“Don’t act so shocked to see me,” she says. “I was here first, you know. Just like in line. Or have you forgotten about that already?”
I look away. “This key thing is broken or something.” I shove the card in the slot and pull it out another three times. The light goes red. Red. And red. “See? It doesn’t work.”
She takes it from me. “Here. You have to put the key in slowly, wait for the light to turn green, and then take it out.” She demonstrates it for me and then hands the key back. “It’s no big deal. Lots of people have issues with it.”
“I don’t have issues,” I say and push in past her. I plop my bag down on the second bed, the one that’s not full of clothes, make-up, earphones, magazines, and about twenty tubes of lip gloss.
“Hey, make yourself at home,” she says.
I don’t say anything back, but she can’t help herself. “It’s not like you can switch rooms to be with George or Rio. So I guess I’m all there is, other than that tapper girl.” She shudders. “Can you believe her? I bet she smiles in her sleep, too. Who’d want to room with that? Then again, I guess you could ask to stay with one of the parents or chaperones or whatever, if that’s your thing.”
“Thanks but no thanks.”
“Right? Anyway, it’ll give you a chance to pay me back for letting you cut in line. I totally knew you did that, by the way. Can you believe that was only yesterday? Man, it feels like a million years ago that we competed and met Camilla Sky and the judges. And Astrid looks so much older in person, don’t you think?”
I blink. Whoa.
This girl just spouted off more words in the last fifteen seconds than I’ve said in forty-eight hours. Maybe it’s because she’s as nervous as I am. Or maybe it’s because I just caught her, like, ten seconds post-cry about something I know nothing—and want to know nothing—about.
“So like I said, I’m about all you’ve got now that your little posse’s ditched you for greener pastures or whatever.”
“What?”
She waggles a finger at me. “You know what I’m talking about. Don’t pretend that you don’t.”
I wish I could say that I didn’t know what this girl was talking about, but I do. George and Rio. Our fight. Sure, there was a crowd around us when our argument began. Absolutely, the crowd grew as our argument turned to an all-out brawl. But I never saw Legs there. Then again, I wasn’t looking for her.
Legs laughs again, but it sounds less evil than it did a minute ago. “You don’t need to beat around the bush about it. Everyone knows. Pretty sure they caught the whole thing on tape. I mean, even the people who weren’t there are going to know soon.” She twists her hair into a messy bun on top her head and then drops it. “Your little backstage drama was just about all anyone could talk about on the plane.”
“You guys were talking about it on the plane? Like, everyone?”
“Well okay, maybe not everyone. Most of us had our parents with us. Not like we were going to talk about it with them.” Legs slaps one palm over her mouth. “Wait. Didn’t you know that everyone knew?
“No.” I slump down on the bed and fiddle with a loose thread on the beige blanket. It’s no pillowcase piece, but it’ll have to do. “I knew that the people who were backstage when it happened knew. But that wasn’t everyone.” I run my hands through my hair. “At least I didn’t think it was everyone. And I saw the cameras. But why would they air all that?”
“Because it’s drama. Because it’s TV.”
I swallow, thinking of that TV store in Portland. I didn’t see George or me up on that screen. But I guess I knew to walk away before I did. “Are you sure they all know? Even the judges?”
“Yeah, maybe. I heard something about one of the producer’s assistants walking in on you guys mid-brawl. But maybe everyone’s forgotten about it. Maybe they didn’t put it on YouTube like Jacks said they did.”
“Jacks said that? Shit. I’m in so much shit.”
“Forget about it. He’s kind of a douche, if you haven’t noticed.”
“Yeah. I’ve noticed. Okay.” I breathe deep. “Yeah, okay. I’m sure it’s not true.”
“Right. Unless.” Legs’s face brightens. She scrambles to her bag and rummages around for her phone. “Let’s see if it’s up there now.”
“Now?” I hear my voice rise a million octaves.
“Why not?” Legs shrugs. “Liquid said there’s this whole YouTube channel just for Live to Dance.”
