by Mitzi Miller
The more she thought about it, the more convinced Sydney became that this was the best way to handle it. After all, it was just a gossip site. Nobody actually believed the stories they read on it anyway. It’s not like they couldn’t deny if anyone asked—not that they would. It was Lauren and Dara. Not a soul at Brookhaven would dare question them directly—but they’d sure talk trash behind their backs. And even better, no one would ever figure out that it was actually her posting the info…except maybe for Lauren and Dara. And they’d damn sure never tell anyone, because that would require the both of them to admit the facts were true. Lauren and Dara would just have to suck it up and be a little uncomfortable in their skin for a couple of days. In the meantime, Sydney would emerge from the drama unscathed, looking like the decent, progressive, upstanding, and totally together individual she was, despite her trashy sister. It was perfect. Those hags would get a taste of their own medicine. As she sat down at her desk and eagerly logged on, a single smug thought worked its way through Sydney’s head: “I can’t wait to see just how far away from Dara Marcus wants to move now!”
12
LAUREN
“Aw hell, no!” Lauren screamed as she punched the stop button on the dance team’s portable CD player and jumped off the bleachers. “What are y’all doing? You’re moving your feet like you got hot crap in your Reeboks.”
Dara shook her head and smirked at the seven uniformclad squad members as Lauren took her place in front of them, her ponytail swinging with every angry step. They’d put the finishing touches on the new Homecoming routine the night before, and had every intention of perfecting it at Lauren’s house after watching Tyra, but Sydney’s ridiculous outburst put a premature end to that. Lauren was a little nervous about it: The Homecoming performance would be her first as the dance-squad captain and she needed it to be tight because, well, she had a rep to protect, and the last thing she wanted to do was get out in front of all of Brookhaven Prep students, alumni, and her former dance-squad-captain’s mom looking like a straight amateur. Still, Lauren was confident that the number she created was hot, and she and Dara had nailed it enough to show it to the squad and work out the kinks during rehearsals.
“Somebody please explain to me why half of you are stepping out to the right on three when I clearly said hit left on three, then step, pop, pop, and turn,” Lauren said angrily, doing the steps for emphasis. “I mean, somebody help me out here, ‘cause if it’s too damn confusing, then maybe I can go get somebody who can get it right. There’s some seventh graders on JV looking for a shot.”
No one on the team said anything, though a few folded their arms and twisted their lips in a “yeah, whatever” kind of way, and one, LaTanya, snickered.
“Oh, what? I’m funny now? I’m Chris Rock up in here?” Lauren said, getting into LaTanya’s face. She was seeing red—and about mad enough to pop a vein.
LaTanya shifted her feet and folded her arms, staring right back into Lauren’s eyes. She didn’t say a word—didn’t have to; her eyes did the talking. Lauren was taken aback.
“Did I stutter, LaTanya? I said, ‘Do you think I’m funny?’”
LaTanya looked at a couple of the dance-squad members standing closest to her, then back at Lauren, and smirked but said nothing.
Thought not. Lauren took her place in front of the squad, her back to the girls. “Dara, hit play so I can show them how it’s done—again,” she said, standing in the starting position.
The intro bass to Ludacris’s “MoneyMaker” thumped against the gym walls as Lauren snapped her fingers and bopped her knees to the beat. Like she did every time she performed, she focused her eyes on one person—today, it was Dara—as she prepared to execute her moves; doing so helped her concentrate and connect with the audience all at once, a trick her mother taught her from her dance-captain days. When Luda’s voice slid through the speakers, Lauren took off—hip shake, double gyrate to the left, and then to the right, swizzle to the front, chest pop one, chest pop two, step left, step left, body roll, step, pop, pop…trip, slip, almost fall.
The horror in Dara’s eyes mirrored those of Lauren, who instinctively hobbled to her right foot to take the pressure off her twisted left one. But it wasn’t the slip up or even the pain that had Lauren reeling; it was the fact that the entire squad had burst into hysterics over Lauren’s misstep.
