“Now, girls,” she says. “I’m going to show you a sequence of moves from one of the dances that you would be in, and you’re going to attempt to keep up. Then we’ll invite some of you, or none of you, to come back for second rounds, which will be in about an hour. The show is in less than two months, so we have no time to waste. The rest of the cast has been working together since October. So whoever we choose has to be better than good. She has to be . . .”
Magical?
“. . . amazing. So, if you’re wasting our time, just leave.”
The five of us stay frozen in our spots.
London snaps her fingers and someone starts the music.
I can do this. I can do this. I did it this morning and I can do it now (boom, boom, boom).
London positions herself right in front of me. “Five, six, seven, eight! Left arm up, right arm up, twirl, groove, bend, kick ball change . . .” She goes on. And on. The moves get more and more complex. She looks like a mosquito trapped in a small room, zigzagging perfectly in sync with the music from wall to wall.
We’re supposed to remember all this? An eternity later, she stops, turns around, and gives us a big fake smile. “Your turn.”
I steal a quick glance at the other contestants. They look as if they’re going to cry.
“All right then. Let’s see who can keep up.” She turns her back to us and sings, “Five, six, seven, eight! Left arm up, right arm up, twirl, groove, bend, kick ball change!”
And I’m right behind her. Following her every move. The girls on each side of me aren’t doing too well (Janice keeps flapping her arms), and they’re all smashing into each other like bumper cars, but I’m in the zone. My arms and legs and butt are in sync and can feel the music. Not only am I following London, I’m kicking higher, swooping lower, and shaking faster.
I’m on fire.
For the first time ever I am totally lost in the music. All I feel is the piercing beat and the liquid movement of my body. When the sequence is over, I realize that everyone is staring at me. Not only London, Mercedes, Jewel, and Raf, but the entire freshman cast as well as the other contestants.
I look up at Jewel. “Wow,” she mouths.
London crouches beside Mercedes and whispers. Then London stands up and says, “Rochelle, we’d like to see you at callbacks at five. The rest of you can go.”
Rochelle? That’s me. Yes!
I wander the hall for the next hour. Wendy Wolcott, a freshman with short black hair that frames her face, is also wandering. We’re walking in opposite directions and keep crossing paths in front of the second-floor water fountain. We don’t speak to each other, neither wanting to get too close to the competition.
At 4:55, I return to the caf.
Jewel tackles me the second I walk in. She has a huge smile on her face. “When did you learn to dance like that?”
I smile back, mostly because it’s the first time in forever that she’s voluntarily spoken to me outside of math class. “I’ve been practicing.”
“No kidding. You were amazing. Like, superstar amazing.”
“Thanks.”
“Good luck,” she says, and pats me on the back. “Not that you need it.”
In the corner, Wendy is tying her shoelaces. Annie walks in. I wave. I wonder if she has to wear a sports bra for dancing. All the boys in the show stop what they’re doing and stare. The three of us line up.
London motions to the cast to find their seats. “First we want to see you dance freestyle. Second, walk. Third, interact with your partner for the formal.”
Walk? I have to walk? I didn’t ask Miri for a walking spell. What if I don’t know how to walk?
“Mercedes and I make all the casting decisions, but we’re allowing the freshman dancers to help us decide since they’re the ones who have to dance with you. So first, freestyle.”
She snaps her fingers, and the music pumps through the room. (How does she do that? Is the room set up with the Clapper? Is she a witch too?)
I start to move. My feet move, my knees move, my butt moves, my arms, my neck. I feel rubbery and alive and I couldn’t stop myself if I tried. Wendy and Annie dance beside me, but they’re watching yours truly out of the corners of their eyes.
When the music stops, everyone applauds, looking at me.
“Very good,” London says. “Now, all of you please pretend you’re on the catwalk and walk toward me.” She shuffles backward and beckons to us, as if she’s a father teaching his kids to ride a bike. Heel, toe, heel, toe. I remember reading that in a teen mag. I hope I don’t need training wheels.
