The Kayla Chronicles Read online

  Really, I don’t get it.

  My mom, no doubt discerning that a sensitive border was being breached, placed her hand on my shoulder. In a voice too full of gung-ho-ness, she said, “Kayla is just fine the way she is. If she wants to wear retro clothing, she can. Retro is chic, you know? And her hair . . . her hair is fine.” I looked at Mom, who looked like telling that lie was about as easy as swallowing her grapefruit whole.

  Demolition Diva was not impressed. “She’s a good size now, that’s for sure. All that gymnastics has built up muscles in her legs and backside. She’s thick, but she’s solid!”

  My face went flame hot. What am I? National Velvet? I stifled the urge to whinny and eat a sugar cube from someone’s hand.

  “Here’s what we’ll do,” the intrepid D-squared went on. “We’ll go together this afternoon and get our hair done!”

  She smiled her Southern belle smile. My head whipped around. I looked at Mom. “HELP ME!” my eyes pleaded.

  “Mother Belle,” Mom said. “Perhaps you should rest today. You leave for your cruise in just a few days. You really should pace yourself.”

  Mom’s fake bright voice took on a bit of an edge. As in, Grandma Butinsky was pushing too far.

  Demolition Diva started to say something, but thought better of it. She nodded at me, but kept quiet. Score one for Mom!

  My smirk of satisfaction froze when Amira burst in holding my cell phone.

  We exchanged glares. She shrugged. “It was beeping when I passed your room.”

  A digital neon ribbon of words flitted across my phone’s screen. My stomach lurched.

  “Is it true? No, right? You’re not actually going to try out for the Lady Lions just to prove they have a bias against . . .”

  For the second time in a week, my meager, pitiful life flashed before my eyes.

  “. . . against geeks with no boobs.”

  All eyes turned to face me. I swallowed hard.

  “Amira! You have no right getting in my business.”

  “True or not true?” she pushed on.

  I was close enough to snatch my phone from Amira’s hands. The damage, however, had already been done.

  My father stopped puttering around long enough to give me an amused glance. “The Lady Lions. Those girls who dance at football games and parades and everywhere? You?”

  Heat filled my face. “What? You don’t think I’m a good enough dancer? You don’t have faith that I could do it?”

  He snorted. “I’ve been paying for your gymnastics and dance lessons since you were old enough to walk. Your mother and grandmother thought it was a good way to help you exercise and defeat your asthma.”

  “I only took dance for two years,” I cut in, but just like Rosalie, he steamrolled right along.

  “. . . I know you have the ability to do it. And I’ve seen you dance, even though you refused to be in any of the little whatchamacallits. . . .”

  “Recitals!” Amira pitched in. Self-satisfied little termite.

  “Yeah. You wouldn’t even dance in the recitals because you were scared.” He actually laughed.

  He went on, “No way do I see you doing this, Kayla.”

  Then the two of us stared at each other. See, here was the thing about my father: He hated the fact that I was such a loser. His favorite story to tell is about an incident that happened when I was like five or six. Some boy pushed me off the swing set, so I went to play on the slide. The same boy came over and pushed me again. He says I got up and slugged the boy. He says this with pride.

  He says, to his knowledge, that was probably the last time I stood up for myself.

  He says I need to stand up for myself more.

  He says my friendship with “a dominant personality like Rosalie” is the worst thing ever to happen to me. No doubt he feels that my life would drastically improve if I let a dominant personality like him push me around!

  Once again they were all staring. At me. My tiny, ice-blue cell phone felt like lead in my sweaty hand.

  I spun around quickly and tried to hurry from the kitchen.

  Before I could get away, the Great Oppressor called out, “I’ll bet five hundred dollars you don’t go through with it.”

  My mom said, “Enough! This is hardly funny, Bill. Stop goading her like that.” She didn’t sound happy.

  Rewind. I stopped, spun around and stalked back. “No, Mom, let him!” I said. The Great Oppressor was kneeling behind a row of cabinets, an impish grin on his face. He looked up at me.

  First he looked amused; then he hit me with his cold, hard dare-glare.

  So I dare-glared him right back. (I not only inherited my butt from his side of the family, I shared the deadly “dare-glare,” too!)

  “When I make the squad, I want my money.”

  Meteor Crashes to Earth;

  Radiation Turns Teen Girl

  Into Raving Lunatic!

  Amira chimed. “Why would you want money? You’ve got to be the richest person in the family as it is. You’re not spending your allowance and holiday money on clothes, that’s for sure.”

  The three of them were trying to keep from laughing. Okay, so I did have a rather large cash reserve. I was thrifty.

  After a long exhale, I snatched my gaze from Amira and looked at the Great Oppressor. I repeated: “When I make the squad, I want my money.”

  He said, “Ten-Four, Captain Smarty Pants, I read you loud and clear. But I tell you what. You don’t even have to make the squad. Just make it through the tryouts. Rosalie can’t do this for you. She might be able to talk you into it, but . . .”