My throat closes. My heart beats so fast I feel like it’s going to burst. “When did he tell you that?” I think of that cigarette dangling from his lips. His hands gripping my arms. His shaking head, walking away all resigned like he’s used to walking away like that. “The guy barely speaks!”
“Oh, he talks. Mostly it’s all gibberish and riddles that I think is supposed to be poetic or something. People say he’s really smart. Personally, I think he’s spent too much time with his BFF, Smack McSmackerson, if you get my drift. He’s pretty hard to understand. But I did understand what he said about this.” She taps a few buttons on her phone. “Here it is!”
She scoots next to me so we can both watch the screen. It’s absolute torture. Scrolling through video after video of auditions and interviews with Camilla and some of the other dancers warming up and cooling down. But then Legs really does find it. The video itself is called Friends Fornever. I think I’m going to be sick.
She hits play and I hold my breath. It’s all there: George, me, Rio, our fight. My hands on George’s chest. My arms pinned back by Liquid, who never says a thing through it. I watch Rio grab at my tissue, use it to dab George’s blood, throw it away. It’s like I’m reliving every second of it and it doesn’t hurt any less the second time around.
“Turn it off,” I tell her. “I don’t want to see anymore.”
She watches for another second, but then she does close the screen and tosses her phone on the bed.
I bury my face in my hands, the tears behind my eyes stinging.
Legs puts one hand on my shoulder. “Hey, don’t worry about it. You remember what happened during Season Five, right? There was that whole thing going on between that hot ballroom dancer, Dom, and one of the old female judges. The cougar one. Tina Gallati. Remember her? One of the other contestants caught them getting their groove on in the dressing room and ratted them out. I thought he was going to be kicked off the show for good.” Legs laughs. “As it turns out, the producers love that kind of stuff.”
“Was there a YouTube clip for that, too?”
“I don’t think so.” She picks at a rough patch of skin near her ankle. “I think it was before they started posting all this stuff. But I heard the producers were totally pissed that the cameramen missed it all and wanted to air it when the dancer was eliminated. I heard they tried to pay Dom and Tina to recreate the whole scene all over again, but in front of the cameras.”
My head shoots up. “Do you think they’re going to make me and George do that?”
Legs shrugs. “Maybe.”
I roll forward, my arm cradling my gut. A low moan escapes me.
“It could be good for your rep.”
“It’s definitely not good for my rep.”
“Why?” Legs squeals. “You’re totally my hero! You ragged on him pretty good and it was nothing short of awesome. Mothers across America will love you for giving their daughters a role model who doesn’t take shit from shitty boys. The producers will love you because you’ll help spike ratings. I bet there’s going to be, like, this whole Team Magnolia versus Team George thing going on before you know it.”
“Right. Who’d ever choose my team over George’s?”
“Everyone! Did you know people are already making bets about who gets kicked off first, you or him? Everyone thinks he will. Except for Hayden, that is. And of course Rio.” Legs laughs. “They’re just about the two most annoying people on the planet. You, on the other hand, have got that whole poor-sweet-Magnolia-with-the-scumbag-best-friend
thing going on.” She brightens. “Did you know they’re calling you Mad Mags now? Jacks made it up, I think. But it’s good.”
“Are you serious?” I close my eyes.
“Check it out.” She picks up her phone again and clicks a few buttons until she finds the Live to Dance website. Sure enough, all of our photos are there. Underneath mine, it says the words AKA Mad Mags.
“I’ve got to stop this.” I push the phone away. “I’ve got to stop this all before it’s too late.”
“Why?” She studies the site, lingering on her own picture.
“Because. This isn’t the same as making out with some stupid judge. They could kick me off for fighting.”
Legs scoots closer to me. “They won’t kick you off for that.” She pauses. “At least I don’t think they will.”
I groan.
“You know, I saw what George did out there and I’ll vouch for you if the judges try to say anything about it. He was kind of ridiculous. Can you believe they didn’t even notice?” Legs’s face brightens. “Wait. Maybe they do know what he did. Maybe they just let him on to add to the drama.”
