Bring It On (4 page)

“And what about ballet?” her father asked. “That broken leg kept you out of the Intensive, but you're still having your regular lessons.”

She
had
still been taking her regular lessons. But the class for the kids in the hip-hop Performance Group actually met on exactly the same day as her ballet class. At exactly the same time. She decided not to mention that detail quite yet.

“And I love ballet!” Emerson answered. And she did. She just loved hip-hop in a different way.

“I would hope so, considering I've been paying for the lessons almost since you could walk,” her dad answered. “Won't you be performing in the
Nutcracker
again this year?”

Emerson nibbled on her lip. This was getting out of control. She probably would be selected to perform in the professional company of the
Nutcracker
—if she was still taking her ballet classes. The company always used some local students in their production. But even now, in July, she could imagine almost exactly what steps she would be doing in the show. This year she'd be a snowflake. Which would be fun . . . but predictable.

All that cement in her stomach broke apart—into big hard rocks. They slammed around inside her. She could already see how this was going to go. Ballet and the
Nutcracker
would win. Emerson was going to have to tell Maddy no.

Or she was going to have to convince her parents to change their minds.

And the last time she'd attempted that had been . . . pretty much never.

“What if I don't perform in the
Nutcracker
?” she asked, leaving the issue of missing the actual ballet classes for later. “I've done it seven years in a row. I really love the hip-hop classes. And the Performance Group is fantastic. You should see them. And like I said, it would be something great for my transcripts. Something in addition to the ballet with the
Nutcracker
,
Nutcracker
,
Nutcracker
. Colleges appreciate diversity.”

“They also appreciate consistency,” her mother answered. “And it's part of our holiday tradition to see you in the performance.”

It's part of our holiday tradition for the two of us to get our picture in the society page together,
Emerson thought.
Me in my
Nutcracker
costume. You smiling proudly. Followed by a nice little blurb about all your hard work during the year on the Arts Council.
She hoped the little burst of anger that had come with the thought hadn't shown on her face.

Her father sighed. “Honey, we really weren't satisfied with where you were academically last year. Miami Country Day School expects a lot of its students, and your school-work has to come first.”

“French was the only big problem,” Emerson protested. “And we all—you, me, and Mom—came up with a fix for that. I'm going to have a tutor, starting on day one of school in September. I'm not going to have any chance to fall behind.” She sucked in a deep breath. “I really want this. And you've both always told me if I really want something, I should do what I have to do to get it.”

Her parents had another eye conversation. Why couldn't they use words? She could fight words. Sort of. For the millionth time, she wished she had a brother or sister. Someone to have her own eye conversations with. Someone to take her side.

“I'm sorry,” her mother said. “We understand how important hip-hop is to you. But you've put so much time and effort into your ballet. You don't want to waste it.”

“And you're so talented,” her father added. “You'll be happy one day that you stuck with it and really gave it your full-out effort.”

“You mean
you'll
be happy that I stuck with it,” Emerson blurted out before it even registered that she was talking back to her parents.

“
Emerson—your father and I don't like that kind of talk. And one can only wonder where your attitude is coming from. Though I wouldn't be at all surprised if it came from those Hip Hop Kidz,” said Mrs. Lane before turning to Mr. Lane and asking him a question about the neighbors' garden.

And with that, Emerson knew the case was officially closed. She stared down at her sorbet and gave the pink puddle of mush a halfhearted stir. “May I be excused?” she asked. “I need to call Maddy and tell her so that she can choose someone else.”

Her mother nodded, and Emerson laid her napkin next to her plate, then slowly made her way upstairs to her bedroom and sat down at her cherrywood desk. There was nothing to do but call Maddy.

Emerson forced herself to pick up her dance bag. She had the card with Maddy's number inside. But the first thing she saw when she unzipped the bag was the scrap of paper with Sophie's number on it. She and Sophie had exchanged numbers after the “audition” so they could call each other if either of them heard anything.

Impulsively Emerson grabbed her pale blue phone—bought to match the sable-moonlight duvet cover her mother had picked out for her bed—and dialed the number.

“Talk to me,” someone said into her ear. Emerson was pretty sure it was Sophie. But she wasn't positive.

“May I speak to Sophie, please?” she asked.

“You are,” Sophie said. “Hey, two calls for me in one night! Are you jealous, Sammi?” she joked to someone in the room with her. “Who is this?” she asked into the phone.

“It's Emerson.”

“Em! I was gonna call you! Did you get in?” Sophie demanded.

“Yes,” Emerson said, her voice cracking.

“And you're so happy, you've been moved to tears?” Sophie asked.

Emerson hardly knew Sophie. They never talked about important stuff. But all it took was that one question from Sophie—and everything came spilling out of Emerson. Her broken leg. The
Nutcracker
. The French tutor. How she felt when she danced hip-hop.

“Wow,” Sophie said when she finished.

“I know,” Emerson answered. “Right now, the way I feel, I'd just call Maddy up myself and pretend to be my mom. But I'm afraid she'd recognize my voice. Or at least know I'm a kid.”

She could hardly believe those words had come out of her mouth. But she meant it. Her parents just didn't get how important hip-hop was to her. They never would. The only way she'd be able to stay in the Performance Group was to lie to them. And to Maddy.

“If that's really all that's stopping you, I could probably help,” Sophie answered. “I have an older sister, and she . . . likes to talk on the phone. We could try it.”

Emerson's heart stopped beating. “Really?”

