Shrinking Violet

by Danielle Joseph

  Man, she's losing it.

  "I dunno." Tim shrugs.

  "That was your part," Frank adds.

  Stacy stomps her foot. "This is not what I wanted typed up."

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  She tugs at her hair and huffs. No one moves, including Frank and Tim. She looks under the table, then picks up the typewriter. We all stare.

  Stacy holds up the torn paper and glares at it, mouth open wide. I wait for drool to slide down her chin. The whole class is mute.

  Stacy has committed the worst crime that a broadcaster could ever commit: dead air.

  Ms. Peters finally breaks the silence. "Stacy, please continue with the performance, ad-lib if need be."

  "Add what?" Stacy screws up her face.

  The class bursts into laughter. Even Frank and Tim are laughing.

  I can't stop from smiling. I look over at Gavin, and he's smiling, too. Revenge. And I didn't even inflict it. How sweet it is.

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  chapter TWENTY-TWO

  I feel like I just got convicted of a crime and am awaiting sentencing, not heading to the production room to pick the winner of the prom contest. Cindy and her promotions team weeded through the sixty-eight entries and narrowed them down to the ten best.

  A few were disqualified for being too long, one was filled with profanity, and another came from a guy who apparently delivered his a minute after the deadline.

  He would've made it, except instead of handing over the CD, he decided to hit on Pop-Tart. He spent the next fifteen minutes telling her all the ways he could please her.

  She listened to his crap and when he was done, she politely smiled and said, "Would you look at the time? The contest closed fifteen

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  minutes ago! Maybe next year, buddy." Instead of getting pissed off, he said, "Can I at least get your phone number?" So she gave him the number to the station's loser line, where guys call in thinking they're leaving a message for a girl but instead their message gets played on the air with the promo--LOSER ALERT! Got to love Pop-Tart!

  I set myself up in front of the ginormous CD player and pop in the first contestant, Number 7. I suddenly feel like I'm on a reality dating show. I'd much rather be the host than the bachelorette. Maybe I should be a martyr, too, and pass off the winning entry to another lucky lady. Maybe the one with the best sob story about breaking up with her skeezy boyfriend. Somehow I don't think anyone would go for it.

  I slide on a pair of oversized headphones to block out any outside noise. I want to give all these guys a fair chance. I figure when the song speaks to me, I'll know who the winner is.

  After the first one, I already have to take a break. Whoever chose "Bees to Your Knees"

  as a finalist? Is this some kind of joke? Okay, yes, the dude can sing, but doesn't content count for anything? It even has buzzing noises.

  Bees to your knees

  You make me buzz inside until I come alive.

  Bees swarm me until I drop to my knees.

  Oh, please pick mees!

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  The scary thing is he'd probably show up in a bumblebee costume. Of course, he could be a professional beekeeper, which would be interesting since I've never met one. What am I thinking? I'm looking for the most harmless, halfway decent-sounding prom date, not a subject for a show on death-defying jobs. Next.

  A quick pass on Number 56, I'm just not into sword fighting and knights winning the love of their dames. Yes, dame was the actual word used.

  I cue up Number 42 next and even give it a second listen. It has potential. The contestant is strong on the guitar and his singing is upbeat, but not too pop-ish. I'm not crazy about some of his lyrics: "Mold me close, don't leave me or throw me away like burnt toast, baby, I want you to love me so ... ," but they'll do. It's not like I have to marry the guy. Right?

  I keep Number 42 in the Maybe pile and move on to the next few. I ditch Number 22

  because we don't see eye to eye on life issues. He thinks men should drink beer for breakfast and women should wear short skirts and bend over to dust the tables. I don't even want to know how that one made it through. Probably Derek's choice.

  As soon as Number 61 loads, I crack up. I can't believe he really sent this entry in and actually pulled together decent-enough lyrics to make it to the top ten.

  Burger and Fry Girl

  Burgers and fries for my girl and no lies.

  Soup when she's sick and whatever else she needs.

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  Treat her like the queen that she is.

