Shrinking Violet

by Danielle Joseph

  Shrinking Violet

  Danielle Joseph

  Much love goes out to my husband Belle and my two curly-haired angels, Marley and Makhi.

  shout-outs

  I would like to thank the following people:

  You all rock for helping make my dream come true!

  Delle, my husband, for always believing in me and for your unwavering support.

  Marley and Makhi for sharing my love of stories and being silly!

  Rosemary Stimola for being a fabulous, savvy agent and for snagging me this on-air gig!

  Jen Heddle for connecting with Tere and for not allowing me to broadcast dead air. You are an amazing editor!

  The Cohen Clan for being quite a mix! My dad, Rodney, for understanding that technical writing was not my calling. My mom, Sharon, for reading to me every night. My siblings: Cindy for sharing her stories and the secret knocking code. Kenny for shaking up the string of girls. Nikki for always asking why and Emma for being the best teen editor!

  My mentor Joyce Sweeney for sharing her expertise and

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  cheering me on the whole way. Adrienne Sylver for. being a wonderful and speedy critique partner.

  Gaby Triana, Marjetta Geerling, Linda Bernfeld, Christina Gonzalez, Liz Trotta, Marta Magellan, Mary Thorp, Tere Starr, Elaine Landau, Ruth Vander Zee, Susan Shamon, Saundra Rubiera, and the rest of the Wednesday Critique Group for your invaluable feedback. Also Debbie Reed Fischer and Joyce's Friday Critique Group for being great listeners.

  My first and second grade teachers, Betty Peterson and Judy Shannon, for telling me that I could write whatever I wanted and then for telling me it was great! Eva Adler, my high school English teacher, for fostering my creativity. Emerson College professors, Jessica Treadway, Kevin Miller, Andre Dubus III, and Eric Arnold, for all your encouragement and for teaching me the craft of creative writing.

  The following people for your technical support: Beth Cameron for showing an intern how it works behind the scenes. Joe Plett for helping me with my audition tapes. Rob Rob-bins at The CALL FM for providing me with up-to-date radio information.

  Copyeditor Ela Schwartz-Hnizdo for her super-organized, impressive copyedits and the rest of the MTV/Pocket Books Crew for all you do.

  In memory of Granny Gladys and Granny Billie, wish you both were here to share this with me.

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  Never bend your head. Always hold it high. Look the world straight in the eye.

  --Helen Keller

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  9

  chapter ONE

  You're listening to Sweet T on 92.7 WEMD SLAM FM. It's after dark now, so don't change that dial because here's where killer tunes explode through your speakers, leaving you wanting more. I'll take you through the night and feed your soul. Call me at 1-800-555-SLAM and let me know what's up, Miami. Now check out the new Juice Box track I've been promising you.

  ***

  Until a few years ago, I always dreamed that a radio station would be a sleek glass architectural gem on Ocean Drive. Flashing neon lights with the studio's call letters would adorn the top 10

  of the building, large enough to be spotted miles away. Don't get me wrong, SLAM FM

  has a good setup five minutes from the beach in North Miami. But they occupy the second floor of an office building, nestled between a law firm and a bail bondsman, hardly in the midst of all the South Beach revelers staring at the disc jockeys through the huge windowpanes.

  The only good thing about Mom marrying Rob Fandango, radio bigwig, is that he owns a top-forty station. But while he whisks Mom off to celebrity-wannabe parties every weekend, I'm holed up in my room, downloading all the latest tunes on my iPod and scanning the dial for the next overnight sensation.

  There are a few local celebs, like the hottest up-and-coming rapper, PJ Squid, that I'd like to meet, but I'd have nothing to say to him. More like I'm afraid I'd open my mouth and nothing would come out, or even worse, I'd say something stupid.

  Might as well admit it--I'm shy. Not the kind where you blush when someone compliments you, but the kind that results in feelings of nausea when meeting new people. When I was little, I thought I was Shy Adams. People would ask my name, and my mother would immediately answer for me, "She's shy." She even did it three weeks ago when we met up with some of the radio people at a restaurant. It was so embarrassing because I can no longer hide behind her; rather, she can hide behind me.