“I'm pretty sure,” Sophie answered.

Emerson's heart started beating triple time. “But what if she got caught? Aren't you afraid of getting in trouble?”

“She won't get caught. We'll call from our home phone—it has a blocked ID. And my sister's a pro. She once pretended to be her best friend and called this guy she had a crush on to find out if he liked her back. This will be child's play next to that little feat.”

“But why would you do that for me?” Emerson asked.

“Oh, I don't know . . . because I like you? Because I want a friend in the group? Because if I ever drop the weight, I'd like to go shopping for clothes in
your
closet?” Sophie said. “Hang tight. I'll call you back as soon as it's done.” Sophie hung up.

Emerson gripped the phone with both hands and sat on the chair, motionless.

This was wrong. This was insane.

If this worked, it would be the best thing that she'd ever decided to do.

Five minutes passed. Ten. Eleven. Twelve. Emerson felt like her nerve endings were trying to dig their way out of her skin.

The phone rang. Emerson hit the Answer button. “Sophie?” she exclaimed, forgetting her phone manners.

“You're in, baby,” Sophie told her. “Now listen, be careful with that white peasant blouse you were wearing the other day. Because as soon as I'm down to a size triple zero, I'm borrowing it from you, and I don't want it all covered up in ketchup stains or nothin' . . .”

“Can I? Can I? Can I?” Tamal asked. “Can I? Can I?”

“All right! All right! All right!” Devane exclaimed, too tired to say “no” one more time. “Just leave a piece for Mom.”

“Oh, sweet mama, I get cake!” Tamal leaned down and took a bite. Didn't cut a slice. Didn't even use a fork. Repulsive.

“And please don't slobber over every piece,” Devane exclaimed. “I didn't bake that for you.” She grabbed a knife and cut the cake down the middle, evening out the mess Tamal had made. Then she carved out his ragged clump, dumped it on a plate, and pushed it toward him.

“You baked it for yourself. To tell yourself how great yourself is.” Tamal used a fork to eat the next bite.

“Mom would have made it for me if she didn't have to work,” Devane said.

At least she would have wanted to. She used to make cakes every time she wanted to congratulate Devane or Tamal for something. But after their dad died, their mom didn't have much time for baking. She was always at work. Like tonight. She wasn't supposed to be at the hospital, but an extra shift opened up, and her mom took it. She never said no.

Devane hadn't even gotten to tell her mother the divine news yet. Not that Mom would be surprised. She was always telling Devane what a fantastic dancer she was.

“They should have picked me,” Tamal said. “I should have my own video.” He started spazzing out, jerking his body around, thinking he was actually dancing. Oh, Lord. She shouldn't have let him have sugar—he was enough of a pain in the butt without it.

“Tamal, finish your cake, brush your teeth, and go to bed,” Devane told him.

“You're not the boss of me.”

“Fine. But let me ask you this—is Mom going to be happy if she gets home and you're shaking your bonbon around the kitchen an hour past your bedtime?”

“An hour past
my
bedtime is
your
bedtime,” Tamal reminded her.

“She's gonna want to hear what I have to say to her. She won't mind if I stay up,” Devane answered.

But by the time her mother came home, Devane had fallen asleep with her head on the kitchen table.

Emerson scanned the room—in what she hoped wasn't an obvious way—as she walked into her first class with the Hip Hop Kidz Performance Group. She could hardly believe this had worked. She could hardly believe Sophie's sister had pulled off the phone call with Maddy.

She recognized a bunch of people from the one time she'd seen the group perform, including a tall guy in a Gator baseball hat. M.J., his name was. He'd had an amazing solo, and she'd looked him up in the program.

Emerson realized her scan had turned into a stare, and she forced her eyes away. A skinny girl almost as tall as M.J. with short dyed black hair and ultra-pale skin was doing stretches over in one corner. She met Emerson's gaze and smiled as she leaned over flat-backed, with her arms out in front of her. It felt like sort of an invitation, so Emerson headed over to the girl and started doing some ankle rolls. It felt better to be doing something in the room full of strangers than just standing there.

“You're one of the new meat patties. I'm Chloe,” the girl said. “I hope you're ready to be tortured. I've been in the group for a year, and my muscles haven't stopped aching yet.”

“Emerson. Hi.” Emerson switched over to shoulder shrugs. “I'm so excited that I got in. I've only been doing hip-hop a few months. But I've been doing ballet forever.”

“Ballet. I did that for about half a minute when I was little. I think it was my mom's way of trying to get me to like pink. Didn't work—obviously,” Chloe answered. “I'm gonna go fill up my water bottle. You should, too, if yours isn't maxed. You'll need it.”

“I'm good. But thanks,” Emerson told her.

“So you're a ballerina, not a cheerleader,” a voice said from behind Emerson as Chloe walked away.

Emerson turned around and saw Devane.
You knew she was going to be here,
Emerson thought.
There was no way the Divine One wasn't going to get chosen.
She forced herself to smile. She didn't want to have a thing with someone in the group. It was time for her and Devane to start over.

“Isn't it cool? We both got in!” Emerson said. “Little dogs with coats for everyone!”

Devane stared at her for a moment, then smiled. Actually smiled. “That's right. We have to start picking out cute names. Those little dogs have to have cute names.”

Maybe she was more stressed about the competition than she let on,
Emerson thought, happy she'd risked saying something friendly, something sort of Sophie-ish.
Maybe now that we're in the group together, everything's going to be okay.