Bring It On

  All that cement in her stomach broke apart—into big hard rocks. They slammed around inside her. She could already see how this was going to go. Ballet and the Nutcracker would win. Emerson was going to have to tell Maddy no.

  Or she was going to have to convince her parents to change their minds.

  And the last time she’d attempted that had been . . . pretty much never.

  “What if I don’t perform in the Nutcracker?” she asked, leaving the issue of missing the actual ballet classes for later. “I’ve done it seven years in a row. I really love the hip-hop classes. And the Performance Group is fantastic. You should see them. And like I said, it would be something great for my transcripts. Something in addition to the ballet with the Nutcracker, Nutcracker, Nutcracker. Colleges appreciate diversity.”

  “They also appreciate consistency,” her mother answered. “And it’s part of our holiday tradition to see you in the performance.”

  It’s part of our holiday tradition for the two of us to get our picture in the society page together, Emerson thought. Me in my Nutcracker costume. You smiling proudly. Followed by a nice little blurb about all your hard work during the year on the Arts Council. She hoped the little burst of anger that had come with the thought hadn’t shown on her face.

  Her father sighed. “Honey, we really weren’t satisfied with where you were academically last year. Miami Country Day School expects a lot of its students, and your school-work has to come first.”

  “French was the only big problem,” Emerson protested. “And we all—you, me, and Mom—came up with a fix for that. I’m going to have a tutor, starting on day one of school in September. I’m not going to have any chance to fall behind.” She sucked in a deep breath. “I really want this. And you’ve both always told me if I really want something, I should do what I have to do to get it.”

  Her parents had another eye conversation. Why couldn’t they use words? She could fight words. Sort of. For the millionth time, she wished she had a brother or sister. Someone to have her own eye conversations with. Someone to take her side.

  “I’m sorry,” her mother said. “We understand how important hip-hop is to you. But you’ve put so much time and effort into your ballet. You don’t want to waste it.”

  “And you’re so talented,” her father added. “You’ll be happy one day that you stuck with it and really gave it your full-out effort.”

  “You mean you’ll be happy that I stuck with it,” Emerson blurted out before it even registered that she was talking back to her parents.

  “Emerson—your father and I don’t like that kind of talk. And one can only wonder where your attitude is coming from. Though I wouldn’t be at all surprised if it came from those Hip Hop Kidz,” said Mrs. Lane before turning to Mr. Lane and asking him a question about the neighbors’ garden.

  And with that, Emerson knew the case was officially closed. She stared down at her sorbet and gave the pink puddle of mush a halfhearted stir. “May I be excused?” she asked. “I need to call Maddy and tell her so that she can choose someone else.”

  Her mother nodded, and Emerson laid her napkin next to her plate, then slowly made her way upstairs to her bedroom and sat down at her cherrywood desk. There was nothing to do but call Maddy.

  Emerson forced herself to pick up her dance bag. She had the card with Maddy’s number inside. But the first thing she saw when she unzipped the bag was the scrap of paper with Sophie’s number on it. She and Sophie had exchanged numbers after the “audition” so they could call each other if either of them heard anything.

  Impulsively Emerson grabbed her pale blue phone—bought to match the sable-moonlight duvet cover her mother had picked out for her bed—and dialed the number.

  “Talk to me,” someone said into her ear. Emerson was pretty sure it was Sophie. But she wasn’t positive.

  “May I speak to Sophie, please?” she asked.

  “You are,” Sophie said. “Hey, two calls for me in one night! Are you jealous, Sammi?” she joked to someone in the room with her. “Who is this?” she asked into the phone.

  “It’s Emerson.”

  “Em! I was gonna call you! Did you get in?” Sophie demanded.

  “Yes,” Emerson said, her voice cracking.

  “And you’re so happy, you’ve been moved to tears?” Sophie asked.

  Emerson hardly knew Sophie. They never talked about important stuff. But all it took was that one question from Sophie—and everything came spilling out of Emerson. Her broken leg. The Nutcracker. The French tutor. How she felt when she danced hip-hop.

  “Wow,” Sophie said when she finished.