“No. They let him on because he’s good.”
“But, seriously. I mean, come on. Those sobs were too much.” Legs rubs her eyes and pretends to bawl, I guess, in imitation of George’s best performance to date. Then she sticks her finger down her throat and fake gags. “I almost lost my lunch watching him melt into that pool of patheticness.”
“Mad Mags.” I shut my eyes. “I can’t believe this.”
“I kind of like it. It’s catchy. It gives you an edge.”
An edge. Right.
Yesterday, I had no idea that what I was going to need to get anywhere in this competition, in this life, was an edge. Had no idea that my only two allies would turn into my enemies and that the seemingly bitchiest girl on the planet would turn into my one and only cheerleader.
I get up and walk toward the window. The curtains are still partly closed so I pull one away from the other, revealing the California scenery in all its glory: skinny palm trees with ballooning fronds and coconuts sprouting from each one, kidney-shaped swimming pool equipped with a swim-up bar, scores of white chaise lounges with neat little orange towels rolled up like Tootsie Rolls, each one waiting for some hard, tanned, Californian body to occupy them.
Bright, bright sunshine.
Blue, blue sky.
And then my gaze travels further, beyond the hotel grounds, to the beach, and to the ocean.
But the sand and sea are nothing like the ones I know and love and breathe back in Summerland. Here, the water is actually blue. Sky blue, not black-blue like the water in Oregon. And the beach. It’s not peppered with weeds and brush, but with people. Board-shorted and bikinied people, running, jumping, splashing in water that must be a hell of a lot warmer than my water because they don’t seem to mind the waves as they smack against their bare hips and stomachs.
It’s all there, exactly how I imagined it. And it isn’t. I mean, something’s missing. Something that I just can’t put my finger on. If only Rose could be here to see it with me. She’d know what’s missing. She’d find every difference between this place and the place we know.
I know what Legs said about my new little nickname giving me an edge, but it’s the not the kind of edge I’m thinking of now. Sure, this beach is pretty, but I know what it’s missing. Shovels, with sharp edges. Guns that make suction so fast you can’t believe it. There isn’t any of that here. No people digging their brains out, hopeful that one little razor clam edge will stick itself out of the sand and into their world.
Rose would never hang out on this kind of beach. She would look too white in comparison to these tanned people. Too big. Too composed in this mess of chaos. No. She belongs with Summerland and clamming and all the things that we’ve always known and been part of, even when we’re not.
And if Rose were here with me, there wouldn’t be any Mad Mags. I wouldn’t need an edge because I’d have my sister and my sister is so much sharper, tougher, better than any kind of edge could be.
“Hello?” Legs says, breaking my train of thought. “Did you hear anything I just said?”
“Sorry. It’s been a long day.”
“Yeah. For you and me both. I asked you two questions.” She points to my sad little backpack, still wilting on the bedspread, unopened. “One, is this all you brought? And two, do you even know my name?” She wrinkles her nose and doesn’t wait for an answer. “If you need to borrow some stuff like a new T-shirt or a hairbrush or whatever, you can.” She flips open her own ginormous suitcase and pulls out a long, black, very expensive-looking silk-or-something dress. “Or if you find yourself in the mood for something like this, it’s all yours.”
I think back to the plane, her mom and her coming down the aisle. Why would she purposely fight with her mom about bringing one nice dress when she had brought a dress all along? It doesn’t make sense.
Legs shakes the dress in my face.
I shield my eyes. “I don’t think I’ll need anything like that on this trip, but thanks.”
“But in case you do find yourself on your way to a red carpet event with nothing to wear”—she balls her dress up with both hands and whips it onto my bed, fast, the way one might a baseball—“I’ve got you covered.”
I know I should at least attempt to figure out what the heck is going on with this girl, but I’m no mood for her dress drama, which seems minute in comparison with what I’m dealing with. Mad Mags. It isn’t exactly what I had in mind when I decided to change my reputation. I move her dress to the foot of the bed and set my own backpack down. “Thanks, but I brought the things I need—”
“Olivia. From Arizona. Scottsdale, actually.”
