Bring It On #1

Emerson scanned the room—in what she hoped wasn’t an obvious way—as she walked into her first class with the Hip Hop Kidz Performance Group. She could hardly believe this had worked. She could hardly believe Sophie’s sister had pulled off the phone call with Maddy.

She recognized a bunch of people from the one time she’d seen the group perform, including a tall guy in a Gator baseball hat. M.J., his name was. He’d had an amazing solo, and she’d looked him up in the program.

Emerson realized her scan had turned into a stare, and she forced her eyes away. A skinny girl almost as tall as M.J. with short dyed black hair and ultra-pale skin was doing stretches over in one corner. She met Emerson’s gaze and smiled as she leaned over flat-backed, with her arms out in front of her. It felt like sort of an invitation, so Emerson headed over to the girl and started doing some ankle rolls. It felt better to be doing something in the room full of strangers than just standing there.

“You’re one of the new meat patties. I’m Chloe,” the girl said. “I hope you’re ready to be tortured. I’ve been in the group for a year, and my muscles haven’t stopped aching yet.”

“Emerson. Hi.” Emerson switched over to shoulder shrugs. “I’m so excited that I got in. I’ve only been doing hip-hop a few months. But I’ve been doing ballet forever.”

“Ballet. I did that for about half a minute when I was little. I think it was my mom’s way of trying to get me to like pink. Didn’t work—obviously,” Chloe answered. “I’m gonna go fill up my water bottle. You should, too, if yours isn’t maxed. You’ll need it.”

“So you’re a ballerina, not a cheerleader,” a voice said from behind Emerson as Chloe walked away.

Emerson turned around and saw Devane. You knew she was going to be here, Emerson thought. There was no way the Divine One wasn’t going to get chosen. She forced herself to smile. She didn’t want to have a thing with someone in the group. It was time for her and Devane to start over.

Devane stared at her for a moment, then smiled. Actually smiled. “That’s right. We have to start picking out cute names. Those little dogs have to have cute names.”

Maybe she was more stressed about the competition than she let on, Emerson thought, happy she’d risked saying something friendly, something sort of Sophie-ish. Maybe now that we’re in the group together, everything’s going to be okay.

“I like your T-shirt.” Relax, Emerson, she ordered herself. You’re sliding into the pathetic zone now. I like your T-shirt. Jeez. In a second she was going to be telling Devane that she liked her socks. But Emerson really did like Brimstone127, and she didn’t know the group even had T-shirts.

“It’s not from the Stella McCartney collection,” Devane answered, her eyes narrowing a fraction.

“That’s what’s cool about it.” Emerson smoothed the sleeve of her Stella tracksuit self-consciously. “Brimstone127 is local. Probably only people in Miami have that T-shirt. I wish I had one. I love those guys,” Emerson said.

“You love them?” Devane raised her eyebrows. And there it was, that attitude again, like in the locker room. “What song of theirs do you love?”

Emerson’s brain went liquid. It was like she’d just been handed a surprise quiz in French. She loved almost all the Brimstone127 tracks. But she couldn’t think of one. She glanced at the front of the classroom. Where was the teacher? Wasn’t it time to get this class started? “Um . . .”

“Um,” Devane repeated. She threw out her arms. “Anybody else want to give it a try? Anybody else want to try and name one of the Brimstone127 crew’s tracks?” she called, throwing the question out to the whole room.

“Thank you,” Devane told them. She turned back to Emerson and lowered her voice. “You shouldn’t try to fake that you know what you don’t. It’s okay, they don’t teach everything at prep school.”

And we’re back to her hating me, Emerson thought. There had to be some way to get them back to where they could joke around again.

Not good, not good, not good. Translation? Bad. Sophie was about to be late to her very first class with the Hip Hop Kidz Performance Group. Way to make a good first impression, Soph, she thought as she rushed out of the empty locker room—and right into ill papi.

Not just a little shoulder brush, either. A body smack. Way to make a good first impression, Soph, she thought again. “Sorry,” she muttered.

