Falling in Like #11

by Melissa J Morgan

  “Nice to meet you,” Valerie said in a small voice.

  “You’re not nervous, are you?” Manzuma asked, narrowing her eyes in mock-suspicion. “Dancing is hard work, but it’s also fun.”

  The woman led Valerie back toward the beaded curtain just as LaToya and two other girls passed through it. LaToya was dressed in a scarlet leotard and matching tights, and her hair was pulled back with a beaded red scrunchie. The other girls were just as color-coordinated, one in black, and one in China blue. They looked like real, professional dancers.

  LaToya smirked at Valerie. “Yeah, Val, get ready to have some fun.”

  “Oh, I am ready,” Valerie said. It came out much cockier than she had intended, which was unfortunate. LaToya would definitely make her pay for that.

  “We’ll see,” LaToya said, as she danced a bunch of very fancy steps over to the ballet barre bolted to the wall. Very fancy.

  Payback time!

  This is really working, Alyssa thought excitedly as she added a scarlet wash to her portrait of Willa Ackel. She was working in her studio. Or rather, the corner of her bedroom that she’d turned into a studio with the help of her father.

  Alyssa was covered with cyan and indigo. Her fingertips were smudged with India ink. She had used a calligraphy pen to write a poem she had titled “Ode to a Woman” around the silhouette.

  I

  am

  I am a

  woman-to-be

  a woman-to-be strong and free

  I am

  a body humming

  a heart strumming

  a spirit thrumming

  changing, growing, becoming,

  I

  I am

  I am a

  woman now

  I!

  Yes! It perfectly described how she felt about growing up.

  Alyssa had drawn Willa so that it was hard to make out her sweater and blue jeans, and she wondered if she should emphasize the texture of the sweater a little more. Otherwise, Willa looked kind of . . . naked.

  I don’t want to mess it up, Alyssa thought.

  She straightened her back and rolled her neck. Then she stood back, still unable to believe that she had actually created this masterpiece.

  Now she had just one problem: Which of her thousands of paintings, drawings, and sketches should she select for her five pages in the Works showcase?

  Dressed in black tights that barely covered her knees and an olive-colored leotard silk-screened with a turquoise dancing koala bear, Valerie stumbled again as LaToya’s entire Advanced Interpretive Movement class leaped like gazelles across the floor. Valerie’s legs weighed six hundred pounds each as she tried to copy the lithe movements of the well-trained dancers.

  Humiliated, she stared down at her feet. Her toenails looked awful. It was autumn; who bothered with pedicures when everyone wore close-toed shoes?

  Modern dancers, that was who. Unlike ballet dancers, who wore slippers, Manzuma’s students went barefoot. Everyone else’s toes were filed and painted, and one girl had glued little rows of rhinestones along the cuticle lines of her two big toes.

  And no one else was wearing a hideous olive-and-turquoise-dancing-koala-bear leotard. In fact, none of them had dancing animals of any kind slapped over their chests.

  But those were only the minor details that made Valerie wish there was a trap door she could fall through. They couldn’t come anywhere near her complete and total mortification: She was blowing her placement audition. She, who had taken ballet for years, was so nervous, she was jerking around like a string puppet.

  As a ballet dancer, she was used to a whole different set of steps, and turning her legs and feet outward. But in this class, everyone kept their legs and toes pointed forward. Apparently this was more “natural” than ballet. But it didn’t feel natural to her. She kept forgetting and trying to do things ballet-style, and then she would mess up and trip again. It was awful.

  “Okay, for the last five minutes of class, I want everyone to improvise,” Manzuma announced, walking directly in front of Valerie. She crossed her arms over her chest. Her friendly smile had long ago frozen in place, as if she couldn’t believe that someone related to LaToya was such a total klutz.

  “Imagine that you’re a Zulu warrior princess,” Manzuma told Valerie. Her gaze swept over all the students. “You’re fighting a lion!”

