Shrinking Violet

by Danielle Joseph

I try to focus on Alex and Carrie. They are both writers from the seventies, with funky outfits, too. Although, they're dressed much cooler than me. Part of their presentation is a slide show, so Ms. Peters dims the lights. Why didn't we think of that? Then people wouldn't have to stare at me the whole time. Maybe we couldn've done the whole thing in the dark. It could be like a radio show, voices only. Helen was always alone in the dark of her world. She couldn't even find solace in the radio. I'm sure she would've given everything to be part of the classroom chatter. I wonder if she ever felt nervous in front of a group. Before I know it, there's a round of applause for Alex and Carrie. Then Ms.

  Peters makes the dreaded call: "Kayla's group is up."

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  My legs are wobbly, but surprisingly enough, I don't feel as bad as I had expected. Still, I clutch my stomach and breathe deeply so I don't hyperventilate. I steal one quick glance at our script but all the words are a blur. I really only have to say a few lines; most of my performance is mute. I have to be brave for Helen. I can't let her down. She went through too much for me to freak out over a thirteen-minute presentation.

  Kayla hangs up the poster board, explaining who we are, while Gavin and I arrange the chairs and table. After everything is set up, I peek at the audience. Please don't laugh at me. Then I close my eyes for a quick second and imagine that I'm alone with the mike in the studio. When I open up, I glance over at my seat. Stacy? When did she sneak in? And what is she doing sitting at my desk? I swear she's snickering at me. I try not to look at her, but it's not easy. It's like her contempt is thickening the air. I have to ignore her. She can't ruin my performance.

  I plead to Ms. Peters with my eyes. She can't sit there; why is she sitting there? Okay, so I'm closer to the front, but why, all of a sudden, during my presentation, does she feel the urge to show up and take over my seat?

  My eyes lock on Stacy again as Kayla introduces our group. Her stare cuts into me like razor blades, making me shudder. She flips my notebook over with a bright pink acrylic nail and mouths, "Lesbo." I know I read her right, but what's her problem? Ohmigod, she's talking about my Sweet T doodles. Does she listen to the show? Does she think I'm in love with Sweet T?

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  "No," I mouth back.

  She throws her head back and laughs. What am I thinking-- who cares? Stacy's in my seat, touching my things. But I can't let her ruin our performance, all we've worked for. I focus my attention on Kayla, who's skating around me in circles with the biggest fake smile ever plastered on her face.

  After Kayla finishes her tricks, it's Gavin's turn to read a passage from Stephen King's It.

  He places a large skull with deep-set light-up eyes, undoubtedly left over from Halloween, next to his seat. He opens the book and pretends to read to it. He uses a deep throaty voice, and every time he gets to a scary part, he makes the skeleton's eyes flash green. The class quickly catches on and ooohs and ahhs each time they see the light. It's a pretty comical combo, and together with Kayla's performance, they definitely fit the bill as a vaudeville show. Kayla would make a great horror movie victim where the evil slasher sneaks from behind and knocks her to the ground.

  Next, Gavin pulls out his guitar and jams for a few minutes. All eyes are locked on him.

  Even Stacy's. He looks so cool up here, just like a rock star. I'm so mesmerized with his playing that Kayla has to whisper for me to sit down at the table. We are supposed to be having a conversation where Kayla talks and I feel the movement of her lips. Kayla holds up a sign as the music dies down that reads Welcome to Helen's World. All I can picture in my head is Stacy whispering lesbo as I feel the creases of Kayla's well-lubricated lips. I should've told her to lay low on the ChapStick

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  because my fingers are sliding all over the place with the grease. I'm so happy when this part is over.

  Now I'm supposed to hold up a prop, then spell the word in the air. I want to spell Stacy, get the hell out of my seat, but instead I'm gripping a bright yellow umbrella and spelling umbrella to the class. How this is entertainment is beyond me. People are actually watching. I focus on the poster in the back of the room-- it's a little girl on the beach building a sand castle. I wish I could trade places with her.

  Stacy flashes my Sweet T doodles to the class, then gives the page a big smooch.

