“I have to pee,” says a boy as I approach.
“That’s what the water is for, Lance,” says a confident kid next to him. “Don’t worry, we’re getting in soon.”
“Ewwwwww!” cries a girl, stepping forward. “I’m telling!” She fast-walks over to the instructors.
“You look big,” says Lance, the need-to-pee boy.
That’s a new one for me. I shrug.
“He’s a junior counselor swim helper, dumbhead,” says the confident kid. “One of the cool guys.”
“Actually,” I say, “my brother is a junior counselor. He’s over there.” I point to where Luke is standing.
“Your brother’s cool,” says Lance. “He showed me a shoe-tying trick this morning.”
That was my shoe-tying trick. “Yeah?” I say. “He taught that to me when I was a baby.”
“You still look like a baby,” says the confident kid.
“I thought you said I looked big.”
“Lance said that. And that was before. Now your brother looks big.”
What grade are you in?” I ask.
“First,” they answer in unison.
Great.
“Are you our teacher? Or are you in this group?” asks Lance. “I still have to pee.”
I’m rescued from having to explain by our instructor, whose name is Brant. He gets us into the water and starts us on “froggying,” which is as mortifying as it sounds.
“Yoooo, that’s the new kid I was telling you about,” says a voice I already recognize. My stomach tightens up: Derek. I stumble in the water, and he laughs. “Bruh. You really can’t swim like that?” He starts laughing and his buddies, who in comics would definitely be called henchmen, join in.
“D, he might be on scholarship or something,” says one of his friends in a not-low-enough voice. “There are kids here who’ve never seen a pool.” The friend holds up his hand in my direction. “Ignore Derek,” he says, like he’s not dissing me to my face, just in a fake polite way. “There are other Fresh Air types here, I’m sure. You’re doing great!”
I don’t answer, and they barely pretend to stifle their laughter.
“Move on, guys,” says Brant. “Shower and change, you’re going to use up your free period.”
As they walk away, still laughing like cartoon villains. I stand there, stupid and still, in three feet of water. Water that feels … suspiciously warm all of a sudden.
I look at Lance. “Did you just—”
A whistle blows. “Everybody out of the baby—I mean little pool!” yells Brant.
Lance starts to cry.
Chapter Seventeen
I have free time after the Great Pool Disaster, and I’m in no rush to see anyone. I wonder if Charles is waiting for me at the dorm, and what he’ll say if he is. Or worse, if he talks a lot and tries to pretend that I’m not a joke … Ugh.
I’m relieved when the room is empty. The dorm is pretty quiet in general, and I shower and change into my Adidas audition outfit. While I practice in the mirror, I keep picturing Derek sitting next to the judges while I audition, making cracks about pee pants and baby pools. I’ve got to learn to swim.
I throw myself facedown onto my bed (ouch). It’s not that I can’t swim. I mean, okay, I can’t swim. But I haven’t tried to learn. I just get all tight whenever I get near water. Swimming makes me think of my dad. One of the last things we’d all done together was go to the Y with the Olympic-size pool for family swim, and he’d been in a great mood all day, running and jumping into the water over and over. Then we’d gone out for pizza and Mom had even let us get soda—real Coke, not just okay-with-grownups ginger ale—but by the time we’d gotten into the car to go home, Dad had gotten quiet. I asked him what was wrong a couple of times, and he didn’t answer, and when he looked at me it was like there were ghosts behind his eyes. Luke had pulled me over to him and whispered “It’s just Low Dad time, okay? I’ll read to you when we get home.” And he did. He’d read Clean Your Room, Harvey Moon! sixteen times until I fell asleep.
There’s a fast knock at the door.
“Hey, Marcus,” I say. “I’m good.” Just in case he has a script for some kind of Inspirational Counselor Conversation.
“It’s me,” says Luke. I open the door for my brother. He’s got a giant bag of chips and a couple of milk shakes.
“I didn’t know they had shakes here,” I say. “And isn’t the dining hall closed?”