“Very good. Now, Rackelle and Anna, please sit down and let’s see how Raf looks with Wanda.”
My heart leaps into my mouth. Raf! Why on earth did Laura quit the show when Raf was her partner? Who cares if she was failing school? And who in the world are Rackelle, Anna, and Wanda? Oh, right, that’s us. London’s way too cool to remember our names.
Annie/Anna and I sit. I try to keep my back straight and model-esque by imagining a ruler against it.
Raf jumps off the table and joins Wendy/Wanda. She’s only an inch shorter than he is, not a half foot, like me, and my heart sinks. They look adorable together.
“Give her a twirl,” London instructs.
He gives her a twirl.
“Now a dip,” she says.
If only I could purse my lips or twitch my nose and make him drop her. Miri? If you can hear me, toss her to the floor like a pair of discarded socks.
London whispers something to Mercedes, and Mercedes nods. “Thank you, Winnie. That was excellent. Ruth, you’re up.”
That must be me again. I stand and try to heel-toe my way to the center of the room. Heel, toe, heel, toe. Or is it toe, heel? And that’s when it happens. I trip. I stumble and fall forward onto my hands.
Everyone gasps.
“I’m fine!” I sing, trying to keep my voice light and fluffy. I force myself to laugh. “No problem. Must have tripped on something.” Unfortunately, I realize that I tripped on my own untied laces. Stupid magic shoes.
“You okay?” Raf asks, arriving by my side. Our eyes meet. I know this sounds like something out of one of my mom’s romance novels, but I can’t look away. His eyes are liquid midnight. It’s as if I’m drowning in them. He offers me his hand and I let him help me up, and his touch is hot, like the side of a whistling teakettle. Omigod. I’m so in love. Really and truly this time.
When I’ve regained my balance, he lets me go. Damn. Maybe I should fall again. Or not. Everyone is staring at me. Just what they were praying for—a klutz who will trip on her own two feet during the show. Perhaps even fall off the stage.
“Let’s see a twirl,” London tells us. Raf takes my hand again and I twirl into him. Please don’t let go.
“Now a dip.”
I lean back in his arms. I could stay like this forever. His lips are only a few inches away, and he smells so yummy. If only he’d lean in a bit closer and kiss me. That would be so romantic . . . or not. My first kiss in front of the entire fashion show cast?
“Thank you, Randy.”
That’s it? Why didn’t I get an excellent like Wendy did? Despair overwhelms me like a wave in the ocean. I’m not going to make it.
While the boys gape at Annie’s assets, I wonder how many weeks I’d have to set and clear the table for Miri to break both Annie’s and Wendy’s legs. Kidding. Kind of. What a terrible thing to joke about. I guess that’s why Miri got the powers and not me. I’m an awful person. I must have the worst karma. My aura must be a revolting brown-green for trying to sabotage my father’s wedding alone.
Annie’s not a bad dancer. But I don’t think she and Raf look like a match made in heaven or anything. She’s too tall.
“Thank you for coming,” London says after Annie is done. “The results will be posted on Monday. Try not to obsess all weekend.”
What? On Monday? I have to wait the entire weekend?
See? I knew I had lousy karma.
>
11
PASS THE BENZOYL PEROXIDE
On the train ride to my dad’s, Miri doesn’t even pretend to care about the tryouts. All she wants to talk about is the spell for STB. “He’s going to take one look at her and run the other way,” she says gleefully. “And then she’ll finally be out of our lives.”
“Finally,” I repeat. Even though we can’t perfectly imagine what life would be like with a single dad—he and STB were an item after six months of him being separated from my mom—those six months without her were much better than the time with her. We were the priority. He lived in the city in a building called Putter’s Place. It’s a popular building for Manhattan fathers when they leave their wives. On Sundays I’d see half the kids in my grade with their suitcases in the lobby.
Maybe he’ll never remarry. Maybe he’ll miss us and come home. The backs of my eyes prick. Maybe I should think about something more fun. Like the fashion show. “And speaking of finally, on Monday I’ll know if I made the cut. Do you think that my tripping screwed my chances?”
