Pop Princess Page 5

  I said okay just so she’d leave my room but Dad followed right behind her. “Hey, kiddo, guess what Dad got you online. A subscription to Teen Girl magazine!”

  Thanks Dad, that oughta solve all my problems. That’ll get me right on track to being a well-adjusted teen!

  Dance class was my one refuge. After the initial OUCH that came from regular dance classes after two solid years as a couch potato, I was burning up the dance floor at the small studio in Devonport. The sweaty girl I saw in the mirror of the dance studio was not the outcast who never got invited to parties or didn’t have friends—the sweaty girl I saw in the mirror was alive with power. The minute the music came on, whether it was hip-hop or modern or classical, I felt my body relax and I was able to concentrate in ways I never seemed capable of in school. As I pushed, pulled, tapped, swung, twisted, turned, stretched, and flew across the dance floor, I imagined myself liberated from Devonport, living on my own, bailing on school entirely.

  But when the music ended, I went home to Mom and Dad—Mom and Dad who weren’t fighting like they did in the Cambridge house in the year after Lucky died, but who now, in this big house, just didn’t particularly bother talking to each other. Dad was more interested in obscure-Civil-War-trivia-dot-com, and Mom could not be separated from sad TV movies on the Lifetime channel starring just about every actor who’d ever been on Beverly Hills, 90210. Good thing Charles had that skateboard.

  Alone in my room at night, I pretended I was a pop princess. With Kayla’s latest CD in my stereo, I practiced lip-synching songs in front of my mirror, adding dance moves from the day’s class. A rainbow of pop princess pictures—Kayla, Mariah, Kylie—plastered the mirror, thanks to Dad’s Teen Girl subscription for me. In my room, in that mirror, I was anybody I wanted to be. For hours, instead of studying, I could pretend I was a pop princess. The mirror didn’t know that at school I was considered a freak.

  Eleven

  Confident with my dance moves and sadly following through on Mom’s advice, idiot-for-brains here really did audition for the school musical. I thought I could make a decent Miss Adelaide in Guys and Dolls, which would be so convenient, as Doug Chase was a shoo-in for Nathan Detroit. I sat through the auditions watching Jen Burke warble through “The sun will come out, tomorrow,” looking like a stick figure with fake emotive hand gestures and sounding like a tone-deaf Miss Piggy, I swear she was awful, but her whole clique of friends screamed and applauded when she finished and the drama teacher pronounced her performance “Very nice indeed!”

  My name was called next, and even though Jen and her group were giggling and pointing at me, I didn’t care—one thing I knew was that I was a better singer. My heart was beating very fast and my ears were ringing because I knew I was the object of Jen & Co.’s scorn and laughter, but I heard Lucky whisper in my ears: You show them. I didn’t need piano accompaniment, I just stood there on the stage, closed my eyes, and tried to block out the laughter coming from the seats. I started out, “Don’t cry for me, Argentina,” and was pleased that my pitch sounded right and my voice strong and pretty, when suddenly I heard Jen spew, “Some B-Kid here thinks she’s Madonna!” I stopped singing.

  The drama teacher shushed Jen, saying to me, “That’s quite a powerful voice you’ve got there, Wonder. Sounds like you’ve had professional training. Would you like to try again?”

  I nodded and closed my eyes, because I felt like I was going to cry from embarrassment. I went back into the song, but only made it to “the truth is, I never . . .” when I heard farting noises coming from a corner of the auditorium. Oh fuck it, I thought, why am I bothering with this?

  I opened my eyes, looked upward quickly so tears would not fall down my cheeks, and, careful not to wipe at the tears, said to the teacher, “Ya know what? Between dance class and schoolwork and my job, I don’t have time to do this.”

  I ran off backstage and out the fire exit. I stood against the brick wall of the school building, taking deep breaths, considering taking all my savings and running away, back to Boston—anywhere but Devonport. I’d figure out how to survive later, once I was out of this stupid town.

  As if the situation wasn’t bad enough, Doug Chase burst out the door just after I did. “Hey,” he said to me.

  I looked over my shoulders to make sure he wasn’t talking to someone else, but no, it was just me standing there. I didn’t say anything back—I was still choking back tears. Was he to be the last stage of my humiliation?

  “You have an awesome voice,” he said.

  Shock-a-rooni! I sputtered, “Thanks.” I sniffled.

  Doug said, “We need a backup singer for my band. You interested in meeting the guys, hearing us play?”

  I so almost said out loud, If that meant getting to stare at your gorgeousness for one extra second, then yeah. But there was that whole issue of my loser status; I couldn’t imagine Doug’s buds actually entertaining the notion of having an . . . UNPOPULAR person (NO!!!!!!!!!!!) in their band. Then again, I thought, how much would Jen Burke be pissed off by the invitation?

  “I don’t know,” I said.

  Doug said, “We’re playing at the Homecoming Dance. Come hear us, see what you think.”

  And just like that, he was gone, Doug and his serpent tattoo slithered back inside the school auditorium without a good-bye, as if they’d been a figment of my imagination. I didn’t even have the chance to say, But I don’t have a date to the Homecoming Dance!

