Time for Change

by Varian Johnson

  For Elizabeth, Adrienne, Savannah, and Sydney

  —V.J.

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Chapter 1: Voices

  Chapter 2: A Perfect Pair

  Chapter 3: Double Whammy

  Chapter 4: That’s the Pointe

  Chapter 5: The Enchilada Court

  Chapter 6: Duets

  Chapter 7: Pointe Shoes Day

  Chapter 8: Liberty Bells Battle

  Chapter 9: Unprepared

  Chapter 10: Friends

  Chapter 11: Keep Doing What You’re Doing

  Chapter 12: Trick or Treat

  Chapter 13: Cooling Off

  Chapter 14: Missing in Action

  Chapter 15: Truth

  Chapter 16: Letting Go

  Chapter 17: To Infinity

  Chapter 18: The Royal Dinner

  Chapter 19: Good-Bye for Now

  Chapter 20: Voices

  About the Author

  Acknowledgments

  Preview of The Real Z

  Request a catalogue

  Learn more about Gabriela

  Copyright

  I leaned forward, my seat belt tugging against me, and peered through the window as Mama steered the car into the Franklin High School parking lot. Daddy looked back at me and Red. “You two ready?” he asked.

  “Sure thing, Uncle Rob,” Red said, rubbing his hands together. “It’s going to be amazing. Like a hot, glazed doughnut on an ice-cold day.” Then he pointed to Daddy. “Your turn.”

  Daddy’s eyebrows bunched up on his forehead as he tried to come up with the next line. “Um … like a … like a …” He stopped and shook his head. “Maybe I’ll leave the poetry to you and Gabby. You’re the experts, not me.”

  “Want to help your dad out, cuz?” Red asked me.

  I closed my eyes. It was easier to see the words that way sometimes. Like I was writing them on an invisible piece of paper in my head. “Like a hot, glazed doughnut on an ice-cold day. Like springtime showers in the month of May.”

  “Like a single snowflake that lands on your skin,” Red said.

  “Like … like sitting at a campfire with cousin and kin.”

  Then Red nodded toward Mama. “Want to join in, Aunt Tina?”

  Mama laughed as she steered through the parking lot. “How about, like a parking lot full of kids excited about spoken word poetry.”

  Red laughed as well. “Good example of using your surroundings to flesh out your verses, but we’re going to have to work on your form a bit.”

  The parking lot was full of people—mostly high school students and adults—but there were some kids who looked to be in middle school like me and Red, too.

  Yesterday afternoon at our Friday meeting, Red had told our poetry group about Voices, a spoken word competition. This poetry slam was for high school students, but there would be another one for middle school kids in just five weeks—and we would be competing! We were checking out the high school slam to get an idea of what to expect for ours.

  “Andy said they’d be parked in the front,” Mama said to Daddy. “Can you call him and—”

  “There they are!” Red said, pointing.

  I whipped my head around. Sure enough, there was Teagan, my best friend, jumping up and down to get our attention. Her grandfather, Mr. Harmon, stood behind her, holding her overnight bag and her humongous backpack.

  I rolled down my window. “Teagan!” I yelled, waving at her.

  “Gabby!” she yelled back.

  “Why are you yelling?” Red asked. “Didn’t you just see her yesterday?”

  “I’m always happy to see my best friend,” I said, elbowing him.

  I’d been friends with Teagan ever since her grandpa came on as the art teacher at Liberty Arts Center, the community organization Mama founded. Teagan and I could finish each other’s sentences, and we almost always knew what the other was thinking. She was as awesome as a hot, glazed doughnut on an ice-cold day.

  As soon as Mama parked, I scrambled out of the car and hugged Teagan, almost knocking off her turquoise beanie. Her grin was wide across her freckled face. “I don’t know what I’m more happy about—the competition or the sleepover,” she said.

  “Me, neither!” I replied. Now that Teagan and I were going to different schools, I had hardly spent any time with her outside of poetry club meetings. But we were going to have a long-overdue sleepover tonight.

