Shrinking Violet

by Danielle Joseph

  Ugh, if he were my stepdad, I'd slit my wrists.

  The song "Doomed Tuesday" is fading out, so Derek quickly turns back to the console.

  He slides down the tune just in time and brings up an old Thwart song. This one's before the band went mainstream, when they still had a lot of grunge to their sound. They had a different bassist back then who was known for performing amazing impromptu solos at many live venues.

  "Old Thwart." Derek points to the console.

  "With Al Montana," I say.

  "I'm impressed. "Derek picks up the playlist and runs his finger down the paper. "I'm doing a flashback hour."

  "How far back?" I ask.

  "Just this decade. What do you want to hear? Maybe we have it?"

  "Juice Box or Mintpaste."

  "So you're a post-punker?" He winks.

  What the hell's that?

  102

  When I don't reply, Derek reads my face, "People that like artsy, alternative bands."

  He grabs the mike before I can respond and the on-air light goes on. "Dynamite Derek here on 92.7 WEMD, The SLAM, giving you a taste of the good old stuff with a miniflashback. Started off the hour with back-to-back Fizzle songs from when they shook the house, had some PIN in there with Heart and No Soul and Thwart with

  "Rocked Out" when Al Montana was still with the band. Got an intern in the studio tonight. She was wearing diapers when Juice Box hit number one with 'Spill Proof.'. ." He brings up the song.

  My face is flushed. Nobody can see me, and Derek didn't even say my name, but still I'm totally embarrassed. He must think I'm some dumb kid, post-punker, wannabe DJ. Well, that's not true. Okay, so I want to be a DJ and I do like punk tunes, but I really do know about music.

  Jason bursts into the room with a couple of Red Bulls. "Want one?" he asks.

  I shake my head. "No, thanks."

  He hands them both to Derek. Derek pops one open and chugs. "Satisfy me, baby." He laughs, but no one else does.

  I wouldn't be surprised if he tried to be a comedian before he got this radio gig. He's always spouting one-liners and laughing at his own jokes, even when he's on the air.

  I try to ignore him and get to work checking to make sure that all the commercials for the show are lined up. I focus on

  103

  the Juice Box song playing in the background. "Tip it up. Turn it round, drop it on the ground ... spill proof... "The lyrics are pretty silly if you pick them apart, but as a whole they really work.

  When I'm finished with the computer, Jason jumps on it. "Derek, need me to upload any other tunes for the hour? I think we're going to be short, about two minutes."

  "What are they requesting on the phone lines?" Derek pulls at the chain around his neck.

  "A lot of the stuff you already played. Some Jungle Crew and Lint but most of those tunes you can't play on the radio."

  "I'll pick up a couple of lines and see if we get anything good," Derek says.

  I'm leaning on the side of the console like a dork. "Can I do anything?" I ask no one in particular.

  "Just watch Derek man the phone," Jason says, "something you'll be doing soon."

  Gulp. I have to answer the phones in public? Why can't they stick me in a little closet?

  Derek reaches for the receiver. "SLAM, what's up?" He does that three or four times and then puts down the receiver. "Man, I'll have to pick something myself. All they want is Thwart. Round up a few hot dudes and you have a band."

  Man, that's sacrilege. I can't believe he said that. All those guys have tons of experience.

  They're anything but bubblegum. Just because they're all cute doesn't mean they're not talented.

  104

  He turns up the volume, and "Spill Proof" blasts through the air.

  I turn up my inner DJ. Good evening, Miami, there's nothing like listening to Johnny Lipton from Juice Box, his voice melts your soul, seeps into your pores. This guy sings from the heart. Are you with me?

  "What's going on in here?" A booming voice breaks my music-induced trance.

  I look over. It's Rob. I sit up straight. Am I in trouble? Am I supposed to be doing something?

  "Listening." I point to the console.

  Derek and Jason burst out laughing.

  "This girl's real serious." Derek eyeballs me.

  "Well, she doesn't get it from me." Rob laughs, too.

  How stupid. I don't get anything from him. We're not even related.

  Rob puts his arm on my shoulder. "Watch Derek carefully. He's a master."

  Mastur bator , I want to say.

