Falling in Like #11 Read online

  Wow, she is really into this fair, Priya thought. Leslie certainly didn’t need the extra-credit points, so she must have been in it for the glory.

  “Plants are popular,” Priya observed. Her girl-discussion skills were still kind of new, so she wasn’t sure what else to say.

  “Marco’s always on top of the trends in science,” Leslie went on, and her cheeks turned a little redder. She blinked and cleared her throat. “Well, I’m going to the library to do some more preliminary research. See you guys tomorrow.”

  She gave them a little wave and walked on.

  “Isn’t photosynthesis kind of over?” Jordan asked Priya.

  “Not if the two biggest science geeks in our class are into it,” Priya observed. “And I mean ‘geek’ in the good sense,” she added, because she liked Leslie and she didn’t want Jordan to think she was being snarky. “Maybe we should do photosynthesis, too.”

  Jordan did a theatrical double take and gaped slack-jawed at her. “Are you nuts? Those guys will blow us out of the water. There’s no way one science fair can handle three photosynthesis projects. We have to get into the fair to get the extra credit. We have to think of something different. Unique. Unusual. Something that’s never been done before.”

  He had a point. Priya started mulling.

  “But on to serious stuff,” Jordan said as they swerved around some band kids carrying large instrument cases. “Brynn’s birthday is in three weeks!”

  Priya rolled her eyes. “That’s more serious than our science fair project?”

  “No, but it’s fairly urgent,” he replied, as they reached his locker. He twirled the combination lock with a deft, practiced hand. “Round and round she goes, to ten, twenty-two, and lucky thirteen!” he cried.

  The locker swung open. On the interior of the door, Priya saw the six pictures of Brynn at camp, which Jordan had made into a collage, plus the cover of the program of the play he had seen with Brynn in D.C.

  “So, what kind of stuff does she like?” he asked Priya.

  “Fake vomit is always nice,” Priya replied helpfully. “Hey, we could do our project on the chemical components of vomit.”

  “That sounds like a possibility.” He reached into his locker, came out with a gooey half-eaten apple in his hand, and winced. They weren’t supposed to keep food in their lockers. Especially rotting food.

  “What’s her favorite color?” he asked her.

  “Of vomit?” Priya asked. “Jordan, focus.” She gave his arm a little sock. “Science fair.”

  “Science fair. I’m good. I’m in the game,” he promised her, rummaging around and finding a wadded-up paper bag. He dropped the apple into it. “What about a gift card?”

  It went like that for the entire walk home. Jordan turned every single one of Priya’s attempts to talk about their science project into something about Brynn’s birthday present. By the time they reached their block, Jordan had thought up and discarded at least a dozen gift ideas.

  How many science fair project ideas had he come up with?

  Zero.

  “Want to shoot some hoops?” Jordan asked. “Let’s play horse.”

  “Okay. Tell you what,” she said. “Whoever loses has to fill out the proposal packet.”

  “You’re on,” Jordan said.

  Jordan took off his backpack while Priya retrieved her basketball from the big bin o’ balls in the garage.

  She tossed the ball to him and he dribbled it the length of the driveway, whistling to himself as she shadowed him.

  “Check it out,” Jordan crowed as he laid up the shot.

  Just before he let go of the ball, Priya said, “She might like a charm bracelet.”

  He jerked around. “What?”

  The ball rebounded off the rim and bounced onto the cement. “No fair!” he cried, catching it. “You distracted me!” He gave the ball a few more dribbles and threw it at her. “Charm bracelet? You think?”

  Priya smiled to herself as she caught the ball. She was onto something here. Two more distracting gift suggestions, and there would be no proposal packet in her future.

  “Maybe,” she said, squinting past the ball to the hoop. She eyeballed her trajectory. Jordan was shifting his weight from foot to foot like he was going to steal the ball from her any second.

  “But if I were you . . .” she ducked around him and lofted the ball into the air.

  Slam-dunk! It plunked right into the basket.

  “Lucky shot,” Jordan sniffed. “If you were me, what?”

