rehearsals and everything. There are supposed to be some dances. I’ll let you guys know when the parts have been figured out.”
“But we’ll definitely perform, right?” asked Leda. “One of the big production numbers or something?” She
was
that big of a ham.
“This isn’t a Broadway show,” I said.
Janell looked at me like lightning had just struck. “But it could be. It could be,” she said excitedly. “We could give performances instead of going through those old-fashioned routines. I could give my poetry interpretation and do one of the jazz numbers from last year’s recital. Then Leda could do”— she gazed at our friend quizzically—“whatever it is that Leda is doing, and you could be the star attraction.”
Leda leaned forward, intrigued.
“It sounds like fun, but there are these traditions—”
Leda jabbed a finger at the book. “But it says right here that you can throw tradition in the toilet and flush hard, if you want.”
Janell nodded. “Yeah, why should you follow a tradition that doesn’t reflect who you are? You’ve already decided on an all-girl court. Why can’t you take that a step farther?”
I shook my head. “All-girl courts have been done. You don’t understand, Abuela has already made the appointment with Señora Flora. Party planner to the
eh
stars.”
“Party planner to the stars?” crowed Leda.
I wasn’t sure I believed this anymore, but I said, “It’ll be easier this way. Less decisions. Less arguments.”
They looked at me. “Between them, not us,” Janell concluded.
It appeared that I was going to have to please everybody. “Look,” I said. “As far as I’m concerned, you guys are the most important ones in this production. Well, besides my dad. And me.”
“Yeah, and you,” echoed Leda with a note of jealousy.
“Honest. I’ll take any suggestions that you have and refer them to the committee. You guys are my
damas
. They’ll have to listen to you.” I folded my arms.
This seemed to satisfy them for the time being. Janell turned to a stack of poetry books she’d brought with her, and Leda and I quizzed each other on Spanish vocabulary for a while. We seemed to do more harm than good.
“Window?” Leda asked.
“Ventana,”
I answered.
“No, that’s French. The
español
is
fenêtre.
”
“No, it’s not,” I argued. “
Fenêtre
is French.”
She looked at me, confused. “What is it again?”
By the time we’d both made it through the list, I knew we were doomed. The test was tomorrow.
Janell got fed up with our bickering. “Why don’t you just ask your dad to coach you?” she asked me.
This hadn’t even occurred to me. “We don’t . . . speak Spanish together,” I said. “Mom says she can’t help because she learned by ear. And Abuela tried to teach me and Mark one time, but it didn’t work out.”
“So what happened?” asked Janell.
“Not much. Before Abuela and Abuelo moved back to Miami, Abuela brought some Spanish workbooks over. She tried to hold a little class.
‘Es una
lástima,’
she said,
‘que
no hablan el
español.’
Mark and I didn’t pay much attention. It was the weekend, and we wanted to be playing.” I sighed. “I guess I’ll just have to study some more tonight.”
Leda stuck her notebook back in her rainbow-colored backpack. “Aren’t we gonna look at Janell’s stuff?”
“Sure. What’ve you got so far?” I said, moving over to Janell’s spot on the floor. Leda joined us.
“Well, I’ve got it narrowed down to Maya Angelou and Alice Walker, but I need one more poet. And a theme. I’m supposed to pick several poems that demonstrate one concept.”
“Who’s your coach?” Leda asked.
“I’ve got Ms. Joyner.”
“I’ve got that new guy, Mr. Soloman,” I put in. “Who’s your coach, Leed?”
“Mr. Axelrod,” she said casually.
“No way!” said Janell, catching my eye. How did Leda do it? I shrugged.
Leda tucked stray strands of her long white-gold hair
“But we’ll definitely perform, right?” asked Leda. “One of the big production numbers or something?” She
was
that big of a ham.
“This isn’t a Broadway show,” I said.
Janell looked at me like lightning had just struck. “But it could be. It could be,” she said excitedly. “We could give performances instead of going through those old-fashioned routines. I could give my poetry interpretation and do one of the jazz numbers from last year’s recital. Then Leda could do”— she gazed at our friend quizzically—“whatever it is that Leda is doing, and you could be the star attraction.”
Leda leaned forward, intrigued.
“It sounds like fun, but there are these traditions—”
Leda jabbed a finger at the book. “But it says right here that you can throw tradition in the toilet and flush hard, if you want.”
Janell nodded. “Yeah, why should you follow a tradition that doesn’t reflect who you are? You’ve already decided on an all-girl court. Why can’t you take that a step farther?”
I shook my head. “All-girl courts have been done. You don’t understand, Abuela has already made the appointment with Señora Flora. Party planner to the
eh
stars.”
“Party planner to the stars?” crowed Leda.
I wasn’t sure I believed this anymore, but I said, “It’ll be easier this way. Less decisions. Less arguments.”
They looked at me. “Between them, not us,” Janell concluded.
It appeared that I was going to have to please everybody. “Look,” I said. “As far as I’m concerned, you guys are the most important ones in this production. Well, besides my dad. And me.”
“Yeah, and you,” echoed Leda with a note of jealousy.
“Honest. I’ll take any suggestions that you have and refer them to the committee. You guys are my
damas
. They’ll have to listen to you.” I folded my arms.
This seemed to satisfy them for the time being. Janell turned to a stack of poetry books she’d brought with her, and Leda and I quizzed each other on Spanish vocabulary for a while. We seemed to do more harm than good.
“Window?” Leda asked.
“Ventana,”
I answered.
“No, that’s French. The
español
is
fenêtre.
”
“No, it’s not,” I argued. “
Fenêtre
is French.”
She looked at me, confused. “What is it again?”
By the time we’d both made it through the list, I knew we were doomed. The test was tomorrow.
Janell got fed up with our bickering. “Why don’t you just ask your dad to coach you?” she asked me.
This hadn’t even occurred to me. “We don’t . . . speak Spanish together,” I said. “Mom says she can’t help because she learned by ear. And Abuela tried to teach me and Mark one time, but it didn’t work out.”
“So what happened?” asked Janell.
“Not much. Before Abuela and Abuelo moved back to Miami, Abuela brought some Spanish workbooks over. She tried to hold a little class.
‘Es una
lástima,’
she said,
‘que
no hablan el
español.’
Mark and I didn’t pay much attention. It was the weekend, and we wanted to be playing.” I sighed. “I guess I’ll just have to study some more tonight.”
Leda stuck her notebook back in her rainbow-colored backpack. “Aren’t we gonna look at Janell’s stuff?”
“Sure. What’ve you got so far?” I said, moving over to Janell’s spot on the floor. Leda joined us.
“Well, I’ve got it narrowed down to Maya Angelou and Alice Walker, but I need one more poet. And a theme. I’m supposed to pick several poems that demonstrate one concept.”
“Who’s your coach?” Leda asked.
“I’ve got Ms. Joyner.”
“I’ve got that new guy, Mr. Soloman,” I put in. “Who’s your coach, Leed?”
“Mr. Axelrod,” she said casually.
“No way!” said Janell, catching my eye. How did Leda do it? I shrugged.
Leda tucked stray strands of her long white-gold hair
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