  I'm five inches taller than her and a good thirty-five pounds heavier--I'm the evergreen tree to her palm.

  ***

  11 "Teresa,-you can wait in the car if you like." Mom's ID card pops out of the slot and she zooms into her reserved space in the station's parking garage.

  My seat belt is already unbuckled. "No, I'm cool."

  I walk a step behind Mom toward the elevator. By the time we reach the second floor, my stomach is whirring. I cross my arms against my chest and inhale. I can do this. I've done it before. We'll only be inside for five minutes, tops. Mom has to drop off a birthday present that Rob asked her to buy for his lawyer. Then we're off to my Friday afternoon dentist appointment. Joy.

  When you open the heavy glass door to the station, the first thing you see is a gigantic red and blue SLAM sign hanging over a large U-shaped desk. In addition to the receptionist's area, the entrance is large enough to fit two red couches and a table filled with Rolling Stone, Vibe, and other music industry magazines. There's a small guy with a goatee and shades sitting there now. He's speaking in a hushed tone on his cell. I don't recognize him. Maybe he's a promoter. I hope he's here for PJ Squid.

  Patty's up front answering the phones. She's in her midforties, is the proud owner of a seventies feathered hairdo, and plays solitaire in between calls. She gives us a half smile as we waltz by.

  We round the corner and walk past the on-air studio. My heart thumps. I'd give anything to be inside there, broadcasting live, instead of doing mock shows from my bedroom.

  Derek, the drive time DJ, is leaning against the outside of the door. "Hi, Delilah." He throws Mom a crooked smile.

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  "How's the show going?" Mom asks.

  "All good." He winks. "Do you like your new ride?"

  I'm standing next to Mom, but he doesn't even acknowledge me. We've met several times before but have never spoken to each other. It has always been at the end of a long table at a restaurant or at a few station parties filled with models and other women that don't eat for a living.

  "I love the Lexus. It drives so smoothly," Mom coos.

  Derek puts his hand on Mom's shoulder. His knuckles are really hairy and so is his chest, for that matter. I don't think the first three buttons on his shirt have ever been used.

  "You deserve it."

  I try to peek into the studio, but Derek's blocking the glass pane in the door.

  "I like to think so." Mom laughs. "Rob knows what makes me happy."

  Okay, this is about all I can handle. This guy gives me the creeps. I clear my throat and point down the hall toward our original destination.

  "Right." Mom nods and says good-bye to Derek.

  We continue down the carpeted hallway to Rob's window office, facing the bay. When we're a few feet away, I hear him talking to someone.

  Mom reaches for the doorknob. "Maybe he's in a meeting," I say.

  "Nonsense. He knows I'm stopping by." She whips open the door.

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  DJ Wipeout is seated across from Rob. "I'm sorry to hear that--" Rob stops midsentence as soon as he spots us.

  Both men are sporting poker faces. Call me crazy, but it looks like they're busy.

  Mom strolls right in, while I linger at the entrance.

  "Here you go, honey." She plops the gift bag onto Rob'
s desk and gives him a big smooch on the lips.

  He smiles but doesn't budge. Mom looks at Rob, then DJ Wipeout. "Excuse me. Did I interrupt something?"

  "Aaron's leaving us," Rob says.

  What? No way. He's got a great show, The Love Shack, "where lust is always in the air."

  "For how long?" Mom slides her wedding ring back and forth.

  Rob taps his coffee mug with a gold pen. "He quit."

  Mom's jaw drops. I inch closer to the desk.

  "I'm going to work on my uncle's cattle ranch in Texas." Wipe-out runs his hand over the top of his shaved head. I catch a glimpse of the tattoo stretched across his forearm that says Rock or Die.

  Double no way. He's going to waste his sexy voice rounding up cows all day and stepping in manure?

  "That's nice." Mom smiles.

  "The Love Shack won't be the same without you," Rob says. "I have no clue who to replace you with."

  Me! I want to shout. I can do the show blindfolded! But instead I stand there deader than a stuffed moose.

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  "I'm sorry, bud." Wipeout lets out a huge sigh. "But this is my calling."

  Yeah, me, too.

  This is Sweet T live on The Love Shack, hoping all your dreams come true ...