  Valerie didn’t know anything about Zulus. I am Xena, Warrior Princess, she thought, feeling too dejected to put much effort into her attempt. She tried to put on a fierce “grr” face and stab an invisible spear at an invisible lion. Her improvisation was completely lame. LaToya flew all over the room while Valerie pretty much stood in one place, jabbing her hands forward.

  Maybe I should name my lion “LaToya.”

  “Love-ly,” Manzuma said after, oh, five years. She clapped her hands. “Thank you, class. Valerie, stay with me, dear.”

  The other students strode across the dance floor, chatting about class and who got the showers first. LaToya glanced over her shoulder at Valerie, then left with her friends.

  Once they were alone, Manzuma said, “I believe your father said on the phone that you’ve taken some dance before.”

  “Ballet,” Valerie replied. “But I stopped a couple of years ago.” She took a breath. “So maybe I’m a little rusty, but I’m sure I’ll catch on quick.”

  “Modern dance is a very different animal from classical ballet,” Manzuma said. “Sometimes it’s hard to make the switch.”

  She’s telling me I sucked. Mutely, Valerie nodded.

  “That’s all right. We can take care of that. In the beginners’ class,” Manzuma said kindly. “It starts in about ten minutes. How would that be?”

  That would suck, too, Valerie thought. Totally.

  “LaToya usually helps me with that class,” Manzuma continued, “because her mother is still at work, and can’t get here any sooner. So maybe you could do your homework or read a book during the advanced class, and then take the beginners’ class.”

  Which LaToya helps with, Valerie thought miserably.

  “Why don’t you give it a try tonight?” Manzuma urged her. “We’ll see how it goes. You’re not too tired, are you?”

  Valerie thought about her father. She thought about her mom and her plea to Valerie to maintain a pleasant attitude.

  And then she sighed inwardly and said, “No, I’m not too tired.”

  To: Val

  From: Alyssa

  Subject: My art piece!!

  Dear Val,

  I wanted to thank you for telling us that story about Ugandan women singing to girls when they get their first periods. That was my inspiration for this piece I did tonight. I’m attaching a jpeg for you. I am calling it Ode to a Woman. I think the woman looks like she is dancing my poem!

  XO,

  Lyss

  To: Alyssa

  From: Val

  Subject: Your art piece

  Dear Lyss,

  Your picture is so beautiful! I wish I could dance like that. I did terrible in LT’s class and now I have to take the beginners’ class. I was really bummed but your pic helped cheer me up.

  Your friend,

  Val

  chapter THREE

  Posted by: Alyssa

  Subject: Rejected!

  Hi, everyone,

  Happy Tuesday . . . not!

  Yesterday we had a model (for the first time ever!) and she looked so strong and proud while she was posing that I got totally inspired. First I sketched her in pencil and then I did a wash, and added some oils . . . anyway, that’s technical artist talk.

  I was inspired to write a poem around her silhouette about becoming a woman. I remembered Val’s story about Ugandan women singing to girls when they start their periods. You can see it pretty well in the pic I attached. I didn’t say anything about getting your first period or anything like that. I stayed up all night working on it. (And I am way busted because I didn’t do the homework for any of
my other classes.)

  But this afternoon when I handed it in to Mr. Prescott, my art teacher, he said it was “inappropriate” and he wouldn’t let me enter it into the contest! I am really bummed out!

  I don’t understand why he won’t let me use this picture. It is my BEST ever! I hope you will tell me what you think. Be HONEST. If you think Mr. Prescott is right, tell me!

  TTFN,

  Lyss

  Posted by: Sarah

  Subject: Your Picture

  Dear Lyss,

  Abby and I think your art piece totally rocks. It reminds us both of a soccer jock. Maybe Mr. Prescott will change his mind.

  Your friend,

  Sarah (and Abby says hi!)

  P.S.: Abby sent the jpeg to her cousin. She’s in design school in Rhode Island.

  Posted by: Grace

  Subject: Crazy Teacher!

  Dear Lyss,

  Grrl, if you had made that picture at camp they would hang it in a place of honor in the mess hall! It’s really beautiful! My drama buds think your teacher is a crazy man! We support you! Go, Alyssa!

