The Secret Talent

by Jo Whittemore

  She held up the phone so we could all see.

  The subject line simply said, “Twinkletoes.” My stomach turned over.

  Brooke clicked on the message. “Looks like someone sent me a video link. Should I open it?”

  “No,” I said in a horrified whisper.

  But Brooke didn’t hear me. A second later, a tambourine rattled and a woman sang, “I feel pretty! Oh so pretty!”

  “What . . .” Brooke’s face broke into a grin, and she started to giggle. “Oh my God. You guys have to check this out.” She held her phone up so we could all see.

  Heather and Vanessa started laughing at the antics of the guy on-screen. He was prancing about in a billowy white skirt, white tights, and shoes with pompoms on the toes. His face was blurred out, but I knew instantly who it was.

  Me.

  CHAPTER

  3

  Going Viral

  The video was slowed down and sped up in just the right places so it synced perfectly with the music. Dancing Me even paused in front of a studio mirror just as the woman sang, “See the pretty girl in that mirror there?”

  My friends were practically doubled over with laughter.

  I shrunk down a little in my chair. If I stayed quiet, maybe they wouldn’t notice.

  “I wish his face wasn’t blurred out,” said Brooke. “I wonder if he’s singing along.”

  “Wait a minute.” Vanessa plucked the phone from Brooke’s hand.

  Uh-oh.

  “I’ve seen this outfit before.” V paused the video and stared at the screen.

  Leave it to our fashion expert to recognize my costume.

  A second later, she gasped and looked at me. “You!”

  “Shhh!” I put a hand over her mouth. “Nobody else knows.”

  “Knows what?” Heather asked, wrinkling her forehead.

  “Hold up.” Brooke took back her phone and gawked at the image. Then at me. “No way!”

  “Oh!” Heather’s eyes grew wide as realization sunk in. “Why did you post this video online where anyone could see it?”

  “And someone clearly has, judging from that email,” added Vanessa.

  I gawked at both of them. “You really think—”

  “Shhh!” Mary Patrick gave us a stern look.

  I lowered my voice and my entire body closer to the desk. “You really think I’d post a video of myself dancing to ‘I Feel Pretty’?”

  Brooke let out a laugh but quickly stifled it when she saw the murderous look on my face. “Sorry. But you did look pretty.”

  Vanessa snorted and Heather looked away, but I could see the smile tugging at Heather’s mouth.

  “Congratulations,” I said, scowling. “You’ve all gone from getting jars of peanut butter for Christmas to getting jars of nothing.”

  “Oh, come on.” Brooke squeezed my arm. “You can’t even tell who it is.”

  “If you didn’t post it, do you know who did?” asked Heather.

  The last thing I needed was my friends confronting Ryan and making things worse. The other guys in school would think I couldn’t fight my own battles.

  “No,” I said. “But I hope no one else—”

  I didn’t even get a chance to voice my hope before it was dashed. From across the room, I heard . . .

  “I feel pretty! Oh so pretty!”

  Followed by . . .

  “Ba ha, ha, ha!”

  Everyone in class glanced over to where Stefan Marshall was sitting, one hand holding his phone, the other wiping tears of laughter from his eyes.

  “Phone away before I take it away,” Mrs. H warned him.

  “But, Mrs. H, you gotta see this video someone just emailed me.” Stefan held up his phone, and several people crowded around.

  The laughter grew louder.

  “Dude, send that to me,” said Felix, a guy who wrote for the front page.

  The front page.

  “Please no,” I mumbled.

  “Oh wait, never mind,” said Felix. “I got it in my email too.” He stared at the screen. “Aw, man! Looks like the whole school did. So much for a front-page scoop.”

  “What?” I started to stand, but Brooke immediately pulled me down.

  “Be cool!” she whispered.

  It didn’t matter. Nobody was paying attention to me. Well, not the real me, anyway. They were too fixated on Dancing Me. Even Mary Patrick and Mrs. H.

  Different snippets of “I Feel Pretty” filled the air, along with giggles and groans at my dance moves.

  “What a dork!” someone said.