  Laughing, she tears the paper from my notebook and holds it up in front of her like it's pirates' booty. I scan the class to see if anyone is looking at her. Thank God, no. Not even Ms. Peters. For once Stacy is not the center of attention.

  Everyone's staring at me holding up my sandal. I turn the shoe around in my hand and touch the leather, then rub it against my face. I start to spell the letters in the air when I step forward with my bare foot and skid on a piece of paper. The paper from my notebook with Stacy's lipstick marks on it. I look up just in time to see a huge grin on Stacy's face, right before I land flat on my butt.

  Ouch, that hurt. I know I come with my own padding, but this floor is concrete. A few soft laughs break out.

  I'm hot and cold at the same time. My face flushes red, but my hands are icy. Here I am, sprawled on the floor in front of

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  the entire class. But I will not vomit. I will not cry. Instead, I bite my lip.

  "Helen, let me help you up." Judy Blume reaches for me.

  Before I latch on, I ball up the piece of paper in my hand and stick it in the pocket of Audrey's sweater.

  Somehow I manage to scramble to my feet. My butt aches, but other than that I think I'm okay. I look down at the dress and straighten it out.

  "Helen sustained many falls throughout her life." Kayla hands me my sandal. "But as you can see, she steps right up and keeps on going. Falling to her is as natural as sneezing is to us."

  A few more laughs erupt. I slide on my sandal and stand there, stiff as a frozen Popsicle.

  Kayla elbows me in the ribs. I have to go on; I have to say something. I spell the words thank you in the air.

  "Helen wants to thank you all for coming to see us perform today, but before we go, I'm handing it over to Stephen King for the song finale."

  The laughs have stopped. All eyes have moved from me to Gavin.

  Gavin tightens the guitar strap across his shoulder and moves his fingers up and down the strings. I love watching his fingers, especially the way his thumb ring clanks against the wood on certain notes. He seems so at peace, rocking away. He doesn't make eye contact either, but somehow it's okay. He looks like he's one with the music. That's how I feel when I'm listening

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  to my iPod. I know I'm not the one making the music, but I'm definitely receiving it.

  Gavin's sound is unique: alternative rock, a bit of soul, and a funky beat running through the song. He was really good with his impromptu preview the other day at Kayla's, but this performance is amazing! This instrumental piece would make great "background music," for the station--we could talk right over it, but the listeners would still be entertained.

  He finishes off with a short riff. Everyone's silent for a second, then the room breaks into applause. Just like me, Gavin is not used to all this attention and his cheeks quickly turn pink. He looks so cute. He bows and the clapping dies down. It's my cue to blow a kiss and for Judy to thank the audience. Then we move into the group hug.

  Finally, it's all over. I want to rip off this dress and run all the way home. At this point being naked sounds more appealing than looking like a 1950s housewife. Plus, I wiped out in front of the whole class--nothing could be more embarrassing. Kayla did a good job saving my ass, but I'm sure people will forever have that image of me landing on my butt in the ugliest dress known to mankind.

  I look over at my desk. Stacy's still sitting there. The mere sight of her makes me want to strangle her. How dare she throw a piece of paper on the floor like a stray banana peel in one of those old Bugs Bunny cartoons? Too bad I can't pull a frying pan from out of thin air and flatten her with one flick of the wris
t.

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  "Two wonderful performances so far. I can't wait to see what Juan and Chad have prepared for us." Ms. Peters motions for them to set up.

  I slide closer toward Stacy. I will not react. I know that's what she wants.

  I take a deep breath and grit my teeth. If I got through the performance, I can get through this confrontation. "You're in my seat."

  "What's that, lesbo?" She runs her finger up and down the spine of my spiral notebook.

  "Move."

  She looks up at me. Her blue eyes are wide and piercing. "Sweet T would never like a loser like you."

  "You mean a loser like you," I blurt.

  "What?" Stacy was so not expecting me to answer. She looks like one of those wax museum statues. I'm stunned that I said something, too.

  She quickly snaps back to reality. "Even your comebacks are lame, lesbo."

  I feel a hand on my shoulder. "I'm proud of you, Tere. That was a great portrayal of Helen," Ms. Peters says.