I blink.
She sighs super hard. “I brought the things I need, Olivia. My name. I knew you didn’t know it.”
“I did know it! I just forgot it when you said that. About me borrowing your brush. You shouldn’t let people do that, you know. You could get lice.”
“I wouldn’t have actually let you use it. I was just trying to be nice.”
Olivia walks over to the mini fridge. She taps a few keys and the fridge door opens.
“So, remind me how this works again?”
“The minibar? The stuff all costs a fortune, but the trick is to just replace whatever you eat before the maid comes in the next day. It sucks. They took out all the mini bottles of booze because we’re minors. Like, who couldn’t use a Jack and Coke right about now, right? But whatever, there’s still peanut M&Ms. They’ll have to do.” She grabs the yellow bag, tears it open with her teeth, and pours half the contents down her throat.
“No. I mean the show. I haven’t seen it in a while.”
“Are you crazy? What else were you watching that was better than Live to Dance?” She tosses her hair back. “We never miss an episode. We save every single one so that we can play them back later and critique all the stuff that everyone screwed up. That’s how we learn what not to do.”
“Who’s we?”
Olivia turns her back to me and rummages through the minibar fridge again, this time coming back with a Snickers, which she tosses to me. She doesn’t answer my question.
I take a bite of the Snickers. “We used to watch it. My mom and I did. We’d even shut all the blinds and lock the doors, unplug the phone just so that people wouldn’t bother us when it was on. It was the one thing we did, just the two of us.” I inhale. “Until they took our TV away.”
Olivia stands up, sets the M&Ms wrapper on the desk, and wipes her rainbow-smudged hands on the front of her sweatpants, leaving these little yellow and blue streaks. “Well, now you don’t have to worry about not watching the show. I can’t wait to draw dance styles.” She removes a piece of candy shell from her teeth. “I can’t believe we actually get to pick them out of Camilla’s hat.”
“We pull them out of the fedora? How do you know that?”
“Everyone knows. T
hey’ve been doing it the last couple of seasons. They say the hat’s got magical powers or something.” She bites her lip. “I hope I get contemporary or classical my first round. With one week to learn and perfect each routine and then perform it live, I don’t want to go in there with something totally foreign like hip-hop or salsa or—”
“Live live? Like, no practice rounds or anything?”
Olivia rolls her eyes. “You’re sure you’ve seen it?”
“I said it’s been a while.”
“One wrong step and you’re off the show.” Olivia drags one finger across her throat. “Do or die. That’s the only real part of reality TV.”
My gaze plummets to my bag, still slumped on the bed. I rub my arms to keep them from shaking, the reality of Olivia’s words and my situation sinking in. In one week, I’ll either make them proud that I’m from Summerland, or I’ll embarrass myself so badly I’ll make them all wish Rose and I were never even born.
But then Chloe’s words cut through these thoughts, clean, like a blade. What do you think of you? I know what she’s saying, and deep down I even know she’s right. But the thing is, she’s not the one who has to go back there and live under their microscopes.
Olivia slips off the bed and floats to the other side of the room. She talks about how it’s crazy to think about going home, but by the end of next week we will all definitely be thinking about it. She tells me that’s how it works. Fridays, we find out our style for the next week. We have three days to practice, and then on Tuesdays we perform a new routine. Thursdays, two are voted off. And we’ll be each doing six new styles in six weeks. They’ve never made the contestants learn so much, so quickly. She talks about the ballroom couple who, she says, will have to split up and dance separately eventually. She talks about Jacks and Hayden and Zyera and Liquid and a bunch of other people whom I don’t even remember though obviously she does, and well. She tells me what each of them can do and what each of them can’t, and I wonder if she knows that information about me, too.
I listen to her fast voice go through it all. Telling me how tough it’s going to be, how important it is we stay focused and stay on, because if we don’t, the cameras will catch us when we’re weak, when we’re down. And I try to listen. I really do. But I all I can think of is George and what he’d think if he heard my nickname. Mad Mags. Or maybe he already has.
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