Bras & Broomsticks (15 page)

“Rachel Weinstein,” I say. Jewel’s eyes jump up from the magazine at my name. I smile shyly at her.

“You didn’t tell me you were trying out,” she mouths, looking slightly panicked. For the first time it occurs to me that she might see me as another Ivy. After all, she’s seen me dance.

“Surprise,” I mouth back.

“All right, girls,” says London Zeal, one of the two producers. Every year two seniors who have been in the show previously are elected to produce. They’re responsible for choosing the ten freshmen, ten sophomores, ten juniors, and eight other seniors who will participate. Half are guys, half girls. And just because someone gets in one year doesn’t mean he or she will make it the next. Everyone still has to try out. Usually the same people make it year after year, but last year one of the sophomore dancers, Kate Small, hooked up with London’s boyfriend behind her back. Guess who got cut this year?

Mercedes Redding, London’s cohead, is sitting cross-legged on a yoga mat. She is the skinniest person I have ever seen. Honestly, her jeans must be a size zero. Of course, all the guys think she’s hot, even though she has the body of a ten-year-old. Or used to think she was hot. She chopped her long blond locks to her chin over Christmas, and the response has not been favorable. Mercedes is a great dancer, but she doesn’t talk much.

London, on the other hand, never shuts up, and you can hear her coming down the hall from a mile away— her voice is so nasal it sounds as if she’s holding her nose when she talks. You can also see her from a mile away. She dresses head to toe in one color. Today she’s wearing purple. Purple tank top, purple skirt, purple fishnets, purple high boots. Purple-tinged sunglasses. She’s also lined the rims of her eyelids with purple eyeliner. It’s very striking.

“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.”