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  “We could get material for the costumes,” Seth suggests. “My mom gave me her Fabric Plus member card.”

  “Yes!” I want to kiss him. That’s just what we need—a shopping trip! “Sandra, let’s do it. We’ll get something really disco queen.” I put my arms around her, but she shrugs me off.

  “You guys go. I have stuff to do.” She loops her pink fun-fur scarf around her neck. It catches on the stuffed spikes that jut from her backpack.

  “But we totally need your opinion,” I say, but Sandra won’t look up. Is she mad at me?

  She gives us both a little smile and says, “I trust you guys. Go for glamor—go fabulous. Do like me, and you’ll do fine.” She sounds her usual self. I wish she’d look me in the eye, but I’m probably being overly sensitive. Willow must be rubbing off on me.

  * * *

  It isn’t until Seth and I get to Plaza Saint-Hubert that I realize it’s just the two of us—almost like a date. We take our time walking to Seth’s mom’s favorite fabric shop. Saint-Hubert is filled with formal dress shops, and the window displays are good costume inspiration.

  Then we stop into the games store, because Seth needs to buy some kind of voucher card. He looks so cute and excited staring at the stupid thing that I can’t help grabbing it from him. I dash out the shop door.

  He chases me around the clothing racks on the sidewalk until I let him catch me. He has to grab me with both arms because I’m trying to hide the card inside my jacket. But I can tell he doesn’t really mind. And I’m laughing like crazy, because he’s tickling me.

  I can feel his breath against my ear as I give up the card. “Let’s get a frozen smoothie,” he says.

  Normally I’d say it’s too cold for frozen smoothies, but right now I don’t feel cold at all. “Let’s get coconut,” I agree.

  When we arrive at Fabric Plus, we head straight for the remnants bin. “Check this.” Seth is laughing at a bundle of vomit-green polyester. “Hey, my sister should get it—they’re doing a Franken-monster theme.”

  I pull out a big square of black satin. I wear it like a cape, with two corners tied around my neck. I imagine I’m Black Widow. Not the lame Black Widow of the Avengers movie, but the original, in Dev’s vintage comic collection. Her name is Claire Voyant. She kills evildoers and sends them down to Satan’s lair.

  But okay—get focused. Costumes, Fashion Show. What kind of fabric do we need? I sink my arms elbow deep into the remnants. I feel the slip of satin, the nubble of tweed, the grain of canvas.

  “These pieces are too small. We’ll have to look at the real fabric.” I sigh and untie my cape, putting it back on the pile. “It’s too bad. I like the shine of this one.”

  “The shiny stuff is kept over here,” Seth says.

  The shop is full of twists and turns, but Seth leads me as if he’s an expert on the place. He’s been coming here since he was tiny, because his mom is a sewing maniac.

  This is maybe why the shop lady was so friendly when we came in. She doesn’t seem bothered by us wandering around either. Don’t you hate it when storekeepers wig out just because you’re young? It’s like they assume you’re going to make a mess or rob them or something. We pass a ribbon display and turn into a small nook.

  “Wow!” I exclaim. When Seth promised shiny, he was not joking. Roll upon roll of fabric is here, in rich, royal colors. There’s scarlet, crimson, robin’s-egg blue. There’s purple, of course, and gold. Some fabrics are smooth, and some have sequins. Seth is smiling proudly, like he made them himself.

  “What do you like? I like the smooth,” I chatter. “See how it glints in the light? How much is this? Which color is best?”

  Seth starts pulling out rolls as I touch them. We have to keep costs low, so silk and rayon are out. Eventually I choose a flame orange, a rich blue and the gold.

  “You’d look beautiful in all those colors,” Seth says.

  I glance at him. Does he realize he’s being nice? He seems busy with the fabric. Suddenly I feel nervous. I can’t think, and I have an important decision to make about colors.

  “Gold then,” is what my mouth says. Seth heaves the roll over to the big table for cutting.

  From my school agenda, I rip out the page with our scribbled measurements. I hand it to the shop lady, who helps us figure out how much we need. She unrolls the slithery, shimmery fabric. She doesn’t even snip with the scissors, just holds them open and pushes through. I reach for the gorgeous, golden folds and make them ripple.

