My Seventh-Grade Life in Tights (19 page)

T
he car ride home was quiet.

I felt like I was going to a funeral. But the only thing that had died was my chance of winning that scholarship. My phone buzzed in my bag as Dad merged onto the interstate.

Sarah:
y didn’t u text me???

Great. I was hoping she’d wait until Monday before she interrogated me. My fingers flew over the letters faster than my brain could figure out what I should say.

Me:
maybe bc I was busy trying not to look like an idiot.

There was a pause and I immediately wished I hadn’t texted her that. Now she’d think I’d bombed the routine. Worse than I actually did, anyway. So I sent her another text.

Me:
but i think i did ok. the judges were just tough.

Sarah:
what did the judges say? did they like the choreo?

Me:
they stopped me halfway through and asked for my ninja freestyle.

I wanted to hit send so bad I could taste it. Sarah would read it and probably explode. I’d be able to look out the van window and see where she was by the gigantic mushroom cloud forming in the sky. But my chances of winning would go up in smoke along with her.

So I deleted it and just sent:
yes.

I threw myself back against the backseat.

Monday morning, there was no high-fiving. No hugs. No Sarah congratulating me for not getting kicked out of the contest for busting out some of my old moves. She just paused for a second with her Barbie marching band and stared off over my head, saying, “You still need work. Just because you’re in the top three doesn’t mean we’re safe.”

She walked off. I kicked the air behind her and heard something pop. My first thought was that I’d ripped my jeans. Great. Tighty Whitey strikes again. I backed up against the lockers and slid my hand behind me to check. All clear. When I turned to walk away, an eighth-grade girl was staring at me with her eyebrows perched as high up on her forehead as they could possibly get. She blew a bubble.

Pop!

I smiled, but she just rolled her eyes and left.

At lunch, I took the long route to the football table. I didn’t care if it was technically spying, I had to see my friends. I’d just sneak by. Just a quick look. I followed a pair of girls walking near the table, keeping close and as hidden as possible. I craned my neck, looking over their shoulders and—

SCREEECH!

The earsplitting squeak my shoes made shot through the cafeteria like an arrow. Kassie and Carson looked up at me. And so did the four new faces, including the one sitting in my old seat. Austin, though? He just stared straight ahead, shoving one fry after another into his mouth.

My heart churned out a techno beat, making my entire body shake. This was it. I’d been replaced. My own best friends had found new people.

The corners of Kassie’s mouth pulled back into a weird sort of awkward smile. The kind you give cousins you don’t really know. The type you save for school pictures.

“Um, hey. How’s it going?” I inched closer to my seat. Since they hadn’t chased me off yet, I thought I’d sit down. Maybe the guy with the spiky hair and black-rimmed glasses would take a hint and scram.

I balanced on the tips of my toes, waiting for Kassie to reply. And when she did—it was a shrug.

A
shrug.
A bolt of white-hot fear zigzagged through my body. I tried to keep myself from hyperventilating, which is hard to do when you’ve just witnessed yourself being kicked out of the only place you’ve ever fit in. I said the first thing that popped into my head. “I miss you.”

Captain Spiky Hair grinned and looked at Kassie. Her eyes fell to the table. I couldn’t be sure but it looked like her face was a little pinker than it had been a few seconds earlier. Great. First real words I say to Kassie in forever and all I manage to do is embarrass her.

I quickly added, “All of you, I mean. Hanging out. And stuff.”
And stuff.
Brilliant. They’d take me back for sure now. Because I missed all the
and stuff
and stuff.

“We missed you, too, Dillon,” Carson said. Did he say
missed
? As in,
We
used
to miss you, Dillon. But not anymore because we have new besties with colorful shirts and spiky hair.

Austin nodded toward Captain Spiky Hair. “That’s Patrick. He’s a filmmaker, too.”

“Whassup?” Patrick said. “We’re making a zombie movie for the film festival this summer. It’s gonna be disgusting, bro.”

I nearly dropped my tray. “
Our
zombie movie?”

“It’s
my
zombie movie, Dillon,” Austin said. “I’m the one who wrote it.”

“Okay, but—am I still gonna be in it?”

“Well…” Austin scratched his forehead.

Before he could say anything else, Patrick jumped in. “Movie’s already been recast, bro. Austin said you already had things going on this summer. Too bad. But maybe we could use you as an extra.” He stuck his thumb out toward the three other new kids. The ones stuck on the end of the table, who’d been quiet the whole time. The extras. The blue shirts of the movie world.

I glared at Patrick through the little spews of steam rising off the meat loaf. For a second I imagined dumping every bit of it on his head. More than a lot of me was hoping that Kassie and Carson would speak up. I only waited for like five seconds, but it felt like forever. Like when the judges on all the dance competition shows get ready to tell everyone who the winner is and they pause. And stare. And wait. And then they say, “You made it to the next round!” and everyone screams and cheers and there’s crying, but it’s the good kind.

That. Except the total opposite.

I fake-smiled through a thick layer of pain. “Fine. I gotta go. Good seeing you.”

I found a seat at a random table. Far away from Kassie, Carson, and Austin and far away from Sarah and the football team. I wanted to be alone. I wanted to be sad. I wanted to sit there and pout and stew in my own feel-awfulness. For a while I thought I’d done this to myself. That it was me who had kicked my friends to the side. That it was me who had given up my crew for solo greatness.

