Bust a Move (5 page)

Lots of talking in there. And all about the competitions.

“We need some new costumes for sure,” Rachel said. “Ours are getting tired.”

“There's this girl at my school who designs her own stuff,” Chloe answered, pulling on a long, gauzy skirt as black as her dyed hair. “Maybe she could come up with—”

“We don't all want to look like vampires,” Becca interrupted, teasing. “Vamps don't come shaped like me anyway. You don't get curves like these drinking blood.” She slapped her behind.

Sophie smiled. “Where do you think we're going to stay in L.A.?” she asked, trying to get ill papi's silent treatment out of her head. “Do you think we'll be in Hollywood?”

“Hollywood's actually not all that great,” Emerson said. “I vote for Santa Monica! But first we have to get there.”

Devane's eyes flicked over to Emerson. “Some people have already gotten there by themselves. Money does that, I guess.”

Emerson flushed and leaned into her locker looking for—something that didn't exist, Sophie suspected.

Ouch. Sophie thought Devane had lost her attitude about Emerson. At first, Devane had completely blamed Emerson for getting her put on probation. She'd been sure if Emerson hadn't gotten so steamed about her hogging part of Em's solo, she would have just been handed a lecture.

But later, Devane had apologized to Emerson. She'd made it clear she understood her probation was caused by her own diva style.

Guess there's still a little attitude in Devane after all,
Sophie thought. It wasn't always that easy to know what was going on with somebody from looking at the outside.

Take ill papi. He looked the same as he always had. But something had changed big time.

Max jumped up on one of the wooden benches. “Devane, you stayed after to talk to Gina. Did you ask her about your probation? Are you going to be able to dance at the regionals or what?”

“Don't count on it,” Devane answered. “Gina made it sound like I
might
be off probation
.
”

That's probably why you went all cobra on Emerson,
Sophie thought.
You're mad at Gina.
Not that it was a good excuse.

“We're doomed,” Chloe said.

Devane shook her head. “You can take the Southeast without me. And you better or I'm gonna have to do some serious booty kicking. I'm counting on you all to get me to Los Angeles. I'll take care of getting myself off probation in time to dance when we get there.”

“At Disney World, you were saying you'd seen the Storm Lords,” Max said to Sophie. “They're one of the crews we're competing against. So, what do you think? Can we bring them down without Devane?”

Sophie tried to decide what to say. The Storm Lords were . . . polished. There wasn't a b-boy in the group who didn't bring the moves. But in the Hip Hop Kidz, some dancers didn't have that much experience. New members of the group were still trying to perfect some moves. New members like Sophie.

“Um, Soph, you're scaring us.” Emerson nudged Sophie with her elbow. “Say something.”

“I was just thinking that the Storm Lords seem like they've done a lot more battles than some of us. The newbies, I mean,” Sophie said. “But come on, it's us. Of course we're going to triumph!”

She hoped she was telling the truth.

“I might have to fly out to L.A. and see you win the championship,” Vincent told Emerson as he pulled into her long, curving driveway.

Emerson wondered if Vincent had ever been to L.A. She'd been there with her parents.
But that isn't my fault,
she thought, remembering Devane's dig in the locker room.
Of course it's not your fault,
she told herself.
There isn't any fault in going to L.A. It's just a . . . a fact, not a fault.

“We have to make it through the regionals before we even have a shot at the championship,” Emerson reminded Vincent.

“You will,” he answered.

Vincent was Emerson's favorite of her dad's drivers. And not just because he said things like that. Mostly because he listened to her. When she was seven, he'd listened to the saga of the stolen lunch box for weeks.
Weeks.

And now she was lying to him, too. Vincent thought her schedule had changed with school starting up—which it had. She had stopped going to ballet class. She was supposed to have stopped going to Hip Hop Kidz. All Vincent knew was that her parents were paying him to drive her to dance class, and he was driving her to dance class. Why would Vincent even consider that Emerson—who he had known practically forever—would be lying? And he'd never tell Emerson's parents, not even accidentally, because they didn't speak to the help.

“Say it after me—we will go to the world championship,” Vincent encouraged. “And we will win!”

“It's just that one of our best dancers is on probation. And there are a bunch of new people in the group and—”

“Say it!” Vincent urged.

He was so great. And someday he was going to find out what a liar she was.

“We will go to the world championship. And we will win,” Emerson said, her voice cracking a little as she thought about the way Vincent would look at her when he realized the truth.

He met her gaze in the rearview mirror. “Say that over and over until you believe it,” he instructed. “See you soon!” he added as she climbed out of the car.

“Thanks, Vincent! Thanks so much!” Emerson shut the car door. She waved until he was out of sight—like that could make up for anything. Then she headed to the house. She reached to open the door, but her mother got to it first from the other side.

