Shrinking Violet

by Danielle Joseph

  Maybe if I loosen my vocal cords, I'll feel more comfortable on Derek's show later. I can try some of the exercises that the chorus teacher had us do in middle school, but all that comes to mind is "moo." Somehow I don't think me standing in the courtyard mooing will help my social status.

  I lean against the concrete wall between the cafeteria and the library, trying to come up with an idea. I could read a book aloud, but the thought of anyone hearing me clamps my mouth shut. There has to be a place around here where I can rehearse without being labeled a nut. The library? No, too quiet. Mr. Sanchez lets kids hang in the ceramics studio, but no one reads in there. People practice in those little booths in the language lab. That might be a good place. I mean, how could it possibly be full? It's not high on the popular hangout spots, so it should be safe. This just might work! I head down the hall, snacking on pretzels, my lunch leftovers.

  The room is lined with small booths and chairs. At the front Mrs. Tripp is thumbing through a catalog, marking certain items. On her desk is a sign-up sheet. I fill out my information.

  "What would you like to work on?" she asks.

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  The peanut butter is there again, but I swallow hard. "Pronunciation."

  "What language are you taking?"

  "English."

  "Excuse me?" She puts down her stack of mini Post-its.

  Okay, wrong answer. I took Spanish in middle school and my first year of high school and German last year. Just enough to fill the school's foreign language requirement.

  "Deutsch."

  "First year?"

  I nod. I hardly remember anything.

  A minute later Mrs. Tripp comes back from the supply closet with a CD and a companion workbook. I choose a booth in the back and plug in the headphones. These hard plastic clunky things are nothing like the soft leather ones I have at home.

  At first I let the disc run and don't say anything, listening to the thick German accent. It starts off pretty easy, counting from one to twenty. I don't know how they communicate with all those hard K sounds. I'm afraid I'd accidentally let loose some flying spit and hit someone in the eye. Not so attractive for a speech-deprived girl.

  I glance around the lab. There's only one other student in here and she's on the other side of the room. I doubt she can hear me with her headphones on.

  I breathe deep. I can do this.

  I begin the lesson again and whisper, "Eins, zwei, drei ..." One . . two . . three. Short and sweet. That wasn't so bad.

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  I quickly scan the room again to make sure nobody else has showed up.

  Coast is clear. I move on to short sentences. "Ich habe eine gute idee."

  I have a good idea? I'm not so sure about that. After a while I pick up the momentum and am repeating every word after the speaker.

  Wo ist die Toilette?

  Ich fühle krank.

  Where is the toilet? I feel sick. Those are two sentences I should definitely hold on to in case I ever travel to Germany.

  I take a break and look around again. It's pretty sparse except for the posters of Spain, France, and Germany on different walls. It's really strange to be here willingly. Most people are sent here begrudgingly by their foreign language teachers. At least no one knows my true mission--me giving up my free period to practice German. Yeah, I'm cool.

  Finally Mrs. Tripp comes over to my station and tells me that school is over.

  I practice my verbal skills on her. "Danke."

  She smiles and takes my materials back, and I head off to the library to do my homework. I have to hang around the school for over an hour. I stay until it's time to catch the Number 16 bus downtown at three-fifteen. It's only a twenty-minute ride to the station, then I'll be driving home with Rob. I told Mom that it'd be a whole lot easier if I had my own set of wheels. She said,

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  "We'll see about that after graduation." But that's almost three months away and doesn't help me now.

  The whole bus ride I practice speaking in my head, but after a few minutes I find myself counting in German. For some reason it's more soothing.

  A couple of stops away from the station, an old guy nudges me in the side. "Welcome to Miami," he says.

  I jolt my head back. Who does he think I am? I certainly don't look like any famous celebrities.

  "Do you like living in Germany?" he inquires so loudly that the couple in front of us turns around.

  "Ahh," I point to myself.

  "Your accent is very nice. I heard you counting the stops. Lived in Berlin as a teenager."

  He grins like a kid. "My father was in the military."

