Bust a Move (11 page)

Emerson actually felt sick as she climbed back up the trellis to her bedroom later that night. Sick in that feverish way where nothing seems completely real.
We won,
she thought with every step she took up her makeshift ladder.
We won, we won, we won.

She pulled in a last deep breath of the honeysuckle wrapped around the trellis, then slid open her window. She smiled when she saw the pale blond fake Emerson hair spread out across her pillow. It looked pretty good. She'd have to remember that for next time.

Although the Barbie head wasn't going to cut it while Emerson was in L.A. for three or four days. She was going to L.A.! She jumped and landed with her legs wide, swung her head left, followed it around with her body—and stepped on her binder.

Wait. There shouldn't be any binders on her floor. Emerson always left her room absolutely in order. Her binder had been on her desk chair.

She twisted around to look over her shoulder at the chair. Someone sat there in the darkness.
Oh, no. Oh-no, oh-no, oh-no.

Before she could decide what to do, what to say—
click
. Her study lamp flicked on. And Emerson saw her mother staring at her. She didn't seem surprised to see Emerson.

Emerson could tell she was going to have to confess everything. Too bad her throat was suddenly too dry for her to talk. All the saliva had evaporated, leaving it gritty and raw.

“I can't even begin to tell you how worried I was about you,” her mother said quietly, her hands folded in her lap. “At first, I thought you decided you felt well enough for the recital. I know how much you love ballet.” She gave a harsh bark of laughter. “At least I thought I did.”

“Mom, I—” Emerson managed to get out.

Her mother continued as though she hadn't said anything. “I called Rosemary. Her
old
cell phone number worked fine, by the way.”

Emerson flushed. She'd told so many lies, lies a lot bigger than that one about Rosemary having a new cell phone. But she still felt ashamed about the little lie.

“Rosemary told me you weren't at the recital. She also told me you haven't been to class in almost two months.” Her mother didn't look at Emerson. She seemed to be looking at something just to the left of Emerson's face. “Rosemary said that you had told her we were in Italy for the summer, and she'd been expecting to hear from us about getting you started in class again. She assured me that she'd been crediting our account with the payments we'd continued to send.”

Emerson's mother stood up. “Your dad and your grandparents are worried, too. They're downstairs. I think you should be the one to tell them you're home.” She left the room without another word. All Emerson could do was follow her.

“Em! Where were you? Are you all right?” her father demanded the second she stepped into the living room.

“You scared your mother half to death,” Grandpa Tredwell added.

“Where was she?” Emerson's father asked her mother.

“I don't know. She just sneaked back into her room. I thought she could tell us all together.” Her mother's voice was quiet and tight. She didn't yell. She didn't ever really yell. She sat down on the sofa next to Emerson's father and waited.

For one crazy second, Emerson considered coming up with a Bigger Lie. Something to cover up the Big Lie and explain away all the little lies. Because it had felt amazing out there onstage. Because she'd made better friends in the group than she ever had before. Because she wanted to push herself to the limit and help her crew win the World Hip-Hop Championship. She didn't want to give up the group. She wanted to stay in like she wanted air to breathe.

But there was nothing she could say. Even if she had days to prepare, there was nothing she could concoct that would satisfy her parents. What was the point of trying?

“Um . . . okay . . . well . . .” Emerson swallowed hard, trying to bring some moisture back to her mouth and throat. “Back in July—”

“July,” her mother murmured, shaking her head. Grandma Tredwell made a low clucking noise.

“In July, I joined the Hip Hop Kidz Performance Group,” Emerson confessed.

“What is that?” Grandma Lane asked Emerson's mother.

“It's a dance troupe that her father and I forbade her from joining,” Emerson's mother answered, looking directly into Emerson's eyes for the first time since she'd gotten home. It was a lot worse than when her mother had refused to look at her. “We told Emerson we thought it would affect her schoolwork and that we thought continuing with ballet would be more impressive on her college applications because it would show consistency.”

“When I do hip-hop, I feel a completely different way than I do in ballet,” Emerson said. “I love the music—it just kind of takes me over. And I've made all these great friends. When we get up onstage together, we just have so much fun,” she added, trying to make them understand.

“Haven't we been sending checks to that ballet studio?” Emerson's father asked her mother. As if he hadn't heard a word Emerson had said.

“Didn't Hip Hop Kidz require a permission form from parents before you could join that group?” her mother asked, not bothering to answer the question about the checks.

“I signed it,” Emerson admitted.

“I don't know who I'm talking to,” Emerson's mother said. “Lying. Sneaking out. Now signing my name. You aren't the Emerson I know.” Tiny lines appeared, bracketing her mother's mouth. Her chin trembled slightly. This wasn't angry face. It was sad face. Emerson was about to make her mother cry. She really did feel like throwing up now. No chunky soup necessary.

“I'm sorry,” Emerson said. “I . . . it was just so important to me. And I couldn't make you understand. I—”

“Are you trying to say it's our fault?” her father asked, his blue eyes going cold.

“I can't talk about this anymore right now,” her mother said. “Go back upstairs, Emerson. We'll discuss this later. You're grounded until further notice.”

Devane carefully folded the “Hip Hop Kids Got the Juice” banner and slid it into her backpack. She was bringing it to the nationals. And the world championship. It was lucky. For the group. And for her.