  She gestured to the basket. “Take your best shot, Jordan.” She waited while he shifted his weight, eye on the hoop. He licked his lips, going all intense, and she attacked, getting right in his face as he worked to keep the ball from her. He was taller, but she used that to her advantage, to grab the ball when he was dribbling it.

  “If you were me, what?” he asked.

  She pivoted and took off. He chased after her, all arms and legs and Jordan. He scooped the ball away from her and got ready to throw.

  Then, just as the ball was about to leave his hands, she said, “Hair scrunchies.”

  His throw went wild. “Oh, that’s not fair!” he cried.

  She laughed and did a victory dance.

  “Sorry,” she said, all innocence. She could see that he was mentally filing the suggestion away for further consideration, like Leslie Graff and her big treasure trove of science project possibilities.

  “Where do you buy them?” Jordan asked.

  Priya won the game—no surprise—extracted Jordan’s blood oath that he would, indeed, fill out every single blank in the proposal packet, then clean forgot to give it to him before she went into her house to start all her other homework. No biggie. She’d get it to him in plenty of time to fill it out.

  chapter TWO

  “Valerie!” LaToya snapped as she tapped her extra-long French-manicured nails against the gray metal locker next to her stepsister’s. Her heavily made-up face was scrunched up in total scowl mode. “The last bell of the day rang about a year ago! They are waiting. Let’s go!”

  Valerie clenched her teeth to avoid a sharp retort. Her mother had asked her to get along with her stepsister while she was with Aunt Juanita, and she would—even if it killed her.

  And it just might. I. Am. Going. To. Explode!

  She grabbed up the books she needed for her homework, stuffed them into her backpack, and trailed in LaToya’s wake of perfume and attitude as they headed out the main entrance of Marie Curie Middle School.

  Valerie’s parents had been divorced for a long time. Her father had married LaToya’s mother two years ago, and the two stepsisters went to the same middle school. They were only eleven months apart in age, but they were in different grades and hung out with totally different people. LaToya’s crowd was noisy and dramatic, mostly cheerleaders and dancers, like her. Valerie’s friends were a little more down-to-earth.

  Make that a lot more down to earth.

  LaToya was dressed in scarlet, from her wool pants to her sweater to her winter coat to her earrings, lipstick, and the beads in her cornrows. Valerie felt kind of washed out in black and gray, even though her friend Shaneece had told her she looked totally fab and “very sophisticated.”

  When her mom was in town, she picked Valerie up after school. But her mom wasn’t there. So after some discussion, her father and stepmother had concluded that she would have to come home via LaToya’s carpool—except LaToya’s carpool didn’t take LaToya home. It took her to Fusion Space, the dance studio where she practically lived, and LaToya’s mom picked her up from there on her way home from work. Valerie would have to go there, too. Every day after school.

  So her father had come up with a “great” idea this morning during the drive to school: Valerie could take classes at Fusion Space, too!

  “Daddy, please, no,” Valerie had begged, glancing at LaToya in the rearview mirror of their black Camry. Her stepsister was seething, and Valerie got why: Fusion Space was her
thing. LT had been going there for six years and she was the total queen of the scene. She didn’t want to share her bedroom and her dance studio with Valerie.

  But as her dad pulled to the curb to let them out, he said, “You used to love your ballet classes. Just try it, okay?”

  Valerie would rather do extra homework in every subject ever invented than have to deal with an added daily dose of her stepsister’s attitude. But she had said, “Okay, Daddy,” because she had promised her mother she’d get along.

  Her father had called her on her cell at lunch to tell her it was all arranged. The school director herself would evaluate Valerie for placement during LaToya’s class. As her father had pointed out, Valerie had taken a lot of ballet in elementary school and she had totally loved it. Once she got to middle school, she kind of just stopped going. So she wasn’t too nervous about having to audition. She knew she was a good dancer.

  But she also knew that LaToya would resent her invasion of more of her “personal space.” Sure enough, LaToya had been snotty to her all day, and Valerie was dreading being in class with her.