  I smile and nod. I can't believe the words slipped out without me even knowing.

  The bus screeches to a halt and the man stands up. "Miami's a big city; watch out."

  "Danke," I whisper.

  There's nothing like the truth.

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  chapter EIGHT

  I've never been to SLAM alone before. There's no one to hide behind today. Maybe Mom's right. I'm not ready for this. My whole body's shaking by the time I reach the station. I feel like an earthquake victim. Maybe I should turn around, forget the whole thing, and catch the next bus home. Mom would be happy, but I would not.

  I clutch my backpack with one hand and grasp the handle to the front door with the other. If I hold on to something, maybe the trembling will stop. I take small steps until I reach the security desk in the middle of the lobby. The sign-in sheet glares at me. I write down my name and where I'm going, then hand the guy my driver's license.

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  "Here to pick up a prize?" he asks me.

  "My dad." I point to the elevator. I can't believe I just called Rob my dad, but there's no way I'm correcting myself.

  "Oh, you're here to pick up your dad." He nods.

  I nod back so he doesn't think I'm some psycho. Then I take off to the second floor before I change my mind about being here. I open the glass door and step inside. The station seems a lot bigger than it was last week.

  There's a new girl sitting at the front desk answering phones. Maybe Patty's solitaire addiction finally got the best of her. New Girl can't be much older than me. She's wearing a supertight, low-cut SLAM tank. Her boobs look like Pop-Tarts sticking out of the toaster.

  Pop-Tart snaps her gum at me. "Can I help you?"

  I swallow hard. "Derek."

  "What?" She cups her hand over her ear.

  I open my mouth wider but don't look directly at her. "Derek."

  "What about him?" The phone rings and she answers it, "SLAM 92.7 . ."

  It's not easy dealing with the dense ones.

  I look at the carpet and wait until she transfers the call. "Tere Adams," I say.

  "Nobody by that name works here." She wrinkles her nose. I point to myself.

  "Oh, you 're her. I get it." She picks up the phone. "I'll let Derek know you're here."

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  I play with one of the loops on my jeans. I sneak a quick glance at the red couches. Two old ladies armed with clipboards are sitting there with a large plastic jar stuffed with dollar bills nestled in between them. I wonder what they're collecting money for. I squint to read the label on the jar. It says Edna's College Fund. Okay, I guess it's never too late to realize your dream. I wonder which one is Edna.

  Pop-Tart puts down the phone. "He says to go right in."

  I start to walk away but she yells, "Wait."

  I quickly stop. What's wrong? My face goes beet red. Is my fly down or something?

  She leans over the counter. "It's so cool that you're here."

  Really? Rob told everyone I was coming? How sweet.

  Pop-Tart leans over even more, letting it all hang out. "This is incredible. I've never met a deaf person before."

  Oh, brother, this girl needs more than Hooked on Phonics.

  A lady in a black suit passes me as I walk down the hallway. She must work in the sales department. Those are the only people
that really dress up around here.

  I stand outside the studio and wait until the on-air light goes off. The hallway is filled with photos of the DJs and celebs that have come by the station. In front of me, I'm staring at a picture of Rob and Gracie May at the New Year's Eve bash. I've never seen Rob smile that widely before.

  The light goes off, but my stomach is back to the limbo. I just stand there for a moment.

  I can do this. I have to do this. I grasp the

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  door handle before I change my mind. Derek's at the board with his back to me.

  I don't move from the door, hoping he'll eventually turn around. But instead, he leans over the laptop plugged in next to him. The lights on the request lines are blinking, but I know he has two interns down the hall answering those calls, I shuffle to the center of the studio now and rustle the keys in my pocket. Finally Derek swings around. "Oh, hi. Tere, right? Rob told me you'd be stopping by."

  Derek reaches out his hand and shakes mine. His palms feel like sandpaper. I quickly pull away.

  He's wearing the same orange shirt as last Friday, with the first three buttons undone. A gold chain rests between the hairs on his chest. It's a figure of a woman with huge breasts. Actually, it would be more accurate to say, it's a pair of gigantic boobs with a woman's body attached to them.

