Who's 'Bout to Bounce? (5 page)

See, when I was in elementary school and junior high, I hated how all the kids used to make fun of me, just because I was in the “SP” programs—that means Special Program for kids who are smart. But Abiola is real cool—she won’t say anything, because I could lose my spot in the Junior Youth Program.

Okay, so you’re supposed to be fourteen to be in the program. But on the other hand, it’s for high school students—and that’s what I am, right?

“Guess where I hear they’re hiring?” Abiola says, all confidential like a secret agent.

“Where?” I ask, my eyes opening wide like flying saucers.

“At the Project Wise program at University Settlement, down on Eldridge Street on the Lower East Side,” she whispers.

“Word?”

“Mmm-hmm. I hear they’re paying the same as here—minimum wage, two nights a week. But in the summer, you can put in twenty-four hours a week, and they got all kinds of programs.”

“Yeah?”

“Uh-huh. They got this dope dance program, I hear,” Abiola says, nodding her head, then turning to see if anyone is looking. “You sit around and tell stories about your culture, then you interpret it into dance, and at the end of the year, you put on a big show called the Roots Celebration.”

“Word? You think I could go down there?” I ask aloud.

“Try. They may not ask for your birth certificate or anything—just a letter from one of your teachers at school, so they won’t know you’re only twelve.”

“Shhh,” I smirk, putting my finger over my mouth.

“Nobody heard me,” Abiola says, giggling, then putting some more of the ugly T-shirts in a stack on the concession stand.

“Look at the new leotard I got,” I say, pulling my cheetah all-in-one out of my backpack to show to Abiola. “Mrs. Bosco bought it for me out of the money I gave her from the Cheetah Girls show at the Cheetah-Rama on Halloween. Four hundred duckets! I couldn’t believe it. But I didn’t keep the loot, because I knew Mrs. Bosco needed the money for her hospital bills.”

“She sick?”

“Uh-huh. She coughs all the time.”

“Where’d she find a cheetah leotard like that?” Abiola asks, smiling. She thinks it’s cute that I’m a Cheetah Girl now.

“I think at Daffy’s, or Chirpy’s,” I say, then let out a sigh. “I wonder why Ms. Truly wants to see me.”

“Don’t know, but you’ll find out soon enough, ’cuz it’s time to go with the flow,” Abiola says, then grabs her bag to leave. She goes upstairs to the computer room, to work on the youth program’s newsletter,
Mad Flava
.

Sometimes Abiola acts like she’s a newscaster or something, like Starbaby Belle on television—but she’s learning mad skills. So I guess she’s got a right to floss a little.

The butterflies in my stomach start flapping their wings again as I change into my leotard. Then they flap some more when I walk into the gymnasium where I take Ms. Truly’s hip-hop dance class.

That’s the only thing I really like about working here—taking free dance classes. And now I may even lose that? It’s not fair!

Pouting, I think of something Mrs. Bosco always says. “You can get mad, till you get glad!” It makes me laugh. She used to always say it to Jimmy, one of my used-to-be foster brothers. He used to walk around with his mouth poked out so far, you’d think someone had stuffed them with platters. Then one day, his real mother decided she wanted him back, so they came and took him away from us. I haven’t seen or heard from him since.

I wonder where Jimmy is now? I’m gonna ask my caseworker, Mrs. Tattle, when I see her. That’s
if
I see her. Lately, the caseworkers have been coming and going, quittin’ their jobs so fast it could make your head spin. Mrs. Bosco says, “For the little money they get paid, it’s a miracle they show up at all.”

“Dorinda! There you are. Why didn’t you return my phone call?” Ms. Truly asks me sternly, as I take my place on the gym floor. She doesn’t smile much, and it makes me kinda nervous.

“I thought you said to call you if I
wasn’t
coming to class,” I say, getting nervous again.

“No. I spoke to your mother, and I distinctly told her to have you call me
before
you came to class today,” Ms. Truly insists.

“Oh, I’m sorry, Ms. Truly. Sometimes Mrs. Bosco, um, writes down the messages wrong because she’s so busy,” I say, trying to cover up for my foster mother. I wish Mrs. Bosco could read and write, but she never finished school.

“Well, that’s all right, but don’t leave without seeing me after class,” Ms. Truly says.

I
hate
when grown-ups do that. Why don’t they just blurt out whatever it is they want to say, and get it over with!