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  chapter TWO

  TERESA ADAMS!" Mom's standing in front of me in full lobster glow. She went overtime at the tanning salon again. I roll my eyes up and yank out an earbud. "Yeah?"

  "Pamela Oberlong will be here in fifteen minutes."

  "Okay." I nod and stick my earbud back in. There's nothing like the sweet sounds of PJ

  Squid. With his fresh lyrics, he'll be number one on the charts in a few months. Rob's given him some airplay, but he's crazy if he doesn't do more--like a live gig before other stations snag PJ.

  I glance up again. Mom's still there. Her eyes have narrowed, and I think she's even a shade redder. I remove an earbud again. "What?"

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  "Take that thing off for a minute." Mom's lobster claw pulls the other side out.

  "Ouch." I rub my ear and stare up at her.

  "Go change before Pamela gets here. That outfit makes you look lazy."

  Oh, but a miniskirt and tube top is more appropriate. Mom has five of those sleazy shirts. She thinks the more skin you show, the better.

  "But it's Saturday."

  Mom throws her hands up. "So it's okay to look like a slob on the weekend?"

  "Can't I just stay in my room then?"

  "No, that's rude."

  "Fine. I'm going." I increase the volume on my music and clunk up the stairs. I slide off my favorite jeans and black Rapfest tee and peer into my closet, searching for the best Pamela Oberlong outfit. Why we have to impress the Mary Kay lady every time she comes over is beyond me.

  I settle on a pair of black capris and the pink button-down tank that Mom says shows off all my good parts and hides all my bad parts. Pamela better be happy. She didn't know me when I was a fat snowball. "Snowball" has been my nickname since I moved to Miami in the fourth grade. First off, I live in Florida, so that name is pretty dumb, and even though I lost thirty pounds three years ago, I can't shake the name. Everyone still looks at me the same. Like they expect me to blimp out any minute.

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  I blame the shape of my body on my dad, but since I don't even know who he is, I can only guess. Mom doesn't know either. She says she was young and stupid. That she went to a couple of wild parties when she was a teenager and did a few things she shouldn't have. No shit. It doesn't take Scooby-Doo and his gang to figure that out.

  Actually, come to think of it, she was eighteen, my age, when I was born. I'll be happy if I score one date.

  I picture my dad as a lumberjack with broad shoulders and a big butt. I'm definitely not built like my mom. She has a petite frame and long legs like a flamingo. Next to her I'm Shrek.

  It doesn't help that my stepfather, Rob, is a small guy, too. He's only a couple of inches taller than me, barely five foot nine, but he tries to appear bigger by wearing cowboy boots. You'd think he was tall when you hear his booming voice on the radio, but that's the thing about the radio--it's a mask.

  I often dream about the mask I'd wear to school. It has long auburn hair, not the shoulder-length ultra-thick mop that I sport. It has bright blue eyes instead of my musty greens and full red lips. If it comes with a bodysuit, I'd wear that, too, flat tummy, long legs, and smaller, firmer boobs. Then the guys would notice me, for sure.

  The doorbell rings. Mom opens the door and shrieks, "Oh, Pamela, it's nice to see you.

  Have you lost weight?"

  "And you, Delilah--you look amazing!" Somebody shoot me, quick.

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  I only have two minutes, tops, before Mom calls me down. I know she'll want me to talk to Pamela--I just can't think of anything to say. We have about as much in common as my mom and a nun.

  I stretch out on my bed and practice. "Hi, Pamela, you look really nice." "Hi, Pamela, new car?" "Hi, Pamela, new lipstick? I heard red is back." Wait, was it ever gone? I sound so lame. I don't even care about this stupid woman.

  "TEHESA!" Mom calls from downstairs.

  I pop up from my bed and take a quick peek in the mirror. Ugh, new pimple forming at six o'clock. Great, now I'll have to buy some coverup from Pamela. To her, every imperfection is a chance for a sale. Ka-ching! I can see her square face adding up the math in her head. Zit, ten dollars; thin lips, twelve dollars; small eyes, fifteen dollars; shy--can't help that.

  "Did you hear me?" Mom yells again. I slam my door and trudge down the stairs.

