Pop Princess (6 page)

I knew Trina wasn't dissing Lucky. She was just being Trina: honest.

I had a sharp intake of breath. It felt so good to be around someone, besides my parents, who had known and cared about my sister.

It seemed I had barely fallen asleep when I felt Trina gently tugging my arm to wake me. Through the sheer living room curtains, I could see the sun rising over the ocean. In my dawn-struck squint I saw that Trina was already dressed and wearing a track suit. She stretched down on the floor next to me.

“Get up, lady! First we'll go for a run, and then we'll get busy.”

“Have you ever thought about a career in the military, Trina?” My voice was whiny, but I was already stepping out of bed. I mumbled, “Wonder needs fullon caffeinated double latte.”

“When we get back.”

My voice came alive. “Now!” Trina shot me her
don't-speak-to-me-in-that-tone-of-voice-young-lady
look, and I whimpered, “Pretty please?”

“Yo, princess, be ready in five minutes and I'll have a regular coffee with skim milk and an Equal in a thermos for you.”

Sigh. “Deal.”

The early morning run turned out to be a good idea, totally energizing me for the day. By the time later that afternoon that Tig hit the “record” button in the studio, I was raring to go, and with Trina singing harmony, I admit, I sounded great—and confident. We were able to record the demo in five takes. Recording the video turned out to be easy too, especially when Tig prompted me to make faces into the camera. “Just be yourself,” he said, advice that allowed me not to mess up the dance moves Trina had choreographed to the song. The moment of perfection came when Tig suggested we take the videocam out to the beach, and he recorded me dancing and doing cartwheels on the sand. I was psyched by how well the song recording had gone and how well I had performed Trina's choreography, so our takes at the beach were fun and carefree—exactly the mood Tig wanted.

When I left that night, Tig told me, “You did great today, Wonder. Just remember, these things are so arbitrary. What Trina and I think is great might send dozens of record execs snoozing. But you'll hear from me if I get any positive responses. Meantime, I arranged with the dance studio in town for you to take dance classes. Three times a week after school, all paid up through Christmas. Think you can do that?”

I nodded and thanked him. I was feeling muscles reawakening in my body, and I wanted to ride that wave as long as possible, pop princess or not. And hopefully the classes would not interfere with
South Coast
airings.

Trina grabbed me in a hug. “It's been too long,” she whispered in my ear.

“Can we still hang out, like even if nothing happens with all this?” I asked her.

She handed me a piece of paper with her e-mail address and dorm room phone number on it. “You know it. Work hard, Wonder. Lucky would be so proud of you.” She added, “
I'm
so proud of you.”

Tig said, “So, Wonder, think you're ready to be a pop princess? No promises, of course, but if I shop your demo around to the labels and they like it, your life could change . . . quickly.”

I wasn't ready, but I wasn't worried. No way would any record company be interested in Wonder Blake. But thanks, Tig and Trina, for the fun weekend away from Chez Blake. Cinderella will turn back into a pumpkin now.

Autumn passed, with no word
from Tig. Mom jumped every time the phone rang, but I was growing indifferent, feeling hopeless, not about the music career, but about our new lives by the sea. Charles was doing well in his school and had lots of new friends who didn't care that he was a summer who had become a townie. Charles rocked on a skateboard. That was enough. As for Charles's older sister, she was finding Devonport High to be hell on earth.

No matter what I did at school, I just didn't seem to be able to get it right. You'd think I went around school wearing a shirt emblazoned with the letter “L” on it—“L” for “Loser” and not for “Laverne.” As far as I knew, I wore cute clothes, I was okay-looking, I didn't pick my nose in public, and I tried to be friendly to everybody, no matter whether they were a geek, jock, stoner, cheerleader, or brain. Maybe my loser status was because I had transferred into a class that had already spent two years together, or perhaps because I was a former summer who had been a B-Kid and Jen Burke had made it her mission to tell anyone who would listen that I was a stuck-up bitch. There was always my theory—that a secret memo had been circulated to the student body stating simply,
Wonder Blake: Nobody.

