25
Honing Our Act

“Jeez, everybody’s got a talent except me,” Mary Agnes says. We are in the catacombs. I was expecting a scary dungeon from the girls’ description, like something from Terror Lake. But it is only a basement with narrow hallways and low ceilings. Mary Agnes exaggerates everything. “Alex plays the drum thingy, Bijou’s a terrific dancer, and Maricel has her DJ thing.” She smiles at Nomura like a proud mother. “John is an all-around genius and a pretty decent rapper, if I do say so myself. And Ira can do video projections. But what do I do?”

“You’re the one who brought us all together,” Nomura says.

“And you’re the one who bosses us around,” Alex says, laughing.

“You make sure we get here on time,” Maricel says.

“… and bring all the stuff we’re supposed to,” says Ira.

“Yeah, but onstage, nobody sees that,” Mary Agnes says. “So it doesn’t really count.”

“What is the word in English?” I ask. “Choreographer?” Mary Agnes shrugs.

“How about executive producer?” Nomura asks.

“Ooh, I like that,” says Mary Agnes. “That’ll do. That’ll do quite nicely.”

I resist asking, Executive producer of … what, exactly? Because we have been doing a lot of talking so far, but not much of what I would call rehearsing. Alex played one of the beats that Jou Jou has been teaching him, and I began to move—only Mary Agnes would call it dancing—along to the rhythm. Maricel began to sing a sweet, lazy melody in Spanish, and Ira told us he could make a little movie to go along with our song for the final performance. So far, I have not heard any of Nomura’s rapping, so he must have treated Mary Agnes to a private performance!

In fact, he might be treating her to it again right now, because she just pulled him out of the room and into the catacombs. “I want to show you, John. Come on.” And he did. Maybe if I had grown up in this school, if I knew all its twists and turns like Mary Agnes knows the catacombs, I would pull Alex away for a moment of privacy, too. It would be nice to have time alone with him. But it doesn’t feel right to go sneaking off. It doesn’t even feel right to hold hands in front of the group. I try to trade glances with him when I can, but that is as far as I dare go. What I have with him is too private to share with others, whether they are friends or not.

Alex, Maricel, Ira, and I are packing up our things now. No sign of Mary Agnes and Nomura.

“Bijou, want to walk me back to St. Chris’s?” Alex asks.

Ah, nice idea. At least one of us is being creative. “Yes,” I say. “I’d like that.”

“Okay, see you guys,” Maricel says as we walk up the stairs to the main level. We wave good-bye.

When Ira, Alex, and I walk through the front doors, Ira tells him, “Dude, I’ve gotta talk to you. It’s important.”

“Can’t it wait?” Alex asks.

“No, not really. I need to tell you something now.”

Alex puts his arm around Ira’s shoulder and whispers, “It needs to wait. Give us some space here. Walk back on Orange instead of Cranberry.” Ira doesn’t look insulted; he looks worried. He doesn’t move until Alex says, “Bijou and I want to be alone for a few minutes, get it?” Ira walks off, helpless.

Once we are a block away and can see that no one else is around, we are holding hands. We laugh about the “rehearsal” and wonder whether or not we will all be making fools of ourselves.

“I don’t want to give Haitian drumming a bad name,” Alex says.

“Don’t worry,” I tease. “What you are doing, I wouldn’t call ‘Haitian drumming.’ Not yet.”

“Thanks a lot!” Alex says, tickling me. “How many years ’til I become a master drummer, you think?”

“How many years?” I ask. “Or how many lifetimes?”

He makes a pretend-hurt face and puts his arm around my waist, and I let my head fall on his shoulder. Even though he is only a little bit taller than me, it works.

But our schools are too close together. I can already see St. Christopher’s, only a block away. Is there time for a quick kiss before we get too close? I stop and look at Alex and those beautiful blue-green eyes. I sigh and hug him. Today, a hug is enough. I breathe him in and then, though I don’t want to, let him go.

“I’ll be thinking of you,” I say.

“Me too,” he says. “All day.”

We each walk backward for a few steps, not wanting to stop looking at each other. But soon enough, he is gone.

In front of school, I see Trevor again, this time with a knowing look in his eye. As if he is waiting for me.

“How was rehearsal?” he asks, not exactly blocking my way on the steps, but not letting me pass him, either.

“I hear Alex is a real good drummer,” he says, playing air drums. As if with drumsticks, not like a Haitian drummer at all.

“Yes, he is,” I say. “Can you move, please? I have class.”

“He isn’t who you think he is,” Trevor says. “Alex, I mean.”

“If that’s what you think, then you don’t know him.”

“I know Schrader pretty well. We’ve been in the same class since kindergarten,” he says. “You’ve been here, what, a couple months?”

When I don’t say anything, he says, “Anyway, you’ll see what I mean soon enough.” He slides down the banister, his feet smacking the sidewalk when he reaches the bottom. “And when you do, feel free to get in touch. Like I said, I think you’re really—”

Instead of letting him finish the sentence, I run up the steps and put all my body’s weight against the door, not thinking for a moment that someone might be on the other side of it.

“You idiot, watch where you’re going!” Jenna yells. I hit her with the door, and the drink she was holding must have exploded because her pink T-shirt is covered in soda. “God, what do you think you’re doing?”

“Oh no, Jenna, I didn’t mean it,” I say, not asking her what she thought she was doing, standing directly in front of the door like that. “It was a mistake. There was glare on the glass. I’m so sorry.”

“Not as sorry as you’re going to be if you don’t stop flirting with my boyfriend.”

Oh, so this is what she’s upset about. If she only knew how wrong she was. “Jenna, I was not flirting with him. And if it were my choice, I would not even be talking to him. If you don’t want us to have a conversation, tell him to stop talking to me.”

“You’re lying,” she says. “Why would Trevor talk to you?” As if I am garbage. Who raised this girl?

“Since you were watching,” I ask, “did it look like I came up to him? He wouldn’t even let me walk by him.”

“I know the truth about you, you know. I know everything.”

“What are you talking about?”

“And I’m going to tell every single person, in both schools. Everyone’ll finally see what a little faker you are. Let’s see how popular you are after that.”

I don’t need to hear any more. I leave the obviously crazy girl there, her mouth wide open, syrupy soda still dripping off her skin, her clothing, even her face, as her voice echoes through the halls.

“You’re going to be sorry! When I’m done, you’re going to wish you never came to this school!”