Shrinking Violet

by Danielle Joseph

  I read the story about Tom and Karen's arranged marriage in Indiana. About how Karen was really shy as a kid and how Tom helped her to open up. About how they are growing to love each other more every day. About how their church has adopted many 51

  Indian customs to arranging marriages. I wonder if you can sign up for one of these services if you can't find a spouse. Or do you have to be enrolled by your parents?

  The bell rings and I shove the article into my bag. I want to take it home and read it some more. I jet outside, missing most of the masses, and slip on my iPod. I roll up my sleeves and take in the afternoon heat.

  ***

  This is Sweet T taking over the airwaves on 92.7 WEMD SLAM FM. It's a scorcher out there this afternoon, but don't worry, keep it locked here, and I'll ice you down. Call me up at 1-800-555-SLAM and let me know what'll cool you off, Miami. Now grab a tall glass of sweet tea and blast your radio. Here's Maltese with "Put Your Finger on the Money" ... 52

  53

  chapter SIX

  I jet home in a jet record eighteen minutes; for once I didn't have to press any walk lights. The first thing I do is grab a Diet Coke and a box of Cheez-Its and crank up the music in my room. I love catching the end of Jack Cruise's show. He's the oldest DJ at the station, almost sixty, but one of the funniest guys. He's constantly cracking jokes about artists and how they misuse their time and end up getting busted for petty crimes.

  "Love Wrecked" comes on the air, and I turn the volume up even louder. It's about a scorned guy that will never trust another woman. This topic fits right into Ms. Peters'

  Jane Austen quote today in class. Even though Panick is on top of the charts, I'm not sure Ms. Peters would appreciate me bringing the song

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  in as an example of the message love sucks. I sing along with him, "I sheltered you through the storm, you complained I could not perform, and left me out at sea." Still, I think Ms. Austen would approve.

  I slide on my wireless headphones that Rob gave me for my birthday. They bring me closer to the music. It's like the songs are being pumped into my veins. Rob usually gets me better gifts than Mom. I'd prefer a pair of surround sound headphones over a minimizer bra and a curling iron any day. These headphones transport me miles away from Earth. At least, that's how I feel when I'm wearing them.

  ***

  Coming up next is the mad hot new release by Coil. Coil will be at Club Bed next Thursday on South Beach for a VIP party. When you hear their song, "Tempted," cad me up at 1-800-555-SLAM. Caller number nine wins two tickets. Good luck, Miami!

  ***

  I could do this gig--alone in my bedroom, that is. I love when people call in to win and they're champagne-toast excited! They scream into the phone and act like it's the best thing that's ever happened to them. I want to feel that ecstatic about something one day, even if it's winning tickets to a local show

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  or complimentary laser hair removal. The only thing I ever won was a free bag of M&Ms, when I was eleven, but Mom wouldn't let me redeem my prize because she said I needed a free bag of candy like she needed another loser boyfriend. Total buzz kill.

  I lie down on my bed with every intention of writing my English paper, but instead take a little catnap . . okay, more like a brontosaurus nap. But I'm totally refreshed when I wake up. And hungry.

  The TV's on downstairs, so I know Mom and Rob are home. I think about staying in my room, surviving on Cheez-Its and now fiat Diet Coke, but my stomach pleads with me and I make my way to the food zone.

  I nod hello to Mom and Rob in the family room and head to the kitchen. I think Mom's saying something to me, but I really can't hear anything with my music pumping. A commercial comes on the radio for Pizza Hut, and I fall prey to the advertising, only we don't have a steaming pepperoni pizza sitting on the counter, so I warm up the frozen Lean Cuisine veggie version.

  The lovebirds have the MTV video countdown on, so I sit with them. They're cuddled up on the leather sectional together, her legs tucked under his side.

  "Eating so late?" Mom asks me.

  It depends on how you look at it. If we were in Australia, I would be eating very early. I say this all with my eyes, but

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  my lips never move. Then I plunk down on the other end of the sofa.

  "How was school?" She leans in closer to Rob.