Dara stopped the music and rushed over to help Lauren to the bleachers, getting there in time to hear LaTanya not-so-whisper, “Definitely wouldn’t see that in a Thug Heaven video.” Dara wasn’t so sure what she meant at first, but Lauren’s head shot up instantly. How did she know about the Thug Heaven thing? Did she know about it, for real? Ohmigod, maybe she was at the audition and saw? Or maybe she showed up in one of those blooper clips on that new BET show, Not Never, where they chronicle on-set mishaps of the most popular rap and R&B videos. Would it have been on that show that quickly? Nah, Lauren deduced just as quickly as she’d questioned; there was no way LaTanya or anyone else for that matter would know about the unfortunate video tryout—no way. But why was she referencing Thug Heaven?
“Whatever, young’uns—I look more graceful falling than you do executing my moves,” Lauren said, trying to shake off the mishap and LaTanya’s comment.
A couple of the girls play-coughed and giggled, like they were in on some kind of joke Lauren and Dara weren’t privy to. Lauren tried her best to shake it off. “Dara, why don’t you lead them through the steps so I can see who’s throwing everybody off? Maybe she can put on the mascot uniform while the rest of us get it right for the Homecoming game,” Lauren said icily, her words practically scrubbing the smiles off the team members’ faces.
“No problem,” Dara said just as seriously as she took her place in front of the group. They all fell into position behind her. “Let’s do it without the music so we can count it off. Five, six, seven, eight!”
Dara was so busy counting and working her way through the dance routine that she didn’t really see the three football players tumble into the gymnasium, snickering and gawking at the girls like they were about to pull some dollar bills out of their pockets. One, Brad Whitfield, started dancing like he could hear music; he made the number twelve on his chest bounce so hard it almost looked like he was shaking breasts.
“Um, excuse me, like the sign says on the door, this is a closed rehearsal—but obviously you would know that if you could read,” Lauren practically shouted, as the dancing came to a halt.
“Oh, no, excuse me,” Brad said, standing up straight as an arrow. “My bad, it does say this is a closed rehearsal. But make no question about it, a brother can read,” he said, laughing and giving pounds to his boys, who were laughing, too.
Lauren, completely thrown by the behavior, wasn’t quite sure what to make of the continued interruption—surely the football players knew that the dance squad’s practices were as sacrosanct as their own football practices. What in the hell were they doing?
“I’m quite pleased that you can read, Brad—wouldn’t want your scholarship to go to waste here at Brookhaven Prep,” Lauren sneered. “Can you excuse us, please?”
Brad stopped laughing—that insult was going to bleed.
“Oh, well, you know, at least up in my house, the extra cash goes to the fundamentals,” Brad answered back smoothly. “Maybe my parents could give your girl Dara and her moms some tips on how to spend more wisely.” And then he bounced that number twelve some and gave his boys more pounds, their slaps and finger snaps punctuated by roaring laughter echoing off the gymnasium walls.
Lauren looked at Dara, who was staring at the boys and all the squad members, clearly confused. She gave a pleading look to Lauren, who returned the look with a “what the hell?” right back. Lauren watched as Brad and his friends tumbled back out of the gym, then turned her attention back to the squad. She stood up gingerly on the bleachers, folded her arms, and said in almost a whisper, “Shut the hell up.”
The girls, still laughing, barely hear
d her.
She said it again, just as quietly.
Still laughter.
“I…said…shut…the…hell…up!” Lauren screamed loud enough to practically stop the rotation of nature—chirping birds, whistling winds, running stream water, all of that. “I don’t know what’s gotten into you all today, but I’ll tell you this: Today’s going to be the last day you waste my time with this bullshit. Check it: I want y’all to go home and think real hard about whether you want to be on this squad and the reasons why, because when tomorrow comes, anybody who isn’t taking this seriously enough to get the steps right and treat me and my co-captain with the respect we deserve? Oh, trust: You won’t get a gig dancing for your local kindergarten Easter assembly. Try my ass!” Lauren yelled as she snatched up her CD player and stepped gingerly off the bleachers. “Let’s go, Dara. Later for them.”