Even Katie stopped associating with me at school. A summer spent practicing handsprings and pleasantly shouting back orders at the drive-thru window had prepared Katie for her dream—she was chosen as an alternate for the cheerleading squad. That, and cleared-up skin thanks to a Retin-A prescription, had granted Katie lunchtime admission to a cafeteria table of short-pleated-skirt girls and athlete guys. Now she was on her way. I would have been dead weight to her at school. We didn't talk about the fact that we were friends at work, but not at school. It was just something that happened.

The months of September and October found me roaming the halls alone, standing mute at my locker as kids who had known each since elementary stood around talking and laughing. When I tried to jump into a conversation, I got looks of contempt, or was just ignored. Lunchtime would have been torture if not for my unexpected savior, Science Project. Henry had a small group of geek friends he could have hung out with, but he regularly ditched them to sit with me in the darkest and farthest reach of the cafeteria and go over my algebra homework with me. Oh yeah, I could barely maintain a C average, despite my promise to Dad to get my grades up.

I begged Mom and Dad to let me drop out of school, or at least for us to go back to Cambridge. They said no. They said, Making new friends takes time. Be patient. Join a club!

Easy for them to say. They didn't have to hear the whispers when I walked by people's desks: “That's the girl that was a B-Kid.” “That's the girl whose sister died.” “She used to be a summer.”

I was missing Lucky something fierce. The time since she had died had been soaked up in basic survival. Now, in this new environment where no one really knew me, I hurt. I could see Lucky and me walking the school halls together, sharing a plate of fries at lunch, whispering in each other's ears when we scoped a hot guy. I thought, If Lucky were here, I could do this, I could deal.

Mom must have read too many of those empower-your-teen-daughter saving Ophelia whatever books, because she came into my room one night with this genius idea: “Have you thought about trying out for the school musical? I just
know
you'd make friends doing that. I happen to be sure you're the most talented singer at that high school, probably in all of Devonport. Give it a try, won't you?”

I said okay just so she'd leave my room but Dad followed right behind her. “Hey, kiddo, guess what Dad got you online. A subscription to
Teen Girl
magazine!”

Thanks Dad, that oughta solve all my problems. That'll get me right on track to being a well-adjusted teen!

Dance class was my one refuge. After the initial OUCH that came from regular dance classes after two solid years as a couch potato, I was burning up the dance floor at the small studio in Devonport. The sweaty girl I saw in the mirror of the dance studio was not the outcast who never got invited to parties or didn't have friends—the sweaty girl I saw in the mirror was alive with power. The minute the music came on, whether it was hip-hop or modern or classical, I felt my body relax and I was able to concentrate in ways I never seemed capable of in school. As I pushed, pulled, tapped, swung, twisted, turned, stretched, and flew across the dance floor, I imagined myself liberated from Devonport, living on my own, bailing on school entirely.

But when the music ended, I went home to Mom and Dad—Mom and Dad who weren't fighting like they did in the Cambridge house in the year after Lucky died, but who now, in this big house, just didn't particularly bother talking to each other. Dad was more interested in obscure-Civil-War-trivia-dot-com, and Mom could not be separated from sad TV movies on the Lifetime channel starring just about every actor who'd ever been on
Beverly Hills, 90210.
Good thing Charles had that skateboard.

Alone in my room at night, I pretended I was a pop princess. With Kayla's latest CD in my stereo, I practiced lip-synching songs in front of my mirror, adding dance moves from the day's class. A rainbow of pop princess pictures—Kayla, Mariah, Kylie—plastered the mirror, thanks to Dad's
Teen Girl
subscription for me. In my room, in that mirror, I was anybody I wanted to be. For hours, instead of studying, I could pretend I was a pop princess. The mirror didn't know that at school I was considered a freak.

Confident with my dance moves
and sadly following through on Mom's advice, idiot-for-brains here really did audition for the school musical. I thought I could make a decent Miss Adelaide in
Guys and Dolls,
which would be so convenient, as Doug Chase was a shoo-in for Nathan Detroit. I sat through the auditions watching Jen Burke warble through
“The sun will come out, tomorrow,”
looking like a stick figure with fake emotive hand gestures and sounding like a tone-deaf Miss Piggy, I swear she was awful, but her whole clique of friends screamed and applauded when she finished and the drama teacher pronounced her performance “Very nice indeed!”

