Ambitious (3 page)

Marisol

Orientation
day was exciting. As my parents and I roamed the hallways of Premiere High School, I couldn’t help smiling. I was proud to show them the dance studio, the place where I’d spend most of my time, learning and growing—the place where my dreams would come true.

“It’s a nice school.” Poppy smiled and smoothed my hair in the back.

“It’s old and musty,” said Mami, who didn’t see things quite as I did.

“It’s not old, Mami. It has character. And what you’re smelling is not must. It’s the sweat and tears of the stars who have roamed these very halls!” I said and beamed.

“You must be Marisol’s parents,” J.C. said. The dance instructor looked different wearing a suit rather than leotards and tights. Her hair flowed against her shoulders instead of being pulled up on top of her head. She was prettier up close, and her makeup was flawless. She grabbed my mother’s hand in hers. “I’m Juliette Cruz, the dance in
structor here at Premiere. The kids call me J.C. and probably a few other choice words.”

I could tell that my mother was speechless to learn that my dance instructor was a Latina-American woman. When I’d spoken about the woman giving the dance class last spring, I never revealed her race. But now, I hoped that the small detail would work in my favor.

“Hi, Mrs. Cruz…I mean, J.C. This is my mother, Isabel Garcia,” I jumped in and said.

“Please to meet you, Senora Garcia.”

“Nice to meet you, too,” my mother managed.

“And this is my dad, Berto,” I said.

“Senor,” she said and smiled. “Very nice to meet you, sir.”

“Pleasure is mine.” Poppy smiled his beautiful smile. I could tell that he thought she was attractive; he could barely peel his eyes from her.

“You have a very talented daughter,” J.C. began. “I’m very pleased to have her in my class. My class is demanding, and not everyone makes it in. But she did. I’m sure you’re very proud that she made it into such an outstanding school, too.”

“Well…” My mother opened her mouth, but before she could finish whatever negative statement she was about to make, my father jumped in.

He gave her a sideways look and said, “We’re very proud of Marisol. We know that she’s capable of achieving what
ever she puts her mind to.” Poppy gave me a reassuring smile. I was grateful for his support.

“She’s got a lot of work ahead of her,” said J.C., “but I have no doubt that if she puts in the hard work, she will have a great career.”

“What kind of career can she really have as a dancer, Mrs. Cruz?” My mother finally got her chance to spit her venom. “A Broadway showgirl? A video vixen? Or maybe…I don’t know…a dance instructor?”

Did my mother just insult this woman that she’d known for only thirty seconds? I wanted to crawl under a rock and die.

J.C. smiled anyway. “There are plenty of lucrative careers for professional dancers, senora. For instance, before I was a
lowly
dance instructor—” she giggled “—I owned one of the largest dance studios in the country, where I taught ballroom and Latin dance. I choreographed routines for several celebrities. In fact, I come from a long line of dancers. My great-grandfather danced with Fred Astaire and Gene Kelly. I ended up here, teaching dance to young people at a Manhattan performing arts school, because I wanted to settle down…start a family…” She extended her hand, showing off an engagement ring. “I’m getting married in a few months.”

“Congratulations,” Poppy said.

“I’m sorry if I offended you…” Mami offered.

“No apology necessary, senora,” J.C. said. “I can tell
that you love your daughter very much, and you only want what’s best for her.”

“Yes.” Mami finally smiled. “I just want her to receive a good education. One that will prepare her for college.”

“Then you’ve enrolled her in the right place. Academics are very important here at Premiere. She’ll receive a wonderful education here. Most of the classes are college-prep courses, and she must maintain a certain grade point average in order to remain here. Students do not have the luxury of slacking off. They must focus on the traditional courses as well as the arts.”

“That’s good to know,” Poppy stated; he seemed to release a sigh of relief.

“If you’ll excuse me, I need to meet some of the other parents.” J.C. seemed to be very likable. I was sure that she and I would get along very well. “It was very nice meeting you both. Marisol, I’ll see you bright and early in the morning.”

“Okay,” I said and watched as J.C. disappeared into the crowd and began to mix and mingle with the other parents.

Without notice, someone walked up from behind and whispered, “Guess who?”