  Mom sits on the living room couch while Pamela sets up her products on the coffee table. Mom picks up a tube of lipstick and flips it over to the bottom. "Hot Stuff. Perfect for me." She laughs. But she didn't even open it yet.

  "Hello, Teresa," Pamela greets me. "I love that color on you."

  "Um, thanks." I shove my hands in my pockets. "Your teeth are really white." Did I just say that?

  Pamela rubs her hand over her mouth in a fanning motion and 19

  smiles. "I'm glad someone noticed. I spent six hundred dollars to get these pearly whites."

  I plop down on the suede couch opposite from Mom. It's so stiff that I bounce. When I design my own living room, all the furniture will be comfy.

  "I noticed, too." Mom sets down Hot Stuff and picks up Vixen Prowl.

  Pamela finishes setting up, then takes a seat in the wicker armchair next to me. She leans over and pulls my face toward her. "What beautiful skin. You should use a medium to light base."

  Geez, what do people with really bad skin need? A double coat?

  She fishes through her obnoxious pink suitcase and holds up a bottle to my face. "This has avocado in it."

  I don't even like to eat the fruit. Why would I want to wear it on my face?

  "Teresa's looking for something that will give her some pep," Mom chimes in. I am?

  "Ohh, I'd love to do you up," Pamela squeals. Man, this is a total setup. Ambushed by Mom. I should've seen it coming.

  While Pamela rummages through her stuff, I plead with Mom by frantically shaking my head. I don't want to be anybody's little project.

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  Mom's still fiddling with the lipsticks. "It's just what you need, honey."

  You don't need makeup to be on the radio. I'd much rather have every hair on my head plucked out one at a time with tweezers.

  Pamela gathers up an armload of supplies and tells me to sit down in the kitchen. "Are you ready for the new you?"

  "Um, no," I manage to say. I follow her to the table but just stand there, eyeing the staircase that leads to my bedroom. My sanctuary.

  "Don't worry; I won't bite." Pamela laughs and pushes me down into the chair. Her teeth blind me.

  Before I know it, she owns my face. She dabs a Q-tip in some brown gunk and applies it to my skin. "Watch how much I use. You don't want to overdo it."

  Trust me, that's not a problem.
r />   Next she moves on to some blush and after that, she uncaps a few sleek-looking pencils.

  "Look up so I can apply some under your eyes."

  "Maybe a little more." Mom hovers over Pamela.

  I feel like one of those pathetic clowns standing outside the flea market on US1 holding a huge sign directing you inside for major discounts.

  Pamela rests a hand on my shoulder. "Relax. Trust me. You'll look great."

  "Okay." I slouch, hoping to appear relaxed.

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  Mom pulls herself away from the freak show to brew a pot of coffee. "I want the finished product to be a surprise."

  I hope she likes it because then maybe she'll leave me alone for a few days.

  We're on to the eye shadow. First white, then purple. Pamela starts with the lower lid. I tilt my head and watch the time on the clock change. Three, now two minutes left until two-time Grammy winner, Maltese, will be on VH1 talking about his upcoming hip-hop album with DJ Wild. The album drops March 15--that's in two weeks. I can't wait.

  It's weird having someone this close to me. So close that I can see her nose hairs and smell her cucumber hand lotion. I wonder what Pamela is like under all her makeup.

  Does she like wearing her mask?

  "Which color?" She holds up two different lip liners. "This one." I point to the lighter of the two. It matches my shirt.

  "Good choice." Pamela smiles.

  I don't know how people reinvent themselves every morning. Primping takes way too much time and effort. Mom's the master of reinvention. She changes for every guy she's sweet on. I'm glad she finally settled on Rob because I'm tired of watching her transformations. Every time she brought a new guy home, I'd have to prepare for his arrival. The worst was when she made me don a cowboy hat for Ted from Wyoming. He showed tip at our house in a baseball hat, and there I was in a dorky suede cowboy 22

  hat. At least now I can pretty much be myself. Well, except for today, apparently.

  Pamela finishes off with my lips. I'm now wearing Hot Stuff. Maybe it holds magical powers and attracts guys like I attract mosquitoes in the backyard.