Shrinking Violet (16 page)

For the rest of the night I search for an out. Finally, when Jason's turning the corner to my street, it comes to me like a flash of lightning. What if random people try and stop by the station to catch a glimpse of Sweet T? They might not gain access to the studio, but nobody can stop them from hanging by the front door. Yes, this is my ticket out.

There's no way we can keep my identity a secret from the world. Derek will have to think of another way to boost the show's ratings without exploiting my anonymity.

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After Jason drops me off, I find Mom and Rob sitting at the kitchen table drinking cappuccinos. There's a bag of biscottis and a plate of croissants in front of them. I stick my head in and mumble good night, but Mom motions me to the table. I'm still pissed at her for calling me a bitch, but I'm too tired to fight. I slump down into the chair.

"Would you like one?" Mom pushes the cellophane bag of assorted biscottis toward me.

She's offering me food past ten? Something's got to be up. I shake my head. Even though I'm hungry, I'm not falling into one of her traps.

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"Listen, Tere. I wanted to apologize for yesterday. I was out of line," she says.

No kidding.
I don't budge an inch. I'm not meeting her halfway. She could've raised a heroin addict, but she got me-- good girl, former snowball--who spends most of her time in her room.

Mom wipes some froth from her lips with a napkin and continues, "I just didn't want you to fall into a situation that you couldn't get out of."

"Well, you can get me out of one now. Derek announced some crazy prom contest, but I don't see how it can work." I fold my arms against my chest.

She wants peace? Let her work for it.

"That's what we wanted to talk to you about." Rob sets his cup back into the saucer.

"So you agree? It makes no sense." Phew, I lean back into the chair and finally breathe.

"Actually, I think it's a great idea. We're number two in teen demographics, and this stunt is sure to secure us the number one spot. You can have a lot of fun with it."

"Mom?" I look at her, plead with my eyes.

"What? Now you're going to prom!" She sounds like she's announcing the Florida Lotto winner, not the end of my life.

"Or do you mean, now
you're
going?" I say. She's been on me all year to be a chaperone and now her dream has come true,

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while mine has been squashed. Funny how that works.

"I only wanted to help." She secures the cellophane bag shut with a chip clip.

"I have a bad feeling about this setup. What if the winner is disappointed when it's just me? Not some supercelebrity." I cover my face with my hands.

"That won't happen. We'll get you all dolled up and pick out a beautiful dress. I'll ask Pamela to do your makeup."

Suddenly I'm famished. I reach for the plate of croissants and grab one. Mom pulls the end of it. "Just half. We have a dance to prepare for."

I roll my eyes, grab a second one, and storm out of the kitchen. And I thought she was apologizing? How stupid of me.

In my room I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror in my SLAM tee. Two months ago I only dreamed of being on the air, and now I have people calling up to say how much they like me. I take a bite of one of the croissants, but reality hits. I have to get glammed up and wear a slinky dress in a few weeks. I toss the pastries into the trash and stick on my headphones. Music is the best medicine.

***

you, the mike, and an old track by Pete Baxter before he was with juice Box, before he was
a somebody..."Split Open Wide"...

***

"Dude, you should totally enter. Then you'd get to go to the senior prom," the kid with the crew cut says to his friend.

The other guy is barely five feet and weighs about as much as a box of uncooked noodles. "Yeah, that'd be so cool. But I can't sing."

Thank God for that! This is really scaring me. It's going to be a treacherous few weeks until the prom--talk about a long drawn-out death.

I finally zip up my bag when the conversation switches to jockstraps. I'm about to turn the corner when I see Gavin at the far end of the hall by his locker. He couldn't possibly hear them talking that far away. Could he? I thought he was absent since I didn't see him in English class today. He pulls out his notebook and shoves it into his bag. I shuffle his way, hoping he'll turn around and say something. He didn't call. I've checked my cell like a hundred times. I know it's kind of stupid, it's only been one night, but still, I was hoping I'd hear from him.

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He looks up. His eyes are like polished stone. "Hey, Tere." He shuts his locker.

"Hi." I pretend to be surprised. Pretend that I didn't know locker 203 was his. "I figured you were sick."

"No, I forgot to tell you guys yesterday that I had a dentist appointment today. Did I miss anything in class?"

"Just Kayla whining. We didn't work on the project today." I rub the tip of my sneaker against the linoleum. It makes a little screeching noise.

Gavin laughs. "Oh, and thanks for the Shrinking Violet tunes. They were even cooler than I imagined."

"No prob." I smile. "I'm mad for Shrinking Violet."

"Me, too. How was dinner?"

"Dinner?" It's only two o'clock.

His eyes narrow. "With your aunt."

"Oh, that. Fine. Good food. Yeah." I nod, trying to convince myself that I didn't really eat dinner out of the vending machine at SLAM last night. "Did I miss anything?"

"Only Kayla stressing over the schedule. She shifted a few things."

"She'll give herself an ulcer."

Gavin laughs again. "Or us. If you have a sec, I'll go over everything and save you from meeting with her."

"I'd love that."
More than you'd ever know.
My homework can wait and Mom's not picking me up for another hour. We stroll over to the picnic table near the school parking lot. Alone time with Gavin--if Audrey could see me now!

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We sit across from each other. He shows me Kayla's revised schedule, and I pull out my heavily doodled I
Love Gavin
notebook. I quickly flip the pages, so he doesn't think I'm a deranged stalker.

It turns out Kayla just moved around a few things--a couple more lines for her, a longer skating solo, and a big group hug at the end. I'm really not even thinking about the presentation because the contest has taken over my brain. But if sitting here, talking about the presentation, means more face time with Gavin, I'm all for it. Unfortunately, we're done discussing the project after twenty minutes.

