“We’ve suspended her until further notice,” Miss Lavender said. We all gasped.
Then she told us we were in danger of losing funding from the school because the administration had been “besieged” with complaints. Looked like a lot of people had heard the same rumor or some variation of the rumor that had sent Rosalie through the roof.
“But as you all know,” Miss Lavender went on, “it’s a lie. We didn’t take money earmarked for any other club. We earned our money and earned money for the school. We worked for it. So we’re going to have to work even harder this year. That’s why I’ve scheduled a car wash for Saturday morning at the Shell station on Fig Tree Lane.”
Yep. Now I was supposed to be washing cars with my fellow dancers on the same day that I was to help host the most important meeting of SPEAK’s history. And it got worse.
“Ladies, please be mindful of our image. What you do represents us all. I’d like you all to think about ways we can contribute to the community. How we can elevate our image so that we’re not just seen as dancers, but role models. We shouldn’t have to. Nobody asks the football team to go out and prove they are good people after winning a championship. But that’s how it is for women. We’re always having to prove we didn’t get where we got by doing something dirty. And we’re usually having to prove ourselves to other women—women who should know better.”
Roger Lee Brown called the night before the car wash. I asked him if he’d come.
Again, it just popped out.
He said, “Shorty, every brother I know makes it his business to come to one of the Lady Lion car washes, fa show.” That’s cool for, “for sure.”
The car wash was from nine until noon. It was at the Shell station kitty-corner to the rec center. I was hoping, praying, bargaining with God and the entire universe that Rosalie wouldn’t find out about the car wash.
And it looked like my wish was being granted. So far, she hadn’t mentioned it. And she’d called me at least four times since she got back to town last night.
We’d been together last night going over last-minute SPEAK details. We needed to make sure that she and I and the other SPEAK members did a good job of convincing the women at the planning meeting that “Kick the Crown” was worthy of media and community support.
So the day went something like this:
9:02 AM
Dad pulled into the gas station parking lot. He took one look at the Lady Lions in their bikini tops, with their ultrashort shorts, then looked at me in my denim cutoffs and white knit tee. He said: “Thank god you’re overdressed.”
His eyes darkened as his gaze traveled back to my dance mates. I followed his gaze and was, like, Whoa! It was like looking at walking, breathing pinups. Dad turned to me and—you won’t believe this—he reached over and pulled me into, like, the biggest bear hug EVER.
I squirmed, but he wouldn’t let go, not right away, anyway. He said into the top of my head, “That’s for being my conservative little intellectual. I don’t think I’m ready for you to be that . . . that . . . um, well, try not to let your shirt get wet.” He looked blue with embarrassment. I jumped out of the car, mumbling goodbye. I didn’t know what was more embarrassing—-Dad’s freakish display of parental overprotection, or his naïve belief that a wet t-shirt could in any way enhance my sad boy-girl breasts.
9:33 AM
Tangie and I were dubbed “worker bees.” We accepted our roles as worker bees, scrubbing, buffing, shining, and vacuuming, while others did the more glamorous job of “advertising.”
Several of our bikini-top wearing Lions took turns walking along the edge of the gas station’s parking lot, holding signs: car wash $5 or donation.
We worked our butts off. Just between you and me, I’d never washed a car before. It wasn’t the easiest thing in the world. Most people were nice, but some were mean and nasty. The ones with the grossest cars were always the ones complaining most about the five bucks. A lot of people with cars barely dirty enough to clean, however, made ten-, fifteen-, even twenty-dollar donations.
My arms started to ache from being bent over and crouched down scrubbing tires. My lower back was killing me, too. I tried to ignore the fact that it was two hundred and eighty-five degrees outside.
12:14 PM
With my butt tooted in the air and a rag in my hand, I was vigorously applying Armor All to a rear tire when from behind me I heard, “Oh, oh, oh, my good-goobly-goo!”
I spun around.
