The Kayla Chronicles

by Sherri Winston

  Then, right at the end . . .

  Rosalie.

  She was standing not too far from Roger Lee Brown. My heart was pounding when I finished the speech, but I was smiling, feeling good. Then I looked down right into Rosalie’s face.

  And here’s the really funny thing:

  She was kind of smiling, too. Okay, not a smile. But not a frown. Definitely not a frown or a glare. For Rosalie, that was something.

  The reporter from Channel 8 took the mike and introduced the Lady Lions. We all wore black tees with lilac letters that spelled speak across the chest. We also had on stretchy black jazz pants and black sneakers.

  We had decided for our first public performance we wouldn’t go nuts. Nice and easy. An exhibition of sorts. Music loud and fierce pumped and Roman bit his lip from the corner like a stage mother in the wings.

  When we were done, I couldn’t believe the rush I got from the crowd’s reaction. People were high-fiving and screaming. Boys I hadn’t even noticed, probably just in the park for other things, had found their way near us and were hooting and carrying on. It was crazy.

  Mom grabbed me into her arms as soon as I made it off the stage. “You did good, Baby. I’m so proud,” she said.

  Dad, back in time to see the show, was holding the video camera. He tilted his head so the camera wasn’t hiding his face. “I don’t like all of that butt shaking,” he said. Mom hit him. “But you did good, Captain Smarty Pants.”

  “Did you guys see where Rosalie went?” I asked.

  Amira was standing beside Dad. “I saw her a leave just as you all were finishing,” she said and shrugged.

  I stared toward the exit, frozen for a moment until Tangie came and grabbed me to come and join the others.

  NEW YEAR, NEW YOU

  School starts in a week. I’ve thought about my sophomore writing project for journalism class. No exposé, but I will be writing about SPEAK and the Lady Lions. I’ve already started.

  Tonight we were out back. Dad grilled some chicken and steaks. It was my birthday. I’d told Mom I didn’t want to go to a restaurant or anything. Too tired. She was cool with that.

  “Captain Smarty Pants, think you can get off your butt long enough to carry this tray?” My father smirked. I rolled my eyes at him, got up, marched over, and took the tray to the patio table. He gave a crisp salute.

  Amira was out back with a friend of hers from school, not her date—he’d been a bust, by the way. We ate dinner, listened to tunes from the iPod, and I felt like something was different, but I couldn’t put my finger on it.

  Mom asked Amira and me to be in her second wedding on their anniversary in a few months. I was too choked up to speak. “I don’t know what to say,” I said.

  “Just say you’ll do it.” She smiled.

  “Just say you’ll keep styling your hair,” Amira added. Ugh! Then Mom asked about Rosalie.

  “So you girls still aren’t speaking?”

  I shook my head. “I don’t want to not be her friend, you know?” Mom nodded.

  Later we had cake, and then it came time to open presents. Mom squeezed my fingers as she slid two bags out from under the table.

  Both Amira and I gasped.

  Shoe store bags. Two. Filled with shoe boxes. The three of us sank into the grass surrounding the patio and ripped into the boxes like we were five and it was Christmas morning. Patent leathers, soft soles, medium heels, shoes with laces, shoes with straps.

  “You and mama had your thing; we’ll have our special thing. I love shoes, too!” Mom said. Then the bell rang, and Mom and Amira exchanged glances.

  “What?” I asked.

  Mom smiled and Amira shot up and raced into the house. A few minutes later she came back.

  And Rosalie was with her.

  Scientists Mystified:

  In Midst of Global Warming Crisis Hell Freezes Over

  Rosalie came into the yard. Mom squeezed my arm. “She wanted to be here,” Mom whispered.

  “Hey,” I said.

  “Here.” Rosalie jammed a package into my hand. “I, um . . . I picked it up for you. You should have it.”

  Inside the wrapping paper was Jane Austen’s Emma. My first first-edition.

  “But how . . .”

  “You know Dr. X and Liz at Books ’n’ Books go way back.”

