Ambitious (6 page)

Marisol

As
the train came to a screeching halt at the Thirty-sixth Street station, I nudged Jasmine. She’d already started to doze before we’d left Manhattan. She was tired most afternoons because her mornings began so early. She had to care for her younger brother before school every day—making sure he was dressed and fed before escorting him to day care, which was two train stops in the opposite direction. Her evenings were spent babysitting him; reading to him before feeding him and making sure he bathed before bedtime. And after all of that, she stayed up half the night doing her own homework. And still found time every morning to send me a wake-up text and save me a seat on the train. That was impressive.

I liked her and was glad that we were becoming friends. And since her mother finally had a day off, she had given Jasmine permission to follow me home to Sunset Park, so that we could work on a routine for Dance America. The first few rounds were group rounds, and what better three dancers to form a group than Jasmine, Luz and me? We
were the best three dancers I knew. I couldn’t wait to introduce Jasmine to Luz. I’d rambled on about Jasmine to Luz, and about Luz to Jasmine. I figured it was time that each of them put a face with a name.

Jasmine and I hopped off the train at Thirty-sixth Street and took the escalator up to the street level. We stopped at the Mexican ice cream vendor on the corner and I bought Jasmine a paleta, which is a Mexican ice pop, before heading down The Block. Luz, Kristina and Grace were in their usual spot on Luz’s stoop as we came around the corner. They rushed over when they saw me.

“Hey, Mari,” Grace said and grabbed my paleta; took a huge bite of it. “How was school?”

“It was fine,” I said and snatched the paleta back.

“I bet you’re Jasmine,” said Kristina. “We’ve heard a lot about you.”

“Don’t believe everything you hear,” Jasmine said with a grin.

“Jasmine, meet Grace, Kristina and Luz. Everybody, this is Jasmine.”

“Nice to finally meet you.” Grace gave a warm, sincere smile.

Grace was the peacemaker in our group. She hated conflict and she never met a stranger. She had a knack for making people feel at home. She believed that everyone had a good heart; it was just life’s circumstances that altered who they were. She believed that murderers and rapists were ultimately good people; just victims of circumstance. Kristina
was the smart one. She aced every test and had perfect attendance since the first grade. She took life way too seriously. We had to force her to let her hair down—have fun. Luz and I were most alike. We had a little bit of all those characteristics all wrapped up into one. Except Luz was a little more fragile; insecure.

“Good to finally meet you, Jasmine,” said Kristina.

Luz said nothing at first. Just observed the introductions. “I thought we were dancing today,” she finally said.

“We are. At my house, as soon as I change,” I announced and headed toward my house. Jasmine followed. I looked at Luz. “You coming or what?”

“Yeah, I’m coming.”

Mami sat at the kitchen table sipping a cup of hot tea.

“Hola, bebé,”
she said and then asked me how was school.
“¿Cómo fue la escuela?”

“It was fine,” I told her. “Mami, I want you to meet my friend Jasmine from school. Jasmine, meet my mother, Isabel Garcia.”

“Hi,” Jasmine said.

“Pleased to meet you, Jasmine,” Mami said. “Are you a dancer or an actress?”

“I dance.”

“She’s in my dance class, Mami. And she’s a very good dancer,” I said.

“Hi, Mrs. Garcia,” said Luz, Kristina and Grace in unison.

“Hello, girls,” Mami said and smiled. “Sit down and have some sopaipillas.”

“No, Mami, we can’t. We’ve got work to do,” I interjected and then tried to usher my friends out of the kitchen.

“I want sopaipillas,” Grace whined and pushed her way back to the kitchen.

“So do I,” said Kristina.

“Me three,” Luz said.

The three of them took seats at the kitchen table and dug into the plate at the center of table filled with the Mexican dessert.

“What’s a sopaipilla?” Jasmine asked as she stood in the doorway.

“It’s sort of like a Mexican doughnut,” I explained, “something that will definitely put pounds on your hips. We are dancers. We can’t afford the extra weight.”

“Here, try one.” Grace handed one to Jasmine.

Jasmine stuffed the puff pastry into her mouth. “I think I’ll take my chances.”

“Let me get you all some milk,” Mami said and headed for the refrigerator.