“Sorry,” Sophie said again, her mouth taking over as usual. “But I’m gonna have to call that guy on TV. That one with the comb-over who asks, ‘Have you or a loved one been in any kind of accident? Because the firm of Bad Hair and Associates and I can get you a generous settlement.’” Sophie shook her head. “Sorry to do it to you, but I need the cash.”

Ill papi laughed, and that dimple of his got deeper. “I think that guy got his law degree while he was in prison.”

And there it was. Yep. Sophie had just made herself another boy friend. Not to be confused with boyfriend. Not that she even wanted a boyfriend. But she wouldn’t mind knowing what it felt like to have a guy look at her the way guys always looked at Sammi. Especially if the guy was as H-O-T hot as ill papi.

Sophie snorted. “Duh. Killingest dancer in the group. Son of J-Bang. I research the people I sue,” she teased.

“You’re whack.” Ill papi got the door for her, and they were both laughing when they walked inside.

Everybody was looking at Sophie—and she knew exactly what they were thinking: What is the hottest guy in the place doing hanging with a sixth-grade non-stick figure?

Well, if they were going to look at her, she would give them something to look at. She noticed a single leg warmer by her feet and snatched it up. “Hey, my blankie!” she called. “Who found my blankie?” It was kind of weak, but it was the first thing that popped into Sophie’s head.

No one answered, but a couple of the kids had started to smile. Sophie saw Emerson over to one side of the room. She hadn’t even realized Em was there. Em definitely wouldn’t have been sending any bad what’s-he-doing-hanging-with-her thoughts Sophie’s way. “Isn’t it pretty, Emerson?” she called, waving the little leg warmer.

“You sure that’s not your blankie, Max?” a well-padded redheaded girl called to a much smaller girl, the smallest girl in the place. She looked like a little pixie with short, short brown hair that let you see the shape of her head.

“I haven’t been able to sleep for days.” Sophie stretched out on the floor, cuddling up with the leg warmer. “I really need a nap.” She closed her eyes and gave a loud snore. Then she heard footsteps coming toward her. Someone was going to join the act? Great. But why was everyone so quiet? We’re going to change this scene so that it’s less forced.

She rolled onto her back and saw a woman in Hip Hop Kidz gear staring down at her. “I assume you’re a new member of the Performance Group,” the woman said.

“Yes. Yep. Uh-huh.” Sophie scrambled to her feet and used her fingers to get some loose hair back into its ponytail.

“I’m Gina Torres, your teacher.” She reached over and took the leg warmer. “And this would be mine.”

A few kids laughed—Sophie thought ill papi was one of them—but Gina didn’t even smile. She just clapped and called, “Time to get started, everyone.”

“First I want to welcome the new members of the group,” Gina began. “Give a wave when I call out your name so we can start getting to know you. Ky Miggs.”

“Yo!” Ky rolled the basketball he pretty much always had with him into the corner. Emerson was glad he’d made the group. It was good to see a face she knew from her old class.

“Emerson Lane.” Emerson raised her hand, half expecting Gina to send her straight to Maddy’s office, where she’d be kicked out for parent impersonation. Not that she’d done the impersonating herself. But close enough.

“Sophie Qian, I think you all may have seen before,” Gina said. She shook her head, but a smile twitched the corners of her lips. Sophie gave a fast half bow.

Emerson still didn’t get what had gone wrong between them today. They’d been talking, everything had been okay, then suddenly, brrr.

“Just Devane,” Gina repeated, her wild, curly brown hair bobbing around her face. “Then we have Adam and Allan Whitley.”

“And those are the newcomers. Welcome, welcome, welcome,” Gina said. “Your teammates are ill papi, Fridge, M.J., Max, Chloe, Becca, and Rachel.”

Emerson tried to memorize the names of the people she didn’t know. Fridge, that was easy. Big, square fridge body. And kind of a smaller square mini-fridge head. Max was the littlest one in the group. Becca was the one with the amazing red hair. Rachel had on the Death to Pixies tee. Adam and Allan were the twins. She’d have to figure out a way to tell them apart.

“Let me do a quick rundown of the group rules,” Gina continued. “It will be a good review for everybody. The rules are also in the handouts I’ll be giving you at the end of class. I’ll need you to have your parents sign off on them and get them back to me.”

