The start of dance practice is actually a relief.
For ten minutes. Maybe nine.
Music floods the gym, echoes off the walls, and we’re moving, and Devin can’t ask me any more questions about my plans, and I’m trying hard not to dance my heart right out on the wooden floor.
“Pay attention to the rhythm,” the Bear bellows as she marches toward the freshman end of our dance line. “Feel it.” The Bear claps the next four beats. Her Russian accent gets worse as she gets madder. “Live the mu-sick!”
Her voice blasts through the gym, jamming my brain, blocking the tune we’re supposed to follow.
Beside me, Devin keeps a perfect body line and perfect rhythm.
I imitate her as best I can.
I’m sweating. No, I’m way past sweating. Did somebody set the thermostat on fifth ring of HELL?
But smile plastered in place, I keep dancing because it’s that or get eaten by the Bear. I’ve never figured out why majorettes have to learn to dance anyway. Every
Monday and Wednesday I have to get tortured, but Tuesday, Thursday, and Friday we march and twirl without dancing—so much better.
Any second now, I’ll drop dead of heatstroke and beat my namesake Chandra Atwood’s record for dying young. Chandra Atwood was Mom’s best friend in college. She passed away from breast cancer. Very sad. Mom’s still not over it. I never knew her, but I got her name—and I’ve tried to like it, seriously. I just … don’t.
Hmm.
I wonder if I could talk the genie into another wish.
A new name would be way good.
I blow out a breath, wiggle my shoulders, and ignore the sharp pains in my side and ankle—never mind the river of sweat splattering from my forehead to the gym floor.
Even following Devin move for move, I manage to step forward instead of back.
Crap!
“Mu-sick!” the Bear screeches. “Count it, Shealy! Concentrate!”
Concentration. So not my strength. Can you tell?
I swear it’s hotter each time I breathe. My heart might explode. The clock says it’s after five. Not that the Bear cares about things like schedules and rides and homework waiting to be done. She has girls to mold, dreams to shape, and all that other stuff she repeats ten times every practice.
“You are like the but-ter-flies,” she yells, fluttering her hands in front of her face. Her voice booms off the folded bleachers and basketball goals. “You are
fantasies
of grrrrace and co-vordination!”
Still beside me, and still not even out of breath from an entire hour of jazz dance, Devin whispers, “You must
look
the part.” Devin dips low, adding deep shoulder action to her shimmy. “You must
plaaay
the part.”
“You must look the part,” the Bear echoes, still down at the freshman end of the line. “You must
plaaay
the part.”
I shimmy harder than ever. The Bear claps again and barks, “Four, five, six, se-ven, eight!”
We all step out, then slide—the move’s called a shim sham. Right, left, right, right, left, right, left, left …
Wrong step!
But the Bear’s busy again, back turned, hollering at a freshman. Ellis Brennan takes the opportunity to flip me off.
Devin whip-kicks Ellis without breaking rhythm, and catches the blond witch-monster upside one delicate pink ankle.
Have I mentioned Devin is the
best
best friend ever?
Ellis swears and hops sideways, but she magically falls back into line, and here comes the Bear to the center of the gym, glaring at all of us. My heart’s bouncing, bouncing against my ribs. I’m wanting to hug Devin so bad for kicking Ellis, but we all keep dancing like nothing happened.
At least the Bear’s sweating, too. Her silver and black hair’s pulled so tight against her head that her eyes slant, and her blue silk warm-ups are stuck to her skinny arms and legs.
“Eight,” she says loudly, keeping her fierce stare on Ellis, Devin, and me, and back to Ellis again. Then: “One!”
Another move, this one called a jazz box. Forward, left, back, across. I don’t trip.
The Bear’s dark eyes narrow. “Chan Shealy, your feet—like concrete. Pick them up!”
She pops a quick, fluid jazz box at the next change in music. I try to follow without a mistake and do a fair job. I think.
Parents slip into the gym through the door on the other end of the line, no doubt hoping to cue the Bear that Monday practice should be over and dinner’s getting later.
There’s Devin’s dad in his pin-striped lawyer suit. He pauses by the end of the bleachers. Glances at his watch.
