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Authors: Janette Rallison
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sparkly and sing "The Shoop Shoop Song" in front of heaven knew how many people.
Adrian went into her room and shut the door. I leaned against her door frame and tried to hear as much of the conversation as I could. Was there a sparkly outfit in my future or not?
Adrian, sniffling, told Rick about Mom's edict. She ended with, "It isn't fair to you. I know it isn't, but can you please tell them that you won't sing that song again?"
There was a moment's silence then Adrian said, "But you have other songs—you have tons of other songs you can perform."
A pause, then Adrian's voice grew louder. "Does your artistic freedom mean more to you than seeing me?"
Another pause. "Well, it must if you're not willing to sing a different song."
Now her voice grew choppy with anger. "I can't believe this. Chelsea told me you wouldn't change songs, but I didn't believe her. You don't love me at all, do you?"
Hardly a pause. Whatever Rick said, she cut him off. "Fine, then I don't care if I never see you again. And another thing, Rick, how is it that you wrote a whole CD worth of songs about my sister and not a single one about me?"
She didn't give him time to answer. Even from where I stood I could hear the phone slam against her desk.
I turned and walked slowly back to my room. Funny how things turn out sometimes. Adrian finally was free from all Rick's bad influences, but me, well, I was going to have to face him head-on. I lay in bed, but didn't fall asleep for a long time. The words of "Dangerously Blonde" repeated over and over again in my mind.
I spent most of Saturday at Rachel's house with my friends, practicing the song and combing through Internet sites trying to find outfits that were flashy but not slutty. As it turns out, those are very expensive. We found some dresses that would be perfect, and which could be mailed to us on time for a mere one hundred and eighty dollars apiece. I think they may have originally been figure skating outfits, but hey, they were sparkly and looked liked they'd stay put on your body even if you did leg kicks. Trust me, those are hard to find.
At noon we went over to Mrs. Jones's house. Rachel had called her in the morning and she'd agreed to give us an hour of her time to help us do some choreography. The hour stretched into three hours, which was really nice of Mrs. Jones, since I'm sure she's very busy doing whatever it is that teachers do on the weekends.
By the time I finally went home I felt confident. Confident about the routine, confident about the outfits, confident that my friends could pull off the backup part—the only thing I didn't feel confident about was my singing voice.
"You have potential," Mr. Metzerol had told me back when I'd taken choir. "But potential must be shaped."
Instead of shaping my potential by joining show choir, like he wanted, I'd dropped the class altogether this year. I knew he was disappointed in me. Whenever he passed me in the hallway his gaze revealed his sense of betrayal.
If I asked him, would he agree to help me or would he just rub it in that my potential was still a massive unshaped blob?
Monday at school things were worse than I expected. I'd known a lot of people had heard Rick's songs, but I hadn't expected so many people to be singing them in the hallway. Really. I caught snatches of it every time I switched classes. Naomi and her friends broke into, "She'll wink at you, but only if you're cool," whenever they saw me.
I tried to laugh it off and tell them, "You notice I'm not winking at you. You obviously didn't make the cool list." But it still bothered me. I mean, how far could a person's social standing slide in one weekend? It was like anyone who I'd ever slighted, every guy I'd ever turned down, and all the girls who tried out but didn't make it on the cheerleading squad went out of the way to rub it in.
From what I gathered—from those who were only too eager to tell me—Rick sang a couple more cheerleader songs after we
Adrian went into her room and shut the door. I leaned against her door frame and tried to hear as much of the conversation as I could. Was there a sparkly outfit in my future or not?
Adrian, sniffling, told Rick about Mom's edict. She ended with, "It isn't fair to you. I know it isn't, but can you please tell them that you won't sing that song again?"
There was a moment's silence then Adrian said, "But you have other songs—you have tons of other songs you can perform."
A pause, then Adrian's voice grew louder. "Does your artistic freedom mean more to you than seeing me?"
Another pause. "Well, it must if you're not willing to sing a different song."
Now her voice grew choppy with anger. "I can't believe this. Chelsea told me you wouldn't change songs, but I didn't believe her. You don't love me at all, do you?"
Hardly a pause. Whatever Rick said, she cut him off. "Fine, then I don't care if I never see you again. And another thing, Rick, how is it that you wrote a whole CD worth of songs about my sister and not a single one about me?"
She didn't give him time to answer. Even from where I stood I could hear the phone slam against her desk.
I turned and walked slowly back to my room. Funny how things turn out sometimes. Adrian finally was free from all Rick's bad influences, but me, well, I was going to have to face him head-on. I lay in bed, but didn't fall asleep for a long time. The words of "Dangerously Blonde" repeated over and over again in my mind.
I spent most of Saturday at Rachel's house with my friends, practicing the song and combing through Internet sites trying to find outfits that were flashy but not slutty. As it turns out, those are very expensive. We found some dresses that would be perfect, and which could be mailed to us on time for a mere one hundred and eighty dollars apiece. I think they may have originally been figure skating outfits, but hey, they were sparkly and looked liked they'd stay put on your body even if you did leg kicks. Trust me, those are hard to find.
At noon we went over to Mrs. Jones's house. Rachel had called her in the morning and she'd agreed to give us an hour of her time to help us do some choreography. The hour stretched into three hours, which was really nice of Mrs. Jones, since I'm sure she's very busy doing whatever it is that teachers do on the weekends.
By the time I finally went home I felt confident. Confident about the routine, confident about the outfits, confident that my friends could pull off the backup part—the only thing I didn't feel confident about was my singing voice.
"You have potential," Mr. Metzerol had told me back when I'd taken choir. "But potential must be shaped."
Instead of shaping my potential by joining show choir, like he wanted, I'd dropped the class altogether this year. I knew he was disappointed in me. Whenever he passed me in the hallway his gaze revealed his sense of betrayal.
If I asked him, would he agree to help me or would he just rub it in that my potential was still a massive unshaped blob?
Monday at school things were worse than I expected. I'd known a lot of people had heard Rick's songs, but I hadn't expected so many people to be singing them in the hallway. Really. I caught snatches of it every time I switched classes. Naomi and her friends broke into, "She'll wink at you, but only if you're cool," whenever they saw me.
I tried to laugh it off and tell them, "You notice I'm not winking at you. You obviously didn't make the cool list." But it still bothered me. I mean, how far could a person's social standing slide in one weekend? It was like anyone who I'd ever slighted, every guy I'd ever turned down, and all the girls who tried out but didn't make it on the cheerleading squad went out of the way to rub it in.
From what I gathered—from those who were only too eager to tell me—Rick sang a couple more cheerleader songs after we
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