“Uh-huh,” Miri says. She’s obviously not paying attention, because the proper response would have been “No! Of course not! Don’t be stupid!” She pulls her new spell notebook out of her schoolbag (she’s now making lists of her attempted spells and her observations in a navy blue spiral book that she doesn’t let out of her sight), as well as a foot-long, inch-wide glass beaker filled with light orange guck. “We have to get this cream on STB’s skin.”
“Where did you get that beaker? It looks like something from science class.”
“That’s where I got it.”
“You stole it from your science lab? I thought you were a good witch, not a bad one.”
She flushes. “I’ll return it on Monday.”
“Sure you will.” I shake my head with exaggerated disappointment. “Two weeks and you’ve already gone over to the dark side.”
She pouts until I stick out my tongue and wag it up and down. As usual, my silly face makes her laugh. She crosses her eyeballs in response.
“So how are you going to get the concoction on STB’s skin?” I ask. “Hug her?”
“I would if that weren’t completely out of character. She’d know something was up.”
“Why don’t you mix it in with her moisturizer? You know the two hundred dollar mini-tube she special-orders from France and hides on the top shelf of their bathroom?”
“If I mix it with that, she’ll get a rash every time she uses the cream.”
“Is that what’s going to happen? She’s going to get a face rash? We could have just put poison ivy in her room.”
“It’s supposed to cause the ugliest of ugliest face conditions. Which I’m guessing means boils or maybe even jaundice.”
“It’s not going to hurt, is it?” It’s one thing to make her temporarily ugly, but I’d feel horrible if we caused her any physical pain. (I was just kidding about breaking Annie’s and Wendy’s legs. Sort of.)
“No. And I added horseradish, which is supposed to make any spell temporary, so it should only last a few days. Just long enough to make Daddy snap out of his fascination with her and cancel the wedding.” Miri stares into the beaker. “Keep your fingers crossed.”
As soon as we step off the train, we spot our father.
“Hi, Daddy,” Miri says, and throws her arms around him.
I feel a lump in my throat, like I always do when I first see him. It really sucks to have divorced parents. I know I’m supposed to be mature about it (I’m lucky to have two parents who love me, et cetera, et cetera), but sometimes I can’t help feeling sorry for myself. I don’t want to be a hypotenuse stretched between two divergent parents. I don’t want to see my dad only once every two weeks. I see my gym teacher more often than that. Is that normal?
My dad hugs me, and my throat slowly de-lumps. He takes our bags, and we follow him to the car, where STB and Prissy are waiting. STB waves as soon as she spots us. Prissy squishes her face against the back window.
STB turns her head to see us when we climb into the back, then gives us a big fake smile. “Hi, girls, how are you?” There’s no way she likes these weekends. Why would she? Who wants to take care of two teenagers?
“I get to sit in the middle,” Prissy says, settling back into her booster seat.
STB faces front again, admiring her reflection in the sun visor mirror. “Did you have a good two weeks?”
“Yup,” I say. I bet she won’t be admiring herself after tomorrow. And I bet as soon as my dad’s out of earshot, she won’t be this nice.
“That’s great,” she says. “Really great.”
As if she cares how our weeks went. Two can play that game. “How were your weeks?” I ask.
She sighs. “Long. Weddings are so difficult to plan, aren’t they, honey?” She reaches over and pats my dad’s bald spot. If she keeps touching it, it’s going to get even bigger.
“And we’ll have three more weddings to plan after this one, since we have three daughters,” my father says.
It weirds me out that Prissy lives with my father. At least she doesn’t call him Dad. I wonder if she’ll start to after the wedding. Her father lives in L.A., so she only sees him a few times a year. I wonder why he and STB got divorced. I wish he’d share the reasons with my dad. I’ll ask him for a top-ten list if we ever meet.
My father parks in front of Happy Palace, the neighborhood Chinese restaurant, to pick up takeout. “Honey, will you ask for chopsticks for me?” STB the show-off asks as he gets ready to run in. As soon as he’s gone (okay, it was a few minutes later, but still, she’s so rude), STB whirls around. “Miri, how are your fingers? Have you stopped biting?”
