Shrinking Violet (11 page)

"Yeah, a lot of people my age listen to it." I tuck a stray piece of hair behind my ear.

"Where do you go to school?"

"Ridgeland."

"Your cheerleaders are smoking!" I pull at a ragged hangnail. "Wouldn't know."

"Where's the prom this year?" Derek plays a little pocket pool and adjusts himself. Gross.

Does he think I didn't see that? "Downtown Marriott."

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"Sweet. Mine was at a Holiday Inn." Like a hundred years ago. "Oh."

"So who are you going with?"

I bite the inside of my cheek and look to the floor. Derek's wearing brown cowboy boots similar to Rob's. Did they score them at a two for one sale? "Not going."

"What?" He slaps the console. "When is it?"

"About a month from now. May fifteenth."

"No, you have to go. You have time to find a date. The guys are relying on you. It's the best night to get laid."

I hope he's not expecting a response to that. I turn my gaze toward the door.

"There's got to be someone you can ask," he continues.

I wish. I already looked at Speed Bump's tour schedule and found out they're playing Miami the same night as prom. Even Gavin's not an option now. I guess he'd rather do a stage dive than throw on a tux. "Nope."

There's twenty seconds left on the "Spill Proof" track. Derek slowly fades down the song and says, "We'll find somebody for you."

"Please don't," I whisper. He might as well form a pity party with my mom. Their catchphrase can be
we'll pay you to date this poor helpless girl.
Insert photo of me, moping on the couch in my sweats.

We make it through the last half hour of Derek's shift without mentioning the prom.

Good, I hope he forgot. Jason's back. He

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smells like early morning rain, and his hair is slightly wet with gel. He makes me feel like I have to prep for the love show, too. Maybe if I at least throw some water on my face, it'll help calm my nerves. I grab my stuff and excuse myself to the bathroom again.

As I'm walking out, Jason says, "Loosen your vocal cords-- you're going on-air tonight."

He might as well call the ambulance now. My heart's beating like crazy. I don't know if I'm ready. Maybe I need a few more days or years to let everything sink in.

I swing open the bathroom door and dump my bag on the counter. I scrounge around and come up with a stick of Big Red and an ancient tube of ChapStick, encrusted with sand. Who am I kidding? I don't even have a brush with me. I turn on the faucet and wet the top of my head.

The bathroom door swings open. It's Pop-Tart. "Hello!" she shouts.

I'm standing here like a wet dog. "Hi," I mumble. "You okay?" She frowns. She actually looks concerned. "Yeah."

She doesn't move. A few squiggly lines appear on her forehead. She parts her lips, but no sound comes out.

It's weird to be stared at. I quickly check the mirror to make sure I don't have any boogers hanging out of my nose. "What?"

"There's nothing wrong with your hearing, is there?"

"Nope." '

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Pop-Tart scratches her head. "But you said--"

"I never said anything."

"Oh." She cocks her head to the side. "Well, what is going on?"

"Just freshening up." I tousle my thick hair like I know what I'm doing.

"I can help." She dumps out the contents of her shiny gold kitchen-sink bag.

She could definitely give Pamela Oberlong a run for her money. She pulls out a compact and dabs powder on my face.

"Not too much," I say, feeling myself panic.

"Let me tell you a little secret about being on the radio. When you look good, you feel good."

"Huh?"

"I heard you're doing the show with Jason tonight."

"Yeah." I gulp.

"Hold still." She grabs my chin and runs a tube of glittery pink lipstick on my lips. "Don't worry, I know you're a natural girl, but a little makeup never hurt anyone."

I didn't know there was a name for it, but Natural Girl sounds much better than Dork Girl.

Pop-Tart makes me look up to the sky and coats my lashes with mascara. We wait a minute for it to dry, then she has me bend my head down and flip back my hair. She grabs a can of hair spray and sprays like she's competing at the Raid championships.

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I cough.

"Sorry." She steps back. "I can get carried away. But you have great, thick hair."

"Really?"

"People pay money for volume. I blow mine out every day or I look like crap."

That's hard to believe.