Two boys. Mr. “Good-goobly-goo” I didn’t recognize. But his friend I definitely recognized: Roger Lee Brown. I became aware of every spot on my shirt that was damp, not to mention the fact that my shorts were hiked up behind, the fact that my booty had to be shaking back and forth to the rhythm of my scrubbing motion, and the fact that I was staring open-mouthed.
Good-goobly-goo stepped forward. “Baby girl! Do fries go with that shake?”
I narrowed my eyes.
Roger Lee Brown stepped between me and goobly. “Man, chill.” Roger hadn’t taken his eyes off of me. Maybe he was counting my teeth since I had yet to fully close my mouth.
“This is my cousin Dante.” Roger Lee nodded his head toward Mr. Goobly. Goobly was what I call a Slangaroo. You know, the kind of guy who says everything in that Snoop Dogg, rap-style tone, and almost every other word is some sort of slang. Slangaroos hop from girl to girl with their jumble of mangled vowels. Slangaroos are harmless, just annoying.
12:16 PM
Dante took my hand and before I could snatch it away, he’d kissed it. I could only hope that the hours and hours of car-cleaning chemicals that had coated my skin fused to form a protectant, much like rain guard on the windshield. “That’s my whip you working on now, knowhatamean?” Slangaroos also tend to run whole phrases, such as “know what I mean,” together, turning them into a single word.
“Yeah,” I said, frowning. Tangie looked over. She was working on the front tire. My eyes begged her to come over and help; her eyes told me, “Girl, you are on your own.”
Roger Lee Brown rubbed his hands together and grinned. “So, um, what’s up?”
I shrugged. My shoulders flopped up and down as though I had no muscle control.
He kept staring and tried again. “So, it’s good to see you. We’ve been talking all week, but man, I’m so busy. I hope we can get together again—maybe without the grandmothers.”
My lips started to move, but they felt numb. Some sort of rubbery-limb muscle atrophy disease took over me. When I moved, instead of slipping into a nonchalant pose, my body jerked like I was having a spasm. The fat sponge in my hand flicked forward, slamming directly into Roger Lee, catching him, uh, below the belt, oozing white, sudsy water down his leg.
Mr. Goobly had turned around just in time to witness the look of astonishment on Roger Lee’s face and the look of desperate horror on mine. “Oh, snap!” said Goobly. “Man, you been drizzled fo’ shizzle.” Then he broke into a convulsive sort of laughter that caused his body to collapse inward on itself, getting lost in the folds of his oversized shorts and threatening to expose way more of his boxers than I cared to see.
12:20 PM
“The car’s ready!” Tangie called, unaware of the cool display I was putting on. I was a virtual clinic of cool.
12:23 PM
Slangaroo recovered from his laughing fit, paid for his car wash, and stood back to inspect his “whip.”
“Bling! Bling! And dat’s on the fo’-really-real!” slanged Goobly. “Y’all hooked a brotha up!”
Roger Lee, who, once again, had moved his body in such a way that he was using a car to shield his privates from the threat that was me, said, “Did I mention that he does not go to RPA.”
I smiled.
Goobly didn’t care. “Yeah, yeah, yeah, I’m a playa. I don’t have time for no uptight school like that. I gots to be where the honeys is looking for some lovin’!”
Roger Lee rolled his eyes as he climbed inside the car, then he gave me the he
ad nod.
The single head nod.
A universal symbol of cool among men and boys. It is used in greetings, to make introductions, to show displeasure, to show pleasure, to affirm, to confirm, and to dismiss.
The single head nod.
And then he was gone. Riding shotgun with Sir Goobly.
Tangie sank down beside me on a bench under a blue-and-white-striped awning and said, “Whew! Can you believe it’s almost one o’clock? I’m so hungry I could eat my brush!” She tossed the scrub brush into the pail for emphasis.
“One o’clock!”
I scrambled to my feet. “I . . . I’ve got to go!”
Tangie looked confused. “Hey,” she called to my back as I ran toward the spot where I’d tucked my backpack stashed with my change of clothes. “Aren’t you going to hang out with us after we finish here?”
“Can’t,” I called over my shoulder.
And I took off around the rear of the Shell station and down the path to the rec center before she could ask why.