  “You want to wear it now,” the lady says with a chuckle, and Seth drapes it over my shoulders.

  In all this gold, I feel like a queen—a true disco queen.

  Then I remember Willow and Sandra. I haven’t even thought about them since we left the school, I guess because Seth and I are having so much fun. “You think the others will like this fabric?” I ask.

  “Sure, why not?” Seth says.

  He doesn’t get it. He couldn’t care less about this stuff. I smooth my gold-covered arms. I’ll text them a photo right away—that should get them excited about the act again.

  Seth picks up the trailing end of our fabric and wraps it over my head and around. I start giggling because I must look ridiculous. Even the store lady is laughing at us.

  “Very nice, your girlfriend, very pretty,” she tells Seth. I get busy untangling myself from the fabric, waiting to hear him say we’re just friends. He doesn’t say a thing.

  Seven

  I scoop up the potato gravy with Mom’s freshly made puri bread—a crispy-licious little pillow that deflates in my mouth. I must have gobbled the first ones too fast, because I have to sit back and stretch my stomach. I burp with my mouth closed, so no one notices. I drink some water. Mom never lets us have soda pop with dinner.

  Dev is lost in a vintage Avengers comic on his iPad. Our parents always let us read at the dinner table—they like us to read. When we were little, Dad tried to encourage us by reading out loud at the table while we ate. But he never chose anything remotely interesting, like one of my picture books or Dev’s Captain Underpants series. No, Dad would drone from his newspaper or a software magazine until Dev and I rushed to our rooms for something better to bring back to the table.

  Actually, now that I think of it, there was always a little smile on Dad’s face when this happened. Then he’d say, “What, this story is no good either? Oh well. Suit yourselves.”

  Dad reaches for another puri from the oil-stained paper towel. He’s reading, but it’s my Early Progress Report from school. Mom plunked it on the table when she brought in the first round of puris. Now she’s finally sitting to eat too, but I can tell she’s dying to discuss my report.

  Does anyone have a normal family that has real conversations over dinner? That must be nice. I get up to refill the gravy bowl, and Mom nods her thanks. We usually eat pretty late because Mom insists we all eat proper, home-cooked meals. But her work as an architect keeps her busy too. I lean back against my chair—an Eames, Mom calls it, which is some design she’s proud of owning. I have to say, it is the most comfortable dining chair of any in my friends’ homes, so I guess Mom does know something.

  “You’ve been letting this fashion-show nonsense get out of hand.” She wags the gravy spoon at me. Dad looks up from the report.

  “You will stay home this weekend and think about how you can do better.” He breaks his stern gaze and turns to Mom. “So tasty, the bhaji, as always,” he murmurs. She fluffs like a little bird. I sigh. Why can’t they be nice to me?

  Dad is all about grounding. It’s his single parenting tool. I’m just lucky he can’t be bothered to follow through. His record is one full week, but that was when Dev thought his horn had been stolen. The school tries to keep security tight, but musical instruments are hot property, worth hundreds of dollars. Students and parents have to sign a responsibility slip every year to use the school’s instruments. Luckily, it turned out that Dev’s French horn wasn’t stolen. The janitor had found Dev’s horn
case and brought it to the music department for safekeeping. Dad said Dev was still grounded for leaving it unattended.

  Now I’m supposedly grounded for the whole weekend—just for missing a science project. “It’s not even an official report card,” I tell them. My progress reports have always shown a long column of Ss, for “satisfactory,” in all my subjects. Just this once in my entire life I get a single N for “needs work,” and Mom and Dad go ape.

  “This is a very bad sign, Adina,” Mom says. Dad may be finished with me, but she’s just warming up. “You should be getting serious about your studies. You know that next year’s grades are vital for applying to colleges.” Whenever she talks about school, Mom’s accent goes super Hindi. She starts switching her v’s and w’s. It’s so annoying. I grab another puri from the pile, add a dollop of potato bhaji and stuff it into my mouth.