  105

  chapter TWELVE

  I'm glad we're meeting at Gavin's house to work on the author project and not mine. I can just see Mom hovering over us and answering questions that aren't even addressed to her. Then halfway through the meeting, she'd grab a pair of kitchen scissors and try to snip Gavin's bangs. She'd like Kayla, though, with all her pink crap--probably invite her to a Mary Kay parry.

  I hope Gavin's mom likes me. I figure she's got to be pretty open-minded if she has a son that dresses in all black and is a huge fan of Stephen King. Just in case she doesn't, I throw on a pair of capris and a light green tee. I don't want to frighten her. But I don't want to gross out Gavin either. I figure this outfit is neutral territory. Besides, my sneakers are black. His favorite color.

  106

  Mom gives me the once-over after she comes down the stairs smelling like a perfume factory exploded on her.

  I sit on the bottom of the stairs and put lotion on my legs. I ' don't want to show up with scaly alligator skin either.

  Mom steps around me. "That's a nice color on you, Teresa. Matches your eyes."

  I wasn't expecting that. "Thanks."

  "Something's missing, though." She rubs the side of her cheek.

  Really? I'm wearing a push-up bra. I got a pair of socks on, both black, and my sneakers match. Pants. Got those.

  "A necklace. That's what you need. Something midlength with stones. I'll be right back."

  She races up the stairs.

  "I'm fine," I say, but my voice is buried by the click-clack of her spiked heels.

  A minute later Mom's downstairs with a string of glossy beads that are a mixture of green and silver stones.

  "Let me put it on for you." She lifts up my ponytail and closes the clasp. She motions for me to stand up and spins me around. "Much better. Gives you some style."

  I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror on the way out. It's a bit gaudy. I have to find a way to ditch it before I get to Gavin's house.

  We climb into Mom's Lexus and she immediately turns the radio onto SUN FM. She'd never tell Rob, but she likes their music better. It's more pop-oriented, filled with artists that are

  107

  either going to be in rehab soon, are convicted felons, or have several baby daddies by the time they turn twenty-one.

  "Up to number three, it's Maddie Miracle with 'How Can You Not Want Me?'"

  "Oh, I love her voice," Mom squeals. "I hope Rob gets her for the summer concert."

  "I'm praying for Maltese or PJ Squid."

  "Funny names."

  "Maltese is one of People magazine's Most Beautiful People. He's always on MTV

  bare-chested."

  Mom stops short at the light. She's not what you'd call an exemplary driver. She doesn't calculate the moves of others or account for the unexpected. That's why she sideswiped the mail truck last year when she was parallel parking on South Beach. The year before that she nearly killed a peacock that was crossing the street. She swerved at the last second and hit a bench instead. Don't worry, none of the accidents were her fault.

  "Oh, I think Maltese was at the Versace party last month." Mom puckers her bright red lips, then runs her tongue over her front teeth.

  "And you didn't tell me?"

  She makes a right onto Coral Street, Gavin's street. She slows down, and we both search for 14201. "I didn't know you were interested in Maltese."
/>
  "Interested? Megacrush, more like it." I have four pictures of him on my bedroom wall.

  Hasn't she noticed?

  108

  "Well, here we are." Mom pulls into Gavin's driveway.

  There's an orange Saturn in front of the garage. I bet that's Kayla's car. She would definitely drive something practical but flashy.

  "Okay, remember to be polite and friendly." Mom repositions my necklace.

  "I know." I unlock my car door.

  "That means you have to open your mouth," Mom calls after me.

  Not if I'm Helen Keller, I don't.

  Gavin's house is the color of sand, which is like many of the houses in South Florida. It's a two-story and looks pretty big from the outside. There's a plaque next to the doorbell that reads, My House Is Your House. That is so un-Gavin-like.

  I run my finger over the illuminated light of the bell. Before I ring, I turn around to make sure Mom has left. I don't need her rolling down her window again and yelling something embarrassing. I quickly slide off the necklace from QVC hell and stuff it into my backpack.

  I ring once and wait, but no one comes to the door. Maybe I didn't press hard enough?

  But if I ring again, I'll seem like a pest. I peek at my watch. I'm only five minutes late. I'm sure they're waiting for me. I reluctantly ring again and mentally prepare my speech.

