by Earl Sewell
Sliding my tray down the lunch line, I see that the pepperoni pizza looks exceptionally yummy today. I love to eat, but as a dancer I have do it in moderation, which is so challenging for me. Since I’m really trying to make better food choices, I decide to get a turkey sandwich, fresh fruit salad and a carton of chocolate milk. Olivia gets the same lunch as me, while Jade opts for a salad and cranberry juice.
As soon as we sit down to eat, Jade says, “You will never guess who asked me out on a date.”
“Who?” I ask.
“Tristan Turner.”
Tristan from dance class is kinda cute, but he’s such a class clown that no one takes him seriously.
“Again? Wow...” I say. “Well, it is cuffing season, you know. Either he really likes you, or he’s just really desperate to be booed up for the holidays.”
“That’s right. Cuffing season is in full effect,” Olivia adds. “And randoms have been prowling extra hard lately.”
The short definition of cuffing season is when people who are single scramble around from October through December, trying to find someone to couple up with for the holiday season.
Believe it or not, it’s an actual “thing.” Look it up on Google. Personally, I think it’s a dumb concept, and I’m not interested in any guy who only asks me out just to avoid being alone for Christmas.
“Well, that explains why Tristan keeps popping up everywhere I go lately,” Jade says. “Dealing with him in dance class is one thing, but it seems like every time I turn around, there he is. At my locker in between classes, at the grocery store, at the mall...”
“Speaking of the mall...” Olivia says cautiously. “I saw Lance with your cousin Tiffany at the food court the other day, and they looked pretty chummy.”
I feel a pang of intense jealousy creeping up, but I force it down and try to keep it from showing on my face. The news doesn’t surprise me, though. I’ve been getting reports of Lance-and-Tiffany sightings for almost a month now, and they only confirm that my suspicions about the two of them are true.
Jade elbows Olivia in the side. “Did you really have to tell her that?”
“No, it’s okay,” I assure them. “I’m totally over it, so it’s fine. No big deal...”
“I have to say, Lance had me fooled,” Jade says with a look of disappointment. “I honestly didn’t have him pegged for the player type. I thought he was so much better than that.”
“That makes two of us,” I say. “But it’s always the ones you least suspect, right?”
“Exactly!” Olivia says. “I thought Jeffrey was a good guy, too, but he turned out to be a Cheater Cheater Pumpkin-Eater, just like Lance.”
“Maybe cuffing season isn’t such a bad idea after all,” Jade says, sounding pitiful. “I mean, I don’t know about you guys, but I think it sucks being single this time of year.”
“Oh, that is so lame!” I tell Jade. “We are all self-sufficient, independent young ladies, and we don’t need guys to validate us.”
“Yeah, Bree, you’re right,” Jade replies. “But I still want a boyfriend, though!”
We all burst into laughter. Jade can be so silly sometimes, but I have to agree with her.
I am in the market for a new boyfriend, but that would be the case whether it was the holiday season or any other time of year. For me, it’s not about hooking up with someone just to avoid looking like a lonely loser. I want to prove to Lance that there are plenty of other fish in the sea, and he is certainly not the only game in town.
We eat our lunch in silence for a few minutes, and then it comes to me. The most genius idea I think I’ve ever had.
“We should throw a matchmaking party,” I say.
Jade and Olivia stare at me with puzzled looks.
“Okay...” Jade says slowly. “And how exactly do those things work?”
“It’s simple. The three of us have a party where we each invite guys who we think would make good matches for the other two. If we all choose the right guys, something should click with at least one of these guys, and voilà!”
“We’ll all walk away with brand-new boyfriends,” Olivia says, impressed.
The sparks in their eyes let me know for sure that I’m onto something big.
“Wow, Bree, that’s brilliant!” Jade says. “You’re not just a bun head after all, huh?”
“Ha!” I laugh. “Now you know!”
A bun head is a term used in reference to female dancers who typically wear their hair swept up into a bun. Some girls might be offended by the term, but to me, it’s a compliment.
Olivia looks excited as she pushes her tray aside and takes a pen and notebook out of her backpack. “Okay, so what are the rules for this matchmaking party?” she asks me.
“First and foremost, they have to be single,” I say. “If not, don’t even bother inviting them.”
Olivia gives me a high five and then writes it down.
“Second,” I continue, “let’s not mention that this is a matchmaker party.”
“But wait—why?” Jade asks.
“Otherwise, they’ll be on their best behavior and we won’t get to see the real them. As far as they should know, this is just a regular party. Period.”
“Gee, I would have never thought of that,” Olivia says, writing it down. “Now, if I may interject for a second, I think rule number three should be that they have to be good-looking.”
“Well, to be fair, they don’t have to be Channing Tatum,” I tell her. “But please don’t invite Shrek, either.”
“That’s a good and very important point!” Jade laughs. “Now, where’s the party going to be?”
“I would have it at my house, but Tiffany is going to be there and I don’t want her to be able to attend by default,” I say.
“So, no invite for Tiffany?” Jade asks jokingly.
“Heck no!” I say.