  “I know,” Emerson answered. “Right now, the way I feel, I’d just call Maddy up myself and pretend to be my mom. But I’m afraid she’d recognize my voice. Or at least know I’m a kid.”

  She could hardly believe those words had come out of her mouth. But she meant it. Her parents just didn’t get how important hip-hop was to her. They never would. The only way she’d be able to stay in the Performance Group was to lie to them. And to Maddy.

  “If that’s really all that’s stopping you, I could probably help,” Sophie answered. “I have an older sister, and she . . . likes to talk on the phone. We could try it.”

  Emerson’s heart stopped beating. “Really?”

  “I’m pretty sure,” Sophie answered.

  Emerson’s heart started beating triple time. “But what if she got caught? Aren’t you afraid of getting in trouble?”

  “She won’t get caught. We’ll call from our home phone—it has a blocked ID. And my sister’s a pro. She once pretended to be her best friend and called this guy she had a crush on to find out if he liked her back. This will be child’s play next to that little feat.”

  “But why would you do that for me?” Emerson asked.

  “Oh, I don’t know . . . because I like you? Because I want a friend in the group? Because if I ever drop the weight, I’d like to go shopping for clothes in your closet?” Sophie said. “Hang tight. I’ll call you back as soon as it’s done.” Sophie hung up.

  Emerson gripped the phone with both hands and sat on the chair, motionless.

  This was wrong. This was insane.

  If this worked, it would be the best thing that she’d ever decided to do.

  Five minutes passed. Ten. Eleven. Twelve. Emerson felt like her nerve endings were trying to dig their way out of her skin.

  The phone rang. Emerson hit the Answer button. “Sophie?” she exclaimed, forgetting her phone manners.

  “You’re in, baby,” Sophie told her. “Now listen, be careful with that white peasant blouse you were wearing the other day. Because as soon as I’m down to a size triple zero, I’m borrowing it from you, and I don’t want it all covered up in ketchup stains or nothin’ . . .”

  “Can I? Can I? Can I?” Tamal asked. “Can I? Can I?”

  “All right! All right! All right!” Devane exclaimed, too tired to say “no” one more time. “Just leave a piece for Mom.”

  “Oh, sweet mama, I get cake!” Tamal leaned down and took a bite. Didn’t cut a slice. Didn’t even use a fork. Repulsive.

  “And please don’t slobber over every piece,” Devane exclaimed. “I didn’t bake that for you.” She grabbed a knife and cut the cake down the middle, evening out the mess Tamal had made. Then she carved out his ragged clump, dumped it on a plate, and pushed it toward him.

  “You baked it for yourself. To tell yourself how great yourself is.” Tamal used a fork to eat the next bite.

  “Mom would have made it for me if she didn’t have to work,” Devane said.

  At least she would have wanted to. She used to make cakes every time she wanted to congratulate Devane or Tamal for something. But after their dad died, their mom didn’t have much time for baking. She was always at work. Like tonight. She wasn’t supposed to be at the hospital, but an extra shift opened up, and her mom took it. She never said no.

  Devane hadn’t even gotten to tell her moth
er the divine news yet. Not that Mom would be surprised. She was always telling Devane what a fantastic dancer she was.

  “They should have picked me,” Tamal said. “I should have my own video.” He started spazzing out, jerking his body around, thinking he was actually dancing. Oh, Lord. She shouldn’t have let him have sugar—he was enough of a pain in the butt without it.

  “Tamal, finish your cake, brush your teeth, and go to bed,” Devane told him.

  “You’re not the boss of me.”

  “Fine. But let me ask you this—is Mom going to be happy if she gets home and you’re shaking your bonbon around the kitchen an hour past your bedtime?”

  “An hour past my bedtime is your bedtime,” Tamal reminded her.

  “She’s gonna want to hear what I have to say to her. She won’t mind if I stay up,” Devane answered.

  But by the time her mother came home, Devane had fallen asleep with her head on the kitchen table.

  CHAPTER 4

  Emerson scanned the room—in what she hoped wasn’t an obvious way—as she walked into her first class with the Hip Hop Kidz Performance Group. She could hardly believe this had worked. She could hardly believe Sophie’s sister had pulled off the phone call with Maddy.