Dara looked unsurely at her teammates as she walked slowly toward the bleachers and grabbed her book bag. She could hear the girls whispering as she and Lauren made their way to the door, but this time she couldn’t make out a word they were saying.
“What the hell was that all about?” Lauren demanded as the two girls pushed through the gymnasium door. The slamming door made Dara jump. “Seems like the whole world is tripping today. The girls are bugging out in practice, football players gone wild. Even Charlie the Boozer Loser rolled up on me today, breath smelling like White Lightning, talking about how I should let him take me out. Now that Negro knows good and well…”
“I haven’t a clue what all of this is about, but you’re not the only one feeling it,” Dara said quietly. “I was going to tell you after practice that someone left a really screwy picture on my locker; there were two stick figures—one had pin points for breasts, and under it, it said ‘before,’ and then the other one had big circles for breasts, and under that one it said ‘after.’ I don’t know what the hell it means, and I was thinking whoever drew it put it on the wrong locker. But now I’m starting to wonder…”
“Yeah, probably was the wrong locker,” Lauren said as they walked toward her locker, hoping her words would soothe the worried look that had settled on her best friend’s brow. “Or maybe ol’ Miss Candy slipped something into the chocolate sludge she was passing off as pudding in the cafeteria today.”
“Yeah, maybe,” Dara said, obviously still worried. “You going to the Homecoming decorations committee meeting?”
“Nah—I don’t feel like it.”
Dara was quiet—too quiet.
Lauren dialed the combination on her locker, snatched open the door, dropped her Social Studies book into the bottom of the slim cubicle, and grabbed her jacket. By the time she finally assembled her things and slammed the locker shut, Dara was slumped against the neighboring locker, staring at her sneakers. “Look,” Lauren said, turning to face her friend. “I want to apologize to you for what happened last night with Syd—she’s buggin’ out because of Altimus tripping with my car and making her share, and she’s probably feeling the pressure of being Little Miss Perfect for her Benefit Gala debacle coming up. She’s definitely coming undone. But it’s really got nothing to do with you.” Lauren looked around the hallway to make sure no one was listening in. “Besides, you and ol’ boy are no more, so it can’t be about that, right?”
More silence from Dara.
“Right?” Lauren said, a little more forcefully.
“Right,” Dara said weakly.
“Then cool,” Lauren said, squaring her shoulders and heading for the exit, Dara following her. “Don’t worry, be happy and shit.”
Dara giggled, if only a little, as the two of them headed quietly toward the parking lot. Lauren ticked off a mental list of things she’d do when she got home: wash her face and moisturize, run the flat iron over her hair and wrap it, have Edwina make her a little snack, head up to her bed to watch Girlfriends, I Love New York, and whatever was on BET.
What the—?
Sydney’s car, which Lauren had driven to school, was not there. In the space reserved for the captain of the dance squad. Fourth to the left of the science building. Where she parked it that morning.
“Oh, shit, where’s the car?” Lauren yelled as she and Dara came to a standstill. She spun around, her eyes searching frantically for the shiny silver Saab, a near twin to her own confiscated black one. There were only about seven cars in the lot—one of them Dara’s red Audi.
“Are you sure you parked it here?”
“Dara, where else would I park the damn car? That’s my space!”
“Okay, okay—calm down,” Dara said, holding up her hands in defense. “Stop and think a minute. We had lunch together so you didn’t drive it then.”
“Dara, I know I parked it right here!”
“Okay, check your purse—you still have the keys? Maybe Sydney took the car?”
Lauren reached into her purse and pulled out the keys—she had them, so there was no way Sydney would have driven off in it, right? Keisha had laid down that law this morning when Lauren announced she’d be using the car because she had a late practice and a Homecoming decoration committee meeting. Sydney protested, tossing up that she had to go with the Benefit Gala committee to look at the ballroom they’d chosen, but, as Lauren pointed out, Marcus had a car, and since he was the “bestest boyfriend in the whole universe, he can just pick you up and bring you home.”