I grinned after recognizing Drew’s voice. My parents’ smiles disappeared immediately. My father frowned, and my mother’s eyebrows rose in discontent at the fact that I’d already made a friend—a male friend. They had no idea that I’d been secretly searching for him all night.

“What’s up?” he asked.

“Same old, same old,” I said.

“Hello, sir, I’m Drew Bishop.” He held out his hand and offered my father a handshake.

Poppy was hesitant at first but eventually took Drew’s hand in a firm grip.

“I’m Marisol’s very strict father, Berto Garcia.” My father’s voice had deepened.

“Pleased to meet you, sir,” Drew said, “Ma’am.” He nodded toward my mother.

“Hello,” she managed to say. And that was all she said.

“I take it you attend here, as well?” Poppy asked the obvious. He was trying to make conversation.

“Drew’s an actor,” I boasted. “He was accepted into the drama department.”

“That’s very nice,” Poppy stated.

“Would you mind if I stole your daughter for a moment?” Drew was bold; he didn’t beat around the bush.

“Only if you promise to return her,” Poppy said.

“Scout’s honor.” Drew raised his hand in the air, as if he were a Boy Scout. He didn’t waste any time grabbing my hand and pulling me into the crowd and to the other side of the room.

“Where are we going?” I asked.

“I don’t know. You just looked like you needed to be rescued.”

“You were absolutely right. My parents are so stuffy.”

“At least they showed up,” Drew said. He poured two
cups of punch and handed me one. “My dad didn’t even bother.”

“Don’t judge him too harshly. He only wants what he thinks is best for you. Right?”

“Sure. I guess,” he said. “You look nice.”

I was glad that I’d opted for the red dress that made me appear to have cleavage. It also showed off my legs and hugged my rear end.

“Thanks. So do you.” I was blushing. I could feel my face burning, and I knew it was probably as red as my dress.

“Your father cracked me up. ‘I’m Marisol’s very strict father…’” He imitated my father and then burst into laughter. “Hey, dude, I’m just trying to take your daughter to get some punch. Is that cool?”

“Shut up.” I punched him in the arm. “Don’t talk about my dad. Besides, you should be more afraid of my mom.”

“Yeah, she was pretty chilly, too.” He went into an imitation of my mother, his voice changing into a high octave. “
Hello
…and just where do you think you’re going with my daughter, young man? What are your intentions for her? She’s not allowed in the South Bronx, with your pants-saggin’, tattoo-havin’, grill-wearin’ kinfolks…”

“You’re sick.” I laughed hard. “That was so racist.”

“Exactly!” he exclaimed. “It was so racist for your mom to think that way. She didn’t say those things, but I knew that’s what she was thinking.”

“I doubt that she was thinking that, Drew. She’s old-fashioned, but she’s not a racist.”

“Everybody thinks that when they meet a young black guy for the first time. They think that we’re all pants-sagging, good-for-nothing wastes of time,” he explained. “Have you ever dated a black guy?”

“In eighth grade,” I told him as I took a sip of my punch. “Eddie Anderson.”

“Good ol’ Eddie…” he mocked.

“What about you? You ever dated a Latin girl?”

“I know a little bit about Latin dancing.” Drew disregarded my question, took my hand and started dancing a salsa dance as if there was Latin music playing.

I hung my head in embarrassment and looked around the room to see if my parents were watching. Thankfully, there was too much going on for anyone to notice. The crowd had grown and everyone was engaged in idle conversation.

“You’re cute when you’re embarrassed,” Drew said and laughed.

“I wasn’t embarrassed,” I lied.

“Right…” he said. “Your face is just beet red all the time.”

“You are…a very unique person,” I said.

“I’ve been called worse,” he said. “Hey, I gotta go. This place is cramping my style. I’ll see you at school on Monday.”

“Okay.”

“Congratulations on getting in,” he said and stuffed his hands into the pockets of his Diesel jeans. He looked styl
ish and confident in his white polo, and I could see him achieving his acting dream.

“Same to you, dude.”

Drew’s energy rubbed off on me. He had me wondering about him long after he was gone and longing to see him again. I wondered if his Barbie-doll-looking girlfriend knew how lucky she was to have him. He was definitely unique. Who did the salsa in the middle of a school’s orientation when there was no music playing?