  There were so many things I needed to catch her up on. Just a couple days ago, I won the election to be a Kelly Middle School Ambassador, one of a group of students who helped make the school better for everyone. But technically, I wasn’t the only student who had won. I tied with my mortal enemy, Aaliyah Reade-Johnson. Well, maybe former mortal enemy, now … friend? I wasn’t sure yet. But we were being nicer to each other, and we sat together at lunch the other day.

  Dad took the bags from Mr. Harmon and placed them in the trunk. “We’ll meet you all right here after the competition,” he said.

  “And stick together,” Mama added, before kissing us each on the forehead. Even Teagan. “Text if you need us. We’ll be nearby.”

  We waved good-bye, then made our way toward the school. We could already hear music coming from the auditorium.

  “Alejandro, Bria, and Isaiah are inside,” Red said, glancing at a text on his phone. “They saved seats for us.” He winked. “Just look for their hair.”

  Red was joking, but he was right—all three of our friends had epic hairdos. I spotted Bria’s big, bushy ponytail first, then Alejandro’s long black hair. But Isaiah’s huge Afro beat them all. It easily made him five inches taller.

  Red pointed to the stage. “And look! They’ve even got a DJ. That’s what’s up!”

  A kid stood behind a table with neon-green headphones over his ears, working two turntables. A few high schoolers danced on the floor in front of the stage, challenging each other to different moves. Who knew that poetry slams were such a party?

  We made our way to our friends. Bria and Alejandro waved while Isaiah said, “Good morrow, my ladies” over the music. “You ready to hear today’s good word?” Isaiah considered Shakespeare the greatest writer and poet that ever lived and was always channeling his voice.

  “Thanks for sss-saving our seats,” I said as Teagan and I dropped into chairs beside him. My stutter, which always acted up when my emotions were running high, gave away how excited I was to be here. My first real poetry slam.

  A few minutes later, a woman came onstage holding a cordless microphone. Her multicolored dreadlocks were pulled into a ponytail, tied off with a lime-green scarf. She reminded me of our social studies teacher at school, Ms. Tottenham, who always wore cool outfits, too. The DJ faded the music as the auditorium quieted down.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to Voices. My name is Jackie King, and I’ll be your emcee. Today we have ten—TEN!—outstanding groups ready to share their dynamic poems. But before we begin, let me hear you make some noise for all our young poets today!”

  The auditorium erupted in cheers and applause. I couldn’t help but laugh to myself—the party continued even into the competition.

  Jackie went on to explain the rules and scoring. The slam was broken into five rounds. Each team had to perform at least one group poem, which could include as few as two or as many as four members of the team. Poets had a three-minute time limit, and props weren’t allowed.

  That all seemed simple enough. I wondered how Red would break us up for the various rounds. Some ideas for a group piece about our bond as a poetry team were already stirring in my mind.

  Jackie introduced the judges next. There was a youngish-looking guy with big glasses, a middle-aged lady with some funky beaded jewelry, and a kid wh
o looked like he was in high school. Red told us yesterday that with these competitions, it’s not about “poetry experts” judging your technique. The judges are regular people, like Mama or Mr. Harmon. Spoken word is meant to be accessible to everyone—meaning everyone’s opinion is valid, too. I loved that.

  “Now, before we get started,” Jackie continued, jumping up and down a little, “I’m going to warm you guys up a bit.” Her energy was contagious—I was bouncing in my seat a little bit, too. “How many of you have been to a poetry slam before?”

  Arms shot up all around us. Red was the only one in our group with his hand in the air.

  “Okay, okay—we’ve got some newbies,” she said, surveying the audience. “Well, you guys are in for a treat. Poetry slams are not a spectator sport—you are just as important as the poets. They feed off your energy. Now, we don’t like a lot of talking while the poets are onstage, but there are other ways to show some love. So let’s practice.” She pulled back her sleeves and raised the hand that wasn’t holding the mic. “I know everybody out there can clap, but what about snapping your fingers? Can you do that?”

