Bring It On

Table of Contents

 

 

 

GROSSET & DUNLAP
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® and Copyright © 2006 by HHK Entertainment, LLC. All rights reserved. Published by Grosset & Dunlap, a division of Penguin Young Readers Group, 345 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014. GROSSET & DUNLAP is a trademark of Penguin Group (USA) Inc. S.A.

 

 

eISBN : 978-1-101-11936-5

D
evane—that's right, no last name—studied the extralarge calendar that took up most of the wall space in her bedroom. Make that her
half
of the bedroom. The other half belonged to her little brother, Tamal. Tamal Edwards. Who, at this very moment, was eating a PB&J with one hand and drawing some anime-style cartoon with the other and not even noticing that he was getting the J all over the paper. Unlike Devane, Tamal would definitely have to use his last name his whole life long. Last name
and
middle initial.

What Devane knew and Tamal didn't was that if you were gonna be a star of any kind, you had to have a plan. Tamal L. Edwards was only two years younger than Devane. He was already in the fifth grade. But he had no plan whatsoever. He couldn't even plan far enough ahead to get a napkin when he was eating a sandwich.

But Tamal wasn't Devane's problem. Devane had to concentrate on Devane. And according to her giant calendar, Devane had a big day ahead of her. Today—July 20—was circled on her calendar with the red glitter pen she used for make-or-break days. If she triumphed at the Hip Hop Kidz audition, the one in less than two hours, she'd be right on schedule in her three-year plan for world domination.

Yeah, yeah, yeah, today wasn't supposed to be an “audition.” But come on, people, that's what it was. Maddy Caulder, the creative director of Hip Hop Kidz, was making the rounds, observing all the basic Hip Hop Kidz classes, looking to pick new dancers for the Hip Hop Kidz Performance Group.

And in that group Devane would be
seen
. She wouldn't be hiding her stuff in the classroom. She'd be out in front of an audience.

Devane flipped on her CD player, flooding the tiny space with Missy Elliott's “Lose Control.” Her girl had served it up with that one, and the music was exactly what Devane needed to get her into the power zone.

“Not Missy,” Tamal groaned. “Not
Miiissssy
.”

Devane ignored him. She began to pump her body, imagining herself in the “Lose Control” video. That was the second step in her plan of world domination—her own video. First, she'd become the star of the Hip Hop Kidz Performance Group. Of course she'd get in. There was no one Devane-worthy in her class to get in the way.

Maybe Ky Miggs, this guy who'd been a steamin' b-ball player at her school until he wrecked his wrist. Ky was in one of the other basic classes, and his moves were
almost
as good as hers. But Devane didn't have to sweat him. Maddy needed guys
and
girls for the Performance Group.

That meant the let's-not-call-it-an-audition audition was bagged. And
that
meant she was all that much closer to livin' large. Videos. Choreography jobs. MTV awards. Acting jobs. Oscars. Directing. More Oscars. Producing. And . . . a rainstorm of cash and cars. Not that she was going to go all mad car disease, but she needed enough cars that she'd never have to shove herself into another reekin' city bus. Enough cars so that her mother wouldn't have to spend half her life commuting to her three jobs on the bus, either.

Even Tamal wouldn't have to take the bus ever again in life—unless he got all foolish. Then he could bus it until he shaped himself up.

Silence slammed into the room. Devane was jerked away from her daydreams. She was back in the bedroom—back in real life. The smell of her brother's sandwich filled her nose. The summer air coming in from the window felt like it was sweating, like it was sweating all over her body. Was the air everywhere in Miami as nasty as it was in Overtown? Or did the rich people in Hibiscus Island have bottled O2 to go with their bottled water?

Devane shook her head and smiled at the thought of bottles of air filling up designer purses and briefcases. Then she put on an extreme frown and turned to her brother. “Tell me you didn't just turn off Missy,” she said, trying to sound scary. She didn't want Little B to start thinking he could get away with stunts like killing her music.

He grinned. “I didn't just turn off Missy.”

“You'll be takin' the bus for a very long time unless you do some serious booty kissing,” she muttered. She grabbed her gym bag and her Kmart MP3 player, which sounded just as good as an iPod and was nearly as fly. She'd get to the dance studio early and score some no-little-brother practice time in one of the rooms that wasn't being used. Not that she needed more practice. She'd been getting ready for this day since 2001, when she became Devane. Just Devane. No last name necessary.

“How bizarre is it that they make camouflage in orange and purple, anyway? Where would they really help you blend in? A convention of clowns?” Sophie Qian asked her older sister.

Sammi laughed. “True. But you don't want to blend in at all at the Hip Hop Kidz audition.” She studied the explosion of clothes on Sophie's bed. “So the purple-and-orange camouflage pants. Definitely. Straight out of the hip-hop fashion bible.”

Sophie pulled on the pants. They had the Sammi seal of approval. That was all Sophie needed to hear. Sammi was chosen Most Fashion Forward at school last year, when she was an eighth grader. Had her picture in the yearbook for it. And for being a cheerleader. And for being on the honor roll. And for being in choir. And for being class VP. It would be easy to hate Sammi . . . if Sammi wasn't impossible to hate.

Although Sophie did get an attack of the jealouses every once in a while. But that wouldn't happen if she made it into the Performance Group. Then Sophie would have something, too, the way Sammi had cheerleading, and choir, and honor roll, and
and
and
and
and
and
. Her sister added something new to the list of things to be oohed and aahed over by the parents and everybody else what felt like every other day.

“Sophie, if you want a ride in my cab, move it,” her father called from the living room. “I need some paying customers today.”

“Three more secs,” Sophie called back. “How 'bout my lucky Trix rabbit shirt to go with?” she asked Sammi.

“Very nice,” Sammi agreed.

Sophie tugged on the shirt and checked herself out in the mirror. She looked good, she decided. She still looked thick. But she couldn't expect the pants to camouflage that away. Because if she was honest, she had to admit she was maybe more fat than thick, although it depended on who you asked. There were a couple of high school guys in her neighborhood who looked at her funny. But the guys at Miami Springs Middle School, where Sophie was in the sixth grade? Not so much. They joked around with Sophie, came to her for advice about other girls, asked her for her sister's phone number—but seemed to have no idea she even had legs at all.

“Sophie!” their dad yelled.

“Let me help with that,” Sammi said as Sophie started working her thick black hair into a bunch of knotted twists with the ends sticking out. “Dad's about to go to Defcon 1.”

“Thanks. I need to get water to bring.” Sophie headed for the kitchen, Sammi half a step behind her, continuing to do her hair magic.

“All done,” Sammi said, clipping Sophie's last hair twist into place. “You look amazing. You're gonna burn today.”

“I'll be sure to tell everyone who dressed me when I'm on the red carpet,” Sophie promised as she grabbed a package of Ding Dongs from her stash behind her mom's never-run-out double row of paper towels in the top cupboard. “Want one?” she asked Sammi.

“No thanks.”

Sophie slid the Dings into one of the giganto pockets of her cargo pants. “I'm ready to go, Dad.” She headed for the front door and led the way down the stairs of their flamingo-pink apartment building.

“You want to borrow the lucky horse from my key chain? Or the fir tree air freshener?” her father asked after they'd gotten in the cab.

Sophie laughed. “I don't think I'm gonna stink up the place that much, Dad.”

“I didn't mean it like that. Your sister wore it around her neck for good luck in that talent show,” he protested.

“When she was five,” Sophie reminded him.

“It's just that there are a lot of kids in the basic classes, right?” her dad asked. “That means a lot of competition to get into the Performance Group. And, you know, it's not all about talent. Being a performer takes a certain look.”