“We can have the party at my house,” Olivia tells us. “My dad just had the basement remodeled, and it is sick! I’ve been dying to throw a party down there anyway.”
“Sounds perfect,” Jade says. “What about the menu?”
“I’m thinking it should just be typical party food, like buffalo wings, chips, dips, punch and maybe cupcakes for dessert,” I say.
“Right, but let’s just make sure they’re organic, gluten-free cupcakes, because you know I’m allergic,” Olivia says.
“Yeah, we know!” Jade and I say at the same time.
Poor Olivia. She’s allergic to just about everything except oxygen, which sucks for her.
We hammer out a few more details and set the date of the party for two weeks from today. I’m actually kinda excited to see what can come from all this.
seven
I get home from a late dance rehearsal to find Tiffany in my room, which we’ve been forced to share since she moved in with us two months ago. She’s giggling with someone on the telephone and has the audacity to be lying comfortably on my bed with her shoes on. Talk about nerve!
“Oh, boy, here she comes,” Tiffany says into the phone. “Okay, I’ll call you later.... Love you, too. ’Bye.”
“Wait, tell Lance I said hello,” I say sarcastically.
“Actually, that was my mom, and she said to tell you hello.”
“Well, now that you two are back on good terms, when are you going to go back and live with her?”
“Soon, I hope. And look, I don’t like this arrangement any more than you do, especially since you started accusing me of things that I’m not even doing.”
“Oh, here you go with the Vickie victim role again,” I say. “Poor Tiffany is always so misunderstood. You get expelled from school every other week, get caught shoplifting and stealing money from your mom, but that’s all a big misunderstanding, too, right?”
“I might have done some of those things in the past, but I have changed and matured, which is more than I can say for you.”
“Ha!” I laugh. “Is that right, because I really can’t tell that you’ve changed for the better. Case in point, where did you spend the night last Friday without permission?”
“Not that it’s any of your business, but my friend Pam had a sleepover, and I did have permission. Aunt Valencia just got the dates mixed up.”
I scoff. This girl is a real piece of work. “There’s a word for people who believe their own lies,” I tell Tiffany. “And it’s called psychotic. Look it up!”
Tiffany sighs like this is all too much for her to handle. “Bree, I promise you that you have it all wrong. Lance and I are just friends. And other than that, I don’t know what else to say because, really, your issue is with him, not with me.”
“Spoken like a true home wrecker.”
“Listen, if you want the truth, here it is—relationships are about trust, and if you are that insecure to actually believe that I would do something like that to you, then you don’t deserve a boyfriend.”
“Oh, so I don’t deserve a boyfriend now? How about you go and get your own boyfriend, you trifling heifer!”
My mom comes in the room and jumps between the two of us with her arms spread wide like a referee. Even in her delicate condition, she is still remarkably nimble and quick. “Excuse me, but what is going on in here?” Mom asks. “I can hear you two all the way downstairs.”
“Aunt Valencia, I was in here minding my own business when Bree came and started in on this Lance nonsense again.” Tiffany pouts with her victim card on full display.
Mom shakes her head and looks at me like I’m the bad guy in this whole equation. “Bree, I’m sorry you and Lance broke up, but he was your boyfriend, not your husband, and believe it or not, boyfriends come and go.”
My jaw practically hits the floor. My mother knows more than anyone how much Lance meant to me. “Mom, I can’t believe you just said that!”
“Seriously, Bree, get a grip. Do you know how many boyfriends I had when I was your age? Plenty! Now I’m almost seven months pregnant and I don’t have time for this foolishness, so I suggest that you two get over whatever differences you have and put this mess behind you once and for all.... You’re family!”
I love my mom to pieces, but as she’s talking all I hear is “womp, womp, womp...” like Charlie Brown’s teacher. Yes, sisters should come before misters, but because of Tiffany, I’ve learned that blood isn’t always thicker than water, and family will cross you faster than any stranger would.
I trusted that girl, and she betrayed that trust by breaking every sisterhood rule and girl code there is. Specifically, the one that states “Thou shalt not covet thy cousin’s boyfriend.” So why is it all on me to forgive and forget?
Tiffany and I glare at each other with mutual dislike, and I can’t help but wonder how our relationship got to this point. Especially since we were once so close that we used to dress alike and went around telling everyone that we were sisters. When Tiffany was fifteen, she started hanging out with a group of girls with bad reputations, and as my dad says all the time, “Birds of a feather flock together.” Now I don’t even know who she is anymore, because she has morphed into someone completely unrecognizable in terms of character and morals.
The way we’ve been going for each other’s throats, there is no getting around the fact that there will be bad blood between the two of us for as long as we are forced to live under the same roof, which I’m praying won’t be for too much longer.
eight
We’re in the middle of another grueling Nutcracker rehearsal. I’m still bruised and sore from the other day, so it’s hard to go full out like I want to.
Ms. Duncan has noticed that I’m not giving 100 percent and she’s been raining a barrage of corrections down on me since the first minute of class: “Pick up the pace, Bree!”
“Watch those arms, Bree.... Keep them high and more defined!”
“Bree, how many times do I have to tell you to push off the floor when Jordan goes to lift you?”