And there’s Mom coming in right behind him. French braid, totally un-lawyer jeans. Her sweatshirt says
Republicans Suck
.
I wince as the Bear waves for us to stop, then shuts off her boom box. Maybe Mr. Macy won’t turn around—though he’s pretty relaxed about stuff like Mom’s slogans.
For a Republican.
Not only did Mom name me after a dead person, she has to wear sweatshirts like that one almost every day. In West Estoria, other people’s moms work at banks or bake cookies or rescue animals or run marathons. My mom talks about living on a commune during her college days, carrying protest signs at strikes and demonstrations, and organizing local campaigns for the Democrats.
She even has a bumper sticker on her hybrid that says
Voldemort Votes Republican
.
Devin elbows me. “Stretch.”
Oh, yeah
. I lean down until my palms touch the damp gym floor.
Too late.
Scrawny blue-clad legs stop dead center in my field of vision.
I stand, trying not to breathe too hard.
The Bear steps closer, so only Devin and I can see what she’s doing. She gets hold of my belly, pinches a roll between two of her bird-claw fingers, and murmurs, “Are ve following our food plan, Chan?”
“Yes, ma’am. Holding my weight.”
I am so totally lying.
Devin gives me a look as she rises from her stretch.
The Bear grunts and turns me loose, but only long enough to grab a handful of my frizzy red ponytail. “You should straighten this mess before Regionals. Such a pretty auburn. At least comb it now and again, hmmm?”
This time I keep my mouth shut.
The Bear flips my hair and stalks off to torment Ellis, who’s still limping and whining about Devin tripping her.
“Maintaaaain,” Devin whispers as I jerk my ponytail back into place.
We go back to stretching, along with everybody else. The ten of us who twirl for West Estoria High School, ve are
fantasies
of grrrrace and co-vordination.
Translation: we have to stay within two pounds of our ideal weight, or the Bear will move up a girl from the junior varsity section to take our place. Right now we have four seniors, two juniors—me and Devin—two sophomores, and two freshmen in the varsity section. But that could change in a hurry.
I rise from my stretch, push up to my toes, and lift my hands over my head. I need to be serious and keep my mind on what’s important. And I need to run through my competition routine like a thousand more times at home. Regionals hit on the third Saturday in November, about a month away, and I want to rule Trick Twirling. As in, beat Ellis if it’s the last thing I ever, ever do.
But first I’ve got to lose that extra pound before weigh-in.
I can shed a pound in three days. No dinner and a couple of long walks and maybe a run or two should do it, even if I do find another cupcake stash or stuff my face on the chocolate éclair ice cream Mom “hides” in the
basement freezer so Dad won’t find it. On the biggest shelf. Right up front.
With
the spoon lying on top of the carton.
The Bear finally releases us from warm-down with a dramatic wave of both hands.
“Bye,” I say to Devin.
Devin doesn’t answer right away. She’s too busy eyeing Mom’s sweatshirt, looking horrified. After a few seconds, she shields her eyes like Mom’s clothes are radioactive.
“Might come over later, to start that lit project,” she mumbles kind of loud, where parents might notice and get to feel like they’re eavesdropping. “You’ll have to help me start the research note cards. I still think Emily Dickinson’s boring.”
“You have no appreciation for poetry,” I shoot back as I pack my batons in their case, knowing she just wants to be there the first night I go hunting for an online hunk.
Devin slips closer to me, and for once in her life, speaks quietly, where only I can hear her. “I’m really coming over, okay?”
I’m quiet when I answer, and a little weirded out by the sudden change in her atmosphere. “Of course it’s okay.”
Her eyes dart from her dad to my mom, to the Bear and back to me. “I’m—I think I’m worried about this whole online thing, Chan.”
My stomach sinks a little. I hope she doesn’t start a
freak-out worthy of my little sister, or get going with the you-really-shouldn’t’s—because if she does, I probably won’t, and I really, really want to.
My cheeks are turning red. I can feel them.
Devin stares at her feet for a second. “Don’t leave me out, okay? If I’m there at least the first time, maybe it’ll be safer. Or something.”
I rub my palms against my hot cheeks, then pick up my baton case and strangle the strap. “This is really nothing. Just a thing. Something fun. After Adam-P and this whole last year, I need some fun. I
deserve
some fun, right?”
