Ambitious

by Monica McKayhan

  “I got accepted into Premiere High,” I finally admitted to Dad.

  “Oh, yeah?” His eyes were glued to the television as he watched an instant replay of Terrell Owens scoring a touchdown in a preseason football game.

  “Yeah, and I think I might transfer there,” I said and waited for the remote control to come flying across the room and hit me in the head. When it didn’t, I continued. “Um…I like acting more than basketball.” I was really pushing it. “I really feel good when I’m onstage and the crowd is going crazy because I said or did something spectacular. I mean the crowd goes crazy when I dunk a basketball, too, but I don’t get the same feeling. When I’m onstage, it’s like having an out-of-body experience. Like I’m not even there, you know?” I was babbling.

  Dad said nothing. His attention was steady on ESPN as he popped a chicken nugget into his mouth and took a big gulp from his bottle of Gatorade.

  “It’s not that I’m giving up on basketball.” I wanted to smooth things over a bit. I felt as if I’d gotten too excited about acting. “You know, I’m still true to the game. That’ll never change. Me and basketball…we’re like peanut butter and jelly…cake and ice cream…beans and corn bread…”

  “Are you done?” he asked.

  “Um, yeah…I guess.”

  “Make sure you load your dishes into the dishwasher.” He stood and headed out of the room. “You forgot to do it last night.”

  That was it. No comment on the subject at hand. Just make sure you load the dishes into the dishwasher? It was obvious that he had just gone through the motions when he’d given me permission to audition. I remembered how he laughed under his breath as he handed me the signed papers.

  “Good luck, son,” he’d stated in a joking way.

  I wasn’t sure if he knew that I was serious about transferring, or if he never expected me to make it in. But now, as reality hit home, he was different. Angry. Or hurt. I wasn’t sure which, but it was obvious that he wasn’t feeling my decision. We were sports men. Acting was for dreamers. I’d heard it a million times in my life. Drew, just because we live in a nice neighborhood and have nice things, doesn’t mean you have to be a star. Everybody’s trying to be a star. Don’t get caught up in the hoopla. We’re Bishop men, and Bishops play ball. A good, wholesome sport that can make you a lot of money if you work it right. Stay focused. That was Dad’s favorite speech.

  I wished I could tell him that I wasn’t getting caught up in the hoopla. That I really was talented, and Premiere High was going to enhance my life. It wasn’t about stardom and all the bright lights. I wanted to tell him all those things, but when I heard the sound of jazz filling the apartment, I knew he was lost in another place.

  I loaded the dishes into the dishwasher, placed dishwashing liquid into its little compartment, started it and turned off the lights in the kitchen. On my way to my room, I peeked into the living room. My dad was reclined in his easy chair, a glass filled with ice cubes and scotch in his hand. His head was leaned against the back of the chair, his eyes closed. I opened my mouth to say something but changed my mind. I’d said all I could say.

  “Hey, Drew,” my dad’s voice startled me. He never even opened his eyes; he’d obviously heard or smelled my presence.

  I stood in the doorway of the living room. “Yeah, Dad?” I asked.

  “You really wanna go to that artsy school?”

  “Yeah,” I said. “I do. But not without your blessing.”

  “What do I need to do?”

  “Come with me tomorrow. There’s an orientation, and parents are invited to come. You can find out what classes I’ll be taking and all of that…”

  “They got a basketball team?”

  “Nah, Dad. No sports.”

  “I’d like to come…you know…check out the school and all. But I got meetings all day tomorrow.”

  “It’s cool, Dad. There will be other stuff.”

  I stood there for a moment. Waited for my dad to say something else. He was silent, and so was I. I dismissed myself.

  “Good night, Dad.”

  “Night,” he mumbled.

  I made my way to my room and shut the door behind me. I had a big day ahead of me—a new school, a new challenge, a new life.

  three

  Marisol

  Orientation day was exciting. As my parents and I roamed the hallways of Premiere High School, I couldn’t help smiling. I was proud to show them the dance studio, the place where I’d spend most of my time, learning and growing—the place where my dreams would come true.