I watched as Drew disappeared into the crowd and then made his way out the door. I searched for my parents, who’d been cornered by the freshmen guidance counselor. I decided to go rescue them. I poured two cups of punch and headed their way.

Marisol

In
the locker room I peeled off my street clothes as quickly as I possibly could before hopping into my leotard and tights. After stuffing my clothes into my bag, I rushed into the hallway. The halls were filled with students as I pressed my way through to my dance class. Many of them stood around chattering, practicing a dance routine, singing or rehearsing their lines to some play. Subconsciously I searched for Drew. I hoped that I’d run into him, but the chances were slim. There were too many people. Instead, I found my way to the dance studio. The bag that was slung across my shoulder held an extra pair of leotards and a pair of shorts, as well as a few spiral notebooks and a three-ring binder.

I pushed open the heavy door and every eye in the class landed on me. I was late. My alarm hadn’t gone off as it should have, and I totally messed up my first day of school. Being late on the first day at a new school was not fun. The last thing you wanted to do was draw attention to yourself by walking into your first class after everyone else was
there. I tried not to look at anyone and attempted to make myself inconspicuous at the back of the class.

“We’re glad you could join us, Miss Garcia,” said J.C. as she paced the floor. “Is this going to be your regular time of arrival?”

“Um…I’m sorry. My alarm clock didn’t…um…” I couldn’t even bring myself to complete the sentence.

The giggles throughout the room caused my temperature to rise. I was embarrassed.

“My class begins at 8:00 a.m. sharp. Not 8:01, and certainly not 8:15. The rules at Premiere High are different from the ones you might be used to at your regular public high school. The young men and women here are committed to their education and their craft.” This was not the same J.C. who charmed my parents the other night at the orientation. No…this one was different. There was no smile, no suit and no flowing hair.

I didn’t really see the need for a lecture on my first day of school. I was late—no doubt about it. But really, was it that serious? As I took a look around the room, finally making eye contact with a few students, I wanted to crawl into a corner and never resurface. Some of them still had smirks on their faces; some of them simply rolled their eyes. I was glad when J.C. finally moved on.

“We’re going to begin by stretching, so if we can line up in three rows of ten.”

Everyone did as J.C. instructed and arranged themselves in three rows of ten, facing the mirrored wall.

“Where did you take the subway from?” The thin girl who stood next to me began to stretch her long, lean legs.

“Sunset Park.”

“Brooklyn,” she stated matter-of-factly in her strong New York accent. “What station?”

“Thirty-sixth street.”

“I’m in Bed-Stuy. Maybe we can kinda look out for each other. Maybe ride into the city together.” She was a mixed girl, with light brown skin and long sandy-colored locks that brushed against her shoulders. Her light brown eyes were friendly.

“Thank you,” I whispered. “I’m Marisol. Everyone calls me Mari.”

“I’m Jasmine,” she said. “Meet me in front of the cafeteria at lunchtime. We can exchange numbers and maybe grab a bite to eat together.”

Before I could respond, Jasmine was lost in the stretch routine. At the end of the class, I wanted to thank her for making me feel at ease at the worst possible time, but she was nowhere to be found. I gathered my bag onto my shoulder and headed through the crowded hallway in search of my next class.

At lunchtime I headed for the cafeteria. A blond boy with a stack of flyers in his hand tapped me on the shoulder.

“You should try out for this.” He handed me a flyer. “I saw your audition the other day.”

I took the flyer and scanned it quickly:

DANCE AMERICA
DANCE COMPETITION:
AUDITIONS BEING HELD THIS FRIDAY
AT PREMIERE HIGH’S DANCE STUDIO
5:00 PM
DO YOU HAVE TALENT?

I’d heard about the Dance America competition. Everyone who was anyone in New York had heard about the Dance America competition. It brought people from everywhere in the country—New York, Los Angeles, Chicago—there was even a boy from Utah who made it to the finals one year. And he could dance. The girl who’d won last year’s competition was last seen in a movie on television. She was talented, and just thinking about her took my confidence down a few notches.

