Bust a Move (14 page)

“Hi, is Emerson there, please?” Sophie asked, using her best phone manners. Emerson's mom just brought them out in her. If she had white gloves, she'd be putting them on right now.

“Who's calling?” Mrs. Lane asked.

“Oops. Sorry. I forgot that part. This is Sophie. Sophie Qian. I'm in Emerson's hip-hop—I was in Emerson's hip-hop dance group. I mean, I'm still in it.”
Just stop, Soph,
she told herself.

“I'm afraid that Emerson doesn't have phone privileges right now,” Mrs. Lane said. “But I'll tell her you called.”

“Oh. Okay. Thank you,” Sophie said.

“Good-bye.”

“Bye.” Sophie hung up the phone. She'd forgotten about the no-phone part of Emerson's grounding. She really wanted to talk to Em about ill papi and J-Bang. How truly freaky was it that ill papi acted like J-Bang should be getting the Father of the Year award or something? When J-Bang didn't even know who ill papi was?

Should Sophie even mention J-Bang to ill papi—when she tracked him down—or just let that one slide completely by?

Arrrgh. She really needed somebody to
talk
to. And since Emerson wasn't available, she headed down to Sammi's room. The sounds of Buckshot & 9th Wonder pounded out of her sister's open door. Sophie peeked inside and saw Sammi working away at one of the Hip Hop Kidz routines.

She looked amazing. The girl could bust a move.

And the girl had the body. Looking at it made Sophie want a Ding Dong.

Maybe her sister had a lot of things Sophie didn't. Now she even had the Hip Hop Kidz Performance Group. But Sophie could have a whole bunch of Ding Dongs. She had a stash of them hidden behind her mother's in-case-of-the-apocalypse backup rolls of paper towels. In fact, Sophie was gonna have herself one or two of those Dings right now.

Because she just didn't feel like talking anymore.

 

 

 

It felt strange to be back in a leotard. Hip Hop Kidz didn't allow leotards in class. No tight-fitting clothes at all.

“You picked the wrong recital to miss,” Shelby told Emerson as they headed to the practice room. “Rosemary invited an instructor from Juilliard.”

“We were sort of being scouted,” Melissa added. “I so want to go there. The instructor, Ms. Nissenson, she was telling us how Juilliard prepares dancers for the career of dancing—students learn how to do their resumes and how to audition and all that.”

“You would have loved Ms. Nissenson,” Shelby said. “Some of us are already trying to figure out how we can room together in New York! We have to study with her.”

“Sounds great,” Emerson said. But most of her mind was miles away, over at the Hip Hop Kidz studio. The Performance Group class was about ready to start over there. Would they be learning a new routine today? Would Gina let them practice a jackhammer? Hardly anyone in the class had that one down. Emerson loved the way it looked. She wanted—

Emerson realized all the other girls were lined up at the barre. Oops. How could she have forgotten the drill in just a few months?

Rosemary entered the room, her short filmy skirt skimming over her black leotard. “Time to get started, girls.” She smiled at Emerson. “We're all happy to have you back, Em.”

Soft music began to play. “And we'll begin as always with regular pliés. First position.” Rosemary began to walk down the line of girls. “Long necks. Eyes and ears far from the floor,” she murmured. She paused at Emerson and adjusted the position of her head.

“Push the energy out of your fingers, your toes, your eyes.” Rosemary tapped Emerson's left hand. “Remember what I've taught you. Don't pull on the barre. You should always be thinking push, never pull.”

Twenty or thirty minutes of this,
Emerson thought as Rosemary walked away. Emerson used to love the intense concentration barre exercises required. They were almost like meditation. But now . . .

She missed the warm-ups of Gina's class. The loose down rocks and top rocks. Moves that could absorb anyone's style.

You're here now,
she reminded herself.
Try to focus.

“Think about all your bones being in a straight line,” Rosemary was saying. “You should start your turnout from the inside.” She stopped at Emerson
again
and put her hands on Emerson's ribs. “The turnout starts from here,” Rosemary told her. “I can see you've fallen into some bad habits. You have a lot of work ahead of you. The other girls have advanced while you've been gone.”

“I'm going to have to work so hard to get back where I was a few months ago,” Emerson told Vincent as he drove her home. “And I don't think I want to. All the other girls are all excited about maybe studying ballet at Juilliard after high school. But when I listen to them, I just don't feel anything.”

