My Seventh-Grade Life in Tights (3 page)

“You should totally get Sarah to help you.”

My jaw unhinged and dropped to my feet. Austin slammed his hand against his chest, coughing. A shower of biscuit crumbs landed on a guy sitting two rows down. “You want Dillon to ask
her
for help?”

“Yes! Think about it,” Carson said. “She probably knows all the judges. If she’s helping him, then she’ll do whatever she can to make sure he wins. You know how she is. All she cares about is winning.”

Kassie drummed her feet on the bleacher in front of her. “This is so exciting!” She bumped her shoulder against mine. “I bet you didn’t think this was going to happen, huh?”

“Yeah. Especially the part where I mooned the entire world. I told you jeans were a bad idea.”

“Hey, don’t worry about that.” Kassie grabbed my hand. “Your dance was amazing. Don’t listen to what everyone else is saying. We’re all freaks here. And freaks have to stick together.”

“Can I get an ‘Amen’?” Carson said with his hands in the air. He waved off a few of the weird looks from the students around us. “Plus you should be proud. You’ve got a seriously cute butt.”

“Ooh, he does, doesn’t he?” Kassie added with a quick eyebrow waggle, which would normally make my arms go all goose-bumpy.

“Wha abow me?” Austin asked through a mouthful of biscuit. “I goh a cyoo buh?”

“What butt?” Kassie and Carson said at the same time, and burst into laughter. Austin rolled his eyes and shoved the last bite of food into his mouth.

“So what do you think? About the contest, I mean,” Kassie asked softly. Just to me. Like she was giving me a chance to back out without anyone hearing.

My ears filled with the thudding of my heartbeat. Partly from having my face so close to hers. But partly because I had no idea what I was supposed to say. So I decided on “I’ll, um—I’ll think about it.”

Finally, the sounds of middle school life slowly crept back into my head—including an explosion of giggles erupting from the row behind us. I looked back at everyone huddled around an iPad, glancing back and forth from the screen to me.

“Real mature, guys,” Carson yelled.

“You gotta be kidding me,” I groaned. One kid held up the iPad, the YouTube video zoomed in and paused at the spot where I underwear-mooned the entire world.

Kassie shot them a nasty scowl.

It took me a second, but I finally figured out what they were whispering.

My new nickname.

Tighty Whitey.

S
ometimes I hated the fact that my parents worked from home.

I never got to come back from school to an empty house like most kids with parents who had normal jobs. On most days, I walked in on some discussion about taxes or clients or whether or not there was enough money to cover some bill.

And there’s nothing more awkward than watching your parents try to pretend nothing’s wrong.

I grabbed the knob, listening through the door for a break in the conversation.

“I don’t care how long you’ve known him, Chuck, you can’t make a decision like that without me knowing!”

“I made it because his business idea was worth investing in. How long I’ve known Alan wasn’t a factor.”

“Why do I have a hard time believing that? You do realize three out of our last six investments were with your old college buddies, right?”

There was a pause. The eye of the parental storm. And my cue to come in.

I opened the door and kicked off my shoes. Mom and Dad instantly went rigid, putting on their best fake smiles. Mom was standing at the counter, pulling the stringy parts of the beans off, and Dad was sitting at the table, glancing back and forth from his phone to a stack of papers.

“Hey, sweetie. How was your first day?” Mom asked.

I wanted to say my day had been a gigantic wad of cruddiness. But I just grunted instead, hoping my parents would take the hint and let me crawl back to my room and smother myself with a pillow before dinner.

Dad got up and set his phone on the counter. “If you don’t have much homework, I was thinking we could get you some new cleats. Your old ones are probably too small.”

“I dunno,” I said. “But I could use some baggy jeans.”

Dad sighed. “I already told you, I’m not buying you baggy jeans so you can let your underwear hang out all day.”

“And like I told you back, they’re for dance. And trust me, I need them.” I considered showing him my video. But then he’d probably just laugh and tell me that’s why I shouldn’t dance. “Besides, I’ve been thinking about asking the coach if I could drop out of football this year.”

Dad’s head snapped up. “What? Why? You love football.”

“Um, I sit on the bench every game.”

Mom slid a pan out of the oven and shut the door. I got a whiff of the double-baked mac and cheese. Maybe I did have something to live for. “Well,” she said, “I’m fine with you quitting.”

“He’s not quitting,” Dad said.

“If he wants to, then why not? He needs to focus more on his schoolwork anyway.”

“Carol, his grades are fine. Being on a team builds character.”

“Like a dance team?” I said, totally getting ignored. Big surprise.

“Besides, I don’t want him going through life thinking the way to solve problems is to quit.”

“Unless it’s dance,” I added. No response.

“Chuck, you do realize football’s just a sport, right?” Mom said. “Not a religious experience?”

“Obviously you’ve never seen the Titans play,” he said, going back to his stack of papers.

As soon as I reached the stairs, they started right back up. Football. Taxes. Alan Scapelli. Luckily, my bedroom door muffled out most of the arguing.

I tossed my backpack on the bed and slumped down into my desk chair, scanning my bookmarks tab still up on the screen. There were tons of free teach-yourself-to-dance tutorials I’d found on YouTube. I clicked on the last one I’d found—a video on different ways to do a hip-hop slide step.

Then I glanced at the search bar at the top.

“Don’t do it,” I mumbled. “It’ll just make things worse.”