I folded the flyer, stuck it inside my algebra book and headed for the cafeteria line. I wasn’t very hungry, so I grabbed a carton of milk and an order of fries. At the public school I was able to eat lunch at a reduced rate because of my parents’ income, but at Premiere High, there was no free or reduced-price lunch program. Students paid for their own lunch. There were several items to choose from each day—burgers, tacos and pizza. My parents had already warned that I would have to rely on my allowance and the cash that I’d earned babysitting for lunch. And since my allowance was only ten dollars a week, and my babysitting
jobs occurred only every now and then, I was definitely on a budget.

I spotted Jasmine at a table chatting with a few girls.

“Hey, what’s up?” I said as I approached the table.

“Hey, Mari. What’s up, girl?” Jasmine said. “Mari, this is Bridgette, Celine and Charmaine. Divas, say hello to Mari.”

“Hey, Mari,” Charmaine was the first to speak.

“Love your hair,” Bridgette said.

“You sing, dance or act?” asked Celine, who barely looked up from her cell phone. She was sending someone a text.

“I dance,” I told her.

Finally looking up, Celine challenged, “Let me see what you got.”

“Right now?”

“No, tomorrow. Are you a dancer or what? Are you scared, girl?” Celine was beautiful, with long black hair and a light brown face. Her makeup was perfect.

“No, I’m not scared.” I had attitude.

“Anyone who attends Premiere High should be proud to have made it in. They’re not only talented, they’re confident.” She stood and started moving to some imaginary music, clapping her hands and shaking her hips.

Charmaine stood next to her and they started moving in unison; a routine that they’d obviously practiced together. When they were done, they gave each other a high five, as if they’d shown me.

“You won’t survive here.” Celine rolled her eyes and started picking over her dry-looking turkey burger and fries.

“Leave her alone.” Jasmine came to my defense. “She can actually dance her behind off. She’s in my intermediate dance class.”

“Groovy,” Celine said sarcastically and stuffed a fry into her mouth.

“Have a seat, girl,” Jasmine said. “Don’t pay her any mind.”

I was reluctant at first but then took a seat at the table next to Bridgette. I ate my fries in silence as the four of them chatted about everything from boys to what happened in their classes the first half of the day. Jasmine and her friends were sophomores, and this was their second year at Premiere.

“Hey, Mari.” I heard a familiar voice behind me and turned to find Drew carrying an orange lunch tray. “Hey.”

“You survived orientation,” he said and smiled. “I knew you would.”

His smile was so beautiful and gave me comfort.

“Hey, Drew,” Celine cooed. Her voice was syrupy sweet all of a sudden.

“Hey, what’s up, Celine?” he asked.

“Will you buy me a slice of triple cheese at Manny’s after school?” she asked and grinned.

“I’ll think about it.” He smiled, too.

He’d think about it? How about
no
? Buy yourself a slice!

“Are you going to Manny’s after school, Mari?” He turned his attention back to me, and I was grateful.

I shrugged and looked at Jasmine. We were possibly commuting home together. So if she was going, I was going. She must’ve read my mind.

“I could use a slice of pepperoni,” Jasmine said.

“Cool,” Drew said. “I’ll see you there.”

After school, I followed Jasmine through the double doors of the school. She hit Play on her iPod and started bouncing to a song by Drake. Then she threw her backpack over her shoulder and pulled a package of Newport cigarettes out of her worn purse. She held a cigarette between her long fingers.

“You smoke?” she asked.

“No,” I said and wished that she wouldn’t, either.

Secondhand smoke was worse than her filling her own lungs with it. It didn’t matter. She pulled a bright green lighter from her purse and lit the cigarette anyway.

“It won’t bother you if I smoke, right?” She wasn’t really interested in my response, because before I could answer she’d already taken two or three puffs while bouncing to the music. “Drake is so cute, isn’t he?”

“He’s okay.”

“Just okay? I would date him,” she said. “I saw him once. At Starbucks in Times Square. He ordered a nonfat latte!
Can you believe that? A nonfat latte. Are you serious, dude? Are you really watching your fat content?”

“Everybody’s pretty health conscious these days,” I said.

“Everybody but me. Give me the fat. And the calories. And the sugar. All of it! You’re gonna die one day anyway.”

“But you don’t have to kill yourself.”

“You’re smart.” She smiled. “You gonna audition for Dance America?”

“Thinking about, it.”

“I might this year, too.”