Uh-oh. Her mother had on her angry face. The face involved her mom's eyebrows coming together just a fraction, her lips tightening very slightly, and the muscles in her neck tensing somewhat.

“Why didn't you tell me?” her mother asked.

Okay, she knows,
Emerson thought, trying to stay calm.
She knows I've been lying. But does she know the Big Lie? Or just one of the little ones?

Does she know I haven't gone to ballet in weeks—even though she and dad have still been paying for the lessons? If she does, does she know
why
I've been skipping?

The questions flashed through Emerson's brain almost too fast to register.

“Shelby's mother bought her costumes for the recital weeks ago,” her mother continued. “How could you have forgotten to tell me we needed to shop for them when the recital is scarcely two weeks away? I've cleared my schedule for the evening. We'll have to do it now in case we need to get alterations done.”

She doesn't know . . . any of it,
Emerson realized.
Not a single one of the lies.

But she would find out eventually. Both Emerson's parents would.

They'd show up at the annual performance of the
Nutcracker
—and Emerson wouldn't be anywhere onstage. Or someone would see Emerson on television—performing in L.A.—and that would pretty much let the cat out of the bag.

“I'm sorry,” Emerson told her mother. “I guess I got distracted thinking about school and everything.”

“Maybe you should try using a day planner instead of the calendar on your computer,” her mom answered. “Now, let's get a move on. Maybe we'll have time for a little fun shopping after we finish up at Dégage.”

I have to tell her the truth,
Emerson thought.
And then somehow I'll make her understand how important hip-hop is to me.

I have to tell her the truth,
Emerson thought again as she modeled the lilac costume for her mother.
And then somehow I'll make her understand how important hip-hop is to me.

“You look lovely,” her mom said, spreading out the long tutu that fell softly from the tightly fitted satin bodice.

“Mom, are you—you're not crying, are you?” Emerson asked.

Her mother waved one hand in front of her eyes. “I just got a little teary. You suddenly look so grown up in that dress, sweetie-poo. We're going to have to take a million pictures.”

For the Arts Council newsletter?
Emerson couldn't stop the mean little thought from racing across her mind. Even though her mom really was all choked up.

I have to tell her the truth,
Emerson thought for the hundredth time since her mother had met her at the door.
But I can't. Not right this second. She might really cry, and then I'll cry and it will be horrible in every possible way.

“Let me unzip you,” Emerson's mother said. Emerson turned around. “Aren't you glad your dad and I convinced you to stay with ballet and give up the hip-hop? It really was the mature, responsible decision. You've put so much time into your ballet. Years and years. And you're so good at it.”

“Mmm-hmm,” Emerson managed. She kept her back to her mother as she slid off the dress. She was sure the expression on her face right at that moment would ring all kinds of alarm bells in her mom's head.

“Oh, I meant to tell you. I talked to your grandparents today—both sets.” Emerson's mother took the dress out of her hands. “And they all want to come to your recital, of course.”

The recital where Emerson wouldn't be performing.

“Maybe they'd rather wait until the
Nutcracker
,” Emerson said as she pulled on her linen shorts.
By then, I'll have figured a way out of this,
she promised herself.

“They'll see that, too, silly girl.” Her mother took out her cell and dialed. “Yes, I'd like to make a reservation for seven for Saturday the thirteenth. Seven o'clock.”

Saturday the thirteenth. The same day as the Southeast regionals.

Where Emerson absolutely had to be performing.

 

 

 

Devane stared at the calendar that took up almost every inch of the wall space over her bed. The big white squares were like mouths laughing at her. “Three years! Ha!” they mocked. “You thought you would be a superstar who didn't need a last name in three years? You're going to have to walk around with your full name—Devane April Edwards—and your address and phone number pinned on your shirt for the rest of your born days.”

“Shut up!” Devane muttered.

“I didn't say anything,” her ten-year-old brother, Tamal, grumbled from his side of the room. “But now that you mention it, I do have a question. We're going to have a party for Coach Jamison when school starts up. Hot dogs or hamburg—”

“I wasn't talking to you when I said shut up,” Devane told him, turning away from the calendar to face him.

“I'm the only one in here, crazy girl.” He blew an orange bubble gum bubble the size of his head. Devane had this urge to reach over and pop it.

She picked up her Spanish book again. The first time she'd opened the book, she'd caught sight of the calendar out of the corner of her eye. Then the only thing she'd been able to think about was how probation had burned all her plans.

But that wouldn't help her in Mrs. Ramirez's class tomorrow. So Devane flipped to the list of vocabulary words her teacher had assigned as homework. “Oh, please,” she muttered.

“I didn't say anything,” Tamal complained. “But I still want to know about the hot dogs or hamburgers. And how do you make dip for chips? You've made it before, right? We don't want the kind from the container.”