Bring It On (2 page)

A skinnier-than-Sophie look? Is that what he means?
Sophie wondered, unwrapping the Ding Dong.

She shook her head.
He just doesn't want you to be disappointed, that's all.

“I'll take the horse,” she answered. “But isn't it supposed to be the good luck charm for lotteries? Or am I getting my Chinese folklore mixed up again? I know, I know, I should pay closer attention when you and Mom talk about our heritage.”

“It is for lotteries, but I figure, close enough,” her father said.

“Works for me,” Sophie agreed. “And I'll take whatever help I can get to be a Hip Hop Kid.”

Emerson Lane smiled when she saw that the driver of the Town Car was Vincent. Vincent liked to talk—and not on the cell, like some of the younger guys. He liked talking to Emerson. The long drive from Hibiscus Island to the Hip Hop Kidz rehearsal space was so boring without him.

“Are you nervous about your audition this afternoon?” Vincent asked as he opened the car door for her. Vincent talked
and
he listened
and
he remembered. Even her parents didn't always manage that combination.

“It's not exactly an audition,” Emerson told him.

“Oh, excuse me. I thought when you did your stuff and then people decided if they wanted you in some kind of Performance Group, it was called an audition.” He winked at her, his dark brown eyes crinkling at the corners. “But I didn't go to the Miami Country Day School like you. My vocabulary must not be that good,” he said, then shut the door with a light click.

“So are you nervous?” Vincent asked again as he got behind the wheel.

“Of course.” There was no reason to pretend with Vincent. He'd been driving her around since she was six, and she was thirteen now. Even when she broke her leg right before the Jamison Ballet Intensive audition, she'd admitted to him that she was almost glad that the break got her out of going to that audition. A truth her mother could've never tolerated.

It wasn't that Emerson didn't love ballet. She did. She'd loved it since she played the littlest mouse in the
Nutcracker
when she was five. But for almost a year, for months and months before she'd broken her leg, she'd kept on getting the impulse to bust out, just let the music fill her and let her body . . . go. Not something that would have been encouraged at the Jamison Intensive. But something that was very encouraged at the Hip Hop Kidz classes she'd ended up taking instead.

“You're gonna rock the house,” Vincent told her.

Emerson loved it when Vincent talked street. Not all fifty-plus men could pull it off, but he could. “You've never even seen me dance,” Emerson protested.

Vincent met her gaze in the rearview mirror. “Doesn't matter. I've seen the way you look when you come out of your classes. You really love hip-hop, am I right?”

“Mm-hmm. It's looser than ballet. It's like I'm not even myself when I'm dancing hip-hop.”

“I think it's just the opposite. I think that's when you're the full-on Emerson,” Vincent answered.

The full-on Emerson. Emerson wasn't even sure if she knew who that person was.

“Good luck,” Vincent said as he pulled up in front of the studio. “Not that I think you need it.”

“Thanks. And I'll get the door,” she added quickly, even though Vincent already knew that. She always asked him to let her open the door herself at Hip Hop Kidz. It was bad enough that she had a driver; she didn't need to rub it in people's faces by having him wait on her.

“I'll be right here,” Vincent said.

“Okay, bye!” Emerson grabbed her dance bag and jumped out of the car. She spotted Sophie Qian bopping toward the studio door.

“Em, hey!” Sophie called.

“Hi!” Emerson called back.

“Come on. We're early enough to check out the competition for a couple of minutes.” Sophie covered her mouth. “Oops. I didn't say
competition
, did I? That wasn't me, was it? Because all that's happening today are some
regular, ordinary
Hip Hop Kidz basic dance classes, right? But there isn't any reason we can't watch the
regular
,
ordinary class
before ours as long as they
don't
audition, is there?”

Emerson grinned. There wasn't any reason to answer—Sophie would just keep talking. Sophie talked even more than Vincent. And that's what Emerson liked so much about her. Sometimes Emerson felt like she should sit down and write the girl a nice thank-you note for making it so easy to step into the studio or the locker room. Sophie was always friendly to everybody, always said hi and chatted with whoever was around like she'd known them forever. It was pretty much impossible to be shy around her.

And Emerson
was
shy. It usually just didn't show that much. That's because she'd known everyone at the Miami Country Day School—and their nannies and parents, too—since she was practically prenatal. Every girl who was in her ballet class went to Country, except one. Every girl at her church went to Country. Emerson's violin teacher had given lessons to Emerson's mother. The principal had been her dad's first-grade teacher.

Hip Hop Kidz was the only place she was faced with anyone new.

Sophie opened the door to the studio and ushered Emerson through. “Looks like a few other people got the same idea,” she said, jerking her chin toward the observation windows of the largest classroom. Four kids from their class were gathered around it, including even ill papi. Who probably had zero to worry about when it came to being selected for the Performance Group.

Ill papi was practically famous. Everybody knew who he was because everyone knew his dad.
Everybody
.

Well, not people like Emerson's parents. But everybody who knew even the ABCs of hip-hop knew that ill papi's father was J-Bang, one of
the
old skool dudes like Rubber Band and Kool Herc, the ones who practically invented the style of dancing. The buzz was that ill papi was the new skool version of his dad, just as cutting edge, just as much of a rule breaker. Of course, ill papi was in the Performance Group.

“How many girls do you think want to get into the group just so they can hang with ill papi?” Sophie whispered. “I'm guessing thirty-five percent. And he's a big bonus for another forty,” she said, answering her own question.