  Sorry for being a serial ringer.

  Okay, is this some kind of joke? Were we supposed to meet next week? Is someone looking through the peephole and doubling

  109

  over with laughter? Am I a paranoid mess? It's just that I don't go to other people's houses much, except for Audrey's. And that place is anything but normal with her twin seven-year-old brothers running around the house yelling "Freeze, put your hands up!"

  and her mother and father singing show tunes while they make dinner together.

  I take a deep breath and knock. If no one answers this time, I'll go down the street and call Gavin's house from my cell. Then I'll explain that I'm running late but will be there in a few minutes. The door opens. I'm armed with apologies. "I'm sorry--" A petite woman with short curly hair greets me. Has to be Mrs. Tarn. "I'm glad you knocked; the doorbell sticks sometimes. Come in, Tere."

  She holds out her hand. "I'm Gavin's mom. It's a pleasure to meet you."

  "Hi." I know I have to say more if I ever want to get to know her son better. I can't just stand here, looking dumber than a turkey with its head cut off. I take her hand and shake. It's tiny. Her bones feel like they're made of chalk. I don't want to crush them.

  "I've heard lovely things about you," she continues. She has? Gavin's talked about me?

  "Thanks." I blush. "You, too. You're lovely."

  She smiles. "Thanks, dear. Kayla and Gavin are in the den. Follow me."

  We walk through the foyer, past a cranberry-colored office 110

  and into the pale yellow den. Kayla and Gavin are sitting on opposite couches, separated by a wooden coffee table. Kayla has several colors of pastel paper spread out in front of her. Gavin's holding an electric guitar. Above his head is a framed needlepoint that reads, People always make time to do the things they really want to do.

  If my mother had a crafty bone in her body, I would've thought she'd sneaked in here and hung that sign up. But since she throws out a pair of pants if she loses a button, there's no way she could even thread a stitch.

  "I'll be in the kitchen if you need anything." Mrs. Tam grabs a couple of empty cups off of the coffee table.

  Gavin just nods. Kayla says thanks. I don't say anything.

  Where am I supposed to sit? If I sit next to Gavin, then it might be too obvious that I like him, and if I sit next to Kayla, he'll definitely think I don't like him. So I stand there like an ice sculpture.

  Gavin smiles at me.

  I melt.

  Before I can return the smile, he turns his focus to his cell phone vibrating on the table.

  He looks at it but doesn't pick up.

  "I'm setting up a planning tree for the project." Kayla numbers the papers with big, bubbly print.

  "Nice," I say without fully parting my lips.

  She takes out a glitter pen and shakes it. "Sit down, will ya."

  111

  Gavin plays a few chords on his guitar with the amp off.

  I chicken out and slide into the stuffy plaid armchair between the two couches. "You play a lot?"

  "Every chance I get. Drives my mother crazy." Gavin wipes the hair out of his eyes with his palm. God, he's so rock-star cute!

  I laugh. That would be a great way to get back at my mom for being so annoying, play a loud instrument. She'd probably find a way to soundproof my room, though.

  "What kind of music do you play?" I slide my backpack to the floor.

  Kayla looks up from her planning neurosis sheets. "Wow, two whole sentences. She speaks."

  I roll my eyes at her. I try never to do that because it makes me look all cross-eyed, and slightly freakish, but I couldn't help myself.

  "Anyway . ." Gavin taps out another beat. "I like some older punk stuff and a lot of local urban bands. I'm even into rap and some jazz."

  Kayla pops her head up. "I love jazz. And country."

  "Not me," I say to the powder-blue carpet. "I'm a post-punker. I like hip-hop and edgy alternative tunes."

  "Like what?" Gavin stares at me with his dark eyes.

  My skin is hot and prickly. "Thwart, Mintpaste, Juice Box."

  "Man, you should've listened to SLAM yesterday. They had a whole flashback hour. They played Thwart, Mintpaste, and a lot of other amazing bands. Sweet." Gavin nods.

  112

  "Really?" I lower my head. I don't want them to see me grinning. Gavin's basically calling Derek's show cool, and technically I was a part of the coolness factor. I mean, I was there, in the studio, breathing the same oxygen as the Masturbator. Okay, not a nice visual.