  "Okay. Got an A on my pre-calc test."

  "That's nice." Mom smiles. "Any talk about the prom?"

  "It's not until May." I cut my pizza into fours and take a bite.

  "Yes, and that's in two months. These things are planned well in advance. I have a zillion ideas for the decorations."

  I finish chewing. "They already have a decorating committee. Of seniors."

  "Well, I'm sure they could use my help." She turns to Rob. "How about one of your DJs playing there?" That would be cool.

  Rob peels his eyes away from the bronze supermodel, Iola, on the TV. "Yeah, I'm sure we could work something out."

  "Maybe Floss," I say. Diana does overnights at the station. She got the nickname Floss because she always gets between people and brings up the dirt. I like her because she doesn't take crap from anyone. She's made of steel.

  "Diana, really? I thought you'd have chosen Garrison or Dave." Rob pulls Mom's foot out from under him and gives her a massage.

  I sip my water and try not to look right at them. "Yeah, you're right. They'd want a guy."

  "Who's they?" Mom asks. "The prom freaks."

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  Mom wrinkles her forehead. "Freaks?"

  "I'm talking about the popular girls. They always get what they want."

  Mom shifts her body so Rob can massage her other foot. "What do you want, Teresa?"

  "If I went, I'd want the best music. Not the bubblegum crap they play on Sun."

  Rob laughs. "Yeah, I don't know what Mitch's been up to lately, but they've been playing a lot of training-bra artists."

  "Huh?" Mom turns her head from Rob to me.

  "Exactly!" I shove the last bite of pizza into my mouth.

  Rob pulls Mom closer to him. "Just talking about our competition, babe. Maybe I should steal one of the weekend DJs from over at Sun to fill the evening slot. They're not under contract." He shakes his head. "Nah, they've probably been too warped by Mitch already."

  I could do it. I practice saying it in my head but can't get the words out.

  "So what are you doing about the prom?" Mom glares at me.

  "I don't know." I thought that conversation was over.

  "What do you know?" Mom takes a swig of her Miller Lite. "You don't care about the prom. You don't care about how you dress. You don't care--"

  Rob elbows her in the stomach. "Enough."

  My face is red. I turn my attention toward the TV. To Holly Lemon being interviewed poolside at her decked-out crib.

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  "That's not true," I whisper. My blood is boiling inside. What does she know about me?

  "I do want stuff," I shout.

  "To burn around?" Mom's voice is iced over.

  The camera pans to Holly making out with her boyfriend on her enormous canopy bed with red satin sheets. She says good night, blows a kiss to the camera, and the shot fades.

  "I want to be a DJ," I say directly to Holly. I've wanted to be one since I was twelve. If Mom ever paid any attention to me, she would know this. I live, breathe, and dream about music.

  "What? You can't even carry on a normal conversation," Mom snaps.

  "I know more about songs than most people." I pull my iPod from my pocket. "See this?

  It's filled with all the new artists."

  "You'd be better with something out of the public eye," Mom says.

  "You don't have to be a prom queen to be on the radio, Mom. You just have to have passion for music." Even if she doesn't get it, it feels good to have said it out loud.

  Maybe if I say it enough times, it will finally stick. "I want to be a DJ."

  "Yes,
you said that." Mom fingers the sapphire choker around her neck. An early birthday present from Rob. "But I've never seen anyone in media that doesn't have at least some sort of sparkle."

  "What matters most is what comes from inside." My heart is thumping hard. I place my hand on my chest to silence it. "All I'm saying is you need to be realistic." Mom sighs.

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  Since when has she ever been realistic?

  Rob grabs his BlackBerry from the coffee table. "Are you serious about this, Teresa?"

  "Yes." I sit up straight.

  He scrolls down the screen. "Okay, then. Come by the station at four tomorrow. You can sit in with Derek during his show. See what it takes to be a DJ."

  "Really?" My face lights up. Maybe Rob was sent from up above to watch out for me and get Mom off my back.

  Mom groans. "This could be humiliating."

  "For who?" I hug myself tight.