  She snapped her fingers and so did we. The noise was like the rain hitting the tin roof of the Liberty theater.

  “And what about your feet?” she asked. “They’re not just made for walking. Let’s see if you can stomp.”

  We pounded our shoes against the floor. Just for fun, I threw in a shuffle, too. I was pretty new to poetry, but had been dancing—with Mama as one of my teachers—all my life. I took tap, hip-hop, and ballet, but tap had always been my favorite. I knew how to make noise with my feet, that was for sure!

  “And can you say mmm-hmm?” she asked, leaning to the side.

  “Mmm-hmm!” we said back.

  “You got it!” Jackie said. “Feel free to cheer on our poets whenever you’re feeling it. I promise, they’ll be feeling it, too.” She quickly glanced offstage, then nodded and turned back to us. “So, if you’re all ready, we’re going to kick things off with what we call our Sacrificial Poets. These poets aren’t competing today—they are here to set the bar for the judges only—but they still deserve your love, so let’s hear it for the Pink Poetics!”

  Teagan elbowed me as everyone clapped. “We need to come up with a cool name for our group.”

  I nodded, wishing I had brought my new poetry notebook so I could brainstorm ideas. Mama had given me the notebook last night as a congratulations gift for winning the ambassadors election. It said DREAM BIG on the front in silver sparkly letters. I couldn’t wait to start filling it up with poetry!

  The stage lights shifted from yellow to fuchsia as four girls walked onto the stage. No, not walked—strutted.

  They took their places, their hot pink jackets shiny under the lights. One girl stood with her arms crossed, a wicked scowl on her face. Another posed with her back to us and her hands on her hips. A third stood with her fist high in the air. It kind of reminded me of the opening positions for one of my hip-hop routines—some girls mid-pop, others mid-lock, and still others mid-drop. Everyone in the middle of a dance move, frozen in place. Like department store mannequins about to come alive.

  The remaining girl moved to the front of the stage. She stared at us for a long time, not saying anything, and for a second, I thought maybe she had forgotten her poem. Then she brought the microphone to her lips, and words exploded from her mouth.

  Her voice filled the room, making us all sit back, as she told us a powerful story about women fighting for equality. After a couple lines, she marched from the center of the stage to the girl with her fist in the air. That poet came alive, too, and joined the first girl in marching. My heart pumped in my chest as their feet hit the floor in unison, their stomps coinciding with their inspiring words.

  “We demand to be seen.

  We demand to be heard.

  We are mighty.

  We are many.

  You will hear us roar!”

  That got some “Mmm-hmms” from the audience, including two from Teagan and me.

  Then the second girl took over. Unlike the first poet, this girl was quiet, her shoulders slowly rising and falling as she spoke. Was there something wrong with her mic? I leaned in so I could hear better, then peeked at Teagan and Isaiah. They were leaning in, too.

  I glanced around. Everyone was leaning in. No one moved. It seemed like no one was even breathing. Something Mama told me once popped into my head. When a great dancer puts her whole self into a performance, the audience feeds off that performance as well. Maybe they laugh or maybe people cry—but whatever we as dancers do onstage, we have the power to move them. To make them feel something. I knew what it felt like to put my whole self into a performance, but I was usually onstage, hardly ever in the audience. I totally got what Mama was saying.

  The other two girls were just as awesome, pointing to each other and the audience as they traded off on lines, like two people passing a basketball.

  I could tell the poem was almost over when the four girls said a verse in unison. By the time they were done, I was throwing in not only shuffles but stomping toe-heel, toe-heel, like we did in tap class warm-ups. These girls deserved more than regular old stomps!

  When they were done, Red leaned forward and caught my gaze. “So what do you think?” he asked me, his toothy grin shining big. “Amazing, right?”

  I smiled right back at him. “Yeah. Amazing.”