“People change,” Vincent said. “Especially when they're your age. You should have seen my closet by the time I got out of high school—trombone, drums, golf clubs, soccer ball, cleats, chess set, model airplanes, and a bunch of other junk. Half of it barely used.”

At least Vincent was still treating her the same way. He'd been mad when he found out she'd been lying to him—yeah. But Emerson felt like he kind of got why, even though he didn't exactly say so.

“Are you saying you think I would have gotten sick of hip-hop, too?” Emerson asked.

Vincent looked at her in the rearview mirror. “Not necessarily. Some things you love for a while. Some things you love forever. I still play the drums. I'm in a garage band with a bunch of other old farts. And when I'm playing—I'm the full-on Vincent. Doesn't matter that I don't make a living at it. Doesn't even matter that nobody thinks the band is much good. I just love it.”

“I love hip-hop,” Emerson told him. “I'm always going to love it. I know it.” She rested her head on the back of the seat. “It's just . . . fun. Not that much else I do is that fun. Today at ballet, doing exercises at the barre—not really that fun. And the rest of my life? It's like I know what's going to happen every second. Every day at three thirty I do my homework, and when I don't do it well enough, I get a tutor. Every night at seven, I eat something perfectly nutritious at the dining room table. And I always write thank-you notes the same day I get a present. And it's not like any of that is bad—but I like doing something where . . . where I don't always know what's coming next.”

Vincent nodded. “Like a drum solo.”

“Like when I decided to put a pirouette together with strobing,” Emerson said. “I'm sure surprising things can happen in ballet, too. But I just don't get the feeling there. That
me
feeling.”

“Pretty important feeling, I think,” Vincent told her.

“Yeah,” Emerson answered.
I can't let anyone take it away,
she silently added.
Not Rosemary or my parents or anyone else.

Devane was half a beat late going into the knee slide. What was with her?

She knew the answer to that question. She was paying more attention to Sammi's dancing than she was to her own. Sammi had been dancing in the Performance Group class for weeks. But now it was for real. Now she was a member of the group. And not a member on probation.

The girl only got to be in the group because I slipped up,
Devane thought.
She shouldn't really be here.

“Devane, pay attention, please,” Gina called out. And Devane realized she'd been late doing the kip up, too. Dang. She had to stop worrying about Sammi and start worrying about her own self—or she was going to be on probation forever.

Although with ill papi being a ghost again, maybe Gina would think about pulling Devane off probation sooner rather than later. Without ill papi, there was still a hole in the group. If she could fill that hole, her plan would be back—

“Devane, I don't know where your head is, but get it into this classroom,” Gina snapped.

Devane didn't even know what she'd done that time.
You were the one who was telling Emerson you would dance no matter what,
Devane thought.
Now you're so worried about your three-year plan that you can hardly dance at all.

Wait. That was it. Devane had an idea how to fix things for Emerson and herself. All at the same time.

“Dad, I need to work on a project with a friend. A school project,” Sophie announced as soon as she and Sammi got in his cab after class. “Can you take me after we drop off Sammi?” Sophie didn't want Sammi seeing her getting out at ill papi's house. Not that Sammi would know it was ill papi's house—unless ill papi was out in front. Just in case, though, Sophie didn't want Sammi around. She wanted to do this mission solo.

“I use this car to make money, you know,” her father answered. “It isn't the personal taxi service for you and your sister.”

“I'll be your best friend,” Sophie promised.

Her father smiled. “Then of course I'll take you.”

Sophie smiled back. She couldn't imagine her life without her father. Maybe that's why ill papi talked about J-Bang so much. Maybe everyone just needed a dad—even one who was imaginary. Because that's what Sophie thought was the deal. Ill papi just told himself—and everyone else—that J-Bang was his father. Maybe ill papi didn't know who his real dad was, or maybe his real father was dead, or maybe his real father was a jerk. For some reason, ill papi had decided to make J-Bang his dad.

Don't ask about J-Bang,
Sophie reminded herself as she headed up to ill papi's front door. She'd decided that ill papi's deal with his quote-unquote father was his business. She was here to make sure he was okay. If he wasn't okay, she was going to do whatever needed to be done to get him okay. And if he was already okay, she was going to do whatever needed to be done to get his butt to the next Performance Group class.