  “It’s a nice school.” Poppy smiled and smoothed my hair in the back.

  “It’s old and musty,” said Mami, who didn’t see things quite as I did.

  “It’s not old, Mami. It has character. And what you’re smelling is not must. It’s the sweat and tears of the stars who have roamed these very halls!” I said and beamed.

  “You must be Marisol’s parents,” J.C. said. The dance instructor looked different wearing a suit rather than leotards and tights. Her hair flowed against her shoulders instead of being pulled up on top of her head. She was prettier up close, and her makeup was flawless. She grabbed my mother’s hand in hers. “I’m Juliette Cruz, the dance instructor here at Premiere. The kids call me J.C. and probably a few other choice words.”

  I could tell that my mother was speechless to learn that my dance instructor was a Latina-American woman. When I’d spoken about the woman giving the dance class last spring, I never revealed her race. But now, I hoped that the small detail would work in my favor.

  “Hi, Mrs. Cruz…I mean, J.C. This is my mother, Isabel Garcia,” I jumped in and said.

  “Please to meet you, Senora Garcia.”

  “Nice to meet you, too,” my mother managed.

  “And this is my dad, Berto,” I said.

  “Senor,” she said and smiled. “Very nice to meet you, sir.”

  “Pleasure is mine.” Poppy smiled his beautiful smile. I could tell that he thought she was attractive; he could barely peel his eyes from her.

  “You have a very talented daughter,” J.C. began. “I’m very pleased to have her in my class. My class is demanding, and not everyone makes it in. But she did. I’m sure you’re very proud that she made it into such an outstanding school, too.”

  “Well…” My mother opened her mouth, but before she could finish whatever negative statement she was about to make, my father jumped in.

  He gave her a sideways look and said, “We’re very proud of Marisol. We know that she’s capable of achieving whatever she puts her mind to.” Poppy gave me a reassuring smile. I was grateful for his support.

  “She’s got a lot of work ahead of her,” said J.C., “but I have no doubt that if she puts in the hard work, she will have a great career.”

  “What kind of career can she really have as a dancer, Mrs. Cruz?” My mother finally got her chance to spit her venom. “A Broadway showgirl? A video vixen? Or maybe…I don’t know…a dance instructor?”

  Did my mother just insult this woman that she’d known for only thirty seconds? I wanted to crawl under a rock and die.

  J.C. smiled anyway. “There are plenty of lucrative careers for professional dancers, senora. For instance, before I was a lowly dance instructor—” she giggled “—I owned one of the largest dance studios in the country, where I taught ballroom and Latin dance. I choreographed routines for several celebrities. In fact, I come from a long line of dancers. My great-grandfather danced with Fred Astaire and Gene Kelly. I ended up here, teaching dance to young people at a Manhattan performing arts school, because I wanted to settle down…start a family…” She extended her hand, showing off an engagement ring. “I’m getting married in a few months.”

  “Congratulations,” Poppy said.

  “I’m sorry if I offended you…” Mami offered.

  “No apology necessary, senora,” J.C. said. “I can tell that you love your daughter very much, and you only want what’s best for her.”


  “Yes.” Mami finally smiled. “I just want her to receive a good education. One that will prepare her for college.”

  “Then you’ve enrolled her in the right place. Academics are very important here at Premiere. She’ll receive a wonderful education here. Most of the classes are college-prep courses, and she must maintain a certain grade point average in order to remain here. Students do not have the luxury of slacking off. They must focus on the traditional courses as well as the arts.”

  “That’s good to know,” Poppy stated; he seemed to release a sigh of relief.

  “If you’ll excuse me, I need to meet some of the other parents.” J.C. seemed to be very likable. I was sure that she and I would get along very well. “It was very nice meeting you both. Marisol, I’ll see you bright and early in the morning.”

  “Okay,” I said and watched as J.C. disappeared into the crowd and began to mix and mingle with the other parents.

  Without notice, someone walked up from behind and whispered, “Guess who?”