  Amazing Voices

  Like a hot, glazed doughnut on an ice-cold day

  Like springtime showers in the month of May

  Like a single snowflake that lands on your skin

  Like sitting at a campfire with cousin and kin

  Poetry makes you feel—

  It’s real

  The fire, the heat

  The words are alive

  The cold, the chill

  How can you keep still

  When the words are flowing

  And going

  And stirring

  Up feelings inside you?

  The emotion, it’s growing

  It wants to burst through

  So you let it

  And then you worry the amazement is ending

  But up comes another verse

  And you smile

  It’s just the beginning

  So, what do you think about calling the poetry group the Liberty Bells?” I asked Teagan later that afternoon. I was sprawled out on my bedroom floor supposedly doing my homework, but all I could think about was those awesome spoken word groups.

  The way they used their bodies to strengthen their words—jumping, leaping, twisting, and turning—it was like hip-hop, but without music.

  And their names. Pink Poetics. Radical Verses. We had to come up with something better than “The Poetry Group.”

  “Teagan?” I asked again. “Did you hear me?”

  “What?” she said. She was at my desk, finishing her own homework. Something for her coding class.

  “The Liberty Bells,” I repeated, just as my gray-and-white cat, Maya, sauntered into the room.

  I got up and walked over to the desk. “Or what about Vibin’ and Versin’? Red would probably love that. Or maybe—”

  I stopped. Beside Teagan’s coding notebook sat what looked like a test. Half the paper was covered in red ink.

  “Oh, I’m sorry,” I said, turning away from her. “I d-d-didn’t realize you were-were …”

  Teagan quickly placed her notebook over the paper. “No, it’s okay. Just going over last week’s quiz.” She scratched her head, knocking her beanie askew over her strawberry-blonde hair. “I’m not making much progress anyway. I should probably take a break.”

  Last time I’d talked to Teagan about her new school, she was feeling really overwhelmed. Main Line Tech was one of the best STEM-focused magnet schools in the Philly area, but I hated seeing her so stressed out. “How about this—we take a break for an hour, and then get back to homework? Okay?”

  Teagan nodded. �
��Sorry I had to bring all my books over. I’m just worried I’ll fall even more behind if I don’t get any work done this weekend.” She straightened her beanie. “But you’re right. What do you want to do?”

  “I know the perfect thing.” I opened up my closet, then wheeled out my performance case. The big black trunk was a gift from Grandma last Christmas and quickly became one of my favorite things. I used it to store my laptop, recording equipment, and dance gear. This summer, Teagan and I made it even cooler by spray-painting my name on it in big white letters. Now, I opened it up, and pulled out my pink-and-purple electronic drum kit.

  “Remember how the girl from Pink Poetics kept stomping onstage?” I repeated part of the poem, striking one of the drum pads when the girls had stomped.

  “We d-d-d-demand to be seen.

  We demand to be heard.

  We are mighty.

  We are many.

  You will hear us roar!”

  Teagan sat down beside me and tapped on another drum pad with her finger, creating the boom of a bass drum. “You think we should add music to our poems? Is that even allowed?”

  I shook my head. “I don’t think so, but maybe we could use our bodies like drums, stomping or clapping when we want to emphasize something.” I banged on the pads a few times. “You know, instead of just standing there.”

  “Oh, like the boy from that group, Uni Verse,” Teagan said. “He was slapping his legs, all quick and staccato and everything.” She tapped the drum pad again, this time with a more complicated rhythm.

  “That’s a nice beat,” I said.

  She nodded. “I heard it at school last week. One of the kids in my class wrote a computer program that makes drum sounds when you press certain keys.”

  “That’s so cool,” I said. “Is he a friend of yours?”

  She stopped tapping the drum. “Kind of. We talk a little in class when we’re working on group projects or homework.”

  “Nice. Maybe he can help us come up with some mad beats for the poetry slam?”

  Teagan shrugged, an odd look on her face. “Maybe.” She picked up a drumstick and twirled it … or tried to. It fell on the floor with a clatter. “Well, that wasn’t as easy as I thought it would be.” She laughed.