I'm afraid to look up, so I peel open one eye at a time. I glance into the mirror. Wow, not bad. Pamela might really have some competition. "Thanks, ahhh . ."

"Kelly."

"Tere."

"I know." She smiles, then shoves her emergency makeup kit back into her bag.

Whoa, one point for Pop-Tart and zero for me. She remembered my name and I had no clue she even came with one.

I look at my watch. Damn, we've been in here for almost twenty minutes. I don't want Jason to think I flaked out on him. I toss my crusty ChapStick into the garbage, mouth
thank you
to Pop-Tart, and head back to the studio.

Thankfully, Derek's gone and most of the staff has left for the day, too. Jason's at the console with one hand on the mike and the other scanning songs on the computer.

Hopefully he won't notice my over-do.

He swings around a second later. "So this show is going to be fun." He does a double take. "Wow, you look different."

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My face heats up like a cracked egg on a Florida sidewalk. "I know. I ran into Kelly in the bathroom."

"No, it's a good thing." Jason smiles.

"Thanks." I smile back. Too bad he's taken. There really could've been something. Ha.

I rub my hands up and down my jeans. "Okay, what do you need me to do?"

"I already checked the commercials, so slide a chair up here and relax."

I can do that. I think. We sit there for the first fifteen minutes, chilling to the tunes.

Jason's the kind of person you can just sit next to and enjoy your own space. Not like with Derek. I feel like he's always watching everyone, like dead air is a sin. I imagine the sign in his house reads,
Idle time is wasted time.
I imagine how my needlepoint saying would read:
Woman of few words
or
A day without blushing is a good day.

At seven-fifteen, like clockwork, the song "Love Stinks" (don't ask me how that actually qualifies as a love song) fades down.

"Wish me luck." Jason reaches for the on-air button.

"You'll do great," I say. I shove my hands under my legs. I'm shaking, and I'm not even the one who's going on-air. This is crazy.

"Good evening, South Florida. This is Jason Stevens, and you're listening to
The Lope
Shack
on 92.7 The SLAM. I'm filling in tonight, so I hope you'll give me a call and tell me what you're

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dying to hear. I have my friend T in the studio helping me out--" I elbow him and whisper, "Sweet."

He continues, "Sorry, Sweet T, and believe me, she lives up to her name. We're just kicking back and letting the tunes roll. Here's Maltese with 'All Over You I'm in full blush now. So what if Jason's gay and is in a committed relationship? He called me sweet.

Sweet T.

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The phones are lighting up, and I'm jotting down the love requests like a waiter taking orders at IHOP on a Sunday morning. Most interns leave at seven, so it's all me. It's pretty much an even amount of girls and guys calling. One guy kind of sounded like Gavin. Okay, maybe two guys, but one said his name was Randy and the other Kevin.

Jason pulls as many of the requests as he can, and people are loving it. A couple even call back and thank us for throwing their jams on the air.

"I can't believe Garrison didn't have any help." I tally up my requests so far. Forty-five.

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"And he is still doing his own show, too. Angie from sales helped him out some nights, but otherwise he runs solo," Jason says.

You'd never know he does all this work himself. He is so smooth.

Jason swivels his chair around to face me. "So, Sweet T, are you ready to make an appearance?"

"What do you mean?" I flip my hair back in my best imitation of a clueless girl.

"Just a live station ID. Something small to get you revved up."

"I don't know . . um . ." I've only been dreaming about this day for the past six years, but what if I croak? Or worse, what if I blurt out something so moronic that I send the whole of Miami bursting into hysterics? I already feel the peanut butter lining the inside of my throat.

He gently grabs my shoulder. "You have a great voice. It'll be fine. I'll do my thing, then point to you."

Easy for you to say, you didn't just swallow half ajar of peanut butter.
But I nod anyway.

There's something soothing about Jason. Something about him I can really trust, like he'd never let me fall.

I reach for my water bottle and chug. Forty seconds left to find my voice. I have a whole show prerecorded in my head. All I have to deliver is one line.
This is Sweet T and you're
listening to
The Love Shack
on 92.
7
The SLAM.

