Sammi’s mouth dropped open. She started toward Sophie—but Ky grabbed her in a hug before Sammi reached her sister.
And Sophie was pretty relieved. She wasn’t sure if she could give Sammi a convincing hug at that particular moment. It had been nice having her sister in the class for about a second. But that second was over. Because now that Sammi was a member of the Performance Group, Sophie’s thing, the one thing she had of her own, was gone. The next time the crew performed, her parents would be giving it up for her and Sammi. If they made it to the championship, all the relatives would be notified about the triumph of her and Sammi.
Sophie forced herself to applaud—long and loud. Longer and louder than anyone. She wasn’t going to let anyone know that her world had just gotten crunched, crunched under her own sister’s foot.
And Sammi would still have the cheerleading, and the choir, and the debate team, and the A’s in everything, and the and, and and, and and.
“All right. We have a lot of work to do to get ready for nationals,” Gina called out. “You know all the crews who are going to L.A. are practicing right now.” She started toward the sound system.
“Gina, can I ask one thing before we start?” Fridge called out.
“If it’s an important one thing.” Gina turned to face him.
“Where’s ill papi?” Fridge said. “Because if he’s decided not to be in the group anymore, what’s the point? We can’t win without him. Not with Emerson out and you keeping Devane benched.”
Gina frowned. “Well, I like to think of us as a group that’s larger than the sum of its parts, so let’s not concern ourselves with whether or not we can win. But in terms of ill papi, I’ve been a little concerned about him myself,” she admitted. “I’ve left several messages on his machine asking him to give me a call. But he hasn’t. I was hoping he’d be here today.”
All right. Enough, Sophie thought. Someone needs to find out what’s going on with ill papi. And clearly that someone is going to have to be me.
CHAPTER 9
Emerson came through the front door and walked directly to the stairs and up to her room. She did not turn on the CD player. She did not turn on the TV. She did not log on to the Internet. She did not pick up the phone. She did not pass Go. She did not collect two hundred dollars.
She sat down at her desk, opened her backpack, and pulled out the first book her fingers touched. French. Of course. It was that kind of day.
No, it was that kind of life.
Why not get her French done? Then she could treat herself with history or English. Something to look forward to. Who said you couldn’t have fun when you were grounded? “Woo-hoo!” Emerson whispered.
“What was that?” her mother asked. She’d come into the room without knocking. Usually Emerson would politely remind her that knocking was preferred. But Emerson wasn’t allowed to have preferences right now.
“I didn’t say anything,” Emerson answered.
Her mother raised an I-beg-to-differ eyebrow. Emerson ignored her. She got busy choosing a pen from her top desk drawer.
“I just got off the phone with Rosemary.”
Emerson took a notebook out of her backpack and opened it. She didn’t want to hear about Rosemary. She didn’t want to hear about ballet. If she couldn’t do hip-hop, she didn’t want to dance at all. She flipped her French book open to the assigned section.
“Please look at me when I’m talking to you,” her mom said. “I think you’ll be happy about what Rosemary had to say.”
Emerson turned in her chair until she was facing her mother. She struggled to get a pleasant expression on her face. When she looked at her mom—or her dad—she was afraid she would just start screaming like an insane person and never be able to stop. She’d felt that way for the last three days—ever since she’d had to tell Gina and Maddy she was quitting the performance group.
“Rosemary thinks you’re so talented. And you know your dad and I think so, too, honey. What’s happened hasn’t changed that at all.”
“Mmm-hmm,” Emerson murmured, because her mother clearly wanted some kind of response.
“Now, Rosemary is concerned about the amount of class time you missed over the summer. She’s also worried—and so am I—that doing so much of the hip-hop dancing might have had a negative effect on you technique,” Emerson’s mother went on. “But she’s willing to give you a shot in your old class, with your regular group. You won’t have to take a step back at all—if you can show her you’re up to the work. And I know you can.”