In addition to Ms. Duncan, Jordan has been on my case, as well. “Didn’t you get her corrections from the last rehearsal?” Jordan asks as we’re dancing together.
“Of course I got them!” I snap, highly irritated.
“Well, then execute!” he snaps back like the diva he is. “I can’t keep straining my back because you can’t get the moves right.”
“Oh, yeah? Well, it sure doesn’t help that you keep stepping on my feet!” I respond.
“Pay attention, Bree! Focus!” Ms. Duncan barks at me. “Now, if you can’t handle this role, you can always quit. I’m sure your understudy will thank you.”
I am so angry I feel like crying, but I force myself to hold the tears back. Ms. Duncan has suggested on more than one occasion that my understudy Tamera Smith would be a much better choice for the role of the Snow Queen, which is a major insult.
Initially, I wanted to be a part of this production so badly, but that was before Ms. Tucker had a heart attack. Now I’m wondering what I’ve gotten myself into and if I am in over my head.
I excuse myself and go to the restroom, where I splash cold water on my face and do a little soul-searching.
Should I relinquish my role or stick it out? Life will certainly be easier if I walk away from The Nutcracker, and it’s not like I would be the first one to do it. Since we started rehearsals back in September, kids have been dropping out of the production like flies. Almost every other day a new understudy steps into a role vacated by someone who just couldn’t hack it.
Quitting is tempting, but where will that get me? The answer is nowhere. It will take me only further away from my goals, which are way bigger than this production, this school and even this town.
In life, I know that I am going to come across many situations that require toughness and tenacity. I can’t quit every time I face opposition; that’s the stuff losers are made of. Besides, Ms. Duncan didn’t give me my talent, and she certainly can’t take it away.
I stare at my reflection in the mirror and whisper, “This is a test, Bree.... This is only a test.”
With my mind made up, I walk back into the dance studio fired up and motivated. My dreams are on the line, and I’m going to fight for them with everything I have in me.
* * *
The rest of rehearsal goes rather smoothly, with Ms. Duncan giving me only a few minor corrections. Despite feeling achy and exhausted, I managed to stay focused and give the routine 110 percent.
“Great job, Bree. Way to work!” Ms. Duncan says, patting me on the back.
At the end of our session, Ms. Duncan has us all gather around for a big announcement.
“Since this piece is rather difficult in terms of technique, I figured it might be helpful if some of you got the chance to see a big-budget production of The Nutcracker,” Ms. Duncan says. “And since I know a few people over at the New York City Ballet, they have agreed to give us tickets to their opening-night performance at Lincoln Center next month.”
The entire class erupts into cheers and applause. Most of the kids who attend performing-arts schools have been practicing their respective crafts since they were little kids. Every single one of us wants to be in show business someday, so the opportunity to watch highly trained professionals at work is priceless.
We all scream and jump up and down like little kids on Christmas morning, as Ms. Duncan passes out consent forms for our parents to sign.
I’m so excited that I hug the nearest person to me, which happens to be Jordan. At the moment, I don’t care that I’m hugging someone who annoys me so much and gives me a hard time. We’re going to New York City! Woot-woot!
nine
It’s a Friday
evening and less than two hours before the matchmaking party is scheduled to start. I’m in the Jetta, driving over to Olivia’s house, and I am a huge ball of nervous energy right now. Call me slow, but it didn’t occur to me until I was doing my hair and makeup that this party has the potential to turn out really well, or Jade, Olivia and I could just be speeding toward colossal failure.
It took me the longest time to get dressed because I couldn’t figure out what look to go for. All-out glamour or low-key cute and sexy? Should I wear a dress or the chic winter-white pantsuit that I wore to Aunt Gina’s wedding last year? Time was running out fast, so I chose my best pair of jeans, a black sweater and black leather boots. It’s a cute and casual look, nothing too fancy to suggest that I’m trying too hard.
Right before leaving the house, I get a text from Lance, of all people.
Hey, beautiful. I heard through the grapevine that you were having a party. How come I didn’t get an invite?
What? I thought I had made it perfectly clear that I didn’t want anything more to do with this guy.
I replied back right away: NO DOGS ALLOWED!!!! :(
There. Hopefully that will do the trick.
* * *
Olivia lives not too far from me in a big three-story house with a full basement. I ring the doorbell, and Olivia’s dad answers dressed in his deputy-sheriff uniform. Either he just got off work, or he’s wearing the uniform to let the boys know not to try any funny business. I’m guessing that it’s probably both.
“Well, here’s Bree!” Mr. Nichols says like he’s glad to see me. “If you get any taller, you might have to be a supermodel instead of a dancer,” he says with a wink.
I blush, embarrassed by the compliment. That Mr. Nichols can be such a jokester. I clean up well sometimes, but a supermodel? Neh... I thank Olivia’s dad, say hello to her mom and then bound down a flight of stairs into the basement. The room has been completely transformed since the last time I saw it. The concrete floor and walls have been replaced with carpeting and drywall. There’s nice, comfortable furniture, a pool table, a flat-screen TV, darts—the whole nine yards. It’s the ultimate man-cave, and my dad would definitely approve.