  HUGZ,

  Grace

  “Check it out, Kallista. I brought us yummy sushi,” Tori announced as she unpacked their lunch at an outside table in the landscaped area at Beverly Hills Middle School. It was Tuesday, very sunny and warm, and Tori and her best friend, Kallista Goldman, were wearing frilly tops and knee-length skirts. November in Southern California could go in either direction—from blazing hot to foggy and chilly. Today was a picture-perfect let’s-get-a-tan-at-lunch kind of day.

  Kallista laughed. “Tori, you have brought sushi for your last three turns.”

  They always took turns bringing lunch for each other, getting their moms or dads to buy delicious takeout-y things during their shopping trips to one of the several gourmet grocery stores near their houses in Beverly Hills. Today was Japanese—California rolls and ebi, which was cooked shrimp on squares of rice. Yesterday Kallista had brought Thai.

  Kallista slipped off her lacy sweater and put it over the back of her beige metal chair while Tori opened the drawers of the little lacquered Japanese bento box she had packed their lunch in. The box was a gift from supermodel Astrid Landon, who had bought it on her recent Tokyo photo shoot. Tori and Kallista both knew Astrid. Kallista’s father was a director who had cast her in a few movies of his, and she was a client of Tori’s father, who represented all kinds of Hollywood actors, producers, and directors.

  “I was reading my two-bunk blog in study hall,” Tori told Kallista. She brushed a few tendrils of blond hair out of her eyes and took apart her wooden chop-sticks. “My friend Alyssa is really upset. She made this incredible painting for a contest, but her art teacher won’t let her enter it. And she stayed up all night working on it!”

  “That stinks,” Kallista said as she reached over and dipped a piece of California roll in a tiny black lacquer dish of soy sauce mixed with a dash of wasabi. “Isn’t there anyone else Alyssa can talk to?”

  “Her art teacher is in charge of the contest,” Tori said. She nibbled on a piece of ebi. “I guess what he says goes.”

  “That’s censorship,” Kallista stated with an air of authority.

  “What’s censorship?” asked a voice. And not just any voice. The voice.

  Tori’s mouth went suddenly dry. Somehow, she managed to turn her head.

  Against the soundtrack of her thundering heartbeat, the new guy, Michael Stevenson, stood between her and the sun. His curly golden blond hair glowed like a halo. His deep blue eyes sparkled like the waters off Malibu. The freckles across his nose were adorable. And could she be any more in total crush mode?

  She had been crushing on him ever since school started. The weird thing was, she hadn’t told anyone about it, not even Kallista. Maybe because this felt like a real crush, and not the silly semi-pretend crushes they had each had in the past—like on movie stars and older boys. Michael was a guy their age, and it was kind of embarrassing to admit that she like-liked him.

  It was just so extremely cliché. Michael was the hottie every girl was crushing on. He had just transferred from a school in Glendale. His father, the actor Cameron Stevenson, was the new big thing—as big as Natalie Goode’s father, in fact, and that was saying something. So the Stevensons had moved from their little bungalow in Glendale to a big Beverly Hills mansion, smack in the middle of Tori’s school district, her zip code, and her heart. It was November and she had been into him since September . . . three months of butterflies every time he talked to her. It was getting really hard to act normal around him.

  “Hey, Michael,” Kallista said in a friendly, offhand way.

  “Hi.” He smiled at Kallista and then his eyes just sort of bored in on Tori like laser beams . . . or so it felt to her. Suddenly all her thoughts were beginning to . . . dissolve.

  “Would you like some California roll?” Kallista asked him.

  “Thanks. Sure,” Michael said.

  Tori was wistful. Why hadn’t she thought of offering him some sushi?

  Michael bent down as Kallista offered him a morsel of California roll. Tori stared at his perfect lips while Kallista continued to carry the rest of the interaction. “Tori’s got this friend who tried to enter an art contest at her school. And some teacher said she couldn’t, because her sketch was ‘inappropriate.’ ” She made air quotes.

  Michael chewed thoughtfully. Then he swallowed and said, “Like how?”

