fine,” Emerson said. She knew her mother would do at least one more check before she left. As it turned out, both her parents came in. Emerson acted really sleepy—even though her heart was doing wall flips off her ribs—sleepy enough that they left without saying much or doing a fever check.

  As soon as she heard the car doors closing, Emerson crept over to the window and watched from behind the curtain until she saw her parents and grandparents drive off. Then she leaped into the next part of the plan. She used a rolled-up blanket to make an Emerson-ish body under the duvet, and she stuck her old Barbie Beauty Salon head on the pillow facedown. The head was a little smaller than her own head, but its blond hair was about the same color as Emerson’s. If Mrs. Petersen just did a quick check, it would probably pass.

  Now my backpack. Emerson wanted to double-check that she’d put in everything she’d need for the competition. But there wasn’t time. She put on the pack and slid open her window. Her room was only on the second floor, but the ground looked very far away. And the trellis didn’t look as sturdy as it had when she’d come up with the plan. Right now, it looked strong enough to hold up the honeysuckle vines that climbed it but not much else.

  I could try going down the stairs like a sane person, she thought. But Mrs. Petersen really did have superhero hearing. Emerson glanced at her watch. She didn’t have much time. The taxi would be waiting one house down. If she didn’t show up soon, it would leave. She hadn’t wanted to take more money out of h
er bank account for the cab. But driving was the only way—other than by boat—to get from the island over to Miami Beach. No bus. No train. No public transportation of any kind.

  Just stick to the plan you decided on, Emerson ordered herself. She turned around and climbed backward out of the window and onto the trellis. The slender pieces of crisscrossing wood trembled along with her shaking body.

  Keep climbing or start falling. Those are your choices.

  Emerson kept climbing.

  “I’m going to need some bottles of water for the Hip Hop Kidz Performance Group. Twenty-six should be enough,” Devane told Billy Wilson, the coordinator of the Southeast competition. “And there’s a burned-out lightbulb in our dressing area. I’m going to need that taken care of, too.”

  “Who are you again?” Billy asked.

  “Devane. I won’t be performing with the group tonight. But don’t worry, I’ll be bringing it to the nationals and the world championship. I’m the secret weapon,” she explained. “I noticed that PowerBar has signs up. Are they one of the sponsors?”

  Devane had gone to a basketball clinic at a sporting goods store with Tamal once—because he begged until she thought her ears were going to start to bleed. Gatorade had its name plastered everywhere, and everyone who showed up had gotten a bottle of the new flavor. And the NBA player they’d shipped in for the clinic—the Gatorade man had made sure he had a biiig bottle of the G. juice in his hand every time anyone took a pic. That’s how she had learned about sponsorship gigs.

  Billy shook his head. “What’s going to happen if I say yes?”

  “I thought the sponsor might have some of their product for my team. It would look good for PowerBar to have the Hip Hop Kidz seen using their stuff.” Devane winked. “We are going to be winning tonight.”

  “Oh. In that case, I’ll see what I can do.”