I scrambled into the restroom. Changed out of my damp, sweaty t-shirt and into a fresh, clean black tee with violet lettering. I quickly dabbed on some lip gloss and checked my eyes. (Thanks to Tangie and Nena, I didn’t feel nearly so lost when it came to makeup.)
Once I was finished, I left the restroom, passed through the gaming area, and went to the glass-enclosed room where we were meeting. No sooner had I exhaled than Rosalie charged up next to me and demanded to know, “Where have you been?” She didn’t sound mad, but she was looking at me like she was accusing me of something.
And I was looking guilty as sin.
Inside the large conference room everything was set up.
“The place looks great,” I said, changing the subject.
Just then I heard a familiar squeal and turned. “Hey, girl!” Shavonda said. We hugged. Shavonda was among several SPEAK alumnae members who’d come to the meeting. After middle school, a lot of the girls went to different schools, but they stayed in touch with e-mails or calls.
Soon as I let go of Shavonda, I felt a light tap on my arm. Jade!
“I can’t believe you made it!” Our hug was a lot less emotional. Jade was not the emotional type. She was very prim. Very proper. Still, I’d always respected her.
“Are you still dancing?” I asked as I stepped back.
She nodded. “You?”
Before I could answer, two younger girls walked up.
“Didn’t I just see you across the street washing cars?” She was long and lean, probably twelve, maybe thirteen. She had that bookish look that drew bullies out of the woodwork. We’d invited about eight to ten middle school girls to come and talk about the kinds of issues they’d like to address in a few weeks at the “Kick the Crown” ceremony.
“Across the street?” Rosalie said, frowning again.
With the bookish girl was a shorter, rounder girl. She was what Demolition Diva liked to call “hippy.” Chocolate brown skin, curly brown afro, probably the same age as the other girl. Way, way, way too much makeup. She said, “Yeah, at the Lady Lions car wash. Are you one? Are you a Lady Lion?”
Rosalie’s eyes flashed from liquid question marks to fiery exclamation points. She cut in, “We don’t have time for this now.”
Curly Brown and Bookish seemed unfazed by the chill settling over us. They pressed on. “Do you? Dance for the Lady Lions?”
Taking a deep breath, I gave them a quick nod. My eyes darted from Rosalie to Jade to the other former SPEAK girls who’d collected around the front of the room waiting to start the program.
Curly Brown’s face broke into a wide grin. She looked at her friend and said, “Told you! Told you that was her!”
With a shy, soft smile, the bookish girl said, “I think that’s awesome!” Rosalie hissed something under her breath and we all went inside to start the meeting.
Bon Voyage to Joie de Vivre;
Kayla Prepares for Guilt Trip
Rosalie. She shook her authentic rain stick that Dr. X said came from an African tribal chief. (Just so you know, Mom lived in Africa off and on for many years and she swears she’s never heard of the tribe Dr. X claims gave her the rain stick as a gift. Granny JoJo used to say it came from the ancient Tribe of Banana Republic.)
“Can I have your attention, please? Thank you, thank you so much. We are so, so grateful to have you ladies with us today!” Applause.
Rosalie looked radiant. She always did when she spoke. Her wild, dark hair pulled away from her face, making her look as though she’d just blown in on the bow of a ship. She wore black capri pants to match her “Kick the Crown” shirt.
Unlike that day at dance practice, here she looked in her element. She looked confident, comfortable, and at ease. You could just tell this was where she belonged. At least, until . . .
“My name is Lourdes Sanchez, I’m with ‘The Kiss’ station WKSS-97.1. Didn’t I see you across the street with the Lady Lions?”
It was crazy. One minute, we were explaining what SPEAK stood for and how we wanted “Kick the Crown” to become this huge annual festival that unified girls in middle school and even high school, teaching that as women we need to support each other. Stuff like that.
Then they were all looking at me, nodding and smiling, saying how great it was that I was on the dance squad. Even State Representative Natalie Weiss said she’d grown up in New York and as a little girl had dreamed of being a Rockette. “I never made it, but I still see dancers as glamorous and hardworking.”