“I’m gonna go change into something more comfortable,” I announced. With my backpack flung across my shoulder, I headed upstairs to my room to change clothes.

A CD player rested on the back patio. I popped in Jasmine’s CD, and Willow Smith started singing about whipping her hair back and forth. Jasmine started moving to the
music; a routine she’d obviously learned from the video. I followed her lead. It was a fun song and we bounced to the music as we both whipped our hair back and forth to the music. Grace and Kristina joined in.

Luz stood by, her arms folded across her chest, a frown on her face. “I don’t like that song. Let’s do something else.”

“I like it,” I told her.

“What do you mean, Luz?” Grace asked. “That song is hot!”

“On fire!” Kristina exclaimed.

“Willow Smith is like a…child…” said Luz. “It’s a kiddie song.”

“A very hot kiddie song,” Jasmine said and then gave me a high five.

We continued to move to the music. Soon, Luz ended the CD, took it out of the player and set it on top. She popped in a different CD—an upbeat song by Justin Bieber.

“Seriously, Luz?” I asked. “How rude was that?”

“Now this song is hot!” she proclaimed and then started moving her body to the music, “and Justin is just so cute!”

“You’ll have to excuse her,” I told Jasmine.

“No sweat. I like JB,” she said with a smile, “and he is cute.”

The two of them—Luz and Jasmine—danced energetically. At first it was as if they were challenging each other to see who moved better. They began to make up routines—separate routines, but both very original. They were both very talented, and confident. I watched and admired
as my two friends displayed their talent in my backyard. Grace, Kristina and I swayed from side to side and clapped our hands to the beat as we looked on.

When the song ended, I restarted it. “Both of you are great dancers. Now let’s put those moves together and come up with one routine.”

“That was so hot!” said Grace.

“Okay, girls.” I grabbed them both by the hand. “From the top.”

The three of us danced until we had successfully come up with a routine—or at least part of one. Before long, Luz had let her guard down just enough to share some moves with Jasmine, and Jasmine was more than willing to teach us what she knew. Soon we had the makings of a successful dance routine that we could all be proud of.

“The competition for Dance America will be stiff. We have to be original,” I reminded them.

“Absolutely,” Jasmine agreed.

“You guys need a name for your group,” Grace said, and it dawned on me that in less than an hour, Jasmine, Luz and I had officially become
a group.

“Yeah, you can’t audition for Dance America without a name,” said Kristina.

“They’re right, you know. We do need a name,” I said.

“Dance Divas,” announced Kristina.

“No, that’s dumb,” Luz said, shooting it down. “It’s not even original. Everyone calls themselves a diva nowadays.”

“She’s right,” I agreed, “the word is overused.”

“How about Premiere Princesses,” Jasmine exclaimed.

“I don’t attend Premiere,” Luz stated with attitude. “That won’t work.”

“I got it,” I announced. “We don’t all attend Premiere, but we’re all from Brooklyn. And we’re all beautiful. How about Brooklyn Bellezas!”

“What’s that mean?” Jasmine asked.

“Brooklyn beauties!” Grace said and grinned. “I’m loving it!”

“It’s perfect,” said Kristina.

“It’s okay,” Luz said.

“I like it,” Jasmine said and then grabbed her backpack and pulled out a package of cigarettes. “Mind if I smoke?”

“Not a good idea,” I said. “My mother is right on the other side of that wall. And besides, secondhand smoke is worse than the stuff you’re putting into your own lungs.”

“You smoke?” asked Grace.

“Yes,” Jasmine stated.

“Why?” Kristina asked. She really seemed to want an answer. “You’re so talented. It seems like smoking would damage your lungs and stop you from doing your best at dancing.”

“It stops me from having a nicotine fit,” Jasmine said with a smile. “I have to get going anyway. It’s getting late.”

“Can you come back tomorrow after school?” I asked, anxious for us to prepare for auditions.

“I gotta pick up my brother tomorrow. And I’m not sure when my mother will have another day off.”

“Can you bring him here after you pick him up?”

“Now that’s an idea,” Jasmine said. “You sure it’s okay with your folks if I bring him over? He’s a terror.”

“I’m sure they won’t mind,” I said.

“Okay, then we’ll come over tomorrow after school,” said Jasmine as she headed toward the gate.