  So I shouldn't be surprised that he's staring at my chest right now. I let go of his hand. If he needs someone to drool over, Pop-Tart has a pretty nice set.

  "Like what you see?" He laughs. "They don't call me Dynamite Derek for nothing."

  I cringe. There's nothing dynamite about this guy. Yeah, he still has his hair and is in good shape for forty, but if he walked into a room full of high school girls, we'd all think he was some lounge singer hired to entertain the teachers at a retirement party. He's got a good on-air voice, though. I'll give him that.

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  Derek goes back to his laptop, so I just continue standing in the middle of the room like a coatrack. I need to talk to him. Otherwise, he'll tell Rob I hung around here like a fungus.

  "Thanks," I mutter.

  He doesn't answer me, so I try it again. "Thanks . . for letting me chill here."

  "Damn," he says to the computer. At least I think he's talking to the computer.

  Finally he turns around. "Sorry, thought I had the wrong commercial loaded. Those plastic surgery people are always counting to make sure all their slots run." He plays with a few levels on the board. "Oh, and you're welcome. Anything for the boss's kid."

  He laughs. "Sit down." He points to the chair a few feet away from him.

  I sit. It's one of those swivel office chairs. It'll make a good getaway vehicle if needed.

  "You want to be a DJ?" he asks.

  I nod but realize he doesn't have eyes on the back of his head, so I clear my throat and say, "Yeah."

  "Got to pick out a name first. What do you want to be called?" Derek turns around to face me and leans back on the console, exposing even more chest hair. Something I didn't think was possible. "Trixie? Bubbles? Baby?"

  Wait, is this a strip club or a radio station? I instinctively pull up the neck of my scoop tee. "Sweet T."

  If I had a turtleneck with me, I'd put it on right now.

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  "That'll work. A name and a voice is all you got out here in radio land." Derek fades down the Maltese track and brings up Gracie May.

  "Now that's a sexy woman. I wouldn't mind getting into her pants." Derek grins.

  I don't say anything and it's not because I don't have anything to say, it's just that I have nothing nice to say.

  "You don't talk much," Derek says.

  "Nope." I cross my arms.

  "That can be a good thing, too." He winks at me. His brown eyes are soulless.

  God, I know he's good at his job, but one dose of him is enough to send anyone into cardiac arrest.

  Just when I think he's done talking, he swings his chair around again. "By the way, you're in violation of the dress code."

  "Huh?" I look down at my Little Miss Trouble tee and jeans. Since when does anyone other than the salespeople dress up at a radio station?

  He points directly at my breasts and laughs. "So you're trouble? That's a provocative statement. You can't wear anything suggestive here."

  Does he really think he's funny? I'm trashing this shirt as soon as I get home.

  Jason, Derek's producer, busts into the studio with a box of Krispy Kreme doughnuts.

  "Here you go, dude." He slaps them on the console next to Derek. Unlike Derek, Jason's very clean-cut.

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  He's tall, with blond hair and hazel eyes. He's GQ to Derek's Unpopular Mechanic.

  "Man, you're good." Derek pulls out a glazed and takes a huge bite. Before he's even finished chewing, he asks, "You want?"

  "No." I grab my bottle of water to clear out my throat. He is so gross.

  Derek's halfway through a second doughnut when the song ends and he has to go back on the air. "Good evening, South Florida, it's Dynamite Derek helping you survive the drive home . ."

  Jason mouths to me. "Who are you?"

  I make a T sign with my hands.

  He mouths, "Time-out?"

  "Intern," I say softly. It makes things easier.

  "Ahh." He nods and jumps onto the computer. As soon as he's finished, he swivels around to face me. "Since I'm sure Derek didn't tell you what a studio intern's duties are, I'll fill you in."

  "Thanks," I say and pull a small notebook and pen from my backpack.

  Jason brushes away the paper. "Nothing formal. When you get here, just check the commercials loaded on the computer against the printout for the show. You'll find the printout next to the console."