  “See? The van is practically about to leave,” LaToya said, turning around to glare at her.

  Along with a winding parade of SUVs and mini-vans, a white Odyssey was inching toward the pick-up location next to the school’s flagpole. It was up next—which was a far cry from “about to leave.”

  “Toy-toy!” Danielle Wilcox cried as she threw back the sliding door of the van. Then Danielle muttered, with a distinct lack of enthusiasm, “Oh, yeah, Valerie, too. I forgot you’d be here today.”

  “Hello, Valerie. I’m Danielle’s mother,” said the driver of the van. “I don’t think we’ve met.” She was a pleasant-looking woman in workout clothes, with her brown hair sheared into an athletic-looking cut.

  “Nice to meet you, Mrs. Wilcox,” Valerie said.

  “Toy, listen! I have such good gossip!” Danielle announced, scooting over so LaToya could sit next to her. LaToya plopped down and pointedly set her backpack on the seat beside her, so that there was no room for Valerie.

  Valerie glanced at the three-person seat behind LaToya and Danielle. Maryann Killeen and Emily Jones—the two other carpool girls—were already arranged with all their stuff in the places closest to the door and the middle. The space farthest from the door was loaded with their backpacks. In other words, there was no room for Valerie to sit there, either.

  “C’mon, girls, make some room!” Mrs. Wilcox urged them as the car behind her beeped its horn.

  Maryann rolled her eyes and picked up first one backpack and then the other, as if they each weighed a million pounds. She plopped one of the backpacks into Emily’s lap. Then she inched on her bottom verrry slooowly toward the window. Emily scooched into the middle as if the effort was sapping her last ounce of strength. Valerie squeezed herself into the vacated space, wedging her fat backpack on the floor beside the door.

  “Thanks,” she said.

  “No problem,” Emily grunted.

  “Punch it, Mom!” Danielle said as LaToya pulled the van door shut.

  The Odyssey wove back into the traffic. LaToya and Danielle yakked and giggled, mostly about boys. Emily and Maryann chimed in now and then when the topic switched to other girlfriends they had in common. Danielle’s mom turned on the radio to a station LaToya requested, and soon the heavy bass beat of hip-hop surged through the floor. But Valerie wasn’t feeling the music. She wasn’t feeling anything but lonely and left out.

  Fusion Space was in a funky part of Lennox, Pennsylvania, near the local university. The dance studio sat in the center of a busy, artsy block. There were eateries serving Ethiopian, Indian, and Thai food; a used record and DVD shop; and a goth store called Cemeteria that featured black T-shirts and plush vampire bat stuffies in the window.

  As Mrs. Wilcox pulled up to the curb, LaToya slid back the door and gathered up her stuff. “You need to call me later let’s go Valerie,” she said to Danielle, all in one sentence, as if Valerie had been holding them up again.

  Then LaToya jumped out and headed for the purple studio door without waiting for Valerie.

  “Thanks for the ride,” Valerie said to Mrs. Wilcox, who smiled and gave her a jaunty wave.

  Valerie caught the door as it swung behind LaToya. FUSION SPACE was written across it in green and black letters. Below it were the studio’s hours, and then DANCE written sideways. It looked very cool.

  Just beyond the door, a cute guy with green eyes and dreadlocks sat at an ebony desk. Framed photos of dancers in striking deep-hued robes and large African-style headdresses lined the back wall. He was talking into a headset, but Valerie had no idea how he could hear anything, because loud, pulsating music was blaring from the back of the building.

  “Hey, Antoine,” LaToya said, as she picked up a pen and checked off her name on a printed list labeled “Advanced Interpretive Movement.” She had to work at it because of her long nails. LaToya was in all the advanced classes at the studio, rising through the ranks with years and years of study. She also assisted with the beginners’ classes to help with her tuition. Before that, she had helped with the phones herself.

  “My stepsister,” she said as she finished signing in. She put down the pen. She jerked her head at Valerie. “C’mon.”