Usually, I stay near the front of the class, but today I’m so nervous that I go to the back, where Paprika is standing. Maybe
she
knows something, because she is one of Ms. Truly’s “pets.”

Ms. Truly always starts the class with warm-up
pliés
. So while we’re doing them, going up and down, up and down, I turn to Paprika and whisper, “Did Ms. Truly talk to you about anything?”

“No, why?” Paprika asks, extending her arms out in second position.

“’Cuz she called my house and said she wanted to see me after class today,” I say nervously. I’m sweating already, and we haven’t even started dancing yet.

“I don’t know anything,” Paprika says, giving me this serious look, like, “You must be in trouble, so get away from me!”

Bending my body over my feet, I feel like a croaked Cheetah.

Some hyena is coming in for the kill. I can
feel
it.

Usually, class is over much too soon, but today, I thought it would go on and on till the break of dawn! I guess that’s good, though, since this will probably be the last class I take with Ms. Truly.

Sighing out loud, I pick up my towel and walk to the front of the gymnasium to wait for her. She’s not even finished talking to the other students, before I start apologizing again for not calling her back.

“That’s all right, Dorinda,” Ms. Truly says sternly, “it’s just that you won’t have much time to practice.”

“Practice?” I say, squinching up my nose because now I’m really confused. “Practice for what?”

“Come inside my office for a second,” Ms. Truly says, taking me by my arm and leading me outside the gym to her office.

I can feel my heart pounding right through my cheetah leotard. I think it’s gonna pop out of my chest like in
Alien
and start doing pirouettes or something!

Ms. Truly’s perfume is strong. I know this smell. It’s Fetch by Ruff Lauren, the perfume Bubbles likes.

“Sit down,” Ms. Truly says, then closes the door.

I flop down in the chair like I have spaghetti legs. I must
really
be in trouble, ’cuz Ms. Truly is being super-nice to me. That’s not like her.

Suddenly, a lightbulb goes off in my dim head. Ms. Truly probably wants to hook me up with an audition at
another
school or something, so she can get
rid
of me! I am getting so upset, I have to fight back the tears.

Ms. Truly pulls out a folder, looks at a piece of paper, then mutters, “There’s still time. Can you stay after class tonight?”

“Yes.” I croak like a frog, because the word got stuck somewhere down my throat. I wish Bubbles were here. She’d stand up and fight for me. So what you know about that, Ms. Truly? What a phony-baloney. Always acting like she likes me, but she doesn’t!

“Okay,” Ms. Truly says. Then she sighs, like she’s Judge Fudge on television and she’s gonna read me the verdict for a death penalty or something. “A friend of mine just got hired as the choreographer for the upcoming Mo’ Money Monique tour, The Toyz Is Mine.’ It’s a one-year tour around the world, and they’re looking for backup dancers, with hip-hop and some jazz training.” She gives me a look. “I think you should audition for it.”

All of a sudden, I feel like the scarecrow in
The Wizard of Oz
when he got cut down off his post. I just wanna flop to the floor in relief.
Ms. Truly thinks I can audition for Mo’ Money Monique!

“The only thing is, the audition is tomorrow morning. But if you stay after class tonight, we can practice for about half an hour. That way you’ll go in there with full confidence, and be able to work your magic,” Ms. Truly says, all smiley-faced.

I am so stunned, I must be acting like a zombie, because Ms. Truly looks at me and says, “Dorinda, are you with me?”

“Yes, Ms. Truly. I’ll, um, stay after class and go to the audition,” I say, stuttering with excitement.

“Here, take the name of my friend, and the address where you have to go for the audition.” Ms. Truly hands me a piece of paper.

“Dorka Por-i-,” I read, but I’m having trouble pronouncing the lady’s last name.

Ms. Truly helps me. “Por-i-skova,” she says with a smile.

“Poriskova,” I say, this time pronouncing it correctly. “What kind of name is that?”

“It’s Czech.”

“Oh,” I say.

“The Czech Republic is a country in eastern Europe,” Ms. Truly says.

“I know that,” I tell her. I do, too. Geography is one of my best subjects in school. “It’s near Albania, where my new sister Arba is from.”

“I’m impressed!” Ms. Truly beams at me. “Anyway, you’re gonna like Dorka. She’s a fierce choreographer, and she’s got ’mad moves,’ as you would say. We studied at Joffrey Ballet together, back in the day.”

“I didn’t know you took ballet, Ms. Truly!” I say, getting more excited. “My best friend, Chanel, used to take ballet. It’s really hard, right?”