  Dev looks up from his comic. He loves it when I get in trouble. He puts on this ultra-phony, concerned expression. Mom and Dad are clueless if they can’t hear how fake suck-up he’s being when he says, “Mom’s right, Adina. Your studies are very important.” His eyelids drop, and he nods slowly, like he has much wisdom to offer. I wonder how much of this spicy bhaji I could shove up his nose before he started hitting back.

  But okay, that science project was a mess-up on my part. This never happens to me.

  I remember when I found out about it. We had been horsing around in science class, waiting for the teacher to fix the Smart board so he could show a movie about pollution. Our noise must’ve been getting on his nerves, because he started yelling through his cords and cables that we should review our assignments. Then he said he was sure no one needed reminding that they were due that day.

  Assignment? I’d looked around. Everyone else was rooting through their bags as if they knew what he was talking about. What assignment?

  I poked Willow, sitting next to me. I gave her the what’s going on? bug-eyed look. She gave me the don’t be an idiot frown, waving her assignment paper in my face. As she checked her work, finger running across the page line by line, I read over her shoulder.

  When were we assigned this? And where had I been at the time?

  I’d started to scribble down everything I could remember about the topic—lithosphere, hydrosphere…don’t ask. Obviously, it wouldn’t be my best work, but I’d pull in a grade higher than zero. Then the lights switched off for the movie. My last chance was gone.

  Now, at the dinner table, Dev’s still being a jackass, loving my pain. I guess I’m better entertainment than Claire Voyant and the other Avengers.

  I know better than to tell them why I forgot about the assignment. It was on the same page as the measurements, which I ripped out and gave to the fabric-store lady. That would completely set Mom against Fashion Show. She might even forbid me to do it. I erase the whole thought from my head, in case she reads my mind. But she’s too busy talking.

  “…can’t be allowed to interfere with your regular schoolwork. Fashion Show is not a priority—your music also must come before. Are you listening?”

  “Yes, Mom. Of course.” I tell her I know I made a mistake. I promise to hand in all assignments for the rest of the year. “I’ll think about what you said.” It always makes Mom happy when I promise to think. She gives one firm nod and the subject is closed. Dev looks disappointed but goes back to his comic.

  And I will think about it. I think I’ll turn into Black Widow, catch criminals and send them to hell before I ever give up our act for the fashion show.

  Eight

  Singing class can be stressful because our teachers are really strict. They don’t seem to believe in positive reinforcement or the importance of self-esteem. They’re more interested in pointing out our faults.

  Maybe they’re mean because they are so heavily outnumbered by us. Most of the time, we ninth-graders take our classes in smaller groups. And in music, of course, we’re all studying different instruments. We go to woodwind, brass, strings or percussion, depending. Choir is the only thing we all do together.

  So even though there are four singing teachers down on the floor—one for each section of the choir—we kids are about a hundred strong. We stand on rising steps that line the walls. The teachers are surrounded. We could create a serious stampede if we ever decided to, I don’t know, revolt or something. I can see us all screaming, “Liberty! Fraternity!” as we rush down in a great swoop, music binders held high. Not that we’ve ever come close to doing that. Mostly we just do what they say.

  Today we’ve got a new song. It’s the first chorus from Te Deum, by Charpentier. The lyrics are in Latin, which is easier to remember than you might think—easier than the German songs, for example. Plus, there aren’t that many words. The trick is to remember what phrase is coming up next and how many times we have to repeat it. I Google-translated the lyrics, thinking maybe the story would help me remember, but there’s no story at all. It’s a whole bunch of praises, about heaven and Earth, some glorious choir, as well as prophets and martyrs. Charpentier was quite religious. When we get it right, the song does have a very rousing effect. It’s kind of like we’re a bunch of trumpeting angels coming down and saying, “Hey! Check all this majesty, you worms!”

  Sandra is breathing over my music because she forgot hers. We’re together in the alto section. Actually, Sandra could be in alto or soprano, but she’s in alto because there are fewer of us. Willow is over in soprano. And last week Seth got shifted out of tenor on account of his new low voice.