  I was a little teary-eyed. I stood, reached for her, and we hugged.

  She let go, then said on a breathy exhale, “Can you believe how many girls came to ‘Kick the Crown’? When school starts, I’m sure SPEAK will be one of the most talked-about groups.”

  And just like that, I figured, well, she’s back.

  We cut the cake, hung out, then Rosalie had to leave. I returned to my stack of shoes, admiring them. Amira stretched her foot out, trying for a fit. Then my father appeared with his camera, shaking his head and mumbling, “Women going to drive me into the poorhouse. Shoes. Who needs all those shoes?”

  “Baby, shush and take the photo,” Mom said.

  He gave me a pretend stern glare, fixed his camera on the tripod, and said, “Wait, I want to be in the picture, too.”

  And just like that, I understood the funny, different feeling I’d been having all day.

  I had finally made it into the family. And the family had made it into me.

  Of course, it wouldn’t be a true Kayla day without one final bit of ridiculousness.

  “Come on, try on a pair of the shoes, Captain Smarty Pants. Model for us!” So I took out a pair and started prancing around. Mom, Amira, everybody was whooping and carrying on, so at first I didn’t hear the bushes rustling behind me. Then, just as the camera flashed, the Great Oppressor turned into the Great Protector, lunging to my rescue.

  Oh, yeah. I have the picture. Right before he lunged. There I was, hands on hips. Strappy, black leather sandals showing off my legs. And the runaway alligator’s snout sticking out of the bushes.

  Now really, what’s more stankalicious than that?

  Lexicon of Kayla-isms

  Astromiraculation (as-troh-mih-rah-kyoo-lay-shun)

  An act so miraculous that it exceeds the boundaries of Earth and space.

  Blind-sexy

  When someone looks so good even a blind person would go, “Mmm!”

  Bubblebot

  Robots programmed by men to act like Stepford wives.

  Crunktacular (krunk-tah-kyoo-ler)

  An event that’s very nature is hyped-up, psyched-out, and leads to extra-wild reactions.

  Dare-glare

  A second cousin to the evil eye, a nonverbal double dog dare.

  Deflatamonium (dee-flay-tuh-moh-nee-um)

  When you start out feeling way too good, when you dare to have hope, when your heart is all pumped up, then along comes someone who deflates you at such a rate that the very act of deflation becomes an event.

  Degradation-elation (deh-gruh-day-shun ee-lay-shun)

  When your elation turns to degradation so fast that your head feels like it will spin off.

  Dis-bliss (diss-bliss)

  The point at which bliss gets run over by the dump truck of disgrace.

  Funktaciousness (funk-tay-shuhs-ness)

  Boldness in the case of fashion or high spirit.

  Funktivity (funk-tih-vih-tee)

  Stankaliciousness run amok.

  Gyroscopic wow (jy-roh-skah-pik wow)

  Filled with color, movement, and lots of power.

  Humilaration (hyoo-mil-uh-ray-shun)

  The combination of extreme humiliation and frustration.

  Joygantic (joy-gan-tik)

  Huge with joy.

  Ju-mongous (joo-mun-gus)

  Bigger than humongous but smaller than ginormous.

  Jubil-infamy (joo-bul-in-fuh-mee)

  When your jubilation becomes so out of hand that your behavior goes down in infamy.

  Phi Slamma Glamma

  If surprise makeovers were run by Greek sororities.

  Rosilaw (rose-uh-law)

&n
bsp; The rules according to Rosalie Renée Hunter.

  Stankalicious (stank-uh-lih-shus)

  1) Derived from stank, slang for stinker, the art of being stanky; 2) One who behaves in a manner so overboard, so bigger-than-life outrageous, so self-deluded, that it could only be considered stankalicious.

  Slangaroo (slang-uh-roo)

  The kind of guy who says everything in that goofy, 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; harmless but annoying.

  Zombification (zahm-bih-fih-kay-shun)

  The act of becoming or acting like a zombie.