“Sure is,” she agrees. “I wouldn’t trade anything now for hip-hop, though. It gives you the cultural freedom to express yourself—and that’s more important than any perfect
plee-ay
,” she says, stretching out the word.

“I always had this secret fantasy about being a ballerina,” I confide in Ms. Truly. “I wish I could have taken classes when I was little.”

“Well, that’s what daydreams are for,” Ms. Truly says, chuckling like she knows. “You’ve got a feel for hip-hop though, Dorinda, and if you stick with it, you’ll probably be able to write your own ticket.”

I’m not sure what kind of ticket Ms. Truly is talking about, and I’m afraid to tell her how much I like being a Cheetah Girl. I don’t want her to think I’m not grateful for the chance to audition for the Mo’ Money Monique tour.

As if reading my mind, Ms. Truly says, “You’re thinking about that group of yours, aren’t you? I see you girls together all the time. It must be very exciting for you.”

“Yes, Ms. Truly,” I admit.

She sighs, gives me a sad smile. “I tried to be a singer once,” she says. “But it just wasn’t happening. I couldn’t play the games you have to play to get a record deal.”

She gives me a big smile now. “You’ll have more control over your career as a dancer, Dorinda. The worst that could happen is, you’ll end up a teacher, like me—and that’s not so bad, is it?”

“No, Ms. Truly You’re the
best
teacher. You’re dope,” I say, hoping I haven’t hurt her feelings.

“And you’re the best dancer, Dorinda. It’s a joy to teach you,” Ms. Truly says, then comes around the desk to put her arms around me. Her hug makes me feel like a grilled shrimp, because she is so tall.
Everybody
is taller than me.

“I just hope one day you’ll know what a great dancer you are,” she says.

I can barely believe it’s true—that Ms. Truly thinks I’m such a great dancer. But what about the Cheetah Girls? How can I leave them and my family, and go off around the world for a whole year?

All of a sudden, I feel like a total crybaby I’m so exhausted from being nervous, I just let the tears come, one by one.

Ms. Truly holds me, and whispers, “Just give it all you’ve got tomorrow at the audition. God will take care of the rest.” She lifts my chin in her hand and gives me a wink. “And make sure to wear this leotard,” she adds. “It’s
fierce
.”

I smile all the way home, thinking about Ms. Truly and my audition. That is, until I have to hold the stupid ice pack on my ankle for a whole hour so that the swelling will go down. I shouldn’t have taken class, I tell myself.

But how was I to know it wasn’t going to be my last class? How was I supposed to know there was a big audition in my future? What do I have, a crystal ball?

I ask God to please make the swelling go down tomorrow for my big audition. I also wonder if God could get Chantelle to stop popping her gum like a moo-moo.

Since I’m too nervous to go to sleep, I hobble quietly into the kitchen to call Bubbles’s and Chanel’s pagers. When one of us wants to talk in the chat room on the Internet, but it’s too late to talk on the phone, we page each other. Whoever gets the page first is supposed to call Angie and Aqua, then all five of us assemble in the chat room. I wish I had a telephone in my room, but then Monie would probably hog it anyway, talking to her knucklehead boyfriend.

When I was little, she used to wake me up when I was sleeping, because she said I snored. That was before I got my tonsils out, but I don’t think I really snored. She just hated me because, even then, I was Mrs. Bosco’s favorite.

As I log on to the Internet, it hits me—
I can’t tell my crew about the audition!
That really makes me feel like a Wonder Bread heel. What was I thinking, agreeing to audition as a backup dancer, when I’m already a part of a superhot group?

Well, it’s too late now. I already said I’d go. Besides, it won’t be the first secret I’ve kept from my crew. They still don’t know how I live, really. Or how old I am.

Besides, I’m not gonna get this gig anyway. I don’t care how good a dancer Ms. Truly thinks I am. I mean, we’re talking about Mo’ Money Monique, you know what I’m saying? I bet Ms. Truly is sending a lot of girls to audition for the Dorky lady. I’ll probably run into Paprika there.

As it turns out, I don’t have to worry about telling my crew anything, because Bubbles needs to blab tonight. So I’m safe—for now.

“What makes you think your mom has hired some Bobo Baboso private detective?” Chanel types on the screen. That makes me laugh, ’cuz Chanel is making a snap on this television show on the Spanish channel, about a bumbling detective, Bobo Baboso, who fumbles cases.