Bring It On (3 page)

Sophie cleared her throat, that I'm-waiting sound.
The me who broke out with the arabesque, maybe she's the full-on me Vincent was talking about,
Emerson thought.

“Bring it to her, Emerson,” Ky Miggs called from his spot leaning next to the CD player. Emerson hadn't even heard him come in. She was kind of surprised he knew her name, even though they'd been in class together for a few months.

“Yeah, you're not burned already, are you?” Leeza asked. Emerson hadn't heard her come in either.

She had a choice. She could scurry back to her usual spot against the wall. Or she could do battle.

Emerson closed her eyes for a moment. Feeling the beat, letting it take hold of her body, set the rhythm the way her heart usually did. Her muscles and sinews and bones wanted to
go
. And she let them. She launched into a locking pirouette, then flipped down into a 1990. She got about a half spin on one hand before she had to flip herself back to her feet again. Emerson didn't know how the high-spin, low-spin combo looked. In her head it looked great. And it felt incredible.

She shot a glance at her audience of two. Her heart lurched into her throat as she saw that three more kids had joined the group. And so had Maddy. They were all smiling at her. All of them. Maddy was
smiling
at her.

“Now what you got, Soph?” Ky called.

Emerson started to turn back toward Sophie and realized there was another person watching. Devane. The girl stood outside the room, looking in through the window. She wasn't smiling. She was looking right at Emerson, her mouth twisted into a scowl.

It's like she hates me,
Emerson thought.

“And five, six, seven, eight!” Randall called. “Now we throw the pizza dough, throw the pizza dough.”

Sophie put her hands up in the air and got her hips moving. She loved the way Randall described the moves in their routines. He was so goofy.

“Okay, and surfer on a smooth wave.” Randall undulated his abdomen in an easy, fluid motion.

Sophie let the smooth wave roll from her sternum down through her core to her hips. She felt her Ding Dongs dancing along inside her. She probably shouldn't have eaten quite so close to class.

Her father's words jolted through her brain, and she fell out of rhythm with the rest of the group. Did Maddy see? Sophie cut a sideways glance at her. Didn't seem like she had. And this was basically just the warm-up. She wasn't going to pick who got in the Performance Group based on the warm-up, right?

“Rough waves, now. Rough wave, rough wave!” Randall instructed.

Sophie let the rough wave shoot all the way through her body, jerking her muscles in order from her neck down to her feet. She tried to focus all her attention on dancing. But a little piece of her brain was busy checking out all the other bodies in the class. Categorizing. Plus size. Minus size. King. Queen. Regular. Supersize me. Kiddie meal. Papa bear. Mama bear. Baby bear.

There are all thicknesses in here, Dad,
she thought. Like her father was a mind reader and he'd get her message out in his cab wherever he was. She left out the fact that the only person in class who was actually bigger than her was a boy.

Didn't matter. There was a girl her size in the Performance Group. Sophie had seen her, and she owned the stage.

“Next up, broncos,” Randall called. “Four of them.”

Sophie dropped down on her hands and kicked her legs up behind her like a bucking bronc.
What if one big girl is all Ms. Caulder wants in the group?
she thought as she sprang back to her feet.

Big girl
. That was one of Sophie's mother's expressions. She actually hauled out
such a pretty face
, too. Those actual words.

This is not the time to start listening to your parents,
Sophie told herself.

She decided to practice a little Jedi mind control on Ms. Caulder instead.
See me. See Sophie. See my moves. Don't just see my big booty. See
Sophie
.

“Everyone was looking at me,” Sammi told her family at the dinner table. She stabbed one green bean with her fork and ate it. “I never taught a cheerleading routine by myself, but since I'm head cheerleader when school starts up, I have to get used to it, so I volunteered. And it was actually pretty fun. Who knew I was such a control freak?”

“Um, everyone?” Sophie joked.

“Sophie, that's not nice,” her mother said.
Nice
was very big with their mom.

“I didn't mean it mean. Sammi knows that,” Sophie answered. “I just meant my lovely and talented older sister wouldn't be able to do all the stuff she does if she wasn't a little bit type A.”

Her father snorted. “People say type A like it's a bad thing. I call it type Ambition.” He glanced at his watch. “Speaking of—I have about five more minutes before I have to get myself and my cab back on the street.”

“Let me get out the Tupperware and pack up some of your dinner,” Sophie's mom said. Mom loved Tupperware almost as much as she loved
nice
. She sold it at parties, but Sophie suspected her mother would still have the parties even if she didn't make any money just so she could show people how awesome Tupperware was. “You'll get indigestion if you—”

She was interrupted by the phone ringing. Sammi leapt for it. No one else even twitched. Sammi got more calls than Sophie, her mom, and her dad combined. Calls from friends wanting to hook up. Calls from people needing homework help. Calls from cheerleaders on her squad. Calls from other kids in her choir. And calls from guys, guys, guys, and oh, yeah, more guys.

“Sophie, it's for you.” Sammi handed her the cordless phone and sat back down.

“Talk to me,” Sophie said into the phone. Her dad smiled at the greeting, and her mother shook her head, trying not to smile.

“Hello? Sophie? It's Maddy Caulder.”