  Kallista looked at Tori. She knew that was her cue to make her mouth open and words come out. The English language. She used to be good friends with it.

  “She sent us all a pic of it,” Tori said. “It’s beautiful.”

  “Well, what did he say was wrong with it?” Michael persisted.

  “He only said it was inappropriate,” Tori said. “It’s of this model.”

  Michael considered. Then he turned a little pink. “Well, is she, um . . .” He trailed off and looked down at his feet.

  Oh my God, Tori thought. Her face went hot. He thinks she’s naked!

  “No, no,” she said quickly, shaking her head so hard the tendrils of hair fell into her eyes again. “She’s wearing clothes, they’re just colored in lightly. That’s why it’s so unfair.”

  “Maybe the teacher wants someone else to win,” Kallista ventured. “So he wants to lock out the serious competition.”

  “That’s so Hollywood,” Michael drawled, grinning crookedly. “I don’t think things like that happen in . . .” He looked at Tori. “Where is this?”

  Oh, my God, we’re talking to each other. We’re having a conversation. This totally rocks.

  “Alyssa lives in New Jersey,” Tori said. She was beginning to recover from the shock of his arrival and move into actually enjoying his presence. “And I don’t know if you’re right about the competition, but I do know that teacher is wrong. It’s beyond beautiful. It should win!”

  Michael raised a brow. “Not if she can’t even enter it. The teacher has the final say.”

  “But what about free speech?” Tori argued.

  “Yeah,” Kallista said. “What about that?”

  The five-minute warning bell sounded. Michael said, “Well, I guess we’ll have to continue this later.”

  Yes! Yes! Yes! Tori thought, but she said as casually as she could manage, “Okay. Sounds great.”

  Michael gave them both a friendly wave and moved off. Kids in shades started packing up their lunch stuff.

  “Why didn’t you tell me you’re crushing on him?” Kallista asked Tori after Michael left.

  Tori grimaced and smiled at the same time. “Was I that obvious?”

  Kallista laughed and pulled out her cell phone. She put it to her ear without pressing any buttons and said perkily, “Hello, is this Whole Foods grocery store? We’d like you to cater a wedding!”

  “Oh, shut up!” Tori cried, and the two girls burst into laughter.

  After school, Tori and Kallista had a tennis lesson with Suki
Schroder, the tennis pro at their swim and racquet club. Tori’s mom met them there to watch and played doubles with them for a little bit. Her mom was tall and willowy, and since she was the beauty editor for an online magazine, she always got samples of the newest makeup. It was very cool.

  Tori and Kallista told her about Alyssa’s dilemma and Tori’s mom said, “Sometimes the artistic road is a bumpy one.”

  Then Tori’s mom had to leave for a meeting with some cosmetics people, and Kallista was scheduled for a math tutoring session. Blair, Tori’s father’s assistant, picked Tori up and dropped her off at Sitar, where her dad was having dinner with a new client. He had invited Tori to join them.

  “My client has a son about your age,” her father had told her. “You two can talk while we discuss business.”

  As Tori swept through the restaurant, she spotted her father at “his” table—the one with the best view of the waterfall and the live peacocks—and waved at him.

  Then her jaw dropped as she saw who was sitting with him. Cameron Stevenson.

  And Michael was with him.

  Michael is the “son about my age!” I’m having dinner with Michael!

  Jangly nerves warred with chilly thrills at the very thought. She wanted to jump up and down and pass out at the exact same time.

  “I neeeeed you, Kal-lis-ta,” she sang to herself, wondering if it would be rude to hang a U, go into the bathroom, and call her friend for moral support.

  Then she bagged that thought, because Michael had risen from the table and was actually walking across the restaurant toward her! He had this great quirky half-grin and ohmigosh, could he be any cuter?

  “Hi,” he said. “I guess it’s later now.”

  She stared at him.

  “Remember, at lunch?” he said. “When I said maybe we could talk about your friend, I had no idea it would be later so soon.”

  “My friend . . .” she said slowly. Her brain finally engaged. “Alyssa! Yes!”