  Stacy gets up from my seat and huffs back to hers. I hope Ms. Peters gives her an F.

  I survive in my costume for the next presentation. I can't fully relax because I don't know if Stacy will strike again. But she managed to snag someone else's seat next to Frank and is now

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  cuddling up to him. Hopefully he'll be able to hold her focus and keep her out of my hair.

  I look over at Gavin a few times, who's busy scrawling in his notebook. I never knew he was such a writer. He keeps on writing lines, then scratching them out. I fantasize that it's a love note to me, that he's going to tear the page away from the rest and slide it over. Doesn't happen.

  The bell rings just after Shakespeare and John Grisham take their bows. Gavin hardly notices. He's still writing.

  "What's that?" I finally ask.

  He quickly shuts the notebook. "Some ideas. It's really nothing."

  "Oh." I gather my stuff.

  "Hey, you were great today." He smiles.

  "You, too."

  As I'm gathering my stuff, Frank brushes by me, Stacy on his arm. "Tere, that was an incredible wipeout. It looked so real," he says.

  "You should be on one of those stunt shows," Tim yells from behind him.

  Are they serious?

  "She practiced the fall a bunch of times. She's good." Gavin pulls me toward the door.

  "I think she's a faker." Stacy leans into Frank. But Frank doesn't answer because he's too busy telling Tim that he has ugly sneakers.

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  And Kayla's at the door waiting for us, so Gavin and I make like a brick wall and plow past Stacy and Frank.

  "Ohmigod, guys, I think we did really well," Kayla says all in one breath.

  "We made a great team." Gavin slings his arms around us both. Then he turns to Kayla.

  "And that was a perfect save after Tere's fall. We rock!"

  Since I'm now pretty much convinced everyone thought the fall was deliberate, I feel good, too. I'd still like to come up with an idea to trip Stacy up in her performance, but what? Throw something at her? No, that's too immature, and I can't get her to slip on a piece of paper because that would make me a copycat. So not cool. As much as I'd like to see her mess up royally, I'm not into plotting revenge. Maybe I'll leave that up to Sweet T.

  ***

  Good afternoon, Miami. This is Sweet T on 92.7 The SLAM. I'm usually not on at this time, but I'm filling in today. The sky started off overcast, but now the sun is peeking through the clouds, ready to burst. Here's a song that's sure to bring you warmth: Grade May with "Hang Tight, Sister." Blast this one as loud as you can!

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  chapter TWENTY

  I'm exhausted, so I head home for a nap before going to the station. I don't think Derek will even flinch when I stroll in late. He knows he owes me big since he set up this whole prom contest featuring moi as the main attraction.

  Mom's in the kitchen when I walk in the house. She's attempting food preparation again. It looks like some type of soup. Pieces of vegetables are strewn all over the counter and bottles of spices are everywhere.

  I give her a quick nod and pull out the bread and peanut butter. All I need is some sustenance and a nap.

  Mom looks so awkward hovered over the big pot, swirling the ladle round and round.

  "Did you tell Derek that you'd be late?"

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  "Yes, I left a message with Kelly."

  "When's the contest deadline?"

  "Everything has to be in on Monday by five." Four more days and I'll have to pick my suitor. At least I get to be the one to choose him, not Mom, or even worse, Derek.

  Mom tastes the soup, then reaches for the bottle of garlic. "I'm just glad you're not going to the prom with that boy."

  "What boy?" I dip my knife in the jar to scoop out some more peanut butter.

  "The goth one. Definitely someone that's going nowhere."

  What's her problem? She sees me with him one time and she already doesn't like him.

  Talk about judging a book by its cover.

  "Geez, Mom, will you leave Gavin alone. He's not even going to the prom." I tighten the lid and toss the jar back onto the pantry shelf.

  "Well, that's good. I just don't think he's your type." She holds up the spoon. "Would you like a sample?"

  My type? She has no clue what my type is. She used to be on my case to get to know the boys in my school better. She always told me how by the end of freshman year she had four offers to go to the senior prom. Eventually she realized that her nagging was no use, that I was not going to follow in her queen bee footsteps.