“I know people,” he says, and we sit on the floor next to the bed. “I heard it was rough out there after I left.”
“You heard? Great. So everyone’s talking about my swim fail?”
“No, I just know Brant, and he knows you’re my brother, so …”
Being known as Luke’s brother is supposed to be my badge of honor, not Luke’s shame. “What did he tell you?”
“He just said you didn’t pass. Look, be glad you’ll learn to swim here, it’s way past time. Brant is a great guy, and from what I hear, he’s an amazing coach. He’d probably even help you out during free periods if you ask.”
“Why can’t you help me out?” I say. “I’m a fast learner and … you know how to teach me.” A whine creeps into my voice before I can stop it. “Remember, you were going to help me learn to swim this summer anyway.”
“This is a job for me, remember? Not a vacation,” he says, looking away from me. As he looks around my room, I realize that he hasn’t even shown me what his room looks like. I wonder if the junior counselors have fluffier beds or fireplaces or something.
“Listen, you brought yourself here—and I backed you up. I used a lot of capital taking on Mom for that. So, come on, make the most of it.”
“You’re acting like I’m a problem or something,” I say. “So okay, what about helping me get out of the class.”
“You can’t escape this time.” He sighs. “And you know, you came here to do stuff, right?”
I nod, but I don’t say, I came here to be with you.
“What do you have next?”
“I’m auditioning for Street Style,” I say. “I was going to do my old-school New Jack Swing routine. I heard the teacher likes vintage moves.”
“You’ll kill it!” Luke says. “Listen, I gotta get back. I just wanted to make sure you were okay. You got this audition, E. And the swimming thing—don’t worry about it. You can do it.”
“Do you want to see me run through the routine? It’s only three minutes, and I—”
“E, I’m sorry.” Luke pats my shoulder. “Ask Marcus to watch, or one of your little friends. I gotta go, there’s a kid who’s going to help me out in the art room, set up projects and stuff, put out supplies. He’s gonna be like my intern, isn’t that sweet? Anyway, I’ve got to meet with him.”
“I could do that,” I say. “Why didn’t you tell me you needed an intern? I didn’t know they had interns here.” I point to the shakes and chips. “We didn’t even open the bag!”
“Share with your roommate, I’ve got to go,” says Luke, heading toward the door. “Have fun at the audition. Like I said, you got this.” He leaves, closing the door quietly.
“Thanks for the snacks,” I say, too late. One of my little friends. Yeah, okay. And what did he mean by I can’t escape, this time? I take the top off a shake and finish it in one big gulp, and put the other one in the mini fridge for Charles. When I open my door, I see Marcus down the hall. He waves, and I wave back but don’t say anything. If Luke can’t help me, I’m on my own. I take a deep breath and open the bag of chips. If there’s one thing I can do, it’s dance. I hear Luke’s voice in my head. “I got this,” I whisper to myself. “I got this.”
***
It takes me a few minutes to find the right studio, so when I get to Street Style auditions, class has already begun. I try to sneak into the back, but the person who I’m assuming is the teacher (he hits me with some serious side eye) isn’t having it; he points me to a seat up front. I see that girl Hannah from Black to the Future, a
nd she gives me a not-so-sympathetic smirk. I’m not exactly late, because he’s doing a demo class before auditions, so those of us trying out can get a feel for what the class is like. It seems like the main difference between his class and military boot camp is just music—they are moving fast.
There are three of us on the audition list, and one guy crosses his name off in the middle of class, and then I hear a girl doing the old preempt, talking loud about how she has an ankle injury and really shouldn’t be dancing on it. I know that strategy, and her technique is pretty good, but the teacher (I confirm it’s him when one of the junior counselors calls him Triple M) just looks at her. He’s wearing a hoodie and cutoff sweatpants, and he bangs a giant wooden staff on the floor with every eight count. “Anyone who dares to do jazz hands or spirit fingers in this room after today will run five-K a day, is that understood?” he growls.