  "She's not doing anything after school anyway." Rob strokes Mom's face. "It'll be good for Tere to check out the real world."

  Mom softens at Rob's touch. "Okay, but tell Derek if she gets in his way to send her home."

  I smile at Rob. Then glare at Mom. I won't disappoint.

  I don't even wait for her to throw more insults my way; I just run up to my room and scream into my pillow. I don't know how to feel. Half of me is dancing on air; the other half is ready to kiss the toilet and puke out my guts. This opportunity is the best and worst thing that's ever happened to me. I pick up the phone and call Audrey. Maybe she can make sense of all this.

  "Good evening, this is Audrey speaking, how can I direct your call?"

  Audrey always answers her phone with some kind of secretarial 60

  greeting. She's done this ever since she started helping out at her dad's dentist office the summer before seventh grade. What's even worse is that I have to listen to the whole greeting before I can say anything.

  "Yes, can I speak with Audrey Craven please?"

  "She's in a meeting right now. Can I take a message?"

  "Yes, tell her that Sweet T called. The number one DJ for SLAM."

  I've had my on-air name planned for a couple of years now. Well, ever since Great Aunt Bertie died. She was the one who gave me the name Sweet T. She'd brew a batch of tea and keep on adding more sugar until I told her it was enough. She used to say, You love your sugar, girl. You're sweet tea.

  "No way!" Audrey screams into the phone. "You asked him? See, I told you that you'd make an awesome DJ."

  "Calm down. Rob said I could come by the studio tomorrow and hang with Derek during his show. That's it."

  "So cool! I know you can do it."

  "Well, that makes one of us." I stare into the oval mirror over my bureau. I wonder if I'd be cuter with curly hair. I push up a clump of hair, let it go, and watch it fall right back down.

  "Hey, maybe he'll let you make a shout-out."

  I look up at my wall. Maltese is the first person I make eye contact with.

  Ugh, what did I get myself into?

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  ***

  Good evening, Miami. This is Sweet T on 92.7 WEMD SLAM FM. It's Monday night and I've got plenty of slow jams lined up for you. If you're down, here's one that's sure to get your heart pumping again, "Believe in faith" ... 62

  63

  chapter SEVEN

  I hardly slept last night. My stomach was doing the limbo. I can't believe I told Rob my dream of being a DJ and he actually asked if I'd like to go to the station. I know he didn't do it for Mom because she made it quite obvious that I'd be better off working in some office basement than showing my face on-air. Which is a total joke because on the radio you can remain faceless.

  I didn't choose radio because I want to hide. If that were the case, I would've said I wanted to work as a computer guru or something else that you can do from home.

  Some people think that shy people don't like interacting with others, that we're antisocial. But that is so not true. It just makes me nervous to be put on the spot, to have to talk to a large group or even people I

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  don't know. So while I might not want to be a tour guide or the president, I've always loved radio. Music is great for any occasion. If you're sad, it cheers you up, and if you're happy, it helps you celebrate. Being a DJ allows you to provide the music that can guide people through good and bad times. And who hasn't been touched by at least one song in their lifetime?

  As I walk through the halls of Ridgeland to first period, I wonder if anyone will remember me a year after we graduate. Five years? Ten years? My existence here is pathetic. It's not like I want to be prom queen and have my image emblazoned in everyone's mind for decades to come, but I want to be somebody. I think.

  I wrestle with the lock on my locker and pull out my pre-calc book and the couple other books I need for the day. I see Stacy and her friends, Laurie and Valerie, walking toward me. They're all wearing short bouncy skirts and tight tops exposing some serious skin that I'm sure more than tempts the limits of the dress code. I duck my head into my locker in an attempt to hide.

  Stacy stops next to me. "Boo."

  I cringe and look up at her out of the corner of my eye. I shut my locker door and try to step around her and her crew, but they block me in.

  "You heard me." She laughs. "I've just got one question. Are you retarded?"

  My face heats up like a stove top, and I feel like I've got a 65

  spoonful of peanut butter lodged in my throat. I don't even bother formulating an answer.

