Bust a Move (8 page)

“Wonderful,” said Grandpa Tredwell. “I think that's worth, say, a hundred dollars.”

“You don't have to do that, Grandpa,” Emerson said. She was about to lie to him—all of them—and he was trying to give her a reward.

“I know I don't have to,” he answered. “I want to.”

“Thank you,” Emerson answered. She shot a glance at the clock. Almost time to put the plan into action. It wasn't going to be hard to pretend to be sick. Her stomach hated it when she lied. It was already starting to roll itself into a hard little ball.

“Are you feeling all right, sweetie?” her mother asked.

Emerson wasn't going to get a better opening than that. “Um, I guess,” she answered. She didn't want to overplay the sick thing. She didn't want to end up getting a doctor involved. And last year, even if she'd had the black plague, she would have tried to convince her mom she felt fine so that she could perform in her ballet recital.

“You guess?” Grandma Tredwell said. “I don't like the sound of that.”

“My stomach is a little upset,” Emerson admitted. “I'm probably just a little nervous.” If producing twice the usual amount of adrenaline counted as a little. If vibrating bones counted as a little.

She stood up quickly. “Excuse me. I need to—” Emerson quickly left the room, almost running but not quite. She ducked into the closest bathroom and shut the door. She flicked on the metal towel warmer that stood in one corner. “Please let this work,” she whispered as she opened the closet and pulled a large can of chunky vegetable soup out from behind a stack of fluffy towels. Then she stood on tiptoe and retrieved a can opener from the top shelf.

Quickly she opened the can of soup. She'd had to buy it herself. Her mom didn't keep canned soup in the house. Emerson cracked open the bathroom door. It was essential that at least
someone
in the living room hear what happened next.

Here goes.
Emerson lifted the toilet lid and dumped the chunky soup into the bowl. She smiled a little. It
did
sound exactly like vomit, just the way Sophie said it would.

A second later, Emerson heard footsteps coming her way. She shut the bathroom door, flushed the toilet, hid the empty soup can and can opener, gave a couple of loud coughs, then grabbed the warm towel off the metal rack and pressed the cloth against her forehead.

“Emerson, are you all right?” her mother called through the door.

“I just threw up,” Emerson answered. “I almost didn't make it in here.”

“Can I come in?”

Emerson glanced in the toilet. There were some very solid-looking vegetables floating around in there. She flushed again, then closed the seat and tossed the warm towel on top of it.

“I think I'll still be okay for the recital,” Emerson said as she opened the door.

Her mother immediately put her hand on Emerson's forehead. “You're hot. Why don't you go up to your room and lie down for a little while? Maybe you'll feel better in a bit.”

“Okay,” Emerson said. She headed up the stairs, trying to look wiped out. When she reached her room, she pulled a heating pad out from under her bed. She plugged it in, then crawled into bed with it, making sure the cord was concealed by the duvet. She hoped her mother wouldn't take too long to check on her. She wanted to get this over with.

About half an hour later—half an hour that felt like half Emerson's life—her mother gently opened the door. “How are you feeling now?” she asked as she walked over to the bed.

The time under the duvet with the heating pad had made little droplets of sweat pop out around Emerson's hairline and on her upper lip. “Maybe a little better. I really want to dance tonight,” Emerson answered, hoping she wasn't going too far.

“I know it's disappointing, baby. But I don't think there can be any dancing for you tonight. You're clearly feverish. We don't want you to faint onstage. I'll call your teacher and explain.”

“No!” Emerson exclaimed. Her mother raised her eyebrows.

Emerson hadn't put the possibility of a call to her ballet teacher into the plan. Of course her mom would want to call Rosemary.

“No, I'll do it,” Emerson said slowly, to give herself time to think. “Rosemary is probably already at the recital hall. She'll only be answering her cell—”
And Mom has that number,
she remembered, too late. “And she has a new cell number. I forgot to give it to you. I have it in my dance bag—I can call from up here.”

“All right. I'll call and cancel the dinner reservation.” Her mother turned for the door.

“Don't do that.” Emerson was careful to keep her voice low and calm this time. “You all still have to eat, even though I'm sick. I'll probably fall asleep about five minutes after I call Rosemary anyway.”

Her mother turned around and studied her face. “It
is
one of Mrs. Petersen's late nights. I could make sure that she's here until we get back.”

“You should go. Really.”
Really, really, really,
Emerson silently added.

“All right, but I'll have my cell. And of course your dad will have his BlackBerry. You call us if you need us. And I'll make sure Mrs. Petersen has the doctor's number, too, just in case.”

“Okay, Mom. I'll be fine,” Emerson said. She knew her mother would do at least one more check before she left. As it turned out, both her parents came in. Emerson acted really sleepy—even though her heart was doing wall flips off her ribs—sleepy enough that they left without saying much or doing a fever check.

As soon as she heard the car doors closing, Emerson crept over to the window and watched from behind the curtain until she saw her parents and grandparents drive off. Then she leaped into the next part of the plan. She used a rolled-up blanket to make an Emerson-ish body under the duvet, and she stuck her old Barbie Beauty Salon head on the pillow facedown. The head was a little smaller than her own head, but its blond hair was about the same color as Emerson's. If Mrs. Petersen just did a quick check, it would probably pass.

Now my backpack.
Emerson wanted to double-check that she'd put in everything she'd need for the competition. But there wasn't time. She put on the pack and slid open her window. Her room was only on the second floor, but the ground looked very far away. And the trellis didn't look as sturdy as it had when she'd come up with the plan. Right now, it looked strong enough to hold up the honeysuckle vines that climbed it but not much else.