I don't want him to leave, so I point to his iPod resting on the table. "Isn't that the best invention ever?"

"Definitely. Whoever came up with portable music was a genius." He cups the thin black rectangle in his hand.

"I'd be dead without mine." I feel inside my pocket to make sure it's still there.

"So, who's your favorite band?"

"Hard to say. I get totally lost in Speed Bump and Juice Box when I'm having a bad day, but PJ Squid, Grade May, and Mint-paste pump me up."

"I know what you're saying. I've got music for different moods, too."

A few volleyball players walk by. I scan the group to make sure Stacy's not going to jump out and attack me. Thank God she's not with them.

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I pick at a splinter of wood on the table. "So I'm not the only-insane one."

"Nope." He pushes his bangs out of his eyes. I stare back at him and utter, "Good."

Gavin rests his elbows on the table. "You know, you're so easy to talk to. You don't jabber on and on like most girls."

I want to pelt him with questions:
So what does that mean? Do you think I'm cute? Will
you ever ask me out?

But I take the safe approach. "Thanks. I like talking to you, too."

We both blush, and I rack my brain for a way to get out of this awkward but wonderful moment.

Gavin beats me to it. "Do you like Maltese?" I nod my head.

He scrolls through some songs on his iPod and hands me an earbud. "Check out this track. They can't play this version on the radio."

I already know that he's talking about the thirty-second intro to "Hot Button," where Maltese mouths off about his cheating ex, but I make like it's Gavin's discovery. "Wow.

That's heated," I say after the track is over.

"Yeah, he must've been so ticked at that Lyla girl."

"Or maybe he did something to her first."

"I guess there are two sides to every story."

"Mmm." I'm still thinking about how nice it would be to go to the prom with Gavin instead of Mr. X. I could be paired with

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a serial killer in training or worse, a guy that eats cold spaghetti in his oversized undies all day.

Maybe I should tell Gavin to enter the SLAM contest. I know he can play the guitar well, but he has to be able to sing, too. I wonder why his tune for the project is all instrumental.

"Hey, why aren't you writing a song for the presentation?" I ask.

"Getting up in front of the class and playing my guitar is daunting enough, don't you think?"

"Yeah." I nod.

There goes that idea . . out the window. I guess I'll have to rely on fate to pick a decent contest winner.

"That's cool." Gavin reaches over and touches the bracelet on my arm. It's braided leather with silver butterflies. His fingers linger and send chills up my spine.

"Thanks. I got it last summer at an art festival in Coconut Grove."

"It's really pretty."

I smile, pretending that he's talking about me, not my fashion accessory. We lace fingers. Before I even have a chance to take a deep breath, he stands up and slides onto my side of the bench. He is sitting so close to me, I hope he doesn't mistake my heart for a ticking time bomb.

I look into Gavin's eyes. They are soft. He scoots even closer, but I am frozen. I take a deep breath and lean forward. I can feel his breath on my lips.
Body, don't fail me now.
I press my lips

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against his. The touch is magical, lighting up my whole body.

A car horn beeps, and he quickly removes his lips from mine. I look over. Damn, it's Mom. She rolls down her window and waves. Why does she have to ruin everything?

Does she know how long I waited for a kiss like this?

I shove my notebook into my bag. "Sorry, Gavin. That's my mom. I have an appointment."

He rises from the bench, too. "I'll see you tomorrow. And don't worry about the project.

It'll be fine."

Wish I could say that about the rest of my life. "I hope."

We say good-bye and I run to the car. Mom beeps again when I'm like fifteen feet away.

Does she think I'm going to do my penguin run in front of Gavin?

Mom agreed to drive me to the station every day until the contest is over so my cover isn't blown. She blasts the tunes from SUN FM on the drive to SLAM, and I stare out the window. Occasionally she lowers the volume to talk about prom-dress styles or hair accessories, but other than that, we let the tunes carry the conversation.

When we're about five minutes from the station, Mom turns off the radio. "Who was that boy?"

"Where?" I look out the window, hoping there are random boys running across the intersection.

"The one you were sitting with when I picked you up."

"A kid from my English class. We're working on a group project together."

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"Right," she confirms to herself. "From where I was sitting, he looked goth."

I don't want to argue with her, but I feel the need to protect him. "Mom, he's not goth."

"Could've fooled me. What kind of person wears all black on a day like this?"

I don't want to share any part of Gavin with her. I lightly trace my lips with my fingertip. I can still feel his lips pressed against mine--soft but firm. "He's a plain old nice guy who happens to like dark colors. You don't even know him."

"Exactly."

You can never win with her.

We pull up to the parking garage and Mom slides her access card into the machine. The bar raises and she zooms inside, right up to the elevator. "I really hope you meet a decent guy through this contest."

"Wishful thinking. This is a blind date, after all." I shut the car door. Voice meets voice.

Mystery man hears me on the radio, and I hear him sing. Why can't we just leave it that way?

I try and keep a low profile at the station, but that's kind of hard when Cindy from promotions pops in every five minutes to ask me stupid questions. I was okay with her asking what color flowers and confetti do I prefer for prom, but then she asked me for the measurements of the dance floor. Okay, it doesn't take a PhD in promotions for a person to figure out that maybe the hotel might be the best place to find that answer.

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"Has Cindy always been this . . not so bright?" I ask Jason. He laughs. "Sometimes she takes her job a little too seriously."

"Yeah." I roll my eyes. "Maybe she'd like to go on the date."

"You know, I think this experience might be good for you." Jason cues up a Moonstar track.

My face drops. Even Jason's turning on me. This is not good.

He puts a hand on my shoulder. "What I mean is, it's like your first step into dating.

You're cute. You're eighteen. And you need to have more fun. Consider this prom gig a practice run."