  Her friends burst out laughing. Then Laurie says, "If she is, how's she going to answer you?"

  They laugh some more, until they sound like one of those overzealous laugh tracks on a failing comedy show.

  The peanut butter thickens. I can hardly breathe. I don't look at their faces. Instead, I push through them, letting my stack of books serve as a shield.

  Their cackles follow me as I speed-walk to class. I hurry to my seat in Ms. Peters' room and chug my water bottle until the peanut butter dissolves. I've gotten through three years of school without running into Stacy and her crew, and now two digs in one week.

  I must be getting lamer by the minute. Even if I could get out the words to let Stacy know how hard I tried to tell Ms. Peters she was going to be late, she'd never understand.

  I take out my notebook and doodle, mostly flowers. They don't start out dead, but by the time I'm done drawing, they're all wilted. Gavin is drawing, too. His doodles actually look like abstracts. He's back to squiggly lines, but there's a definite pattern to them.

  He's wearing another all-black outfit today. I can't make out what it says on his shirt, but there's a silhouette of a guy on a skateboard on the front.

  "You skate?" Gavin lifts his head from his masterpiece.

  Me? Oh, great, he thinks I was staring at him. I wasn't! Okay, 66

  maybe a little, but I was just trying to make out the words on his shirt.

  I shake my head and point to him. "Yeah, I got a board."

  I picture him sliding down the front steps at the regional library, with the security guard a few feet behind him, yelling at him to get lost, while Gavin's black hair flies in the wind like a flag of defiance. I never noticed how dark his hair is before. I mean, it's really black.

  Some people would kill for hair like that!

  I smile at him and quickly look away. He seems oblivious, so I immediately go back for seconds. I can't help myself---he's such a cutie. The type of person who, the more you get to know them, the cuter they are. And trust me, smiling directly at a guy is a lot for me.

  I sneak a few peeks at Gavin all through the Jane Austen reading. He has one eye on the book and the other on his notebook. I can't believe we've gone to school together for the past four years and this is the first year that my radar has picked up on him.

  Freshman and sophomore year, I spent most of the time drooling over Patrick Olsen, the guy with the English accent. He had such a sexy voice, and the funny t
hing is I never spoke to him, not even once. He moved away at the end of sophomore year. And the next year was a real toss-up. I went out to dinner with Audrey and a couple of band guys. But Gerald, my date, was a strict opera buff. We were such music polar opposites that I don't even know why Audrey bothered setting us up.

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  Ms. Peters reads most of the chapter and calls on a few volunteers. Luckily, I'm spared for today. At the end of class Gavin has filled a whole notebook page with his geometric design.

  I stand over it as I zip up my backpack. Something about all those lines and shapes pull me in.

  "If you stare at it for long enough, you'll go blind," Gavin says with a straight face. His dark brown eyes look like onyx. I watch as a smile tiptoes across his face.

  "I like." I like it. Okay, now he must think I'm an idiot. Maybe Stacy's right. I am retarded.

  I walk briskly out the door and don't even bother peering back. The first real words I say to Gavin put me back in preschool. Maybe I'd have better luck talking to a toddler.

  I don't see Gavin for the rest of the day, and that's fine with me. It's only right that I keep away from him, for at least twenty-four hours, to make sure this stupidity virus isn't contagious.

  I head off to pre-calc. I've got an A so far in that class and don't want to screw it up by speaking.

  Pre-calc's a breeze because we work on our own most of the class, and in sociology we have a sub and watch a short documentary about arranged marriages. The whole idea of marriage is kind of freaky. I mean, I don't have the best role model, that's for sure. I hope Mom stays with Rob forever because he's way better than all her old boyfriends and definitely better than her first husband, Tony. I wonder if my dad is married. He probably lives in some huge mansion on the beach with a wife and five 68

  kids. I'm sure he has no idea I exist. Definitely no room for me in his perfect world.

  Next is my free period. I decide to spend the time demoronizing myself after my speech flub with Gavin. If I'm hanging out at SLAM today, I have to not only be able to speak, but speak properly.