  I grinned after recognizing Drew’s voice. My parents’ smiles disappeared immediately. My father frowned, and my mother’s eyebrows rose in discontent at the fact that I’d already made a friend—a male friend. They had no idea that I’d been secretly searching for him all night.

  “What’s up?” he asked.

  “Same old, same old,” I said.

  “Hello, sir, I’m Drew Bishop.” He held out his hand and offered my father a handshake.

  Poppy was hesitant at first but eventually took Drew’s hand in a firm grip.

  “I’m Marisol’s very strict father, Berto Garcia.” My father’s voice had deepened.

  “Pleased to meet you, sir,” Drew said, “Ma’am.” He nodded toward my mother.

  “Hello,” she managed to say. And that was all she said.

  “I take it you attend here, as well?” Poppy asked the obvious. He was trying to make conversation.

  “Drew’s an actor,” I boasted. “He was accepted into the drama department.”

  “That’s very nice,” Poppy stated.

  “Would you mind if I stole your daughter for a moment?” Drew was bold; he didn’t beat around the bush.

  “Only if you promise to return her,” Poppy said.

  “Scout’s honor.” Drew raised his hand in the air, as if he were a Boy Scout. He didn’t waste any time grabbing my hand and pulling me into the crowd and to the other side of the room.

  “Where are we going?” I asked.

  “I don’t know. You just looked like you needed to be rescued.”

  “You were absolutely right. My parents are so stuffy.”

  “At least they showed up,” Drew said. He poured two cups of punch and handed me one. “My dad didn’t even bother.”

  “Don’t judge him too harshly. He only wants what he thinks is best for you. Right?”

  “Sure. I guess,” he said. “You look nice.”

  I was glad that I’d opted for the red dress that made me appear to have cleavage. It also showed off my legs and hugged my rear end.

  “Thanks. So do you.” I was blushing. I could feel my face burning, and I knew it was probably as red as my dress.

  “Your father cracked me up. ‘I’m Marisol’s very strict father…’” He imitated my father and then burst into laughter. “Hey, dude, I’m just trying to take your daughter to get some punch. Is that cool?”

  “Shut up.” I punched him in the arm. “Don’t talk about my dad. Besides, you should be more afraid of my mom.”

  “Yeah, she was pretty chilly, too.” He went into an imitation of my mother, his voice changing into a high octave. “Hello…and just where do you think you’re going with my daughter, young man? What are your intentions for her? She’s not allowed in the South Bronx, with your pants-saggin’, tattoo-havin’, grill-wearin’ kinfolks…”

  “You’re sick.” I laughed hard. “That was so racist.”

  “Exactly!” he exclaimed. “It was so racist for your mom to think that way. She didn’t say those things, but I knew that’s what she was thinking.”

  “I doubt that she was thinking that, Drew. She’s old-fashioned, but she’s not a racist.”

  “Everybody thinks that when they meet a young black guy for the first time. They think that we’re all pants-sagging, good-for-nothing wastes of time,” he explained. “Have you ever dated a black guy?”

  “In eighth grade,” I told him as I took a sip of my punch. “Eddie Anderson.”

  “Good ol’ Eddie…” he mocked.

  “What about you? You ever dated a Latin girl?”

  “I know a little bit about Latin dancing.” Drew disregarded my question, took my hand and started dancing a salsa dance as if there was Latin music playing.

  I hung my head in embarrassment and looked around the room to see if my parents were watching. Thankfully, there was too much going on for anyone to notice. The crowd had grown and everyone was engaged in idle conversation.

  “You’re cute when you’re embarrassed,” Drew said and laughed.

  “I wasn’t embarrassed,” I lied.

  “Right…” he said. “Your face is just beet red all the time.”

  “You are…a very unique person,” I said.

  “I’ve been called worse,” he said. “Hey, I gotta go. This place is cramping my style. I’ll see you at school on Monday.”

  “Okay.”

  “Congratulations on getting in,” he said and stuffed his hands into the pockets of his Diesel jeans. He looked stylish and confident in his white polo, and I could see him achieving his acting dream.