“Wait a minute and we’ll walk you to the subway station,” I told her. “Let me just tell my mom where I’m going.”

“Cool.”

Grace, Kristina and I walked Jasmine to the subway. Luz stayed behind; claimed she had something to do for her mother. She was jealous of Jasmine. I could tell. But she didn’t have reason to be. The friendship that she and I shared could never be replaced, but she had to know that I would meet new friends. I was attending a new school, with new adventures every day. And I was loving every minute of it.

Drew

I exhaled
after I pulled into the garage and found that my father’s SUV wasn’t parked in its usual place. It wasn’t often that I drove my car to school. In fact, it was my father’s rule that I take the Mercedes out for a spin only on weekends, and only with permission. Occasionally I broke the rules and drove Delilah to school.
Delilah
. She was my candy-apple-red birthday present when I turned sixteen. With a drop-top and a set of nice wheels, Delilah had become my prize possession. Only I didn’t get to spend much time with her. She spent more time parked in our garage than she did on the streets of New York City. That was the downfall of living in a city like this—one where it was ludicrous to drive around when it made more sense to walk, grab a cab or ride the subway. What was the point in having a vehicle that you couldn’t drive? Which is why I broke the rules occasionally.

Driving her to school was like heaven. Especially at my old public school, where girls went crazy over guys who owned a set of wheels. At my old school, everyone knew
me. I was popular and famous—well, my dad was famous. But everyone knew that I was the son of a former semipro ballplayer and a sportscaster, and they treated me as such. There wasn’t anyone who didn’t know my name. However, my experience with driving Delilah to Premiere wasn’t quite what I expected. There was no hype, and the parking attendant didn’t even know who I was. I had to park on the street, which was dangerous. And I received a parking ticket from a disgruntled meter maid.

At my old school, I was a basketball star. I scored more points in a single game than most of my teammates scored all year. The coaches let me have my way on the court. I called the shots. At Premiere, I was nobody. I had talent and a love for the stage, but nothing more. Building a reputation all over again wasn’t going to be easy, but I was up for the challenge. I needed to follow my dreams.

I pulled the Mercedes into our apartment’s parking garage, lifted the top and shut off the engine. I sat there for a moment, thinking about the events of the day; especially my audition, wondering if I’d be considered for the role. There were so many talented actors in my class, some who’d been acting since preschool. My acting career consisted of the Christmas pageant at my old elementary school in sixth grade and the Easter play at Gram’s Holy Ghost church in Jamaica, Queens, where she lived. It wasn’t until the production of
A Christmas Carol
last year that I realized I had talent. It was then that I’d decided to pursue my acting career.

I still remember heading to the locker room during half-time at one of the biggest games of the year. I’d scored twenty-one points in the first half of the game. I was on fire! But I remember thinking that I wasn’t feeling basketball much anymore. And it hit me that night as I jogged through the hallway of our school, and into the locker room—a towel flung across my shoulder and a bottle of Gatorade in my hand. As Coach Austin laid out his strategy for the second half of the game, I was dazed—in la-la land. I wanted to tell him that night that I was thinking about transferring to another school, but I didn’t want to ruin the rest of the game for him or my teammates—or for my father who was sitting in the stands wearing a silver-and-blue jersey and yelling every time the officials made a bad call. I couldn’t bring myself to do that to them that night. But I had a plan.

After a brief conversation with my literary arts teacher, Miss Claiborne, who encouraged me to “do something with my acting,” I couldn’t wait to find out more about Premiere High School’s drama program. I skipped school the next day and walked the twelve blocks to the performing arts school in the heart of Manhattan. I snuck in with a group of students and headed straight for the theater. With a baseball cap pulled down on my head, I took a seat in the back. Hidden by the darkness of the theater, I watched as students rehearsed lines for Shakespeare’s
Romeo and Juliet.
At that moment, I knew that I belonged there.

“I have to audition for that school,” I told Preston, my best friend since fourth grade.

Although we attended separate schools, Preston and I grew up together. Our fathers had been good friends and associates for a long time. I’d spent many weekends at Preston’s mansion in New Jersey, where I’d learned horseback riding and how to play a round of golf. We ate lunch by ourselves at his father’s country club when we were merely ten years old. When we were both twelve, Preston’s father sent us to a real Knicks game in the family’s Bentley. Although his nanny tagged along as our chaperone, we still had a great time.