  “Who is it?” someone else asked. “The email said it’s someone at this school!”

  “I’m sure he’ll be easy to spot,” said Stefan. “Just play this song and see who leaps down the hall.”

  Several people laughed.

  “I actually like it,” said Mrs. H. “If you take the music away, it’s rather impressive.”

  “I think so too,” spoke up Mary Patrick. Then her voice started to get louder. “WHOEVER THIS IS”—she glanced our way, and Vanessa gave the slightest shake of her head—“must have trained very hard,” she finished in a softer voice.

  “Yeah, and he’s got some serious muscles,” said another girl.

  “I wish we could see his face.” The girl in charge of the clubs section giggled. “I’ll bet he’s cute.”

  I should’ve been flattered and happy that at least I had some teacher and classmate support, but the guys wouldn’t stop jeering and laughing at the video.

  “Does the circus still accept runaways?” I muttered to my friends.

  “We need to get to the bottom of who shared this,” said Brooke. “It’s got to be one of those sports goons who are always picking on you in gym.”

  Heather and Vanessa nodded their agreement.

  “No.” I shook my head. “No way. I don’t want to draw attention to myself. If whoever did this finds out I’m on to him . . . or her,” I hastily added, “they’ll tell everyone the truth. I’ll handle it myself.”

  Before Brooke could answer, Gil strolled over, grinning. “Did you guys see that video?”

  A twinge of irritation sprung up inside me. Yeah, he didn’t know it was me in the video, but he still shouldn’t be laughing at someone just for dancing.

  Then suddenly Brooke was laughing too. “Ha, ha, ha! Lame, right? We all got a good laugh, didn’t we?” She looked to the rest of us with an insistent smile.

  Best way to go unnoticed: be one of the crowd.

  I forced a laugh of my own. “Yep. And that music! You’d think he would’ve picked something better, like Beeth— OW!”

  Underneath the desk someone stomped on my foot. Judging by the weight of it, I guessed it was Vanessa, who was wearing chunky boots.

  She giggled up at Gil. “Hilarious!”

  Heather smiled and said, “I know it’s mean to laugh at someone who obviously takes his craft seriously, but the way it’s presented is pretty funny.”

  Only my tenderhearted friend could make a jab sound like an apology.

  My phone vibrated again.

  Everyone’s laughing about you. Fun, isn’t it? Unless you want them laughing AT you, meet me under the clock in the main hall when the bell rings.

  I squeezed my phone so hard I was afraid it might shatter.

  Vanessa bumped my arm. “Right, Tim?”

  I lowered my phone and looked up. “Huh?”

  “I was saying the guy in this video probably doesn’t really go to our school,” she repeated.

  “Oh.” I nodded. “Yeah, I’m sure whoever sent this found it on the internet.”

  “I don’t think so,” chimed in Stefan. “It has an original posting date of twelve thirty p.m. today. That’s a minute before I received it.” He smiled. “Hey, I could be the first person in school to see a video that goes viral!”

  Brooke held up a hand. “But I—”

  “Yep!” I interrupted. “Stefan, you’re the first. Congrats, bro.”

  “Th
anks, man.” He took a deep breath and sighed contentedly. “I should talk to Felix about getting this on the front page!” Stefan tapped Gil on the chest. “You can take my photo for it!”

  The two of them walked off, and I relaxed my body. Brooke pointed to herself.

  “But I was the first person to see the video.”

  “We know that.” I gestured around the square of desks. “But if anyone else knew, they’d wonder why you didn’t say anything, like Stefan did. They’d wonder if you were protecting whoever was in the video.”

  Brooke sighed. “Yeah, I see your point.”

  Heather bumped her. “Cheer up. Do you really want your fifteen minutes of fame to be that you were the first to see a silly dance video?” She widened her eyes and reached for my arm. “No offense.”

  It took several minutes for Mrs. H to regain control of the classroom, and when she finally did, it was agreed that the dance clip should get a mention in Monday’s issue as part of a piece on how videos go viral.

  Great.