  We often share sheet music, but today Sandra’s being a pain about it. She keeps pulling it toward her, blocking our next line. It’s my music, after all—I’m the one doing the favor.

  “…majestatis gloriae tuae…” She’s ignoring my looks, so I give the paper a sharp tug in my direction. Then, while the tenor teacher is telling off his section of the choir, Sandra breaks the main rule of singing class. She speaks.

  “Quit hogging it,” she hisses in my ear.

  “You’re being the hog,” I spit back.

  Suddenly, just when I most want to give her a sharp pinch, Sandra goes all teary-eyed. “Are you talking about my weight?”

  What? Sandra and I have been friends since kindergarten. She’s always been big. I couldn’t care less about her size.

  Is Dawn’s dumb comment still bugging her? I never called her Chunkmeister, so why give me grief? As I’m staring at her, her face changes from tragic to sly. The alto teacher’s sharp voice shoots up through the choir.

  “Absolutely no talking!” she calls. “You know the rule. Sandra, Adina, you each must sing for us—alone!”

  Everyone stops and turns. The tenors look happy they’re not getting yelled at anymore. I want to disappear. This has never happened to me. Don’t you hate being in trouble? It’s so undignified. And worse—way worse—my singing voice is not that strong, not like Sandra’s. I feel faint, as if my head is leaving my body. Luckily, we’re in the highest row, so I can lean back against the wall and catch my breath.

  “We’ll give Adina a minute to compose herself,” the teacher announces. Everyone’s looking at me. “Sandra, you can sing the line first. From the top, please.”

  But that’s not fair—Sandra loves showing off! I’m the only one getting punished here.

  That’s when it dawns on me that Sandra has set me up. Would she do that? She knows how I feel about my singing voice. I never do extracurricular singing activities—not any of the a capella groups, not the girls’ jazz choir, nothing. Wow, she must be really mad at me. But why?

  If I think about this right now, I’ll lose it. I have to get myself together.

  “Pleni sunt caeli et terra,” Sandra bellows with gusto.

  I don’t have much time. I take calming breaths. Breathing is key in singing. I close my eyes. I remember Mom showing me her meditation breathing. I ignore the murmurs of appreciation rippling through the class—la diva has finished. It’s my turn already. I try to slow my thumping heart.

&
nbsp; I open my eyes and rip the music—my music—from Sandra’s fingers. I make a silent vow to never, ever lend her my music again. I look straight ahead, through the little window above the classroom door. On this row, the window is at eye level, so I can see into the hall. I imagine I’m out there, all by myself. I don’t see the heads of the students below me. I don’t see the teachers, tapping their fingers and waiting. And mostly, I do not see the betrayer next to me.

  “Pleni—uh—hmn—sorry.” My throat catches. I cough and start again.

  “Pleni sunt caeli et terra…” As I warble, I imagine Sandra toppling down the rows of the ninth-grade choir like a bowling ball, smashing through the teachers below like they’re pins. “…majestatis gloriae tuae…” I imagine Sandra, bruised and red-faced, arms and legs flailing among the scolding teachers. “…Te gloriosus Apostolorum chorus.”

  Nine

  At lunch hour, I rush off by myself. Staring into shop windows at the Eaton Centre, I have to brush away tears. How can I ever face singing class again? What a pathetic dork I must have seemed, yelping and chirping in front of the entire choir. Thanks for that, Sandra. But then my nose catches the smells wafting from Pizza Dolce Vita, and I realize I’m starving. Lucky I have cash on me.

  Have you noticed how everything seems less dire after a fresh, hot pizza slice? You know how the green pepper is still a touch crisp when you bite into it, and the cheese oozes with tomatoey goodness?

  Sandra and I can always talk out our differences. She probably has no idea how upset she made me today.

  * * *

  “Hey, guys, wait for me!”

  I catch up with Sandra and Willow on the school steps. There are still a few minutes before the bell rings, so it’s pretty much mayhem around us. Crowds of kids are milling in the courtyard, rushing in and out the doors, making them swing and slam. A football flies back and forth over everyone’s heads.