  Take in, or take out, that's what it's all about.

  For my girl, the queen that she is.

  Burgers and fries on a silver platter, it will be.

  It certainly doesn't make me look very sophisticated, but it's funny that he went through with it. His voice is a little scratchy, but he definitely deserves an A for effort.

  The next two entries, Numbers 18 and 61, have the basics. They both have decent rhythm and sing about the prom. Eighteen says it'll be the night of his life, while 61 says it's a stepping-stone to more great things to come. But both lack pizzazz. I could flip the dial and hear a hundred better than them, past and present. Of course, if it has to be one of them, I could flip a coin. I shouldn't panic yet, there are three CDs left. Still, I move both of them to the Maybe pile.

  The next entry, Number 13, has a really cool picture of the moon on the cover. I pop it in. "The Moon Stops for You." Neat title. The guitar starts off slow, but once the vocals join in, it's at an even pace. Something about the song sends chills up my spine. At a minute thirty, I start the song again from the top. I don't want it to end. It's that good.

  Every beat resonates with me. The words are so alive, so real.

  The moon stops for you.

  Not a cloud in sight

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  Gleaming down at your pretty face

  Just enough glow to make you sparkle.

  The moon stops for you.

  Who needs the sun when you're around?

  You're a natural satellite, always shining bright.

  Without this guiding light, others can't see your beauty from within.

  You need to step away from your shroud.

  Let the light of the stars illuminate you as your heart beats proud.

  Like a whisper blowing through the trees, the moon stops for you.

  My hand's shaking when I hit play again. It's not just the lyrics, but the voice, too. It's luscious. Deep and soothing. I listen again, savoring every word. It's like a lullaby for every girl who wishes she was with that special guy.

  I wonder if the songwriter was thinking about someone specific when he wrote it. I pull off my headphones. I know this is stupid, but I'm actually jealous of her, the girl that the moon stops for. What's she like? What about her mesmerizes him? I bet she's drop-dead gorgeous and really sweet, too. How depressing. Is she alive? Dead? Okay, I have to stop this. He's definitely the one, lucky Thirteen.

  I listen to the last two CDs out of courtesy, but nothing's going to blow me away like

  "The Moon Stops for You." I just hope he's half as good-looking as he sounds. How ironic. I bet he's saying the same thing about me.

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  I walk right into the studio and hand the CD to Derek. "This is the one."

  "Smoking cover." He slides the CD out of the jewel case. "Let's give him a listen."

  Neither of us talk. We're both engulfed by the song, staring at the CD player like it might come alive at any moment.

  "Wow, talented kid. Good sound," Derek says when the song is over. "Let me give Cindy a buzz to make sure everything's kosher with this guy. Then we'll blast him through the airwaves."

  I'm on pins and needles while he gabs to Cindy. Don't make me go back and select Bee Guy.

  Finally he puts down the phone. "Everything's clear. Shall we?" He points to the on-air button.

  I'm as ready as I'll ever be. It's official; the victor has been crowned. There's no going back now.
<
br />   Derek announces that a winner has been picked and that everyone should stay tuned for the debut. It's strange, but I feel nervous for the guy. He's probably ecstatic that his creation will be broadcasted to thousands of listeners, but he bared his soul and now that's going to be public domain. I hope he's ready.

  "The Moon Stops for You" airs at 6:57 p.m. I'm nervous and excited at the same time. I can't stand. I can't sit. I'm a human jack-in-the-box. "Without this guiding light, others can't see your beauty from within. You need to step away from your shroud ..."

  I can barely wait the two minutes and fifty-three seconds 239

  before the phones light up and the listeners speak their minds. Don't you just love him?

