Shrinking Violet

Shrinking Violet

Danielle Joseph

Much love goes out to my husband Belle and my two curly-haired angels, Marley and Makhi.

shout-outs

I would like to thank the following people:

You all rock for helping make my dream come true!

Delle, my husband, for always believing in me and for your unwavering support.

Marley and Makhi for sharing my love of stories and being silly!

Rosemary Stimola for being a fabulous, savvy agent and for snagging me this on-air gig!

Jen Heddle for connecting with Tere and for not allowing me to broadcast dead air. You are an amazing editor!

The Cohen Clan for being quite a mix! My dad, Rodney, for understanding that technical writing was not my calling. My mom, Sharon, for reading to me every night. My siblings: Cindy for sharing her stories and the secret knocking code. Kenny for shaking up the string of girls. Nikki for always asking why and Emma for being the best teen editor!

My mentor Joyce Sweeney for sharing her expertise and

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cheering me on the whole way. Adrienne Sylver for. being a wonderful and speedy critique partner.

Gaby Triana, Marjetta Geerling, Linda Bernfeld, Christina Gonzalez, Liz Trotta, Marta Magellan, Mary Thorp, Tere Starr, Elaine Landau, Ruth Vander Zee, Susan Shamon, Saundra Rubiera, and the rest of the Wednesday Critique Group for your invaluable feedback. Also Debbie Reed Fischer and Joyce's Friday Critique Group for being great listeners.

My first and second grade teachers, Betty Peterson and Judy Shannon, for telling me that I could write whatever I wanted and then for telling me it was great! Eva Adler, my high school English teacher, for fostering my creativity. Emerson College professors, Jessica Treadway, Kevin Miller, Andre Dubus III, and Eric Arnold, for all your encouragement and for teaching me the craft of creative writing.

The following people for your technical support: Beth Cameron for showing an intern how it works behind the scenes. Joe Plett for helping me with my audition tapes. Rob Rob-bins at The CALL FM for providing me with up-to-date radio information.

Copyeditor Ela Schwartz-Hnizdo for her super-organized, impressive copyedits and the rest of the MTV/Pocket Books Crew for all you do.

In memory of Granny Gladys and Granny Billie, wish you both were here to share this with me.

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Never bend your head. Always hold it high. Look the world straight in the eye.

--Helen Keller

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chapter ONE

You're listening to Sweet T on 92.7 WEMD SLAM FM. It's after dark now, so don't change
that dial because here's where killer tunes explode through your speakers, leaving you
wanting more. I'll take you through the night and feed your soul. Call me at
1-800-555-SLAM and let me know what's up, Miami. Now check out the new Juice Box
track I've been promising you.

***

Until a few years ago, I always dreamed that a radio station would be a sleek glass architectural gem on Ocean Drive. Flashing neon lights with the studio's call letters would adorn the top

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of the building, large enough to be spotted miles away. Don't get me wrong, SLAM FM

has a good setup five minutes from the beach in North Miami. But they occupy the second floor of an office building, nestled between a law firm and a bail bondsman, hardly in the midst of all the South Beach revelers staring at the disc jockeys through the huge windowpanes.

The only good thing about Mom marrying Rob Fandango, radio bigwig, is that he owns a top-forty station. But while he whisks Mom off to celebrity-wannabe parties every weekend, I'm holed up in my room, downloading all the latest tunes on my iPod and scanning the dial for the next overnight sensation.

There are a few local celebs, like the hottest up-and-coming rapper, PJ Squid, that I'd like to meet, but I'd have nothing to say to him. More like I'm afraid I'd open my mouth and nothing would come out, or even worse, I'd say something stupid.

Might as well admit it--I'm shy. Not the kind where you blush when someone compliments you, but the kind that results in feelings of nausea when meeting new people. When I was little, I thought I was Shy Adams. People would ask my name, and my mother would immediately answer for me, "She's shy." She even did it three weeks ago when we met up with some of the radio people at a restaurant. It was so embarrassing because I can no longer hide behind her; rather, she can hide behind me.

I'm five inches taller than her and a good thirty-five pounds heavier--I'm the evergreen tree to her palm.

***

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"Teresa,-you can wait in the car if you like." Mom's ID card pops out of the slot and she zooms into her reserved space in the station's parking garage.

My seat belt is already unbuckled. "No, I'm cool."

I walk a step behind Mom toward the elevator. By the time we reach the second floor, my stomach is whirring. I cross my arms against my chest and inhale. I can do this. I've done it before. We'll only be inside for five minutes, tops. Mom has to drop off a birthday present that Rob asked her to buy for his lawyer. Then we're off to my Friday afternoon dentist appointment. Joy.

When you open the heavy glass door to the station, the first thing you see is a gigantic red and blue SLAM sign hanging over a large U-shaped desk. In addition to the receptionist's area, the entrance is large enough to fit two red couches and a table filled with
Rolling Stone, Vibe,
and other music industry magazines. There's a small guy with a goatee and shades sitting there now. He's speaking in a hushed tone on his cell. I don't recognize him. Maybe he's a promoter. I hope he's here for PJ Squid.

Patty's up front answering the phones. She's in her midforties, is the proud owner of a seventies feathered hairdo, and plays solitaire in between calls. She gives us a half smile as we waltz by.

We round the corner and walk past the on-air studio. My heart thumps. I'd give anything to be inside there, broadcasting live, instead of doing mock shows from my bedroom.

Derek, the drive time DJ, is leaning against the outside of the door. "Hi, Delilah." He throws Mom a crooked smile.

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"How's the show going?" Mom asks.

"All good." He winks. "Do you like your new ride?"