“Lauren! That’s my car! I decide when I drive it, and I decide when I want my boyfriend to take me somewhere—don’t get it twisted.”
“Ain’t nobody up in here twisted but you,” Lauren shouted back. “Run me the keys—I need to get home somehow.”
“The Yellow Pages are in the drawer right over there—it’s got plenty of numbers for taxicab services. I suggest you get real familiar with them.”
“Oh, stop it—the both of you,” Keisha interrupted, sauntering into the kitchen, her silky cream bathrobe and gown flowing behind her. “Sydney, just call Marcus; I’m sure he’ll be glad to give you a ride. And you, young lady,” Keisha said, turning to Lauren, “make sure you get her car back here in one piece. You all didn’t finish up the bacon, did you?”
No—Sydney wouldn’t have defied their mother and taken the car, Lauren quickly deduced. And besides, Marcus’s car wasn’t in the lot, either. “No, Sydney does not have the car—I know she doesn’t,” Lauren said to Dara.
Which meant only one thing: The car had been stolen.
“Ohmigod,” Lauren shouted over and over as she broke into a fast trot back toward the main office, Dara in tow. She fully intended to tell Ms. Campbell, the front office coordinator, to dial 911 and report the car stolen. As she ran, she pulled her Sidekick out of her purse and pushed frantically through her list of contacts to find Altimus’s private cell phone number. Her heart was pounding hard enough to be seen practically through her baby-blue dance-squad velour sweatsuit.
Just as she found Altimus’s number and her fingers touched the door to the school, her Sidekick rang in her hands—startling her just a bit. It was Sydney.
“Stop running through the parking lot like somebody stole something from you—I have the car,” Sydney said. Just then, a car horn sounded; instinctively, Lauren looked up. It was Sydney, speeding by the front of Brookhaven Prep, waving like she didn’t have a lick of sense. “You might want to ask Dara if she can give you a ride—I got things to do with my car.”
And with that, Sydney hung up.
“Wasn’t that Sydney in the silver Saab?” Dara asked, looking confused and pointing at the car speeding through the stop sign and out onto the street.
“Shit!” Lauren yelled, slamming her phone shut. Before it could even click closed, it sounded again—this time, a text message from Donald. The subject line said “READ THIS NOW!”
Still huffing, Lauren scrolled down and read the message:
U R not going to believe this. I got FW from a friend at yr
skul. So did the rest of yr skul. 3 guess who knows all this
&n
bsp; abt U? And which foot R U gonna put in her ass? D.
Lauren scrolled down some more; with each word she took in, her mouth opened wider.
“What’s wrong?” Dara said, alarmed by the look on Lauren’s face.
Lauren just kept cursing and scrolling, cursing and scrolling some more. And then, finally, she handed her Sidekick over to Dara. And now, it was her time to curse.
She may be Brookhaven Prep’s most famous dancer, but LD’s moves meant nothing on the set of Thug Heaven’s “Still Ghetto,” where, even after giving Dough Boy a little taste of her Laffy Taffy, she couldn’t shake her way into the video.
But at least what she’s shaking is real…can’t say the same for BP’s other dancing queen, DS, who can shake not only what her mama gave her, but what her moneymaker daddy paid for too. Glad to see those support checks put to good use at the offices of Dr. “Make me look like Pam Lee.”
What a pair.
“Oh, my God, who did you tell about my breast operation?” Dara yelled, tears welling in her eyes. “I can’t believe you…”
“Wait a minute, Dara, I’m not the one you should be getting mad at—I didn’t send this to the whole world.”
“Then who did? I mean, the only way anyone could have known about it was if you told, seeing as only you and my mother know about it. The person I trusted the most in this whole world told my most intimate secrets. I can’t believe this,” Dara said, handing Lauren’s phone back to her. “I trusted you.”
“Oh, come on, now—you’re no angel, either,” Lauren shot back, snatching her phone from Dara’s hand. “You’re directing your anger to the wrong person. And besides, you’re not the only one screwed here—the whole school thinks I’m a whore who gave it up to some dirty-ass rapper.”