  ***

  Good evening, Miami. I've got a new tune for you, "The. Moon Stops for You. "The artist wants to remain anonymous. But I promise you, this one will leave you thinking. If he's even half as sexy as his voice, you'll melt every time you see him. This is Sweet T on 92.1The SLAM, signing oat for the night... 240

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  chapter TWENTY-THREE

  I wake up in a panic. Only four days left until I meet Moon Guy and three weeks until graduation. But honestly, I can't even think about graduation at a time like this. In fact, I might not even make it to the ceremony if the prom eats me alive. I might have to go into hiding and have my diploma dropped by helicopter to my new home deep in the mountains. If only Florida wasn't such a flat state. The farthest I'll be able to climb into solitude is to the top of Mount Trashmore, our local dump. No, thanks.

  I realize I actually need to find something decent to wear for the big night. I can't go fish a dress off the racks at Marshalls. I have to snag something that makes me look glam. I still can't believe I'm going with a complete stranger. It's crazy that only 242

  Cindy from promotions and SLAM's lawyer know who he is.

  He could be really hot. So hot that my tongue will be swollen from me salivating all night and all the girls will be lining up to catch a glimpse of him. Of course, with my luck, he's covered in warts and suffers from perspiration overload and extreme body hair. But before I freak myself out any further, I need to refuel.

  Mom's in the kitchen fixing breakfast. I was hoping to be long gone before she got up.

  She's in her pink silk bathrobe and matching slippers, waiting for the coffee to brew. I try to avoid her by quickly grabbing the milk and cereal and sitting at the far end of the kitchen table. She's been so nuts lately that I don't want to ignite her flames. I would just take my food up to my room, but I don't want to hear her complain about ants. She's practically having an affair with the exterminator, he's here so much. I haven't even seen an ant in the house for years. But Mom can't stand insects. Okay, I'm sure most people share her sentiment, but the mere sight of a small critter can send her into hysterics that last hours. Her lunacy is pretty humorous considering. we live in Miami, where the cockroach could be an official mascot.

  I look over at Mom's slippers. I picture thousands of cockroaches swarming around her feet. Before I can stop myself, I crack up. Then I imagine the bugs chasing Mom around the kitchen. This is fun in a sinister way.

  She reaches for the fridge and pulls out the soy butter. She 243

  sprays it on her toast. I laugh harder as the imaginary roaches inch their way up the countertop. It seems like I haven't laughed in forever, and that sets me off again. Mom just keeps on spraying. I can tell she wants to say something. Another bubble of laughter bursts from my mouth. If Mom doesn't stop with the soy butter, she'll burn a hole in the bread.

  Finally she sets down the spray. "What is it, Teresa? Why are you acting so strange?"

  That makes me laugh even harder. For once I've made her feel uncomfortable. My jaw aches. I haven't used my happy muscles in a long time. I finally stop laughing and take a long, slow bite of my cereal. I let the soggy flakes melt in my mouth.

  She walks toward me but stops halfway. Her face drops. "Are you ,okay?"

  I still don't say anything. How can I? Every time I try to talk to her, she jumps down my throat. I close my eyes and shake my head. A lump rises in my throat, but I force it back down.

  My eyes are drawn tight, but I can feel her standing beside me now. She speaks softly,

  "Tere, we need to talk."

  I don't say anything. Instead, I hum to the tune of "Like a whisper blowing through the trees, the moon stops for you ..."

  Mom pulls out the chair next to me and sits down. "These past few months, we've really been at each other. I've said things I shouldn't have. Didn't mean."

  I open my eyes. I want to believe her but don't know if I can. I look at her oval face.

  There are a few lines above her cheekbones.

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  She has not masked them with cover-up yet this morning. "What?"

  She looks me straight in the eye. "No matter what you think of me, I really do care about you." Then she peers down at her hands. One of her manicured nails is chipped. She's not perfect, after all. "I just don't want to see you get hurt."

  "Hurt? How?"

  "Being shy can really hold you back from a lot of things in life. I've seen it happen with . .

  my mother."

  "Huh?" I never would've thought Grandma Susan was shy, standoffish, maybe. She lives in London now so we haven't seen her in three years, but she oozed confidence every time I saw her--or so I thought.

  "Your grandmother was only eighteen when she married my father. She was quiet as a mouse for years, never stood up for herself. I was determined not to get stepped on like her and, well, sometimes I see a lot of you in her and it scares me."