In what feels like five seconds, class is over and it’s time for auditions. Sprained Ankle Girl says she can’t stand up. Triple M points to me with his stick.
“Your turn, Sparky,” he says. Sparky? I hope that doesn’t stick. I get up slowly, and go to the computer to start my music. It starts with an old-school joint called Rump Shaker—Mom had told me that it was a new jack swing classic, and since she was around in the olden days for that music, I trusted her. But now … I swallow. Was I about to make a fool of myself? I miss my cue and have to start the music again. I hear a few giggles.
“If you need a moment,” says Triple M in a silky voice, “you don’t have one. Start or begone.” He smiles an evil smile. “And just so you know, we don’t need another dancer. We’re just fine as is.”
5-6-7-8. I start.
***
I! Killed! It! I started with the routine I’d done in the spring talent show at school, but then Triple M asked me to freestyle and I went right into my own version of an updated Milly Rock that flows into some of the stuff I’d seen online from a seventies show called Soul Train. Soul Train was like the Black people dance show—and the outfits people wore were out there! Anyway, I imagined I was an action figure in the toy section of a store who comes to life after closing time. I was a little worried that it would seem too kiddie, but everybody laughed at the right moments when I pretended to be exploring the store and trying not to get caught by a security guard.
I think a few of the kids in the class had heard about my swim test fiasco, because there’d been some whispering when I walked in, but the whispering after my audition is totally different. Excited. Impressed.
Triple M is stone-faced the whole time I dance, and my heart is pounding as I try to catch my breath when I’m done. Then he just says, “Welcome to street style,” without smiling. I’m in! See? Even though Luke had been all stressed and weird, he’d said his magic words and gave me the power to do my thing.
We start a new group routine right away and it’s hard, but I go all out, and I even stay after to go over some moves with a few other kids. I’m the most me I’ve been since I got to DuBois. Triple M tells us that since it’s our major, we have a double period of class every day, plus an independent study period where we’re supposed to rehearse, do research (in dance?), and “create and marinate.”
“And as many of you know, I will choose a select few for the dance battle on Camp Showcase night,” he says. “You have just under three weeks to show me what you’ve got.”
“Is the dance battle like a competition?” I whisper to the girl next to me. She gives back the slightest of nods, not taking her eyes off Triple M.
Ooh, a chance to win an award! I’m on it.
In the second half of class, Triple M has us watch clips of that movie Beat Street that Uncle Davidson had told me about. It has a bunch of people in it that I never heard of, but Triple M says they’re hip-hop legends, so I pay attention. The moves are tight, the colors are amazing—the graffiti is like nothing I’ve ever seen. Whenever I’ve watched old movies about New York City, everything is gray and ugly and scary. I’m going to add this to the film fest list. Triple M says that when he was a kid he got trained by the Rock Steady Crew, who were big time breakdancers, apparently.
“B-boying, krumping, there’s a history there that you need to know,” says Triple M, and he’s mad serious, like a priest in a scary movie. “In this class, we’re not going to be just about showing off the moves you think you invented”—he kind of glances my way—“we’re going to delve into the foundations of hip-hop culture as well.”
“Y’all better just give Atlanta our props,” yells out a girl. “We transformed hip-hop culture—Dirty South foreva! Right, Triple M?”
He gives her a look that lowers the temperature of the entire room.
“Uh, excuse me … Mr. Micah McDowell,” she says. “This is my last year at DuBois, and I, um, heard, that seniors …” Her voice drops a little, but the boy next to her nudges her, and she goes on. “That seniors can call you Triple M …”
It gets downright Arctic fast. He doesn’t even have to say a word.
“I apologize, Mr. Micah McDowell,” she murmurs.
It turns out that we’re going to be doing reports and presentations and stuff in this class too. “What is this?” whispers Hannah. “Can Black people get a little fun out of life?”
