Bring It On (5 page)

“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.

“‘Me Against the World,'” M.J. and a massive guy answered at the same time.

“Yo, Fridge. Read my brain waves.” M.J. and the guy who seemed to be called Fridge bumped fists.

“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.

But Devane was already walking away.

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.

“No prob,” ill papi answered.

“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.

“You one of the new peeps in the Performance Group?” ill papi asked.

“Yep. Sophie Qian,” she answered.

“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.

“Um, yeah, it's really lovely,” Emerson answered.

“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.

Max the pixie laughed. “I never had a blankie. I had a giraffe named Moogoo,” she answered.

“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.”

“Oh. Sorry. It's pretty. Have you ever considered using it as a blankie?” Sophie asked lamely.

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.”

Sophie sighed.
Way to make a good first impression, Soph.

“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.

“Devane Edwards,” Gina continued.

“Just Devane,” Devane corrected.

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.”

“We're twins,” they said together.

“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.”

As if Emerson owned any inappropriate clothing. Not with her mother.

“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?”

“What's happening next month?” Chloe hollered back.

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

The smallest girl started doing the robot across the room.

“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! Woo-hoo!” Sophie cried.

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?

“Enough talk. Let's get to work.” Gina started up the music.

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
!”