  "Oh." I stare down at my lap, boring a hole into my jeans as I wait for her to continue.

  "I'm sorry if I pushed too much, drove you away. But I didn't know what else to do."

  I look up at her. She is still beautiful, even without all the makeup she usually cakes on her face. Without blow-drying her hair for an hour. I reach out to touch her. She takes my hand. "I'm proud of you, Tere."

  I'm not prepared for that. For the fact that she really is happy 245

  with me. With the way I am. I open my mouth and suck on the dead air. I take another deep breath and continue to drain the oxygen around us. I'm hot and stuffy Mom stares at me, eyes wide. I know she wants me to say something, but she waits, patiently. I look back at her, my eyes wide, too. Finally, on their own, the words tumble out. "Thank you."

  Then, without notice, tears stream down her face. She sobs little tiny sobs.

  Mom can be emotional at times, but I never thought she'd shed tears for my love.

  I wait, anticipating a recall from her. I didn't mean it, Tere. I really don't like the way you've turned out. But it doesn't come. I reach for her hand, and she squeezes tight.

  Tears slide down my face, too. No matter what, I can't hate my mother.

  "I'm sorry, Tere." She wipes her face with a napkin.

  I watch her dab her eyes. "It's okay."

  "If you don't want to go through with the contest, we can find someone else to take your place."

  I sit up straight. "No, I've made it this far. I can do it."

  "You're a strong girl." Mom pats my hand. Her slender fingers lay on top of mine. "I've never told you this, but I didn't go to my senior prom."

  "You didn't? But the way you always talk about it . ."

  "I helped plan it and counted down the days ever since I was a freshman, but I was already five months' pregnant with you. Four

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  days before the prom, the school found out. They thought I'd be a bad influence on the other girls and expelled me. I received my diploma in the mail. I was so ashamed." Mom picks at her chipped nail, making it even worse.

  I do the mental math. "So this very day, eighteen years ago--"

  "Yes," she cuts me off. "I don't want you to experience what I did. To feel like an outcast."

  "Sorry." I lower my head.

  "For what?"

  "For being bor
n."

  "No," she stops me. "I'm not sorry, and you should never be. I haven't told you enough that I love you. I can't make it up to you; I know that. It was hard raising you alone but I managed . . survived. But if there's something, anything I can do . ." Her voice fades out.

  "There is."

  Mom perks up.

  "You can take me prom-dress shopping."

  "I'd love that," she squeals.

  Rob bumbles into the kitchen in his bathrobe. "Tere, I just got a call from the station.

  The phones were ringing off the hook last night. They loved it. The winner. 'Moon Shine'?"

  My eyes light up. "'The Moon Stops for You.' It's awesome."

  Rob sets the newspaper down, onto the table and glances over at Mom. A stray tear slides down her cheek. "Did I come down at a bad time?"

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  I'm compelled to answer for the both of us. "No, it's a good time."

  "Really?" Rob takes a step back. "Could've fooled me."

  "Tears aren't always bad. You know us girls." Mom sniffles.

  "No, I don't. That's the problem." Rob laughs.

  "Mom's taking me dress shopping today." I steal the inserts from Rob's paper, hoping to find some cool clothing ads.

  I scan through a few of the pages, then head up to my room to shower. I'm having second thoughts about going shopping with just Mom so I call Audrey for backup.

  "Hey, Aud." I fling open my closet door. "Remember how you said I should hurry up and find a dress for the prom?"

  "Yeah, that was over three weeks ago."

  "Okay, well, I'm ready now." I walk into my closet and stare at my rows of sneakers.

  "Why now?"

  "I picked the winner last night. He's amazing." Ispy an old pair of black wedge sandals and dust them off. "You met him?" Her voice rises an octave. "No, just his voice."

  "What kind of song did he send in?"

  "Oh, it's awesome. It's called 'The Moon Stops for You,' and it's so romantic. I almost cried." I cradle the shoes. "Wow."