My fingers slid onto the keyboard. I knew I shouldn’t. But somewhere deep down I felt like I didn’t have a choice. I had to face my technique-less demons. I swallowed what little pride I had left and pulled up YouTube. I typed
Dillon Parker dance
into the search bar.

There it was.

My heart stuttered. Three thousand views? How was that even possible? There weren’t even three thousand people in Sunnydale. I let my head fall on my keyboard. No way people were going to forget about this. Getting flushed down the toilet would have been better than what I was going through. At least then I could’ve disappeared into the sewer and lived the rest of my life as some weird underground dancing hermit.

I pulled my head up. My nose must’ve clicked something and landed me on a different site. Good. The fewer views the video got, the better. It took me a second to notice I was looking at the Dance-Splosion photo archive.

Shots of dancers perched on one foot. Arms floating in graceful curves. Toes pointed like the tips of ninja swords. And right there in the middle of them all was a snapshot of Sarah Middleton, poised in mid-leap, defying gravity.

The double knots in my stomach slowly unraveled. Sure, the entire school was probably at home sharing the video of my underwear, putting it to different music tracks, adding in a whole library of gross sound effects for the big reveal at the end.

But they were watching the old Dillon Parker.

The one who was dancing without any hope of ever getting better.

I was the new and improved Dillon Parker.

The one who had just gotten permission to get some actual help from a destined-to-be-professional dancer.

My entire body tingled at the thought. Even though I’d recorded the video, the last thing I actually wanted was to become a studio sellout snob. But doing what Kassie had asked me to do wouldn’t turn me into one. All I had to do was walk up to Sarah and ask. She wouldn’t have any reason to help me. Eighth-grade club presidents don’t associate with moppy-haired seventh graders with pimples on their chin. But I could probably find a way to convince her.

I scooted up in my seat, staring at her picture.

The chance of me actually getting good enough to make it into a top-three spot was practically zero percent. Maybe even less. And even if I did win somehow, there was no way I’d choose a studio over my crew.

But I could walk away from this whole thing with an entire arsenal of new moves. Improved techniques. Maybe even an actual dance style. My moment of last-day-of-summer treachery had just unlocked a door for me. One that might be able to slingshot me to the top of any choreographer’s list.

There was too much excitement pulsing through my veins for me to sit down. I hopped up out of my chair, pacing back and forth. My eyes were locked on Sarah.

Come to me, Tighty Whitey,
she was saying.
Let me help you become a real dancer.

Yep. That door was unlocking.

And I was about to ninja-kick the thing down.

I
dumped a mound of chicken pot pie onto my lunch tray, stepping back to avoid the splatter of brain-colored goo.

“I can’t believe you’re going through with it.” Austin took the spoon from me and dug out his own mountain of slop. “And you’re even gonna talk to Sarah? You really think she’ll help you?”

“Not really,” I said, wiping off the dots of chicken decorating my shirt. “I’m doing it for Kassie. I already texted her that I’ve made up my mind.”

“Oh yeah, I’m sure this is all just for Kassie.”

“Okay, fine. It’s mostly for her.”

We waited to punch in our lunch numbers at the register. Austin dabbed a wad of gravy around the mouth of a smiling plastic apple sitting beside the stacks of napkins. “This whole plan’s a terrible idea. Like, an I-can-feel-it-in-my-guts sort of thing, dude.” He tipped the apple over, adding in a sploochy sound effect.

“Austin, you heard Kassie. She
wants
me to go for that scholarship. This is sort of a win-win thing for me. I go along with Kassie and get some help from Sarah. When I don’t make it in, I’m right back where I was. But with better lines.”

“And if you actually
do
win? Something tells me you’re gonna have a hard time just throwing away a dance scholarship.”

“I’d do it for the crew. And you, since we’re supposed to make your movie next summer.”

“Whatever, dude,” Austin said. “All you think about is dance. You even take notes when you watch
Dance Moms.
”

“There you go.” I gave him a hard pat on the shoulder. “When it comes to dance, I’m more focused than anyone. Which is why this is gonna work.”

We headed over to our table, where Kassie and Carson were already sitting. I could hear Austin mumbling behind me the whole way.

As soon as I sat down, Carson held a banana beside his face like it was a gun. “His name’s Pahker. Dillon Pahker.”

“Oh my gosh, your British accent is awful,” Kassie said, laughing.

“Shut up, it was amazing and you know it.” Carson peeled the little sticker off and stuck it on her forehead. “So, you ready to infiltrate the enemy lair, Dillon?”

As soon as he said it, a nervous pinch worked its way through my insides. “I guess.” Austin let out a long sigh, mumbling something. I tilted my head toward him. “He’s not exactly convinced this is a good idea, though,” I added.

“Dude…” Austin shot me a look like I’d just told everyone he still has to have a night-light on when he sleeps.

“It’s okay, Austin,” Kassie said. “You can say what you’re thinking.”

Austin’s eyes fell to his mashed potatoes. He took a deep breath. “It’s just—Sarah’s never really bothered us. It seems sort of mean.”

“But we’re not doing this to
her.
We’re doing this to her
studio.
” I looked at Kassie, half shrugging. “Right?”

“We’re doing this to
both
of them,” Carson said.

Kassie shook her head. “No, Dillon’s right. We’re sending a message to Dance-Splosion. Not to Sarah.”

Austin stabbed his pot pie with his fork. “Whatever. You hate Sarah as much as Carson does.”