  She recognized a bunch of people from the one time she’d seen the group perform, including a tall guy in a Gator baseball hat. M.J., his name was. He’d had an amazing solo, and she’d looked him up in the program.

  Emerson realized her scan had turned into a stare, and she forced her eyes away. A skinny girl almost as tall as M.J. with short dyed black hair and ultra-pale skin was doing stretches over in one corner. She met Emerson’s gaze and smiled as she leaned over flat-backed, with her arms out in front of her. It felt like sort of an invitation, so Emerson headed over to the girl and started doing some ankle rolls. It felt better to be doing something in the room full of strangers than just standing there.

  “You’re one of the new meat patties. I’m Chloe,” the girl said. “I hope you’re ready to be tortured. I’ve been in the group for a year, and my muscles haven’t stopped aching yet.”

  “Emerson. Hi.” Emerson switched over to shoulder shrugs. “I’m so excited that I got in. I’ve only been doing hip-hop a few months. But I’ve been doing ballet forever.”

  “Ballet. I did that for about half a minute when I was little. I think it was my mom’s way of trying to get me to like pink. Didn’t work—obviously,” Chloe answered. “I’m gonna go fill up my water bottle. You should, too, if yours isn’t maxed. You’ll need it.”

  “I’m good. But thanks,” Emerson told her.

  “So you’re a ballerina, not a cheerleader,” a voice said from behind Emerson as Chloe walked away.

  Emerson turned around and saw Devane. You knew she was going to be here, Emerson thought. There was no way the Divine One wasn’t going to get chosen. She forced herself to smile. She didn’t want to have a thing with someone in the group. It was time for her and Devane to start over.

  “Isn’t it cool? We both got in!” Emerson said. “Little dogs with coats for everyone!”

  Devane stared at her for a moment, then smiled. Actually smiled. “That’s right. We have to start picking out cute names. Those little dogs have to have cute names.”

  Maybe she was more stressed about the competition than she let on, Emerson thought, happy she’d risked saying something friendly, something sort of Sophie-ish. Maybe now that we’re in the group together, everything’s going to be okay.

  “I like your T-shirt.” Relax, Emerson, she ordered herself. You’re sliding into the pathetic zone now. I like your T-shirt. Jeez. In a second she was going to be telling Devane that she liked her socks. But Emerson really did like Brimstone127, and she didn’t know the group even had T-shirts.

  “It’s not from the Stella McCartney collection,” Devane answered, her eyes narrowing a fraction.

  “That’s what’s cool about it.” Emerson smoothed the sleeve of her Stella tracksuit self-consciously. “Brimstone127 is local. Probably only people in Miami have that T-shirt. I wish I had one. I love those guys,” Emerson said.

  “You love them?” Devane raised her eyebrows. And there it was, that attitude again, like in the locker room. “What song of theirs do you love?”

  Emerson’s brain went liquid. It was like she’d just been handed a surprise quiz in French. She loved almost all the Brimstone127 tracks. But she couldn’t think of one. She glanced at the front of the classroom. Where was the teacher? Wasn’t it time to get this class started? “Um . . .”

  “Um,” Devane repeated. She threw out her arms. “Anybody else want to give it a try? Anybody else want to try and name one of the Brimstone127 crew’s tracks?” she called, throwing the question out to the whole room.

  “‘Me Against the World,’” M.J. and a massive guy answered at the same time.

  “Yo, Fridge. Read my brain waves.” M.J. and the guy who seemed to be called Fridge bumped fists.

  “Thank you,” Devane told them. She turned back to Emerson and lowered her voice. “You shouldn’t try to fake that you know what you don’t. It’s okay, they don’t teach everything at prep school.”

  And we’re back to her hating me, Emerson thought. There had to be some way to get them back to where they could joke around again.

  But Devane was already walking away.

  Not good, not good, not good. Translation? Bad. Sophie was about to be late to her very first class with the Hip Hop Kidz Performance Group. Way to make a good first impression, Soph, she thought as she rushed out of the empty locker room—and right into ill papi.