  "No," I grumble, then take a seat at the table and dig into my sandwich. "And if you must know, Gavin's a supercool guy."

  "You might think that, but a mother knows."

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  "Whatever," I say between clenched teeth.

  "You don't have to be so ungrateful, Teresa. This opportunity to go to the prom is a one-of-a-kind experience. You really owe Derek for setting all this up."

  "Yeah, he's a great guy," I say with my mouth full.

  Mom brushes away the hair from her face. "And I don't want you to mess things up and embarrass the station."

  "And how would I do that, Mother? Do you really think I'm going to chug ten beers and strip naked?"

  "That's not what I'm talking about." Mom stirs the soup. "This is your one chance to find a decent guy."

  I roll my eyes and snap at her, "I hardly think entering a radio contest makes someone decent. And I'm eighteen. I'll have plenty of opportunities to meet people."

  "Where is this hostility coming from?" Mom whisks the soup into a frenzy.

  "I'm sick and tired of you treating me like a loser all the time. Hell, if I could stand up in front of the class and pretend to be a blind and deaf woman, then I can stand up to you." I push my chair away from the table.

  "What are you rambling about?"

  "You will never even be half the person Helen was."

  "Who's Helen?" Mom slams the ladle down onto the granite counter.

  "Do you even care?" I rip off a piece of crust from my sandwich and ball it up in my hand.

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  "I think you better come to your senses and show me some respect."

  "Why should I respect you if you don't respect we?"

  "I don't respect you?" She points to herself. "I'm the one who's taken care of you all these years. If it wasn't for me, you'd be nothing."

  "Then I'd rather be nothing." I storm out of the house, with the ball of crust still in my hand. I speed down the street like a marathon runner on her last lap.

  How dare she make me feel like crap? I push her words out of my head. Every time a car whizzes by, I think it might be her, coming to apologize and drive me to the station. I pass the Starbucks, dry cleaners, and nursing home, but still no red Lexus pulls up and opens its doors for me.

  I'm soaking with sweat by the time I get to the bus stop. I slump down onto the ben
ch and watch the ants scurry through the cracks in the sidewalk. Normally this would gross me out, but today I'm mesmerized by all their activity.

  I wait twenty minutes for the number 11 to finally show. I'm too tired to even care if someone stakes out the station and corners me at the front door. But I figure I'll look too worn out by the time I reach the building for anyone to even suspect that I'm Sweet T. I look more like I'm coming to clean the place up, not broadcast fresh tunes to thousands of people.

  Once the bus is in motion, I close my eyes. I picture myself in a black prom dress, dancing to Shrinking Violet with Gavin by my

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  side. He looks scrumptious in his black tux and crisp white shirt. He pulls me in tight and wraps his arms around me. The warmth of his chest envelops me like the patchwork security blanket I carried around until I was almost seven.

  The bus screeches to a halt. I remove my sticky face from the window. Gross. I wipe my cheek on the sleeve of my tee. Not the best place to doze off. I slide out of my seat and make my way toward the front. Luckily I didn't miss my stop.

  I'm only a few minutes late when I flash my station badge to the security guard. I look outside around the corner of the building quickly to make sure no one is following me.

  Unless some insane listener is disguised as the man with the bullhorn proclaiming that the end of the world is near, I think I'm safe. Although, the man could be right about the world coming to an end. Or at least my world.

  As soon as I walk in, I grab a Diet Coke from the vending machine. It's going to be a long night.

  "You okay?" Pop-Tart pulls off her headset.

  "Just a little sweaty. Walked part of the way here."

  "Good for you. I need to get back to the gym. My tummy is looking pouchy." Pop-Tart pats her surfboard abs. There's something comforting about her. I hope she never changes.

  "Know what you mean." I instinctively cross my arms over my stomach.

  I don't even bother freshening up. Derek will have to take me as is today.

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  He's busy with a caller when I open the studio door. Good, it gives me time to settle. A couple stacks of CDs labeled with different numbers are piled on the console. There's got to be at least forty entries, and we're about four days away from the contest deadline. I didn't know there were so many singing Romeos out there.