Preston was an exceptional violinist. His love for music started when we were small boys. He’d taken private lessons and learned how to play classical music. However, when he visited our Manhattan apartment, he brought his violin and spent the evening mimicking the sounds and rhythms that he heard on the BET music videos. I didn’t live in a mansion, but at our house, Preston was able to relax and be free. He didn’t have to worry about the pressures of being rich. At my house we ate chicken nuggets, drank red Kool-Aid and watched ESPN and MTV. In my room, he slept in the top bunk and threw kernels of popcorn at me from above. He loved my house, and I loved his. Unlike him, I thought it was cool being rich. Although my father was somewhat wealthy, we didn’t live as Preston’s family did. Preston enjoyed the simple life that I had. Sometimes I wished we could switch places—if only for a week.

Preston wanted to attend Premiere High—a place where he could be free with his violin and play the type of music that he enjoyed, instead of the stuffy classical music that he learned during his private lessons. However, his father would never allow him to attend a school like Premiere. Breckinridge Academy was where his father attended high school; his grandfather and his great-grandfather also went there. His choices were slim. I often joked that Preston’s father was such a busy man, he would never know if Preston were to transfer to another school. He would laugh and then throw a pillow at me.

“Shut up, Bishop,” he’d say.

“No, seriously. How often do you see your dad anyway…once a week…once a month?”

“He travels a lot,” Preston would say, “but he left his spies in charge. Well, one spy…the nanny, Sydney.”

“She’s cute,” I would tease. “I could keep her distracted for you.”

“You’re a dreamer.” He called me that all the time.

I stepped out of Delilah, grabbed my book bag from the backseat and hit the power locks. As I strolled through the parking lot, I heard the screech of tires burning rubber through the parking garage. Preston whipped his white sports car around the corner, almost running me down. He rolled the window down and gave me a wide grin.

“What’s up, man?” he asked.

“Why you driving through my parking garage like a maniac?” I asked.

“I’m having a great day, my friend!” he exclaimed.

“What makes it so great?”

Instead of answering, he rolled his window up, whipped into an available parking space, stepped out of the car and raced toward me.

“We’re going to a basketball game tonight,” he announced.

“What game?”

“Breckinridge Academy meets…guess who…?”

“Who?”

“Your old high school!” he exclaimed.

“Are you kidding? That can’t be. Private schools don’t play public schools. They’re in a totally different league.”

“Your old coach got together with our coach and put together a scrimmage.”

“Really?” I asked.

“Really,” he said. “Now, I would suggest you go throw that old book bag in your room. Put on some nicer clothes. Something not so corny.” He laughed.

I looked down at my argyle sweater vest and slim jeans. “No can do,” I said.

“Okay, fine. Keep on the corny clothes, but come on so we don’t miss the tip-off. That’s my favorite part of the game,” he said.

“No, I’m saying I can’t go.”

“Why?”

“I can’t go back there. It’s too soon. The wounds of my leaving haven’t healed yet. I haven’t seen my old coach since I broke the news to him. It would be too awkward.”

“You don’t have to see him,” Preston said. “There will be hundreds of students in the stands. No one will even notice you.”

“Are you kidding? I was voted last year’s homecoming king. I was the LeBron James of the school’s basketball team,” I bragged. “Do you know that I never completed one homework assignment last school year?”

“That’s not anything to be proud of.”

“I had a girl for every subject, and they insisted on doing my homework for me. Needless to say, I aced all of my classes.”

“You’re a vain one, aren’t you?”

“I’m not vain, just confident,” I explained. “Besides, I’m not so popular anymore. Not at Premiere. When I walk through the doors there, I’m just an ordinary kid.”

“Give it time, dude. As soon as you land a major role, you’ll have the babes kissing your feet again,” Preston said and smiled. “But for now, we got a game to go to. And I’m not taking no for an answer.”

“Okay, man. Let me go change shirts. I got ketchup on my sweater at lunchtime,” I said. “And by the way, did I tell you that I got a parking ticket today?”

He followed me into our apartment building, where I called for an elevator. We took it to the eighth floor.