  Not just a little shoulder brush, either. A body smack. Way to make a good first impression, Soph, she thought again. “Sorry,” she muttered.

  “No prob,” ill papi answered.

  “Sorry,” Sophie said again, her mouth taking over as usual. “But I’m gonna have to call that guy on TV. That one with the comb-over who asks, ‘Have you or a loved one been in any kind of accident? Because the firm of Bad Hair and Associates and I can get you a generous settlement.’” Sophie shook her head. “Sorry to do it to you, but I need the cash.”

  Ill papi laughed, and that dimple of his got deeper. “I think that guy got his law degree while he was in prison.”

  And there it was. Yep. Sophie had just made herself another boy friend. Not to be confused with boyfriend. Not that she even wanted a boyfriend. But she wouldn’t mind knowing what it felt like to have a guy look at her the way guys always looked at Sammi. Especially if the guy was as H-O-T hot as ill papi.

  “You one of the new peeps in the Performance Group?” ill papi asked.

  “Yep. Sophie Qian,” she answered.

  “Ill papi.”

  Sophie snorted. “Duh. Killingest dancer in the group. Son of J-Bang. I research the people I sue,” she teased.

  “You’re whack.” Ill papi got the door for her, and they were both laughing when they walked inside.

  Everybody was looking at Sophie—and she knew exactly what they were thinking: What is the hottest guy in the place doing hanging with a sixth-grade non-stick figure?

  Well, if they were going to look at her, she would give them something to look at. She noticed a single leg warmer by her feet and snatched it up. “Hey, my blankie!” she called. “Who found my blankie?” It was kind of weak, but it was the first thing that popped into Sophie’s head.

  No one answered, but a couple of the kids had started to smile. Sophie saw Emerson over to one side of the room. She hadn’t even realized Em was there. Em definitely wouldn’t have been sending any bad what’s-he-doing-hanging-with-her thoughts Sophie’s way. “Isn’t it pretty, Emerson?” she called, waving the little leg warmer.

  “Um, yeah, it’s really lovely,” Emerson answered.

  “You sure that’s not your blankie, Max?” a well-padded redheaded girl called to a much smaller girl, the smallest girl in the place. She looked like a little pixie with short, short brown hair that let you see the
shape of her head.

  Max the pixie laughed. “I never had a blankie. I had a giraffe named Moogoo,” she answered.

  “I haven’t been able to sleep for days.” Sophie stretched out on the floor, cuddling up with the leg warmer. “I really need a nap.” She closed her eyes and gave a loud snore. Then she heard footsteps coming toward her. Someone was going to join the act? Great. But why was everyone so quiet? We’re going to change this scene so that it’s less forced.

  She rolled onto her back and saw a woman in Hip Hop Kidz gear staring down at her. “I assume you’re a new member of the Performance Group,” the woman said.

  “Yes. Yep. Uh-huh.” Sophie scrambled to her feet and used her fingers to get some loose hair back into its ponytail.

  “I’m Gina Torres, your teacher.” She reached over and took the leg warmer. “And this would be mine.”

  “Oh. Sorry. It’s pretty. Have you ever considered using it as a blankie?” Sophie asked lamely.

  A few kids laughed—Sophie thought ill papi was one of them—but Gina didn’t even smile. She just clapped and called, “Time to get started, everyone.”

  Sophie sighed. Way to make a good first impression, Soph.

  “First I want to welcome the new members of the group,” Gina began. “Give a wave when I call out your name so we can start getting to know you. Ky Miggs.”

  “Yo!” Ky rolled the basketball he pretty much always had with him into the corner. Emerson was glad he’d made the group. It was good to see a face she knew from her old class.

  “Emerson Lane.” Emerson raised her hand, half expecting Gina to send her straight to Maddy’s office, where she’d be kicked out for parent impersonation. Not that she’d done the impersonating herself. But close enough.

  “Sophie Qian, I think you all may have seen before,” Gina said. She shook her head, but a smile twitched the corners of her lips. Sophie gave a fast half bow.

  “Devane Edwards,” Gina continued.