I'm standing next to Mom, but he doesn't even acknowledge me. We've met several times before but have never spoken to each other. It has always been at the end of a long table at a restaurant or at a few station parties filled with models and other women that don't eat for a living.

"I love the Lexus. It drives so smoothly," Mom coos.

Derek puts his hand on Mom's shoulder. His knuckles are really hairy and so is his chest, for that matter. I don't think the first three buttons on his shirt have ever been used.

"You deserve it."

I try to peek into the studio, but Derek's blocking the glass pane in the door.

"I like to think so." Mom laughs. "Rob knows what makes me happy."

Okay, this is about all I can handle. This guy gives me the creeps. I clear my throat and point down the hall toward our original destination.

"Right." Mom nods and says good-bye to Derek.

We continue down the carpeted hallway to Rob's window office, facing the bay. When we're a few feet away, I hear him talking to someone.

Mom reaches for the doorknob. "Maybe he's in a meeting," I say.

"Nonsense. He knows I'm stopping by." She whips open the door.

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DJ Wipeout is seated across from Rob. "I'm sorry to hear that--" Rob stops midsentence as soon as he spots us.

Both men are sporting poker faces. Call me crazy, but it looks like they're busy.

Mom strolls right in, while I linger at the entrance.

"Here you go, honey." She plops the gift bag onto Rob's desk and gives him a big smooch on the lips.

He smiles but doesn't budge. Mom looks at Rob, then DJ Wipeout. "Excuse me. Did I interrupt something?"

"Aaron's leaving us," Rob says.

What? No way. He's got a great show,
The Love Shack,
"where lust is always in the air."

"For how long?" Mom slides her wedding ring back and forth.

Rob taps his coffee mug with a gold pen. "He quit."

Mom's jaw drops. I inch closer to the desk.

"I'm going to work on my uncle's cattle ranch in Texas." Wipe-out runs his hand over the top of his shaved head. I catch a glimpse of the tattoo stretched across his forearm that says
Rock or Die.

Double no way. He's going to waste his sexy voice rounding up cows all day and stepping in manure?

"That's nice." Mom smiles.

"The Love Shack
won't be the same without you," Rob says. "I have no clue who to replace you with."

Me!
I want to shout.
I can do the show blindfolded!
But instead I stand there deader than a stuffed moose.

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"I'm sorry, bud." Wipeout lets out a huge sigh. "But this is my calling."

Yeah, me, too.

This is Sweet T live on
The Love Shack,
hoping all your dreams come true ...

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chapter TWO

TERESA ADAMS!" Mom's standing in front of me in full lobster glow. She went overtime at the tanning salon again. I roll my eyes up and yank out an earbud. "Yeah?"

"Pamela Oberlong will be here in fifteen minutes."

"Okay." I nod and stick my earbud back in. There's nothing like the sweet sounds of PJ

Squid. With his fresh lyrics, he'll be number one on the charts in a few months. Rob's given him some airplay, but he's crazy if he doesn't do more--like a live gig before other stations snag PJ.

I glance up again. Mom's still there. Her eyes have narrowed, and I think she's even a shade redder. I remove an earbud again. "What?"

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"Take that thing off for a minute." Mom's lobster claw pulls the other side out.

"Ouch." I rub my ear and stare up at her.

"Go change before Pamela gets here. That outfit makes you look lazy."

Oh, but a miniskirt and tube top is more appropriate. Mom has five of those sleazy shirts. She thinks the more skin you show, the better.

"But it's Saturday."

Mom throws her hands up. "So it's okay to look like a slob on the weekend?"

"Can't I just stay in my room then?"

"No, that's rude."

"Fine. I'm going." I increase the volume on my music and clunk up the stairs. I slide off my favorite jeans and black Rapfest tee and peer into my closet, searching for the best
Pamela Oberlong
outfit. Why we have to impress the Mary Kay lady every time she comes over is beyond me.

I settle on a pair of black capris and the pink button-down tank that Mom says shows off all my good parts and hides all my bad parts. Pamela better be happy. She didn't know me when I was a fat snowball. "Snowball" has been my nickname since I moved to Miami in the fourth grade. First off, I live in Florida, so that name is pretty dumb, and even though I lost thirty pounds three years ago, I can't shake the name. Everyone still looks at me the same. Like they expect me to blimp out any minute.

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I blame the shape of my body on my dad, but since I don't even know who he is, I can only guess. Mom doesn't know either. She says she was young and stupid. That she went to a couple of wild parties when she was a teenager and did a few things she shouldn't have.
No shit.
It doesn't take Scooby-Doo and his gang to figure that out.

Actually, come to think of it, she was eighteen, my age, when I was born. I'll be happy if I score one date.

I picture my dad as a lumberjack with broad shoulders and a big butt. I'm definitely not built like my mom. She has a petite frame and long legs like a flamingo. Next to her I'm Shrek.

It doesn't help that my stepfather, Rob, is a small guy, too. He's only a couple of inches taller than me, barely five foot nine, but he tries to appear bigger by wearing cowboy boots. You'd think he was tall when you hear his booming voice on the radio, but that's the thing about the radio--it's a mask.

I often dream about the mask I'd wear to school. It has long auburn hair, not the shoulder-length ultra-thick mop that I sport. It has bright blue eyes instead of my musty greens and full red lips. If it comes with a bodysuit, I'd wear that, too, flat tummy, long legs, and smaller, firmer boobs. Then the guys would notice me, for sure.

The doorbell rings. Mom opens the door and shrieks, "Oh, Pamela, it's nice to see you.

Have you lost weight?"

"And you, Delilah--you look amazing!" Somebody shoot me, quick.

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I only have two minutes, tops, before Mom calls me down. I know she'll want me to talk to Pamela--I just can't think of anything to say. We have about as much in common as my mom and a nun.