My name was called next, and even though Jen and her group were giggling and pointing at me, I didn't care—one thing I knew was that I was a better singer. My heart was beating very fast and my ears were ringing because I knew I was the object of Jen & Co.'s scorn and laughter, but I heard Lucky whisper in my ears:
You show them.
I didn't need piano accompaniment, I just stood there on the stage, closed my eyes, and tried to block out the laughter coming from the seats. I started out, “
Don't cry for me, Argentina,”
and was pleased that my pitch sounded right and my voice strong and pretty, when suddenly I heard Jen spew, “Some B-Kid here thinks she's Madonna!” I stopped singing.

The drama teacher shushed Jen, saying to me, “That's quite a powerful voice you've got there, Wonder. Sounds like you've had professional training. Would you like to try again?”

I nodded and closed my eyes, because I felt like I was going to cry from embarrassment. I went back into the song, but only made it to “
the truth is, I never
 . . .” when I heard farting noises coming from a corner of the auditorium. Oh fuck it, I thought, why am I bothering with this?

I opened my eyes, looked upward quickly so tears would not fall down my cheeks, and, careful not to wipe at the tears, said to the teacher, “Ya know what? Between dance class and schoolwork and my job, I don't have time to do this.”

I ran off backstage and out the fire exit. I stood against the brick wall of the school building, taking deep breaths, considering taking all my savings and running away, back to Boston—anywhere but Devonport. I'd figure out how to survive later, once I was out of this stupid town.

As if the situation wasn't bad enough, Doug Chase burst out the door just after I did. “Hey,” he said to me.

I looked over my shoulders to make sure he wasn't talking to someone else, but no, it was just me standing there. I didn't say anything back—I was still choking back tears. Was he to be the last stage of my humiliation?

“You have an awesome voice,” he said.

Shock-a-rooni! I sputtered, “Thanks.” I sniffled.

Doug said, “We need a backup singer for my band. You interested in meeting the guys, hearing us play?”

I so almost said out loud,
If that meant getting to stare at your gorgeousness for one extra second, then yeah.
But there was that whole issue of my loser status; I couldn't imagine Doug's buds actually entertaining the notion of having an . . . UNPOPULAR person (NO!!!!!!!!!!!) in their band. Then again, I thought, how much would Jen Burke be pissed off by the invitation?

“I don't know,” I said.

Doug said, “We're playing at the Homecoming Dance. Come hear us, see what you think.”

And just like that, he was gone, Doug and his serpent tattoo slithered back inside the school auditorium without a good-bye, as if they'd been a figment of my imagination. I didn't even have the chance to say, But I don't have a date to the Homecoming Dance!

So what. One week later, I dragged Henry to it, because I just had to hear Doug play. Of course, I didn't tell Mom and Dad I was going to the Homecoming Dance. The thought of Mom coupling Henry and me in front of the fireplace for pictures in our formalwear, oohing and aahing over us when there was no “us” was just too . . . horrible even to think about. Mom and Dad assumed I had chosen to take a shift at the Dairy Queen that night. Instead, I snuck an old dress of Lucky's into my backpack, got dressed, and did my makeup in the bathroom at McDonald's. I slipped a coat over the dress and put on sneakers to walk the mile to school, where I met up with Henry. We had agreed to go to the dance as just friends.

“Wow,” Henry squeaked when I took off my coat. Lucky's dress was a hot pink number with spaghetti straps and cinched waist. On her, the dress had looked sweet. On my curvy body, it verged on slutty. Henry's face turned the color of a tomato as I replaced my sneakers with a pair of slingback black pumps with three-inch heels.

“Science Project,” I said, “it's just me. Don't get all weird.” We were standing in front of the gym as people walked by, and I was on alert, hoping that Doug would show up and see my hot look before my glitter eye shadow and cherry red lipstick started to wear off. Through the gym doors I could see Katie and her cheerleader friends hanging out. Katie offered me a subtle, halfhearted wave, then quickly redirected her attention to her new friends.