  That's all?

  Jason continues, "You'll help on phones as needed and anything else that comes up during the show, promotions, giveaways, etc. Any questions?"

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  "No." I shake my head, and before I can think of anything else to say, Jason is back to the computer, pulling up a song for Derek.

  That's what I like about radio, there's no downtime. You talk, listen to music, do a few shout-outs and before you know it, it's time to sign out and hand the mike over to the next DJ. I still don't know how I got the guts to talk Rob into letting me give this radio gig a try. But I'm glad I did. Despite the fact that Derek is a major slime dog, I think I'm going to like it here.

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  chapter NINE

  Gavin looks different today. I'm not sure why, though. Piece -of hair hanging over his left eye. Check. Dark brown eyes.

  Check. Faded jeans. Check. T-shirt. It's red. Whoa, back up. That's like me showing up to school in a string bikini. I lean forward and notice that it's a Speed Bump tee. Not exactly alternative music but definitely good stuff. They're one of the groups that Rob's trying to get to play at the SLAM Summer Bash in July.

  This is the fifth year in a row that the station is sponsoring a huge outdoor concert at Bayside with over fifteen different artists. The concert starts at noon and goes until eleven at night. I've been for the past three years, and it's such a blast! Of course, it would

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  be better if I could go without my mom, but I can't complain because we always get backstage passes.

  I wait until Gavin looks up from his paper.

  "Nice," I whisper to his shirt.

  "Thanks. My mom was just happy that I wore a color other than black." I laugh.

  "I'm going with my brother to see them play in May."

  "Really, when?"

  "I think it's the second or third weekend. I know it's a Friday."

  "Oh." My heart sinks. The small venue on the Beach. They're already sold out. I should've asked Rob for tickets, but Mom always tells me not to be too greedy, that the tickets need to go to his staff, too. Of course, when she wants to go to a concert, she doesn't waste a second to ask for not only the tickets, but also the best seats.

  Ms. Peters asks everyone to quie
t down and takes attendance. Stacy's absent. Darn.

  We hand in our homework. Then we're instructed to break up into pairs. After being called on to speak in class, pairing up is the next kiss of death for me. I immediately go into invisible mode and stare down at my notebook, my hair covering as much of my face as possible.

  Waiting for everyone else to pair up always seems like an eternity. I know the drill: there are a few seconds of do I have any friends

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  in this class panic, followed by excited voices calling to each other across the room.

  Then, when there's only one person left, they can come and grab me. I resume doodling to look busy, while people crisscross in front and back of me to find their perfect match.

  I don't look up because I don't want anyone to see me, feel bad for me. I'm used to being picked last. The only time it sucks is when we have an uneven number and the teacher has to place me with two people who chose each other, leaving me the third wheel. Or worse, I have to partner with the teacher. That thankfully hasn't happened since freshman year science when I burnt the tip of Mr. Cronin's pinkie.

  Okay, time to work out the logistics. At the start of the semester there were twenty-eight students in this class, but three got schedule changes and then we got a new guy from another school. That makes us an even twenty-six, which is great except if Stacy's absent that would mean, she'd be . . my partner. No way! I can't let this happen.

  Being her partner is like having all my eyelashes plucked out by a tiger.

  Gavin, what about Gavin? I like him; he talks to me. I tap his desk and point to him, then me.

  "Sorry." He shrugs. "Kayla already asked. We're in history together."

  A funny acid taste rises to my mouth. Being Stacy's partner is not an option. I'll have to tell Ms. Peters, forge a note from my mom. Anything.

  I close my eyes. I imagine Stacy laughing at me uncontrollably 84

  after she has told the whole class that I'm retarded. This is not happening.

  "Okay, is everyone paired up?" Ms. Peters asks the dreaded question.

  "One extra." Amelia points to me. God, can't she keep her mouth shut?

  I sink into my seat and grab hold of the legs of the desk. My hands are sweaty. My head is spinning. "Stacy's absent," Beth says.