“Fabulous job tonight, Devane,” Gina told her. They were the only two left in their section of the backstage area. “I know it's hard to take on another dancer's part—even when you know the routine as well as you do.”

“Thanks. And thank you for giving me the chance,” Devane added. “I'm going to make sure we make it all the way to the top! With me back in the group—that's a promise.”

“Oh, Devane. I'm so sorry. I didn't realize you thought—” Gina stopped and tapped her lips with her fingers.

“Thought what?” Devane asked. She knew. By the sound of Gina's voice. By the look on Gina's face. But she wanted to hear Gina say it. She wanted Gina to say that trash out loud.

“What happened tonight with ill papi—that was completely unexpected. I had to make a last-minute decision,” Gina said. “You saved the whole group tonight, Devane, and I appreciate it. It and everything else you've been doing. But you're not off probation. I'm very sorry if I gave you that impression.”

“Probation meant no performing. I performed tonight,” Devane answered.

“Because ill papi—” Gina began.

“So I'm on probation unless you need me to save your butt,” Devane interrupted. “You say you're trying to make me learn something about teamwork. You're trying to help me understand something. Be a better person. But you don't care about that if Hip Hop Kidz might lose a competition.” She slung her backpack over her shoulder.

“I handled this badly,” Gina admitted. “I get that now. I should have realized that you would think you were off probation. I should have explained and asked you if you would agree to perform.”

“I shouldn't even be on probation anymore, okay?” Devane burst out. “No one thinks so.” Gina's cheeks flushed, but Devane kept going on. “But I sucked it up. I kept trying to be a good little Hip Hop Kid. I've been falling all over myself trying to show you I'm all about the team. Fetching water. Doing that picnic. Making signs.”

Devane jerked the banner out of her backpack and ripped it in half, letting the pieces fall to the floor. “But I'm not off probation. Not even after tonight. What do you want me to do, Gina? What more do you and Maddy expect me to do?” She shook her head. “You're both fools. Everyone in class thinks so.”

Gina pressed her palms together. “You know what I'm going to do, Devane?” she asked.

“What?” Devane shot back.

“I'm going to forget you said that. Didn't happen. Because you really have been showing me a lot of effort.” Gina turned and walked away.

Devane stared after Gina until she disappeared from sight, then she lowered her eyes to the torn banner on the ground.
What did you just do?
she asked herself.

The answer was crystal. Devane had just taken all the work she'd done to get off probation and flushed it. All of it.

 

 

 

A basketball came flying at Sammi. She automatically reached out and caught it. “Wanna play Horse?” Ky asked. “There's a hoop around back.”

“I'm going to head in,” Sophie said. “I want to see if ill papi's around. Just to make sure everything's okay with him.”

“See you in there,” Sammi told her sister. Shouldn't Sammi be going in, too? She was worried about ill papi. She definitely wanted to know what was up with him. But . . . it was actually kind of nice to hang with a boy who
wanted
to hang with her.

“I'll take it easy on you,” Ky told her. “I might even let you win. You seem like a girl who likes to win.”

“What's wrong with that? Don't tell me
you
don't care about winning.” Sammi threw the ball back at him.

Ky laughed as he started dribbling the ball down the sidewalk. Sammi hesitated a moment, then trotted after him, following him around the building to the hoop. Class was starting up in, like, fifteen. She'd see ill papi then. It would be good for him to wonder where she was for a change.

The thought startled Sammi. She was used to getting what she wanted. Not that she was spoiled or anything. She put in the time and the effort and the energy. That's why things happened for her.

And it's not like ill papi was one of those guys who was too shy or whatever to even want to deal with girls. Ill papi talked to Sophie all the time. If Sophie could get him laughing and talking, Sammi should be able to do it, too. She just had to find a way in.

But she'd already tried a lot of things. She'd tried finding out what he liked and liking it, too—or at least acting like she liked it. She'd done the casual arm touch to signal she was interested. She'd tried going completely bold and invited him to the movies. And she'd tried Ky's jealousy plan. Nothing was working for her.

“Four, three, two—” Ky said.

“What?” Sammi asked.

“I already told you. If I get to zero before you make the shot, I'm giving you an ‘H,'” Ky told her.

“Why don't you just go first?”

“I did. You were too busy thinking about—huh, what could you have been thinking about? Your face was kind of like this.” Ky put a dopey smile on his face that made him look like he'd had half his brain removed. “So I'm guessing it was ill papi.”

Sammi spotted the basketball lying on the ground near her feet. She picked it up. “Where am I supposed to shoot from?”

“Right here where I'm standing,” Ky told her. He gave her one of his I'm-king-of-the-world grins as she walked over to his spot almost under the basket. “Aren't you going to tell me I'm right?” he asked when she was toe to toe with him. “You were thinking about your papi, admit it.” He didn't back away.

“You don't need to hear you're right. Your head is too big already.” Sammi gave him a little push, lined up her shot.
Swish
. All net. “Oh, yeah!” she cried.

“Oh, yeah!” he squealed in a Minnie Mouse voice. As if she sounded like that. “I made a basket from two feet away from the hoop!”

“You're the one who chose that spot,” Sammi reminded him.

Ky snagged the ball and backed up as far as he could until his shoulders were pressed against the wall of the Hip Hop Kidz building. Sammi shook her head at him. “Be real. No one could make that shot.”

“I am
so
real,” Ky answered. “I'm only stopping because I have to.” He slapped the cement wall.