  After that, it was business as usual, with updates from the different sections and small group work. I must’ve had a look on my face that said I didn’t want to talk because the girls all worked quietly on answering their advice questions.

  When the bell rang I grabbed my bag and hurried out the door, making a beeline for the clock in the main hall. Ryan was already there, leaning against the wall with a cocky smirk on his punchable face.

  “Well, well. If it isn’t the video star,” he said.

  “Shh!” I ducked and looked around to see if anyone had heard. “How did you even get that footage, anyway?”

  “My aunt and I were walking into the store next to the dance building when I saw you going in. Or rather . . . running in with your bag by your head. You don’t like people knowing you dance, do you?”

  “It’s none of their business,” I said.

  “I get that.” Ryan reached into his back pocket. “So here’s what’s going to happen if you want it to stay none of their business.”

  He handed me a folded sheet of paper.

  “What’s this?” I unfolded it.

  “Just a few tasks I need you to complete,” said Ryan. “You know . . . if you want your identity to remain a secret. I still have the original, unblurred version of that video.”

  I stared at him, dumbfounded. “You’re blackmailing me?”

  He made a face. “Blackmail is such an ugly word. Let’s call it . . . an agreement between friends.”

  “You’re not my friend; you’re disgusting.” My fists clenched, the paper he handed me crumpling in one of them.

  “Oh, careful with that,” he said, pointing to the list. “That’s your only copy.”

  Taking a deep steadying breath, I unfolded it and read the contents:

  Shovel my sidewalk

  Clean my room

  Do my homework

  Get me into Berkeley’s party

  Get Lisa Wheeler to go out with me

  I lowered the paper. “So basically I’m your servant,” I said flatly.

  “And matchmaker,” he added, indicating the item about Lisa Wheeler.

  “She’ll never go out with you,” I said, shaking my head. “You call her Lisa Wheezer, and she’s out of your league.”

  Ryan pressed his lips together and took the list from me. Pulling out a pen, he scratched out the last task and scribbled something below it. “Fixed.”

  Make me the coolest guy in sixth grade

  “I didn’t put ‘in the whole school’ because I know there are some unbeatables,” he said.

  “How humble of you,” I said, balling up the paper and shoving it into his chest. “But you can forget it.”

  Instead of responding, Ryan tapped the shoulder of a guy walking past with some of his buddies. When he stopped and turned, they all did.

  I had a sinking feeling in my stomach.

  “Tim, what’s up?” The guy, Mitchell, gave me a nod, ignoring Ryan. I knew Mitchell from math class, although I hadn’t expected him to know who I was. While I got a tiny flicker of joy from that fact, it was quickly snuffed out by the look on Ryan’s face. Clearly, he didn’t enjoy being ignored.

  “Have you seen the video going around this afternoon?” Ryan asked the group.

  Mitchell shook his head. “Video?”

  Ryan pulled out his phone, video already loaded, and pressed play.

  The guys all gathered to see and hear it better, and after a few seconds my performance was met with laughter once again. Heat surged into my face and ears.

  “Know what’s even funnier?” Ryan stared at me while they continued to watch. “It’s someone at this school.”

  “For real?” One of the guys took Ryan’s phone from him. “Who is this dork?”

  More enemies. Yay.

  Before he could answer, I cut in. “We haven’t figured it out yet,” I said.

  Mitchell elbowed me. “If you do, let me know.”

  He sauntered away with his buddies, and Ryan handed me the crumpled chore list.

  “Enjoy the rest of your afternoon. You can shovel the walk and clean my room tomorrow morning. I’ll text you my address.”

  Without a word, I took the list.

  At least it was short.

  The warning bell rang, and both Ryan and I walked into our history classroom. Berkeley looked up and waved me over.

  “Hey! Did you get my message about the party? Can you make it?”

  “Yep,” I said. “I’m there.”

  “Awesome.” He gave me a thumbs-up. “I really want you to meet Alistair.”

  “Me?” I couldn’t help smiling. “Really?”

  “Yeah, dude. I think he’d like you. You’re pretty cool.”

  I stood a little taller. “Thanks!”