As we approached Manny’s, Jasmine tossed the butt of her cigarette onto the ground and smashed it with the sole of her shoe. I loved Jasmine’s free-spirited attitude, but I didn’t know how much of her cigarette smoking I could take. I tried not to judge her, though.

Manny’s was crowded—as usual. And finding a table was a challenge as always, but we managed to secure a booth near the window. Celine and Charmaine found us and decided to squeeze into the booth with Jasmine and me. And it wasn’t long before Drew and his friend Preston pulled up chairs next to our table.

With a black straw fedora on his head, Drew stuffed a slice of pizza into his mouth. His muscles bulged from his light blue T-shirt, and a silver
D
hung from the chain around his neck. And when he got up to grab a jar of parmesan cheese from an empty table, I noticed how his jeans hung off of his behind so nicely. His six-foot-tall body had the type of frame that girls looked for in a guy. The type
of frame that forced you to stand on your tippy toes when you gave him a kiss. It was hard not to stare into his light brown eyes.

“That fedora is hot.” Celine giggled, snatched Drew’s hat from his head and placed it on her own head. “How do I look?”

“Very sexy,” Drew said. “I love a woman in a hat.”

“Really?” Celine asked. “What else do you love a woman in?”

“I’ll get back to you on that,” Drew said, “but right now, I’m gonna grab another slice. Anybody else want something?”

Everyone declined—except Celine.

“I’ll go with you. I could use another slice, too.”

Could she be any more forward? Could she just throw herself at him any more than that? It was obvious that she wasn’t his type. I watched as she clung to his arm all the way to the counter. Her Seven jeans hugged her slender legs, and her long black hair hung down her back. With Drew’s fedora on her head, she glided next to him like a dancer. And he was enjoying the attention. I could tell by the way he brushed a piece of her hair from her eyes as they stood at the counter and ordered pizza.

“So do you go to Premiere?” Jasmine asked Preston. “I haven’t seen you around there.”

“No. Right now, I attend Breckinridge Academy. It’s a…private school.”

“Oh, yeah, the preppy, stuffy school in Manhattan where all the rich kids go,” Charmaine said.

“He’s a Premiere High wannabe,” Drew announced as he approached the table again.

“It’s true. I am a Premiere High wannabe, but trying to talk my dad into letting me audition is like speaking German to him. He doesn’t understand or see the need.”

“Are you talented?” Jasmine was so straightforward. She wasn’t the type to beat around the bush.
Just ask it
.

“I play the violin.”

“Are you any good?” asked Jasmine.

“He’s great!” Drew acknowledged.

“Then why won’t he let you do the performing arts thing?”

“You have to understand. I don’t really have a choice in the matter. My great-grandfather attended Breckinridge. And his father. And his father’s father. It’s a family tradition.”

“I say screw tradition if it means compromising what you love,” said Jasmine.

“It’s not that easy when you come from a traditional-family background,” said Preston.

“Yeah, like me,” I said. “My parents were reluctant, too. They don’t want a career in show business for me. They seem to think that all celebrities wind up in rehab or end up destroying their lives somehow. They want me to become a doctor or lawyer.”

“My father didn’t take the news well about me making
it in, either,” Drew admitted. “I was a basketball star at my old high school. My coach had high hopes for me. My father played semipro basketball in his former life, so…he expected the same from me. Wanted to live out his dreams through me.”

“Not my parents. They don’t care where I attend school.” Jasmine took a long sip of her Cherry Coke. “Just as long as I go to school somewhere and it doesn’t cost them any money. Things are tight for us right now. That’s why I have to win this competition…Dance America.”

“What’s Dance America?” asked Preston.

“It’s only the most popular dance competition in the nation,” Charmaine said.

“Kids come from performing arts schools all over the United States,” Celine said. “The competition is stiff, but I made it to the finals last year.”

“You’re trying out, right, Mari?” Drew asked.

“Considering it.” I hadn’t given it any serious thought.

“You have to bring your A game,” Celine added, as if I didn’t have an A game or as if I was too dumb to know what an A game was.

“You should seriously consider it,” Drew added. “Who knows what might happen? You could wind up being a star!”

“I’m auditioning again.” Celine smiled at Drew as if she was searching for the same encouragement that he’d given me.

When his phone played a tune, he looked at the screen
and completely ignored her comment. I couldn’t help but smile.