  “Same to you, dude.”

  Drew’s energy rubbed off on me. He had me wondering about him long after he was gone and longing to see him again. I wondered if his Barbie-doll-looking girlfriend knew how lucky she was to have him. He was definitely unique. Who did the salsa in the middle of a school’s orientation when there was no music playing?

  I watched as Drew disappeared into the crowd and then made his way out the door. I searched for my parents, who’d been cornered by the freshmen guidance counselor. I decided to go rescue them. I poured two cups of punch and headed their way.

  four

  Marisol

  In the locker room I peeled off my street clothes as quickly as I possibly could before hopping into my leotard and tights. After stuffing my clothes into my bag, I rushed into the hallway. The halls were filled with students as I pressed my way through to my dance class. Many of them stood around chattering, practicing a dance routine, singing or rehearsing their lines to some play. Subconsciously I searched for Drew. I hoped that I’d run into him, but the chances were slim. There were too many people. Instead, I found my way to the dance studio. The bag that was slung across my shoulder held an extra pair of leotards and a pair of shorts, as well as a few spiral notebooks and a three-ring binder.

  I pushed open the heavy door and every eye in the class landed on me. I was late. My alarm hadn’t gone off as it should have, and I totally messed up my first day of school. Being late on the first day at a new school was not fun. The last thing you wanted to do was draw attention to yourself by walking into your first class after everyone else was there. I tried not to look at anyone and attempted to make myself inconspicuous at the back of the class.

  “We’re glad you could join us, Miss Garcia,” said J.C. as she paced the floor. “Is this going to be your regular time of arrival?”

  “Um…I’m sorry. My alarm clock didn’t…um…” I couldn’t even bring myself to complete the sentence.

  The giggles throughout the room caused my temperature to rise. I was embarrassed.

  “My class begins at 8:00 a.m. sharp. Not 8:01, and certainly not 8:15. The rules at Premiere High are different from the ones you might be used to at your regular public high school. The young men and women here are committed to their education and their craft.” This was not the same J.C. who charmed my parents the other night at the orientation. No…this one was different. The
re was no smile, no suit and no flowing hair.

  I didn’t really see the need for a lecture on my first day of school. I was late—no doubt about it. But really, was it that serious? As I took a look around the room, finally making eye contact with a few students, I wanted to crawl into a corner and never resurface. Some of them still had smirks on their faces; some of them simply rolled their eyes. I was glad when J.C. finally moved on.

  “We’re going to begin by stretching, so if we can line up in three rows of ten.”

  Everyone did as J.C. instructed and arranged themselves in three rows of ten, facing the mirrored wall.

  “Where did you take the subway from?” The thin girl who stood next to me began to stretch her long, lean legs.

  “Sunset Park.”

  “Brooklyn,” she stated matter-of-factly in her strong New York accent. “What station?”

  “Thirty-sixth street.”

  “I’m in Bed-Stuy. Maybe we can kinda look out for each other. Maybe ride into the city together.” She was a mixed girl, with light brown skin and long sandy-colored locks that brushed against her shoulders. Her light brown eyes were friendly.

  “Thank you,” I whispered. “I’m Marisol. Everyone calls me Mari.”

  “I’m Jasmine,” she said. “Meet me in front of the cafeteria at lunchtime. We can exchange numbers and maybe grab a bite to eat together.”

  Before I could respond, Jasmine was lost in the stretch routine. At the end of the class, I wanted to thank her for making me feel at ease at the worst possible time, but she was nowhere to be found. I gathered my bag onto my shoulder and headed through the crowded hallway in search of my next class.

  At lunchtime I headed for the cafeteria. A blond boy with a stack of flyers in his hand tapped me on the shoulder.

  “You should try out for this.” He handed me a flyer. “I saw your audition the other day.”

  I took the flyer and scanned it quickly:

  DANCE AMERICA

  DANCE COMPETITION:

  AUDITIONS BEING HELD THIS FRIDAY