Triple M (Mr. Micah McDowell) tells us about a guy named Crazy Legs and asks for a volunteer to do a presentation on him in one of the next class sessions. I raise my hand, partly I want to get on Triple M’s good side and partly because I’m realizing there’s this whole world that’s part of my world that I never knew about. I kind of want to know more, even if there’s not going to be a test. Maybe Charles has a hip-hop encyclopedia I can read.
“Okay, Sparky,” he says. “Next session. Two-minute oral report on Crazy Legs, and please be prepared to show us a routine of your own creation in his style.”
“Uh, by tomorrow?” I ask. And should I say something about Sparky?
“Is that a problem?”
“No … nope, not at all, Mr. Micah McDowell … sir.” I feel like I should be saying Your Highness.
“It shouldn’t be. Class dismissed. And whoever is trying to asphyxiate us all with that horrific Lemon Chill body spray, do not even think about coming to my class tomorrow smelling like fruit-flavored bologna.”
Chapter Eighteen
The next day flies by, with intro sessions in the Great DuBois Baking Show, which is forty minutes of reciting kitchen safety rules; ceramics, where we sit and commune with our lumps of clay by rolling and smooshing them around; and a free period, during which I hide in my dorm room and practice interesting things to say to Natasha. Charles leaves to practice his interesting music in a soundproof practice room.
Aside from Derek, who snickers loudly every time I see him, nobody mentions my swim test. I almost forget about it until Charles, Michelle, and Natasha use our second free period to go out in the little pedal boats. At first, they pretend they just want to watch other people do it, but I know they’re being nice, so I tell them that I want to rehearse in one of the dance studios anyway.
I find one that’s empty and start making up a routine inspired by the New York City I saw in Beat Street. I start with the six-step and am out of breath so fast. I’m going to have to hit up the gym in order to do anything for more than two minutes this summer. I can tell Street Style is gonna be a whole lot more than popping and locking in the hall between classes. Triple M asked a couple of seniors to demonstrate air flares and my eyes almost popped out of my head when this girl did fifty.
I get so into it that I almost miss dinner, but as I’m trying to refine my toprock, Charles comes to get me.
“Nice toprock,” he says.
“Yo! How’d you know what it was? You didn’t mention that you breakdance too,” I say. “Why aren’t you in Street Style?”
“I don’t, but I have a really good Encyclopedia of Hip-Hop Culture,” he says. “Two volumes. Feel free to check it out anytime.”
I knew it! I’m
grateful, for the sake of my presentation, even though I can’t imagine learning about hip-hop from a book, but whatever. I sign up for more studio time during the week and we head to the dining room. It’s make-your-own-tacos night; there’s also a pasta buffet and my motto is “Why not both?”. That was one of the meals that WeeDee and Billy had warned me about (and they’d taught me the “Beans” song that they said was a “classic”), but here at DuBois, everything is fresh and spicy, and there is even a Baja option—fish tacos with lime and coleslaw. It’s petty, but I have to flex and take pictures of my food and text them to WeeDee. I like the idea of DuBois camp being so much better than their bare-bones barracks and canned gray beans “with no flavor and maximum aromatic fart potential,” according to Billy. Michelle and Natasha go off to train for the Blackity Bowl, and I know I need to work on my presentation, but first I ask Charles to come with me to find the big Afro counselor to teach me the step routine from the first night.
By the time I get back to the dorm that night, I’m exhausted. Charles marches off to the library after our step lesson (I really have to talk to him about toning down the walk), so I have the room to myself for a while. I stretch out across my bed, feeling the three helpings of ravioli alla genovese and four slices of strawberry pie that I’d wolfed down at dinner. I’d only caught a glimpse of Luke on my way back to the dorm; he’d given me a quick thumbs-up before he went back to talking to some crying little kid. I check my phone again; no messages from Mom, which surprises me. I decide to FaceTime her myself and check in.
“Hey, sweet potato pie, are you okay?” she says, putting her face way too close to the screen.
“Yeah, I’m fine, Mom, only don’t say the word pie,” I say, holding my stomach. “Just checking in, since you didn’t.” That last part comes out sounding accusatory, and okay, I guess it is.
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