Sophie sat up so straight, she added three inches to her height. “Maddy?” she chirped at a pitch high enough to puncture a dog's eardrum. “Hi. Hello.”

Why don't you just add “hola,” “ni hao,” and “howdy” while you're at it?
Sophie thought to herself with a grimace.

Sammi reached out and grabbed Sophie's hand. Sophie squeezed back, glad to have someone to hang on to.

“I enjoyed watching you in your class today,” Maddy said.

Please, please, pleasepleaseplease, let me be in,
Sophie thought.
I'll give up Ding Dongs. No, okay, I'm lying. But BBQ corn chips. Really. Or my Bo Bice poster, if that would be better.

“You've really got something special, a great sense of playfulness,” Maddy continued. “So I'm inviting you to join the Performance Group!”

“Woo-hoo! The Bo poster's coming right down!” Sophie cried.

“What?” Maddy asked.

“Nothing. I mean, thanks. I would love to. So, so much,” Sophie told her.

“I'd like you to think it over. It's a big commitment. I need to know that you'll be able to attend all the group classes and the extra rehearsals for performances. I'd like to go over the requirements with one of your parents so you can make the decision together.”

“Oh. Um, okay.” Sophie thrust the phone at her mother. “Talk to Ms. Caulder. She's the head of Hip Hop Kidz. I got in the Performance Group. Whatever she asks, just say yes!”

“You got in?” Sammi squealed, tightening her grip on Sophie's hand until Sophie thought some of the little bones might snap.

“Yep, I got in!” Sophie jumped up and started doing a King Tut strut over to her father. “Dad, I got in!”

“Congratulations!” he said into her ear as he gave her a hug.

Does he sound surprised? Just a little surprised?
Sophie tried to shove the thought away. This should be a happy-thought-only moment.

“What a lucky guy I am!” he added. “Both my daughters are winners.”

He definitely didn't sound surprised now. Just proud of her. Sophie spun away from him. She needed to
move
. She added some poppin' to her King Tut as she headed into the living room, jerking her head forward and back like a snake that kept starting to strike and changing its mind.

Sammi ran past her and punched on the radio. Their mom's fave, Harry Connick, Jr., started singing about . . . something old. Sophie thought she'd unprogrammed the “lite” station. Clearly their mother had found it again. But even the extreme bad flava of the music couldn't damage her mood. She was in the Performance Group. She kept on poppin' right along with Mr. Mellow. Sammi joined in, doing some of her cheerleader moves.

It'll be so perfect,
Sophie thought.
Now we'll both have something of our own. Well, Sammi will have about fifty somethings. But I'll have one really amazing one. I'll be on stage with the Hip Hop Kidz!

Just tell them what Ms. Caulder said about Hip Hop Kidz,
Emerson told herself.
It'll be okay.

She'd been giving herself this advice since the salad course, and now her parents were on coffee and Emerson was pretending to eat a scoop of mango sorbet. She was afraid to actually eat it. The rest of her dinner felt like it had turned to cement inside her stomach. If she put anything else down there, she might never be able to stand up.

They expect excellence in everything,
she thought.
They live for excellence. This won't be any different.

Emerson's mouth was so dry, her tongue was stuck to the roof of her mouth. If she tried to speak right now, her words would come out thick and garbled. That wouldn't be the way to start off this conversation.

She took a sip of her water.
Now, before your tongue gets stuck again. Before Mom has to find a speaker for the next DAR luncheon or do the seating chart for some benefit,
she ordered herself.
Before Dad heads for his study to work.
Even though Emerson could never figure out what an anesthesiologist did in his home office.

“Class was good today,” she blurted out, a little too loud and a lot too fast. Emerson and her parents didn't share enough vocabulary for her to explain what they actually
did
in class.
Jete
s, they got. Flares, they didn't.
Chasse
, yes. Float, no. “Maddy Caulder, the director of the program, stopped by to observe,” Emerson added, more calmly and slowly. “She phoned a little while ago, before either of you got home. She'd like to talk to one of you.”

Oops. She hadn't meant to say that part yet.

“Record messages like that on voice mail, so there's no confusion,” her mother said.

Emerson nodded. “Right. I will.” She cleared her throat. The dryness was taking over again. “She wants to talk to you because she'd like me to join the Hip Hop Kidz Performance Group.”

Her parents exchanged a look. One of those looks that was a whole conversation. Then her mother opened her mouth to speak.

“She thinks my dancing is really strong. Excellent, in fact. It's a great opportunity,” Emerson added, not exactly interrupting, but almost. “And it would look great on my transcripts. The group performs all over. They've opened for—well, for singers you've never heard of.”

Her father raised one eyebrow. “The Backstreet Boys,” he guessed.

“Um. Sort of,” Emerson answered. Her dad didn't like to be told he'd never heard of something. But he really didn't know hip-hop music. “They do stuff for charity, too. Like nursing homes and the United Heart Association,” she added, locking eyes with her mom.

Her parents had another little eye talk. “It sounds as if it might be fairly time-consuming,” her mother said. “During the summer it's one thing. But when school starts again, you'll need to get back to your study schedule. We're getting you a French tutor this year, remember.”