I move closer to Jason and close my eyes.
I
can do this.
Small 131

breaths. One at a time. I hear my ninth grade English teacher, Mrs. Pine, in the back of my head. "Smile when you deliver your speech, and your voice will come across as happy. Frown, and no one will want to listen to you."

"Give it up for Trena Bay with back to back love songs. "Jason draws out the word
love,
letting each letter linger in his mouth. I can picture the girls swooning over him, cuddled up in their beds or driving along the expressway blasting the volume. "We want to thank you for sharing the love tonight with all your calls. Keep them coming . ." He points to me.

Ohmigod, this is it.
I take a deep breath this time and close my eyes, then remember that Helen Keller said to look the world straight in the eye.
I
can do this.
I open my eyes wide and stare at the mike, my entrance to the world. I stretch my lips into a smile and let the words spill out. "This is Sweet T hanging out with Jason Stevens tonight and you're listening to
The Love Shack
on 92.7 The SLAM."

I don't exhale until I feel the beat of the next tune. It's Maltese, with "Melt Me."

"You did it!" Jason breaks my trance. "You're a pro."

"Yeah, right."

"No, really--you have a knack for radio."

I'm just glad I didn't mess up. He persuades me to go on a couple more times during the show, a few station tags and the phone number to the request line. We take turns grabbing the calls.'

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Halfway through the show, I kick off my sneaks and pull my legs up onto the chair. It's almost like I'm at home, much different than when Derek's here or even the rest of the staff. When it's only Jason and a couple of engineers hanging around the building, I can chill. Plus, he actually lets me do stuff, which makes me feel important.

Jason picks up a line, then whispers into the phone. "Yeah, I think she's single. Hot, definitely. That, I can't tell you. She's a woman of mystery." He looks over at me and winks.

I wave my hands back and forth
no. Please, don't tell them anything else. It'll ruin
everything.

He hangs up the phone. "Why do you look like you just saw a ghost?"

"It's weird. People talking about me. I'm not used to it."

"You better get used to it. They like you."

"But I don't want them to know anything about me." I pull the zipper all the way up on my sweatshirt.

"Don't worry. I'll keep your identity a secret. I know the truth."

Instant goose bumps populate my skin. "You do?" I gulp.
You know I'm a former
Snowball, two-time loser?

"Yeah, sure. You're a super kick-butt spy working undercover as a narc."

I can't stop myself from cracking up. Jason knows I'm full of it. But even if he does scope me out, I know my secret is safe with him.

133

I end off the show with, "Sleep tight, Miami, You never know where love is hiding . ."

Jason arranged with Rob to drop me home and it's almost midnight when we pull in, but I have to call someone, and let's face it, the only someone I have is Audrey. Mom and Rob are out at some fashion show, So I don't even have to sneak by them.

I plop down onto my bed and whip out my cell. "Hi, Aud."

"Hello," she says groggily.

"Sorry, did I wake you?" I whisper, like that will help.

"No, I was just studying for Senora Garcia's test from hell. Crazy lady has to give a test the day we get back from break."

"That sucks." I don't know why, but I'm totally out of breath. "I did it. I was on the air tonight."

"You got your own show?" she squeaks.

I spring up and down on my bed. I feel like I'm back in the fifth grade, the time I came home all high from the cotton candy and elephant ears at the county youth fair. "No, not exactly. Garrison called in sick, and Derek's producer, Jason, took over. Halfway through, he had me talk on the air."

"What did you say?"

I close my eyes and let the words dance in front of me.
"Hi, Miami, up next is the Hot
Tees with 'Sweet and Sticky.'"

"That's it?"

"Well, I got to end off the show, too."

"That's great!"

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"Yeah, but the whole time I thought I was going to hurl all over the console."

"You didn't, did you?"

"No, of course not. But do you know how many people listen to
The Love Shack?
Like a quarter million."

"Wow, probably more people than tuned into
Dance Craze
tonight. The show sucked, and they voted off Ollie. The cute swing dancer." That's one thing Audrey and I don't have in common. Swing dancing.