Gulp. Well, Emerson would have to forge the signatures. She wasn’t going to turn back now. She couldn’t. This was where she belonged.

“First, when I walk through that door, I expect you all to be in this room and ready to work.” Emerson noticed that Gina shot a look at Sophie when she said this.

“You need to dress appropriately for my class. That means athletic shoes with rubber soles. No leotards or other revealing clothing. No clothing with offensive language. No clothing promoting alcohol or any illegal substances.”

“No food or soda in the classroom. But please, please bring in water. Plastic bottles only. And finally—this is the most important rule, so listen up—I expect teamwork. Listen to that word. Teamwork. ’Team’ and ‘work.’ Both are important. We are a Performance Group, not a bunch of individuals sharing a stage. That’s the team part. And the work . . . well, after today’s class, you’ll all know where the work part of teamwork comes in.”

Gina grinned, but Emerson could tell she was serious, too. Gina definitely wasn’t as casual as Randall, the basic class instructor. “Teamwork’s going to be especially important next month,” she concluded, then started toward the sound system. Gina looked back over her shoulder. “Isn’t anyone going to ask me what’s happening next month?”

“Thanks for asking, Chloe.” Gina turned all the way around. “Our group—our team—is going to be performing at . . . Disney World!”

“I know it’s exciting, Max. But down, girl,” Gina ordered, and Max immediately stopped. Yes, Gina was tough, Emerson decided. You could tell by the way the class responded to her.

Disney World, Emerson thought. How am I going to convince my parents to let me go to Disney World—when I can’t tell them why?

If that’s my competition, forget about it, Devane thought, looking at Sophie as Gina led the class through a warm-up. It’s not that the girl couldn’t move. Devane had seen her stuff the day Maddy was making her picks, and Sophie’s stuff was good. Not Devane good. But good.

Her attitude, though—it wasn’t the attitude of someone who wanted to make it. Fooling around like that before class. What kind of mess was that? Her head was not in the game.

Whateva. Less competition was good. Yeah, the Hip Hop Kidz Performance Group was supposed to be a team and all. But they called solos solos for a reason. And solos were what Devane needed to get noticed. She’d seen the Hip Hop Kidz perform as many times as she could get there, and it was the kids with the solos you remembered.

Gina turned off the music. “Okay, let’s start working on our routine for the Mouse. Can I get an oh, yeah!”

“All right.” Gina backed up and studied the group. “Ill papi, I want you up here on the right. Ky, you up here on the left. Chloe and M.J., middle center. And actually, Emerson, let’s put you on the other side of M.J.”

Devane’s stomach started pumping out sour juice as she waited to hear her name. The front row and the center row were filling up. Finally Gina looked over in her direction. “Devane, you’re just about perfect where you are. Just move one foot to the left.”

One foot to the left. That put her in the left-hand corner of the back row. She might as well be performing in the studio when everyone else was at Disney World. No one was going to see her anyway.

You’re in charge. You’re the one who makes things happen, Devane told herself. You’re on schedule this far. You’re in the Performance Group. You’ll find a way to work it.

Gina studied the group, moved a few people around. “Looks good. All right, we’re going to start out in a wide-leg squat. Then we look left. Back to center. And shoulder rolls.” Gina slowly did the moves as she called them out. Once she’d walked them through a short sequence a few times, she put on a Kanye West track.

“And five, six, seven, eight,” Gina counted out. “Look left. Back. Monkey arms. Monkey arms. Slide right. Cross back. Devane, no shoulder pop on the cross. Max, the cross starts with the right foot. Right arm up, right arm out. Left arm up, left arm out. Now get ready for the flare. And drop. And swing. Devane! Legs apart. Not crossed.”

Devane nodded, trying to keep her expression calm. But the cross-legged flare—that was one of her perfection moves. And the shoulder pop on that cross—it made the whole move stand out. Was Devane supposed to hold herself back just because the rest of the group couldn’t keep up?

It’s not my fault they don’t have my skills, Devane thought. I’m not going to dumb myself down. I’m not going to be wallpaper.