This was the part Emerson was supposed to be happy about. It hadn’t been certain whether or not Emerson would be able to rejoin her old class. She didn’t care at all. Right now, going back into ballet felt like getting locked into a cage. Who cared if it was this cage over here or that cage over there?
“That’s great, Mom,” Emerson said. She wasn’t even going to try to tell her mother how she felt about ballet. It would be as pointless as trying to tell her mother how she felt about hip-hop.
Her mother smiled. “I knew you’d be happy. I bet you’ve missed your ballet friends.” She started for the door, then turned back. “Oh, and Rosemary is sure that you’ll still get some kind of part in the Nutcracker when the company comes to town and holds its auditions.”
Emerson just nodded. She could feel the screams she’d been holding down clawing up her body, from her stomach up to her throat. If she opened her mouth right now, they might come roaring out.
“I’ll let you study.” Her mom left, closing the door quietly behind her.
Emerson stared down at her open book. She couldn’t study. She could hardly see the words in front of her. Those screams were still trying to fight their way out of her. She lurched to her feet. She needed to move. Had to.
She launched into her solo. The one that combined ballet and hip-hop. She turned in a pirouette, freeze-framing the motion into tiny individual segments. It helped. But it wasn’t enough.
Emerson let go of the choreography, doing the pirouette krump style, the way Devane had brought it when she’d crashed into Emerson’s solo. Emerson’s body shivered as if an earthquake was running through it. The individual segments of the move ran together as her body shook and spasmed.
Her bedroom door swung open—clearly she wasn’t ever going to get knocking again—and Emerson struggled to shut her body down and smooth the krumping out into a vanilla pirouette.
“I forgot I wanted to take your tutu, the one for the recital you didn’t go to, to the Roundabout. I’m donating it to their costume shop.” Her mother shot Emerson a sharp look as she headed toward the closet. “That pirouette looked very wobbly. It’s amazing what a few weeks without practice can do.” Her mother walked back out of the room with the tulle of the lavender tutu draped over her arm.
Emerson waited until she heard her mother’s footfalls on the floor. Then she threw herself back into her dance, picking up exactly where she had left off, shaking and twitching, letting go of everything.
Her body controlled her until Emerson was exhausted. Then she sank back onto the chair, muscles limp. All the anger—those clawing screams—drained out of her. She remembered what Devane had said. That if Devane had no legs, she’d still bring it.
Emerson realized she was more like Devane than she thought.
“Three-year plan to world dom-in-ay-shun!” Tamal called out, like the announcer at a prizefight. “Shun, shun, shun,” he added, cupping his hands around his mouth to make the echoing sound.
Why do I tell him anything? Devane asked herself.
She was staring up at her calendar. Again. There had to be a way to keep herself on track, even without getting off probation before the world championship. Hip Hop Kidz wasn’t the only way to get to be a superstar.
Not that she was planning to stop trying to get off probation. But now she wasn’t as sure she could just—snap!—make it happen. She needed a backup plan.
She could . . . she could enter the school tal
ent show. Because who knew who would be in the audience?
Who knew?
Devane knew. Parents. Teachers. Other kids. None with any kind of connection to anybody who knew anybody who worked on music videos or movies or even on late-night infomercials for miracle acne cream.
“You know what you should do?” Tamal asked. He went right on as if she’d said, “No, Tamal, tell me what I should do.” “You should team up with Godzilla. If you want world dom-in-ay-shun. Shun, shun, shun.”
“How many snickerdoodles did you eat?” Devane asked. Because her little brother was riding one massive sugar rush.
“I don’t know. How many were left?”
Devane rolled her eyes. “About fifteen more than Mama allows you to eat in a day.”
What else? She could put on her littlest skirt and her sassiest attitude and try to meet some of the Miami producers as they came out of restaurants or maybe their offices.
Except if her mother found out—and her mother would find out—Devane would be allowed out of the house for school and school only for the rest of her life.
“Give me that cookie you have, and I’ll tell you a great idea,” Tamal offered.