Rosalie tried to rein them in. Tried to redirect. But it was like watching a small fire surge up and consume a village.
Ideas started to zing around the room.
Zing. Lourdes from the radio: “Are the Lady Lions involved?”
Zing. Dr. Benita Carlisle, middle school principal: “Can we get the group to perform for the function?”
Zing, zing, zing! Cinnamon Styles, Channel 8 News: “What a great idea. That would make a fabulous visual for a broadcast. We could even do some promos showing the national award-winning team preparing for the event.”
Zing.
Emily and I had taken lots of notes. If everything went as discussed, our event could be larger than anything we’d ever imagined. Then came time for final questions.
Question: “Kayla, how awesome is it to be on the Lady Lions?”
Rosalie appeared out of nowhere and cut in before I could respond. “Let’s just keep our focus on the school year, leadership, and how we can help you manage the school year ahead. Whether or not the Lady Lions will perform at ‘Kick the Crown’ remains to be seen. In the meanwhile, why not stay on point. Okay?”
“Why can’t we ask questions about the Lady Lions? I’m a ninth grader at Pompano High and plan to apply to Royal Palm. Even though I have above a 4.0 GPA, I like dancing. So why can’t we discuss it?”
Rosalie. “Because this is not the time. Now are there any other questions?”
My whisper hissed out. “Don’t you think that was a bit harsh?”
She spun and hissed back: “This is all your fault, Kayla!”
“What is?”
She grabbed the tail of my black SPEAK tee. It was so long that it covered my cutoffs. I looked like I was wearing a minidress. Giving it a yank, she pulled me to the door. No one could tell about the yanking and pulling because a table blocked the view.
“We’ll be right back,” she sang out.
We both speed-walked to a small office at the end of the hall. Rosalie practically shoved me inside, then she was, like, “zoom-zoom!” Just off the hook. She got right up in my face and was, like: “Kayla, you know how important this meeting is. We have sponsors to whom I’ve given my word that we’re respectable and honorable and out to promote ourselves as decent women of purpose. Emulating the likes of Dr. Condoleezza Rice, remember? Now you’re turning ‘Kick the Crown’ into some sort of dime-a-dozen media event.”
My face was burning hot and I felt something balloon in my ches
t. She did this . . . she did that. She didn’t do anything by herself. I did just as much as she did. So did Tisha and Emma and the other SPEAK girls.
My fingers curled into fists and for a second I honestly thought about slapping the silly out of her.
Instead, I wrenched away. “Rosalie, don’t you dare, don’t you dare lay that on me. I am a Lady Lion. I am a Lady Lion because you begged me to try out. . . .”
“I didn’t beg you to do squat!”
“Then what do you call it?”
“Call it whatever you want. You’re supposed to be there to prove a point. You’re supposed to be writing, getting the scoop. But I haven’t seen a word yet. I think it’s because you’ve let this whole thing go to your head. I think that you’ve imagined yourself in your short skirt and decided maybe that’s more important than being a serious woman committed to serious business. Is that it, Kayla? Is that the kind of woman you’ve decided to be?”
We both stood there, panting in each other’s faces.
“Rosalie, it doesn’t have to be a big blow-up thing. I just thought . . .”
“WHAT?” she shouted in my face. “Omigod! You did this on purpose, didn’t you? Didn’t you?”
“Did what, Rosalie? This was your meeting. Just like SPEAK is now ‘your club.’ You can’t just be involved. Anything worth doing is worth taking over.”
“If you screw this up because of another one of your little chicken-fit episodes, that’s it! I can’t keep hanging around with somebody who can’t figure out from one day to the next what kind of girl she wants to be. So which is it?”
Rosalie got even closer to me, the kind of thing animals do to intimidate one another. She lifted an empty folder from the table, waved it around. She sneered, “Let’s pretend this is your little exposé for the beginning of the school year. You’ve written your inside story. What does it say, Kayla? Huh? Do you tell the truth and shame the devil? Or do you go on pretending to be the devil?”
The Kayla Chronicles Page 10