Devin gives our parents another quick glance to be sure we’re not getting the evil eye from either direction. “Yeah, I know. And I’ll help, okay?”
I ease up on my baton case strap and dig out a smile for the best best friend ever. “Sure. Absolutely. Okay.”
Mom and I roll up to the house and bang through the back door into the kitchen—and the first things I smell are oil and butter and syrup.
We both stop, side by side.
All my muscles get tense at the same time.
Mom sniffs and narrows her eyes.
As we both gaze around the big room with the island in the center, voices chatter from the television in the living room. Here in the kitchen the stove lights aren’t on. The griddle’s not glowing. There’s no pan anywhere, the table in the breakfast nook is totally clean, and I don’t see any dishes in the sink.
But the entire space definitely smells like pancakes, enough to make me want to run back out the door to Waffle House and eat my way right straight to a junior-varsity bust-down from the Bear.
When Mom glances in my direction, I know she’s
thinking the same thing I am about smelling pancakes, and my stomach tightens.
Dad.
He must have made himself a major snack after he sent Brenda, Lauren’s babysitter, home.
This is going to be bad.
My eyes drift toward the door separating the kitchen from the living room, and I know my father’s on the other side of that door, probably in his recliner, watching one of his favorite shows.
I want to hug him and slap him all at the same time.
Not
this
again. Pancakes and butter and syrup? Of all the things …
“I’ll handle it,” Mom says in her too-quiet voice.
I jump from the sound of it. “Everything we’ve read says confronting him will just make him eat more.”
Mom clenches both her hands into fists. “I can’t just do
nothing
, Chan. He’s already had one heart attack. He needs to take responsibility for himself.”
My brain flashes back to two years ago, sitting beside my father in Cardiac Intensive Care, holding his big hand, kissing his big fingers, and begging him to wake up and live, and I want to sob and start begging Mom to just leave him alone. “It’s my fault. I’m so sorry practice ran over. If we’d gotten home earlier—”
“That doesn’t matter.” Mom glares toward the closed door like she has X-ray vision and she’s lasering Dad through the wood. “Or at least it shouldn’t. He could have
made himself a salad or cooked us all something better. Something reasonable. Like I said—responsibility. What time is Devin coming over?”
“I’m not sure—maybe in an hour?” I risk taking hold of her elbow, but she’s so pissed with Dad she pulls away from me. “Please don’t yell at him, Mom. Please?”
“Fix yourself and Lauren a sandwich while I go to the bathroom—and I’m not going to yell.” Mom’s already walking away from me, fists still clenched, but at least she’s heading for the hallway and her bedroom instead of the living room door. “I never yell.”
The entire time I’m making turkey sandwiches for me and my sister, I listen for Mom to come back out of the bedroom. Thank God she doesn’t—so I at least get to say hello to my father before the trouble starts.
I carry the plate of sandwiches into the living room and find Dad just where I figure I will, in his big brown leather recliner, watching a sitcom on our giant television.
“Hey, doodlebug,” he says, and I manage not to groan at the nickname.
He’s wearing a white sweatshirt with the sleeves cut out and a pair of stretchy pants that outline his paunch. Somehow his belly seems bigger when he’s all leaned back, but I make myself look at his sweet face with all those sweet freckles, and the way he grins when he waves at me, and his bright red hair, and I smile at him even though I know he’s so busted for sneaking food the doctor told him he shouldn’t eat.
My hair’s red, too, just like his—and I’ve got freckles, but not so many.
As I put the plate of sandwiches down near the stairs and walk back to give Dad a kiss, I notice how he fills the entire chair, and then some.
My chest aches a little more with each step.
I’m such an ass, worrying about losing one teeny pound to keep twirling. My father needs to lose one hundred times that much just to be healthy again.
Was he this large last year?
I mean, he’s been trying to eat better and exercise and lose weight. I know he’s been trying to take responsibility like Mom wants.
Hasn’t he?
Leave it alone. It’s not your business.
“Love you,” I say as I bend down and give his freckled cheek a big kiss.
He pats the side of my head as I stand. “Love you, too. Was the Bear polar or grizzly today?”