“What? That I hire King Kong to help me take over the world? I don’t think so,” Devane answered.
Tamal was very quiet. So quiet, Devane was sure she’d guessed his great idea. She kept looking at the calendar. She felt like ripping it off the wall and tearing it into confetti. Then she wouldn’t have to try to come up with a new plan to fill in all those squares. But that would be giving up. And giving up was so not Devane.
“Hi, is Emerson there, please?” Sophie asked, using her best phone manners. Emerson’s mom just brought them out in her. If she had white gloves, she’d be putting them on right now.
“Who’s calling?” Mrs. Lane asked.
“Oops. Sorry. I forgot that part. This is Sophie. Sophie Qian. I’m in Emerson’s hip-hop—I was in Emerson’s hip-hop dance group. I mean, I’m still in it.” Just stop, Soph, she told herself.
“I’m afraid that Emerson doesn’t have phone privileges right now,” Mrs. Lane said. “But I’ll tell her you called.”
“Oh. Okay. Thank you,” Sophie said.
“Good-bye.”
“Bye.” Sophie hung up the phone. She’d forgotten about the no-phone part of Emerson’s grounding. She really wanted to talk to Em about ill papi and J-Bang. How truly freaky was it that ill papi acted like J-Bang should be getting the Father of the Year award or something? When J-Bang didn’t even know who ill papi was?
Should Sophie even mention J-Bang to ill papi—when she tracked him down—or just let that one slide completely by?
Arrrgh. She really needed somebody to talk to. And since Emerson wasn’t available, she headed down to Sammi’s room. The sounds of Buckshot & 9th Wonder pounded out of her sister’s open door. Sophie peeked inside and saw Sammi working away at one of the Hip Hop Kidz routines.
She looked amazing. The girl could bust a move.
And the girl had the body. Looking at it made Sophie want a Ding Dong.
Maybe her sister had a lot of things Sophie didn’t. Now she even had the Hip Hop Kidz Performance Group. But Sophie could have a whole bunch of Ding Dongs. She had a stash of them hidden behind her mother’s in-case-of-the-apocalypse backup rolls of paper towels. In fact, Sophie was gonna have herself one or two of those Dings right now.
Because she just didn’t feel like talking anymore.
CHAPTER 10
It felt strange to be back in a leotard. Hip Hop Kidz didn’t allow leotards in class. No tight-fitting clothes at all.
“You picked the wrong recital to miss,” Shelby told Emerson as they headed to the practice room. “Rosemary invited an instructor from Juilliard.”
“We were sort of being scouted,” Melissa added. “I so want to go there. The instructor, Ms. Nissenson, she was telling us how Juilliard prepares dancers for the career of dancing—students learn how to do their resumes and how to audition and all that.”
“You would have loved Ms. Nissenson,” Shelby said. “Some of us are already trying to figure out how we can room together in New York! We have to study with her.”
“Sounds great,” Emerson said. But most of her mind was miles away, over at the Hip Hop Kidz studio. The Performance Group class was about ready to start over there. Would they be learning a new routine today? Would Gina let them practice a jackhammer? Hardly anyone in the class had that one down. Emerson loved the way it looked. She wanted—
Emerson realized all the other girls were lined up at the barre. Oops. How could she have forgotten the drill in just a few months?
Rosemary entered the room, her short filmy skirt skimming over her black leotard. “Time to get started, girls.” She smiled at Emerson. “We’re all happy to have you back, Em.”
Soft music began to play. “And we’ll begin as always with regular pliés. First position.” Rosemary began to walk down the line of girls. “Long necks. Eyes and ears far from the floor,” she murmured. She paused at Emerson and adjusted the position of her head.
“Push the energy out of your fingers, your toes, your eyes.” Rosemary tapped Emerson’s left hand. “Remember what I’ve taught you. Don’t pull on the barre. You should always be thinking push, never pull.”