  Still on his call, Antoine fanned his fingers at Valerie as she hurried past him to keep up with LaToya. The two girls zoomed down a narrow hall lined with more photos and a poster of a dancer who was apparently named Alvin Ailey.

  LaToya parked herself in front of a door marked “Ladies’ Dressing Room,” wrapped her hand around the knob, and glared at Valerie.

  “I have to change,” she announced. “Go see if they have practice clothes to lend you.”

  She opened the door, and noise poured out—chatting, laughing girls, slamming metal locker doors. Someone called, “Toy!” LaToya darted in and shut the door in Valerie’s face.

  O-kay, Valerie thought, her face burning. Not wanted in the dressing room.

  But she did need to score some clothes to wear. She thought about asking Antoine for some, but he was a guy and she felt funny. So she kept going down the hall. The music grew even louder, and Valerie realized she was bobbing her head to the rhythm. It was very cool, very tribal, and her shoulders were moving, too.

  There was a green and purple beaded curtain at the end of the hall. She walked through the curtain and into another world—a world that took her breath away.

  Reflected in mirrors that spanned the back of the room, three dancers were dressed in black leotards and tights, wearing black and gold masks that looked like fierce jungle cats. LaToya had told Valerie that Fusion Space had a professional company that performed throughout Pennsylvania. These must have been some of those dancers.

  They were leaping and pouncing in a circle as a tall, barefoot woman in a black leotard and a shiny black floor-length wraparound skirt watched from the sidelines. She was beating out the time on the wood floor with a long stick. Her black hair was plaited into a dozen braids dotted with silver beads, then twisted and held in place with two beaded picks. She had on heavy eye makeup and dark red lipstick.

  Sprawled on the floor along the front of the room, eight or so girls about Valerie’s age were dressed in black, green, fuchsia, and purple leotards and foot-less tights of all sorts of colors, some with their hair pulled back, others opting to let it hang loose over their shoulders. One lay with her head on the floor, her legs stretched open in an incredible side split. Another sat cross-legged, leaning over a book. She had a pink high-lighter in her right hand. Two other girls were making hand motions that mimicked those of the three dancers, as if they were the learning the dance’s steps. Another was texting into a BlackBerry.

  “Strong arms! Think about your power!” the woman encouraged the dancers, keeping time with her stick.

  As the music swirled and rose, the dancers leaped into the air with their knees pulled underneath them, then fell to the ground, rolle
d over, and pushed up on their hands, arching their backs. Then they did body waves as they got back up, posing with their fingers curled like claws. Drums thundered and they flew around the room, faster and faster, leaping higher and higher, until the music stopped with a clash of cymbals and a tinkling of bells.

  The dancers froze in three different positions, one on her back with her leg up high over her head, one dipping toward the floor with her leg extended behind her back, and the third with her arms reaching straight toward the ceiling. It was a very stunning finish.

  “Wow!” Valerie blurted into the silence.

  The three panting dancers, the girls on the floor, and the woman all turned to look at her. Someone giggled.

  She flushed bright red. “Sorry,” she murmured.

  The woman grinned and cocked her head, gesturing with her stick to indicate that the performers were dismissed. As they sidled away, she said to Valerie, “I appreciate your enthusiasm. Are you the new student?”

  “Oh, no, I’m LaToya’s stepsister. I mean, yes. I guess I am,” Valerie said, tongue-tied.

  The woman looked Valerie over. What did she see? Too tall? Too short? Dancerlike? Not dancerlike?

  “Your father mentioned that you need some clothes. I think we have something that will fit you,” she said. “Do you have a sports bra?”

  “Um,” Valerie managed, flushing harder. “No. Not with me. I didn’t know I’d be dancing today.”

  “No problem,” the woman assured her. “We’ll get you ready. I’m Manzuma, the director,” she said. “I own the studio.”

  Valerie gulped. Way to make a good first impression. This was the woman who was going to watch her in class. LaToya called her “strict” and “demanding.” She said sometimes some of the students would cry in class because Manzuma worked them so hard. She forced them to do the same moves over and over until they dropped.