Ill papi turned toward a guy from their class and laughed, giving Emerson a good look at his deep brown eyes, his light caramel skin, and the dimple on one side of his mouth. She thought he was about a year older than she was. Probably going into ninth grade. “I'd say you're right,” Emerson agreed.

Sophie snorted. “People always say to dance your passion.” She headed down to the windows with Emerson right behind her. “Buddha driving a Volkswagen, as my grandmother would say,” Sophie breathed. “Look at that girl go.”

Emerson didn't have to ask which girl. It was completely, totally, absolutely obvious. The African American girl who was doing flares with her
legs crossed
. The whole class was down on the floor doing flares. Standard flares. And they were hard enough—bracing your weight on your hands and swinging your legs through the air and around your body. But doing the move with your legs crossed was hugely more difficult. Emerson could do a flare with her legs together, but that was as far as she'd gotten.

“I'd say she's had a little too much fun with her Bedazzler. I mean, the T-shirt. But other than that, she's awesome,” Sophie commented.

“That's Devane,” volunteered Leeza, a girl from Sophie and Emerson's class, not taking her eyes off the window.

Devane.

Devane is definitely getting picked for the Performance Group,
Emerson thought.
How could she not?

How many girls did the group need? More than just Devane? Did Emerson have a shot? Even the full-on Emerson?

“Meet the newest member of the Performance Group!” Devane called out as she strolled into the locker room, her brown eyes sparkling. “The name's Devane. But you can call me Divine if you want to,” she went on. “Divine, but not Diva. I'm not gonna be asking anybody to fetch me a wide selection of mineral waters or M&M's with all the green ones picked out, at least not until I get my first MTV award.”

Emerson's heart turned to a big piece of lead in her chest as she pulled on her track pants. She'd expected Devane to make the group. But wouldn't Maddy at least wait and see everybody in all the classes before she made her choice?

“Wait. Back up. Ms. Caulder already told you you're in?” Sophie asked the question Emerson was afraid to. Sophie wasn't afraid to say anything.

Leeza looked up, eager to hear the answer, too.

I hope Sophie makes it into the Performance Group,
Emerson thought.
Fearlessness should be rewarded.

“Nah. But you saw me in there,” Devane answered with a grin. “Think I didn't notice all of you with your noses pressed against the window when I did my flare? Are you saying you don't think I'm a lock?”

“Not saying anything. Just asking,” Sophie told her.

The muscles in Emerson's shoulders relaxed a little. The decision to put Devane in the Performance Group wasn't actually official. At least not yet. Her muscles tensed back up as she bent over to tie her shoes.

Devane leaned against the closest row of lockers. “So I need some help. Pretty soon I'll be starring in a music video, then comes the cash.”

Emerson caught sight of two girls from Devane's class exchanging a
can-you-believe-her?
look. Devane had done some amazing dancing. But didn't she realize that she was basically saying that she was better than everybody else in the room? Didn't she understand that that was just . . . rude?

“What do you think I should get first?” Devane didn't wait for an answer. “A little dog in a coat, like Paris Hilton's dog? Or the stretch SUV? Or the movie-star boyfriend?”

Everybody laughed. It was impossible not to. Devane kept her face completely serious, but it was clear she was just messing with them.

Emerson pulled the lace of her left sneaker tight, and it snapped. She grimaced. “Sophie. Do you have a safety pin or anything?” she whispered.

Devane narrowed her eyes and straightened up. “Hey, Blondie. If you're gonna say something, make it loud enough for the whole class to hear,” she told Emerson.

“I just said I needed a pin,” Emerson answered. She glanced at Sophie, wondering if she was imagining the attitude suddenly radiating off Divine Devane.

Devane took a step closer to Emerson and ran her eyes from Emerson's blond ponytail to the tips of her sneakers. “Are you sure you're in the right place?” Devane asked. “This isn't the locker room for hollaback girls.”

Emerson wanted to say something to Devane. But her brain had just gone liquid.

She yanked her broken lace out of the top two holes and tied it down lower. “I'm a dancer, not a cheerleader,” she finally managed to get out. “And this is exactly where I belong.” She hurried out of the locker room before Devane could toss out something else that would make Emerson's brain go mushy and went straight to the practice room.

She calmed down a little the second she stepped inside. This really was exactly where she belonged. It was her favorite place in the world. Not this specific practice room. Any practice room. The wood floor. The mirrors. The faint smell of sweat that never went away. She loved it all.

Emerson suddenly had to move. Just had to.

She went into a locking arabesque, something she'd never tried before. Just the basic ballet move, but freeze-framed into a hundred little pieces that lasted only a split second each.

She was so into the motion that at first she didn't realize Sophie had entered the room. Then she spotted Sophie watching her, leaning back, arms crossed.

When Emerson finished, Sophie gave an exaggerated nod, then did a version of the arabesque herself but more clown style than the basic locking Emerson had chosen. There were times Sophie moved so fast her arms and legs blurred and moments where her whole body quivered like mini-earthquakes were running through it. Sophie finished up and shot Emerson an expectant look.

Uh-oh. Sophie wanted to battle. That definitely wasn't a ballet class kind of thing. The hip-hop arabesque she'd just tried out was the first time she'd let go and attempted a move that wasn't part of the choreography that their teacher, Randall, laid out. All her blabbing to Vincent about how much looser hip-hop was . . . that was pretty much just blabbing. In theory it was true, but Emerson hadn't truly put the theory into practice. She usually stood against the wall until Randall came in and started class, then she followed his instructions exactly.