But I wouldn’t have even been there if my own crew hadn’t pressured me into it. They were the ones who’d shoved me into a corner where I didn’t fit. And somewhere along the way—just when I was finding out where I might belong—they’d replaced me. With a spiky-haired hipster and a handful of extras.

After school, I made my way to the gym. Sarah wasn’t there, so I sat down and spent the first ten minutes stretching and watching videos.

I replayed every single one Austin had put up on our—
their
—YouTube channel. There was even a new one. The routine looked pretty much the same, but a few spots had been changed to work with two people instead of three.

One less fake dancer made the dance look twice as good.

On the new video, I could hear Austin arguing with Patrick about zooming in or tilting the camera. The only reason I knew it was Patrick was because he’d end nearly every sentence with
bro.
Well, that and his voice made me want to tear off my ears.

My nickname was never mentioned. Maybe Patrick had convinced Austin to edit me out. Or maybe it’d been Austin’s idea. I’d never know. So I just watched them practice and get better. Every video had some comments. Most were the usual junk, but I noticed a couple asking where the Kung Fu Kid was. Carson responded to both: “Taking a break for now.”

More like forever.

My phone buzzed.

Sarah:
u better b practicing. i can’t make it 2day. girl stuff.

Sarah or no Sarah, I needed to practice. The competition was Saturday and I was still falling out of my turns a little. I pulled up the snorefest of a song I’d been practicing to and stood up. I took a deep breath and pushed off the ground. Toes like knife points.

Two stiff-legged steps and into a retiré to begin my pirouette. I added in an extra spin, spotting both times.

My body felt weird. The technique was getting there. But it was like I was dancing in a shell. Just riding along while someone else pushed me around the floor.

I ended my turn, reaching out to the left, then to the right. My left leg flew up behind me. My next move was to bring it back down and roll to the floor.

But I didn’t.

I couldn’t.

My body was refusing.

So I swung my leg forward into a teeth-shattering front kick. I pulled two imaginary swords from my belt, spinning across the room. Punches, kicks, uppercuts. Every move that’d been bottled up inside me for weeks was tearing down the wall of technique I’d been using to hold it back.

I was a ninja, slicing my way through hordes of monsters, saving the universe from evil.

And I couldn’t stop.

When the music faded out, I stood there, sweat dripping off my nose.

My chest ached from breathing so hard.

Something was wrong. Ninja freestyle wasn’t real. It wasn’t dancing.

Real dancers danced real styles.

But that didn’t explain why it still felt so good to do.

That evening, I was in the middle of my algebra homework when I got another text from Sarah.

Sarah:
u practice like u were supposed 2?

Practice? Yes. Like I was supposed to? Not exactly.

Me:
Yes.

Sarah:
good. don’t make plans 4 friday.

Me:
Why?

I sank into my chair. Friday was an in-service day. A free day. The last thing I wanted was another day being stuck with her.

Sarah:
ur coming to the movies with us.

Me:
You mean like a date?

Sarah:
gross. no. it’s the last day b4 the contest. i don’t want u 2 do anything stupid.

“Like going to the movies with you?” I said to the screen.

Not like I had a choice. But maybe getting out would be good. Probably better than being glued to my desk, fantasizing about Patrick getting accidentally knocked into a concussion by Kassie.

T
he smell of over-buttered popcorn and old carpet hit me as soon as I walked inside the theater.

“You invited Tighty Whitey?” Bobby said, snarling at me as I got close.

“I also invited you,” Sarah said, returning the sass. The two Barbies laughed in unison.

“So, what’re we seein’?” Troy asked.

Sarah turned to DeMarcus. “What did you have in mind, Mr. Quarterback?” She put her arms around his neck.

“Oh, um, I don’t know.” He pulled her hands off him. “What did you all want to see?”

Sarah glared at him for a second, like she couldn’t believe he didn’t instantly dip her and plant a big wet one on her lips. DeMarcus shoved his hands in his pockets.

Troy held his hands up in front of him. “Better not be a chick flick.”

“Yeah,” Bobby said. “Don’t want Troy to turn gay on us.” He honked out a laugh that sounded like a cross between a goose and a burp.

“Shut up, Bobby. I’m not the one who got replaced by Tighty Whitey last game.”

“Whatever,” Bobby mumbled. “He ain’t got half the moves I do.” He walked off toward the concession counter with Red-Haired Barbie.

My eyes landed on the Dance Dance Revolution game at the mini-arcade and my stomach instantly knotted up. I pulled out a wad of quarters from my pocket. “So, um, anyone wanna play air hockey?”

“What are you, like five years old?” Black-Haired Barbie asked.

“Yeah, I’ll play,” DeMarcus said.

I followed him over to the table and popped the four coins into the change slot. The surface poofed out a burst of air and the tiny plastic disc hovered across the playing field.

“Um, you wanna go first?” I asked.

“It’s all you, man,” DeMarcus said, his eyes skipping over to where Sarah was standing.

I aimed and struck. The ear-popping
CLACK
s echoed through the theater as the disc ricocheted around the table. Within a few seconds, DeMarcus scored. I replaced the disc on the table and aimed again.

CLACK!

“It was fun finally getting to play this year,” I said.

CLACK!

“Mm-hm.”

CLACK!

“The first string seems pretty cool.”

CLACK!

“Yeah. Most of them.”

CLACK!

“I sort of miss hanging out with my friends, though.”

CLACK!

Just a nod.

CLACK!

“Especially—”
Shut up, Dillon, shut up, Dillon, don’t say her name, Dillon, it’ll just make you feel like crawling into a corner and dying.
“Austin and Carson.”