  He chuckled to himself. “The way you shut Ryan up? Awesome.”

  “Oh.” My hands went into my pockets, the list of chores brushing against my fingertips. “Listen . . . about Ryan. I’ve been talking to the guy, and I think he’s just misunderstood.” I leaned closer. “You know, trying too hard just to get attention. He could really use some friends.”

  Berkeley winced. “Yikes. Good luck with that plan.”

  I pressed my lips together. “Actually, I was hoping you could help me. Do you think he could maybe come to your party?”

  “Aw, dude, I don’t know . . .”

  “What if I promised he’d be on his best behavior?” I added. “I could spruce him up and teach him some manners.”

  Berkeley sighed and rubbed the back of his head. “Yeah, okay.” He looked up at me. “But the second he gets annoying . . .”

  “He won’t,” I promised, crossing my heart. “Thanks.”

  “Students, to your seats!” called Mr. E.

  There was a commotion of shuffling and chairs sliding across the floor as everyone sat.

  “Thanks again,” I whispered to Berkeley, heading to my own desk. While Mr. E started the lesson, I pulled out the chore list and scratched off Get me into Berkeley’s party.

  One down, four to go.

  CHAPTER

  4

  The Life of Ryan

  Here’s another thing about me. I want to be rich someday. Like . . . own-a-professional-sports-team rich. And not a team that’s on a losing streak, sponsored by athlete’s foot cream and prunes. I want three-time national champs sporting Under Armour and chugging Gatorade.

  But you don’t get rich doing someone else’s chores for free.

  Needless to say, I wasn’t in the best mood Saturday morning when Mom dropped me off in front of Ryan’s house.

  “What’s with the face?” she asked when she pulled to the curb.

  I shrugged. “You and Dad gave it to me.”

  Mom raised an eyebrow. “That was rude. Want to try again?”

  “Sorry,” I said, unbuckling my seat belt. “I just don’t want to do this group project.”

  It was the lie I’d come up with to explain why I was
up so early on a weekend, spending time with someone my parents barely knew.

  Mom cradled my cheek in one hand and kissed my forehead. “Don’t worry. You’ll only have to work with other people another”—she tilted her hand from side to side—“fifty years or so.”

  I smiled. “No way. In a couple years everything will be controlled by machines.”

  She patted my leg. “Dad and I really need to show you those Terminator movies. Have fun and call me when you’re ready to go.”

  I waved to her and slung my completely empty backpack over one shoulder as I stepped onto Ryan’s snowy lawn. I immediately sank into powder all the way to the shins of my boots. Glancing at the houses on either side, both of which had only a few inches of snow, I had to wonder if Ryan had stockpiled the stuff just for me.

  When I was halfway to his front door Ryan opened it, clad in a T-shirt, board shorts, and flip-flops.

  “Right on time. I like that in an employee,” he said.

  “First of all, it’s thirty-four degrees out.” I pointed to the steam my breath was making. “You look like an idiot. Second, I’m not your employee. They get paid.” I rubbed my thumb against my fingertips.

  He blinked at me. “So the shovel is right there.” He pointed to one that was leaning against the porch railing next to a bucket of salt. “I find it’s best to do the walkway first before you get too tired.”

  “Yeah, yeah,” I muttered, tossing my backpack onto the porch.

  I picked up the shovel and cleaned off the steps as I went down each one. Ryan followed right behind with a lawn chair under one arm and a thermos in the other.

  “Again, it’s thirty—” I stopped myself, and gestured to him. “You know what? Freeze to death. That would be great for me.”

  Ryan unscrewed the lid of his thermos and poured himself some hot chocolate. “Nah. I want to enjoy this,” he said, but I could see goose bumps on every visible inch of skin.

  “Shouldn’t you be sipping some slushy drink out of a coconut?” I asked as he settled back into his lawn chair.

  He snorted. “Don’t be ridiculous. It’s thirty-four degrees out.”

  I shook my head, popped in my earbuds, and put on some music. I managed to shovel about two feet of the walkway before something cold and hard smacked into the side of my face.