Miri sits on her hands.
“Do we have to put the Band-Aids back on? And I won’t have you giving me attitude like last time. Your mother might let you get away with that type of behavior, but it won’t be happening at my house.”
Miri’s face turns redder than a stop sign. I’m hoping she turns STB into a frog, but nothing happens. She must be exercising her self-control. It’s one of the things they learn in Tae Kwon Do. She’d be amazing on a diet.
“And Rachel, I’d appreciate it if you could try to keep your room tidy this weekend. I’m not a maid.”
“Mommy doesn’t like messes,” Prissy adds.
STB laughs. “No, I don’t. And sometimes your room looks like it was taken over by animals.”
I wish Miri were sitting next to me so I could squeeze her hand. Hard.
My father returns with the food. “That was quick, honey,” STB says, smiling sweetly, all traces of evil gone from her voice. He hands her the food and kisses her on the cheek. How does he not see through her sickeningly sweet facade?
“Lemon chicken, General Tso’s shrimp, Szechuan beef, and crispy noodles with tofu for Miri,” he says while backing the car into the street.
“Did you get me chopsticks?” STB asks.
He slams his hand against his forehead. “Oops.”
“That’s all right. Next time.”
When we reach our driveway, I help my dad with the bags. Miri approaches our target. “You have dirt on your cheek.”
STB wipes her face with the back of her glove. “I do? Where?”
“I’ll get it,” Miri says, and before STB can reply, Miri dips her gloved finger into the vial behind her back and rubs a drop of the concoction on STB’s cheek.
“Thanks,” STB says.
Miri smiles. “Oh, you’re very welcome.”
Score! I refrain from giving Miri a thumbs-up and lift my suitcase out of the trunk. Hah. I’ll show her an animal. She’s about to look like one.
The next morning, at some unearthly hour, we’re awakened by a piercing scream.
Miri and I spring from our beds. A second later, we hear another, even more piercing scream.
“I guess it worked,” I whisper.
We open our door and poke our heads into the hallway. STB shrieks yet a third time.
We slowly walk to my father’s room and knock. “Hello?” I ask. “Is everything all right?” Then I whisper in my sister’s ear, “Be subtle.”
My father opens the door, looking half-asleep. “Girls, did either of you pack any pimple cream? Jennifer broke out.”
I don’t think benzoyl peroxide is going to do the trick this time, Dad.
“Can we see?” my not-so-subtle sister asks.
“What Miri means,” I say, elbowing her in the stomach, “is that as teenagers, we’re often afflicted with various unfortunate skin conditions. So perhaps we can help. Or at least empathize.”
This seems to make sense to my dad, as he nods and says, “Jennifer, come show the girls.”
“I’m not a freak show,” she cries from their private bathroom. “I must have had an allergic reaction. No more General Tso, I can promise you that.”
“Maybe the girls can help,” my dad says.
The bathroom door opens slowly. I see an arm, and then . . . a face covered in clusters of good old-fashioned zits.
That’s it? Where are the boils? The rash? Are pimples the worst face condition a witch can come up with? There’s hardly a day that goes by when I don’t have a pimple. I’m finding this highly insulting.
“Any suggestions, girls?” STB asks.
“No,” we say in unison. I’m trying not to laugh. “I’m sure they’ll go away soon.”
“Exactly,” my father says. He pulls his precious fiancée into a hug. “They’re kind of cute. Makes me imagine what you looked like as a teenager.”
STB giggles and pats his bald spot.
I try not to gag.
Miri and I desert the lovefest and retreat to our room. “Acne?” I whisper angrily. “That’s the best you could come up with?”
She shivers. “I hate pimples.”
At twelve, she has yet to experience one and therefore sees them as the world’s worst potential affliction. “Well, they’re not going to be enough to propel our father out of love with her! He didn’t stop loving me when I had that massive zit on my nose last Christmas, did he?”
Bras & Broomsticks Page 10