“You didn’t drive Delilah to school.”

“I did.”

“Your dad know?”

“Of course not,” I said. “He’ll never know.”

After changing shirts, Preston and I headed to my former high school for the basketball game of the century. Stuffy old Breckinridge had been undefeated for the past two years. It would definitely be an interesting game.

In the stands of my old stomping grounds, I watched the game through dark shades and a baseball cap pulled down low on my head. We missed tip-off, but the first quarter of the game was filled with excitement. Breckinridge was ahead by two points, and one of its players was at the free throw line. I watched as Coach Austin paced back and forth across the buffed floor, that usual wrinkle in between his eyes. He seemed stressed out all the time; too stressed to be coaching a bunch of knuckleheaded teenagers. Breckinridge’s center, a tall guy with blond hair, sank both free throws into the basket, placing his team ahead by four points.

“Drew Bishop. Is that you?” asked the girl wearing sexy skintight jeans and a cashmere sweater. With both hands on her hips, Angie was much prettier than I remembered.

“Why are you wearing those stupid glasses?” asked her friend, Dana. I remembered Dana. She was a loudmouth and in everybody’s business. I didn’t like her much.

“And what happened to you calling me, dude?” Angie asked. “Did you lose my number?”

“I, uh…” I didn’t have a chance to respond because they were tag-teaming me.

“Why are you here anyway?” asked Dana. “Don’t you go to that artsy school now?”

“Yes, I did lose your number,” I told Angie, completely ignoring Dana’s question, “but I would love to have it again. Maybe I can call you sometime.”

“Cool.” She grabbed an ink pen out of her purse, took my hand in hers and began to scribble her phone number into the palm of my hand. “Plug it into your phone before you wash your hand, okay?”

“Okay,” I said.

I admired her body as she stepped down from the bleachers, remembering that my attraction to Angie had been totally physical. She had the dumb-blonde thing going on.

“Why didn’t she just let you plug the number into your phone right then, dude?” Preston asked the question that I was thinking.

“Don’t ask stupid questions.”

We both laughed.

Right before the game ended, I made my way to the floor and toward Coach Austin. After losing to Breckinridge, I knew that he’d probably be in a bad mood and the reunion might be a little painful. But it was something that I had to do. They’d lost but played a great game, losing by only one point. But if I knew Coach Austin, a loss was still a loss in his eyes. When I approached, he was shocked to see me.

“Bishop!” he yelled like a boot camp sergeant. It was the same voice that I often heard while running down the court and he wanted me to be somewhere else. It was always startling when he said my name.
Bishop!

“Hey, Coach.”

“You left without saying goodbye. What’s wrong with that picture?” he asked. He often talked in what seemed like riddles. Or asked questions that he really didn’t expect an answer to.

“I should’ve said goodbye?” It was more a question than a response.

“Darn right you should’ve said goodbye. That was a wimp move.”

“Sorry?” Again a question.

“You left all of this—” he motioned toward the basketball court “—to go play house at that school in Manhattan.”

“I, um… I went to pursue my dreams of acting.”

“Whatever.” He was insensitive. “You ready to come back and play ball or what?”

“Nah, Coach. Not right now.”

“Okay, well, when you come to your senses, give me a call.” He turned his back to me. “Okay, you little girls…let’s get to the locker room. I got some stuff I wanna talk to you about.”

“Congratulations on playing a great game,” Preston said to Coach Austin.

Coach Austin turned around and gave Preston a strange
look. “A great game? What do you mean, great game? We lost!”

“You lost by one point,” Preston explained.

“Whether it’s ten points or one point, we still lost,” he said and then marched toward the locker room. Left us both standing there without words.

“That went well,” Preston said as we left the gym.

“I’ll say.”

“Well, if it isn’t Benedict Arnold. I mean, Drew Bishop,” said Antwoine, my friend and former teammate.

“What are you doing here, Drew?” asked Kev, one of my best friends since elementary school. It felt strange that he was greeting me this way—as if we hadn’t slept over at each other’s houses since we were small.

“Yeah, man, what are you doing here?” Andre asked. “This is no place for a sellout.” His remark stung even more because I had known him since fifth grade, and considered him a close friend.

“Oh, so I’m a sellout because I decided to pursue my dreams?” I asked.