  He stood up, no longer looking up at me, but staring down. I felt humiliated. He was right. Rosalie was my action girl; I was the one always in the background. Did he know that I hated that as much as he did?

  “When I make the squad, I want my money. CASH!” My voice sounded foreign.

  It was as if I’d been possessed by the Sass Monster. I was on fire.

  I shuddered and turned to my mother. “Please, please, please! When I get home I demand DNA testing! He can’t be my real father. Arrrrgh!”

  My gurgled scream was drowned out by the Great Oppressor’s parting taunt:

  “Take as many DNA tests as you want, but you can’t deny the resemblance. You’re a lighter shade of brown, but you still have the family butt!”

  FROM: ladygodiva

  TO: dragonslayer/

  feel really bad

  FROM: dragonslayer

  TO: ladygodiva/

  what did u do?

  FROM: ladygodvia

  TO: dragonslayer/

  After bar-b-cue from hell, Mom came in with the tea set.

  Wanted to talk.

  FROM: dragonslayer

  TO: ladygodiva/

  (shiver) not the tea set!!!

  what happened?

  FROM: ladygodiva

  TO: dragonslayer/

  By the way, my father proposed to her. And instead of seeing it as a way out, she agreed to remarry him.

  UGH!

  The wedding is in the fall on their anniversary.

  FROM: dragonslayer

  TO: ladygodiva/

  Horrifically pagan; if she wears the big white dress you have the right to run away!

  FROM: ladygodiva

  TO: dragonslayer/

  She saw postcard from Books ’n’ Books . . . JoJo put us on their mailing list. We were supposed to go and buy my first first-edition. For my birthday.

  FROM: dragonslayer

  TO: ladygodiva/

  JoJo really believed that when she turned fifteen and bought that first edition, it changed her life, didn’t she?

  FROM: ladygodiva

  TO: dragonslayer/

  She said holding that precious old copy of Harper Lee’s “To Kill A Mockingbird” made her feel like once and for all she knew what she wanted to do. What she had to do. It was like the old book was telling her to teach. It was a little corny, but it was important to her for me to have that sy
mbol of . . . I don’t know . . . my destiny?

  FROM: dragonslayer

  TO: ladygodiva/

  What first edition did she want for you?

  FROM: ladygodiva

  TO: dragonslayer/

  We spent months looking for it . . . she convinced the bookstore owner, an old friend, to help search. JoJo died before Liz found it. That’s what the postcard was all about. She found the first edition and is holding. JoJo already paid for it. Emma by Jane Austen.

  FROM: dragonslayer

  TO: ladygodiva

  “I do not want people to be agreeable, as it saves me the trouble of liking them.” JA

  FROM: ladygodiva

  TO: dragonslayer/

  “Why not seize the pleasure at once, how often is happiness destroyed by preparation, foolish preparations.” JA

  REBEL WITH A CARTWHEEL:

  Elizabeth Cady Stanton and Lucretia Mott sparked a revolution for women voters. Can Kayla dance and flip her way into a new high school world order, or will she and Rosalie lose the vote of confidence?

  Let woman receive encouragement for the proper cultivation of all her powers, as that she may enter profitably into the active business of life.

  —Lucretia Mott

  Here it is. The timeline to the most disturbing, yet amazing day. EVER!

  9:07 AM

  At dance tryout registration. Rosalie and a few girls from SPEAK showed up for support. Rosalie looked at the unitard and said: “Just like I thought: It’s perfect, Kayla, really. You look even flatter than the first time you tried it on.”

  9:14 AM

  Turned in registration card outside the gym. Black construction paper covered the small windows. Apparently tryouts were secret on par with selection of new Pope or winning bake-off recipe. Two Lady Lions at table stopped talking, took card, then they gave me a long, slow look. Silently they exchanged looks, pointed to an area farther down where dozens of girls were waiting.

  9:15 AM

  HOLY SWEET MOTHER OF PEARL. I counted one, two, three, four, five . . . one million girls. Apparently tryouts attracted every girl over the age of ten with a bus pass and a dream.

  9:16 AM

  Secret weapon. My dancing shoes. Sleek, leather Saucony sneakers, white on white. I added lavender laces. With SPEAK we encouraged one another to avoid blatant commercialism and be conscious consumers. And that wasn’t just something I went along with to please Rosalie, either. I actually came up with that as a mission. Still, shoes were my weakness. And I’d been saving the Sauconys for something special. . . .

  9:36 AM

  Hell lost one of its disciples, for she was among us. Mena recognized me from our good ol’ days at Flamingo Park, and said: “You’ve got to be kidding, right? You can’t even talk above a whisper without almost wetting yourself. You? A dancer?”

  10:45 AM

  First round of cuts. I made it. So did forty-nine other girls. Still . . . I was sort of feeling okay. (How’s that for enthusiasm?)