I could try going down the stairs like a sane person,
she thought. But Mrs. Petersen really did have superhero hearing. Emerson glanced at her watch. She didn't have much time. The taxi would be waiting one house down. If she didn't show up soon, it would leave. She hadn't wanted to take more money out of her bank account for the cab. But driving was the only way—other than by boat—to get from the island over to Miami Beach. No bus. No train. No public transportation of any kind.

Just stick to the plan you decided on,
Emerson ordered herself. She turned around and climbed backward out of the window and onto the trellis. The slender pieces of crisscrossing wood trembled along with her shaking body.

Emerson kept climbing.

“I'm going to need some bottles of water for the Hip Hop Kidz Performance Group. Twenty-six should be enough,” Devane told Billy Wilson, the coordinator of the Southeast competition. “And there's a burned-out lightbulb in our dressing area. I'm going to need that taken care of, too.”

“Who are you again?” Billy asked.

“Devane. I won't be performing with the group tonight. But don't worry, I'll be bringing it to the nationals and the world championship. I'm the secret weapon,” she explained. “I noticed that PowerBar has signs up. Are they one of the sponsors?”

Devane had gone to a basketball clinic at a sporting goods store with Tamal once—because he begged until she thought her ears were going to start to bleed. Gatorade had its name plastered everywhere, and everyone who showed up had gotten a bottle of the new flavor. And the NBA player they'd shipped in for the clinic—the Gatorade man had made sure he had a biiig bottle of the G. juice in his hand every time anyone took a pic. That's how she had learned about sponsorship gigs.

Billy shook his head. “What's going to happen if I say yes?”

“I thought the sponsor might have some of their product for my team. It would look good for PowerBar to have the Hip Hop Kidz seen using their stuff.” Devane winked. “We
are
going to be winning tonight.”

“Oh. In that case, I'll see what I can do.”

“I appreciate that,” Devane told him. Then she headed to the backstage area—part of the fairgrounds—that had been assigned to the Hip Hop Kidz. She was still the only one from the group there. Perfection. She wanted to have everything ready before anyone arrived. If Gina wanted to see a team player, then Devane was going to be THE team player.

She reached under the long counter that the dancers would be using to put on their makeup and pulled out the banner that she'd made and a roll of tape. Devane decided to hang the banner over the entrance to the backstage area. That way, everybody would see it—not just her crew. Give the competition a little somethin' to think about.

“You must be Devane,” a teenage guy said to her as she climbed up on a ladder and began to hang the banner. She glanced at him. He held a carton of bottled water and a box of PowerBars in his arms.

“Where's my lightbulb?” she asked.

“Yeah, you're her,” he said. “And I'll get your lightbulb in a minute. Oh, the ladder—it's mine, by the way, Princess.”

“Princess, I like that,” Devane joked as he passed by her.

“Well, just so you know, Princess, there's a producer here tonight. He's checking out the talent. Looking to do some music videos and DVDs with a teen crew. I thought that was something you'd want to know.”

A producer? Here? Tonight?
Devane almost jumped out of her skin, wondering if she even heard right.
Looking to do some videos? Imagine what that could do for my three-year plan. Slash it right in half.
But she put her excitement in check. Didn't want to show her excitement. Because that kind of behavior was totally
A.M.A.T.E.U.R
.

“Absolutely. I'll make sure to follow up on that,” Devane told him.

She was feeling fine. Tonight was her night. She knew it. She was getting off probation tonight. She had to—after everything she was going to do for Gina and the team. She wasn't going to sulk around backstage the way she had at the Disney World show. She was going to work her tail off.

“Hip Hop Kidz Got the Juice,” Devane heard Gina read aloud. “Great sign.”

Devane hopped off the ladder. “Thanks. No one's here yet. But I heard there's a guy who's interested in making videos—maybe with the Hip Hop Kidz. I'll keep my ears open.”

“Maddy told me something about that. The guy—I can't remember his name right now, too much on my brain—is going to get in touch with her if he likes what he sees,” Gina said.

“That's the best.” Devane tried not to think about the fact that the producer wouldn't be making the call based on seeing any of her moves. Tonight wasn't about that. It was about getting off probation. “Hey, here come the twins.” They both applauded when they saw the sign. “I'm going to go check out the competition. I'll report back,” she told Gina.

“O-kay,” Gina said.

Devane slowly made a big circle of the backstage area as it gradually filled up. She eavesdropped, trying to get the rundown on what moves were going to be in the competition's routines. She watched warm-ups and run-throughs wherever she found them. Then she returned to the Hip Hop Kidz.

“I don't think we have too much to worry about,” she told Gina. “The Storm Lords and the Plain Janes bring some heat. Nothing that ill papi and M.J. can't outdo.” Devane wanted to add that she had the best of the best beat, too. But she wasn't in the competition. Dancing wasn't her job tonight.

“Do any of y'all need anything?” she called. Her whole crew was there now. Eatin' their bars. Havin' their water. “Want help with your makeup?” she offered.

Wait. Devane looked around and realized someone was missing. Ill papi. “Has anyone seen ill papi?”

“He's not here?” Gina asked, scanning the area.

“I haven't seen him,” Sammi said.

“Me either,” M.J. added.

Devane checked the clock. The competition was supposed to start in fifteen. Ill papi had to make it here. They needed him. What she'd seen on her stroll had convinced her of that.