Twenty or thirty minutes of this, Emerson thought as Rosemary walked away. Emerson used to love the intense concentration barre exercises required. They were almost like meditation. But now . . .
She missed the warm-ups of Gina’s class. The loose down rocks and top rocks. Moves that could absorb anyone’s style.
You’re here now, she reminded herself. Try to focus.
“Think about all your bones being in a straight line,” Rosemary was saying. “You should start your turnout from the inside.” She stopped at Emerson again and put her hands on Emerson’s ribs. “The turnout starts from here,” Rosemary told her. “I can see you’ve fallen into some bad habits. You have a lot of work ahead of you. The other girls have advanced while you’ve been gone.”
“I’m going to have to work so hard to get back where I was a few months ago,” Emerson told Vincent as he drove her home. “And I don’t think I want to. All the other girls are all excited about maybe studying ballet at Juilliard after high school. But when I listen to them, I just don’t feel anything.”
“People change,” Vincent said. “Especially when they’re your age. You should have seen my closet by the time I got out of high school—trombone, drums, golf clubs, soccer ball, cleats, chess set, model airplanes, and a bunch of other junk. Half of it barely used.”
At least Vincent was still treating her the same way. He’d been mad when he found out she’d been lying to him—yeah. But Emerson felt like he kind of got why, even though he didn’t exactly say so.
“Are you saying you think I would have gotten sick of hip-hop, too?” Emerson asked.
Vincent looked at her in the rearview mirror. “Not necessarily. Some things you love for a while. Some things you love forever. I still play the drums. I’m in a garage band with a bunch of other old farts. And when I’m playing—I’m the full-on Vincent. Doesn’t matter that I don’t make a living at it. Doesn’t even matter that nobody thinks the band is much good. I just love it.”
“I love hip-hop,” Emerson told him. “I’m always going to love it. I know it.” She rested her head on the back of the seat. “It’s just . . . fun. Not that much else I do is that fun. Today at ballet, doing exercises at the barre—not really that fun. And the rest of my life? It’s like I know what’s going to happen every second. Every day at three thirty I do my homework, and when I don’t do it well enough, I get a tutor. Every night at seven, I eat something perfectly nutritious at the dining room table. And I always write thank-you notes the same day I get a present. And it’s not like any of that is bad—but I like doing something where . . . where I don’t always know what’s coming next.”
Vincent nodded. “Like a drum sol
o.”
“Like when I decided to put a pirouette together with strobing,” Emerson said. “I’m sure surprising things can happen in ballet, too. But I just don’t get the feeling there. That me feeling.”
“Pretty important feeling, I think,” Vincent told her.
“Yeah,” Emerson answered. I can’t let anyone take it away, she silently added. Not Rosemary or my parents or anyone else.
Devane was half a beat late going into the knee slide. What was with her?
She knew the answer to that question. She was paying more attention to Sammi’s dancing than she was to her own. Sammi had been dancing in the Performance Group class for weeks. But now it was for real. Now she was a member of the group. And not a member on probation.
The girl only got to be in the group because I slipped up, Devane thought. She shouldn’t really be here.
“Devane, pay attention, please,” Gina called out. And Devane realized she’d been late doing the kip up, too. Dang. She had to stop worrying about Sammi and start worrying about her own self—or she was going to be on probation forever.
Although with ill papi being a ghost again, maybe Gina would think about pulling Devane off probation sooner rather than later. Without ill papi, there was still a hole in the group. If she could fill that hole, her plan would be back—
“Devane, I don’t know where your head is, but get it into this classroom,” Gina snapped.
Devane didn’t even know what she’d done that time. You were the one who was telling Emerson you would dance no matter what, Devane thought. Now you’re so worried about your three-year plan that you can hardly dance at all.
Emerson would probably be happy if she could just be in this class. Even if she could never perform again. She’d be happy just dancing.
Wait. That was it. Devane had an idea how to fix things for Emerson and herself. All at the same time.
Bust a Move Page 9