  11:12 AM

  Rest break. We’d been broken into groups. I did all right. Rosalie gave me thumbs-up sign. Needed to pee bad. In my haste, I WENT INTO THE BOYS’ BATHROOM by mistake.

  11:13 AM

  Burned into my corneas. Saw a real, live penis for the second time in my life. First time happened when I was three. Walked in on Father. Told him, “I don’t know what that is, but I think you’ve broken it.” That story was told at family gatherings for the next ten years. Still, that shame can’t compare to this. “Sorry!” I shrieked. The boy, the one with the penis, whipped around, he was so stunned to have a girl in the boys’ bathroom. Omigod! Then I really, really, really saw it. And I really, really, really, really, really wish I hadn’t.

  11:14 AM

  In haste to rush away from Penis Boy, SMACK! Door slammed into my face. Everything went darker than last night’s stormy sky.

  11:21 AM

  Came to with Miss Lavender, the dance team supervisor, rubbing my hand. Others giggling and whispering, “What was she doing in the boys’ bathroom. Is she some kind of perv? Maybe she’s a transvestite?” I tried to black out again, but couldn’t.

  12:33 PM

  Wanted to just give up and go home. Why not? I’ll tell you why not . . . no way was I going to give my father the satisfaction. Take that!

  1:04 PM

  Time for second round cuts. Oh no, a wedgie. A super, mondo wedgie. Chosen to dance with Group One, I tried to remove wedgie. Girl beside me hissed: “For goodness sake, stop digging in your butt!” Groan, groan, groan.

  1:07 PM

  Routine over. Panted for air in hallway as we waited to see who would be asked back for second day of tryouts. A Lady Lion came over and patted me on the back. “You’re really athletic,” she said. She left, then someone else tapped me. “You are really good. Good luck.” I turned. Found myself eye-to-eye with him. Penis Boy. Don’t look down. Don’t look down. Don’t look down. That was all I kept thinking.

  1:08 PM

  Just realized something. “Penis Boy” was actually the secret crush/love of my life. Penis Boy was Roger Lee Brown. Since I was in kindergarten and he was in first grade and he triumphantly swallowed a bug. Somewhere inside me, I was both grossed out and in love. He was beautiful. He was older. He probably didn’t know I was alive. At least, until now. I need a support group. “Hi, my name is Kayla. And I saw Roger Lee Brown’s penis.”

  1:10 PM

  I closed my eyes and prayed. Only God could help me now.

  2:00 PM

  Left gym. We were led out to practice field. “Even though we let you practice and did the prelims inside,” said one of the Lionesses, “we also want to see how you perform in front of a crowd.” Sun was murder. Seeing spots kept me from focusing on the faces in the crowd. Mouth felt dry. Heart was pounding. I was going to drop dead of either exhaustion or fear. While I waited for death, I danced. Time to pick the finalists. Rosalie came and whispered, “Pay attention. You’ll want as many details as possible for your undercover journalism piece when you write about how they dumped you without a second glance!” Glee foamed in the corners of her mouth. I wondered if she wanted that detail chronicled, too.

  2:07 PM

  A dance team member stood on a concrete wall. She used a megaphone and called out the numbers that were pinned to our backs to let us know who would stay and who would go. If she called your number, you were supposed to come back on Thursday. “Six . . .” No pressure. I’m not nervous. “Twenty-three . . .” Doesn’t really matter. “Fifteen . . .” Oh God, if she doesn’t call my number I might hurl. “Thirty-three . . .” I wonder how hard it would be to transfer to school in Mexico. My Spanish is muy bueno. “Zero-two . . .” Omigod! Omigod! That’s my number. Omigod! Omigod! SHE CALLED MY NUMBER! Rachel Glad, one of the team captains, came over and said, “Girl, you are good. Excellent flips. You look good with the precision stuff, but your hip-hop needs work. Anyway, congratulations. You’ll get a call explaining exactly what you’ll need to know for your next tryout.” Joy started somewhere in my knees and exploded in the pit of my stomach. Joy was short-lived. Rachel continued, “Oh, two things: You won’t be able to wear that sweatshirt to the finals.” She wrinkled her nose as she pointed to the floppy gray top I’d worn to cover the unitard. “And if you make it, baby girl, we’ve gotta do something with that hair. Your gymnastics skills are on point. But, um, boo, no, no, no, not the hair. We have to do something with that bush.”

  2:14 PM

  Grandma Belle’s words replayed in my mind. Groan, groan, groan. Rachel Glad, lead Lion, just sided with Demolition Diva. Bad sign. Bad, bad sign.

  SPEAK

  Because girls really do have something to say!

  “Ladies, we have lift-off!” Emma said.

  We were at Headquarters. Rosalie’s house. Her den, to be precise, with its walls lined with bookshelves filled with every kind of Afrocentric, female-focused book, pamphlet, artifact, and memorabilia imaginable. Her mother, Dr. X, was a
self-proclaimed renaissance woman, having written one book that JoJo said was barely readable but that Dr. X asserted was the “rules” for strong, independent women.