  "Yeah, they play good tunes." I pictured Gavin listening to smaller, grungier stations like MAD 100.2 or SCARY 88.9.

  So he thinks my station is sweet. We have even more in common than I thought.

  "I hate to break up the music party, but let's get this project rolling. I have a foreign language meeting at five," Kayla informs' us. "They're thinking of cutting the department budget for next year so I'm meeting with some students to see how we can stop that from happening."

  Is that before or after she saves the world?

  Kayla hands us each a sheet of paper and has us brainstorm ideas for the project. She sets the timer on her cell for five minutes.

  I want to write:

  Reasons I'll be unable to attend the presentation:

  1. Stomach poisoning caused by unknown items in school lunch.

  2. Jaw suddenly clamps shut due to morning overload of peanut butter.

  3. Cat got my tongue, literally. Cat got scared by neighbor's 113

  dog and latched onto my tongue. Note: Need to purchase or borrow cat before said event.

  4. Since I'll be in character the day of the presentation, I will in fact be blind and deaf, therefore making it nearly impossible for me to find my way to school.

  What I end up writing:

  1. Dress up as our authors and have tea.

  2. Present our authors in different media and set up like an art showcase.

  I'm stuck on number three when Kayla calls time. Neither Gavin nor I volunteer to go first, so of course Kayla does. She has six ideas. Show-off. I peek over at Gavin's paper. It looks like he has three ideas, but one is crossed out. Good, I don't feel so bad.

  Kayla starts off with some elaborate plan about baking desserts that would best represent our characters. Almost as if on cue, Mrs. Tam brings us coffee cake and lemonade. Kayla doesn't even take a break. She loses me on number three, when she talks about hiring actors from a local production company to act as extras during the time period when our authors were alive. I wonder if she goes this all out on every school project. Just thinking
about all this work gives me a headache.

  Gavin's on his third glass of lemonade, and I'm picking at the crumbs on my plate. My calorie counter, I mean, mother, isn't

  114

  here so I have to enjoy every morsel. "Cake is for the weak," Mom always says. Funny, I thought it was for birthdays.

  I nod every few minutes, and Gavin keeps saying, "Yup." So I shouldn't be surprised when Kayla says we have to show up for class in costume. Then she turns to me. "Since you have speaking issues, I racked my brain and came up with a great idea . ."

  Gavin rolls his eyes at me, and I roll mine right back. Ohmigod, I can't believe we just had our first eye-roll together. I can't wait to tell Audrey. Maybe being crossed-eyed and slightly freakish is a good thing after all.

  "What?" I say reluctantly.

  "When you're introduced to us, you can feel our faces, just like Helen did. The best thing is that you can speak like her by stuffing your mouth with cotton balls."

  Is she for real?

  All of a sudden, Gavin slams down his glass. "That's crazy!"

  "Whoa, chill," Kayla says looking as startled as me. "We can figure out the details later."

  This girl is out of hand. "No cotton," I mumble.

  Gavin reaches over to my side of the table and grabs my list. I would've stopped him if he didn't graze my boob in the process and send shivers up my spine.

  "Sorry." He blushes.

  I'm not.

  Gavin glances at my paper. "Tere has a great idea. We should 115

  present our authors in different media and set up like an art showcase."

  Kayla slumps down in her chair. We've definitely thrown her for a loop. She takes a deep breath. "Okay, we can incorporate that. I can wear roller skates. Judy loved to skate as a kid."

  Gavin picks up his guitar again. "Looks like King will play his guitar."

  Kayla looks at her watch. "Any questions?"

  I twist my lips, trying to think of something to say, but I'm just along for the ride.

  "What about you, Tere?" Gavin turns to me. "What's your art form going to be?"

  "Still thinking . ." of a way to get out of this assignment.

  I leave Gavin's house at five o'clock with a vile image of me in a 1920s flowered housecoat. Why didn't I pick someone hipper, more modern? I love Helen, but for God's sake she was a blind and deaf woman living during the First and Second World War. She couldn't have possibly been a fashion icon. I know I'm nobody to talk, but even my sweats look better on me than an old curtain. God, if you're going to strike me with lightning, now would he the perfect time. I quickly add that to my mental list as the fifth reason I might be unable to attend our presentation.