  So what. One week later, I dragged Henry to it, because I just had to hear Doug play. Of course, I didn’t tell Mom and Dad I was going to the Homecoming Dance. The thought of Mom coupling Henry and me in front of the fireplace for pictures in our formalwear, oohing and aahing over us when there was no “us” was just too . . . horrible even to think about. Mom and Dad assumed I had chosen to take a shift at the Dairy Queen that night. Instead, I snuck an old dress of Lucky’s into my backpack, got dressed, and did my makeup in the bathroom at McDonald’s. I slipped a coat over the dress and put on sneakers to walk the mile to school, where I met up with Henry. We had agreed to go to the dance as just friends.

  “Wow,” Henry squeaked when I took off my coat. Lucky’s dress was a hot pink number with spaghetti straps and cinched waist. On her, the dress had looked sweet. On my curvy body, it verged on slutty. Henry’s face turned the color of a tomato as I replaced my sneakers with a pair of slingback black pumps with three-inch heels.

  “Science Project,” I said, “it’s just me. Don’t get all weird.” We were standing in front of the gym as people walked by, and I was on alert, hoping that Doug would show up and see my hot look before my glitter eye shadow and cherry red lipstick started to wear off. Through the gym doors I could see Katie and her cheerleader friends hanging out. Katie offered me a subtle, halfhearted wave, then quickly redirected her attention to her new friends.

  I grabbed Henry’s hand to drag him inside; his palm was all sweaty, so I dropped it right away. Henry and I must have made an odd sight. My getup made me look like I was about twenty-five, and Henry’s awkward face and gangly height made him look like a prematurely aged twelve-year-old. How cool would it have been if Henry had worn an Opera Man cape instead of chinos and a white polo shirt.

  The gymnasium was decorated with an autumn theme: Paper-cutout leaves covered the walls in golds, reds, and greens and strings of lights in fall colors hung from the ceiling. A giant banner across the stage proclaimed, “Go Devonport Lions, ROAR.”

  Jen & Co. found us straightaway. Her eyes appraised me head to toe and she exclaimed, “Oh no! What, is that a B-Kidz costume rejection you’re wearing?”

  Henry said, “Jen, go pick on someone who cares.” My head did a double-take turn sideways at him. Go Science Project!

  As they walked off, one of Jen’s friends said, “Gawd, Jen, you are just gonna make the best Miss Adelaide this school has ever seen!”

  Doug and his band stepped onstage, each of them wearing a black T-shirt that proclaimed “Doug’s Band”
in a goth Def Leppard–type print. Doug was clearly the center of their universe, so why bother to mine their brains for a clever band name when “Doug’s Band” said it all? Jen forgot all about her victim to rush toward the stage and fawn over Doug. He did look awesome with his gel-spiked hair, tight black leather pants, and rock star T-shirt. Henry tugged on my arm. “Wanna dance?” he asked. I shook my head. Although if I did want to dance, I thought, wouldn’t Jen Burke be blown away! I was feelin’ it. But really, I just wanted to watch Doug, which was better than listening to him. He wasn’t much of a singer, and the band, though technically competent, was less than inspiring, not that anybody besides me noticed. The crowd was grooving like Bon Jovi was playing Devonport’s Homecoming Dance.

  I could have sworn that when Doug sang a punked-out version of “Isn’t She Lovely,” he was directing his leer toward me.

  Hmm, I thought. Did that just happen? Weirdness. Potential.

  Twelve

  An e-mail from Trina helped me get a grip. “So school sucks? Time to WAKE UP! Nobody can change the situation but YOU. Don’t I remember you telling me that swoony white boy at the pizza place was in a band? Well, aren’t you a singer? Do the math, Wonder, xo, Treen”

  It took me a few weeks after the Homecoming Dance to get up the courage, but one evening I was walking home from dance class when I turned down a certain street where a certain Doug Chase lived. The band was rehearsing in the garage. I could hear the guitar wails halfway down the street, even over the roar of the nearby ocean. I walked right on in and said, “Hey.” I never would have been so bold if we had been at school, where my outcast badge would likely have created invisible laser beams to bounce me away from the cool people had I dared approach them.

  There were four guys hanging out: Doug on electric guitar, another guy on bass, a guy on drums, and one at a keyboard. “Wanda, right?” Doug asked. I couldn’t tell if he was teasing. Despite the name mistake, his tone did not suggest I was the biggest loser he’d ever encountered in his garage.

  Step 1: check.

  “Wonder!” I said.

  The guys were all staring at my chest. I realized I was still wearing my leotard under my short skirt and that my cleavage was spilling out. I untied the cardigan sweater wrapped around my waist and put it on. The past six weeks of dance classes were slowly turning my flabby figure into a lean, mean fighting machine, but if you’re gonna be flaunting a leotard and tight skirt in front of your crush, excess boobage could be considered overkill.

  The guys all looked bummed. Their sound had been loud, but apparently not pleasing to them. Doug shook his head. “It’s just not happening for us today, Wanda.”

  “My name’s Wonder,” I stated again.

  “Wonder,” they all repeated. The guy on drums said, “The B-Kid, right?”

  “Guess so,” I murmured, deflating.

  Doug perked up. “You ready to sing, Wonder? I told the guys about you.”

  “Sure. What song have you been rehearsing?”

  “ ‘Take Me to the River.’ You probably don’t know it. It’s an old song by—”

  “Al Green!” I interrupted. God bless Trina for the CD burn mixes she had been sending me so that I could listen to the singers whose vocal stylings she thought I should study.

  The guys all nodded enthusiastically, at least as enthusiastically as a contingent of stoner musician guys could.

  Doug tossed the mike my way and without saying a word the guys started playing the song. I didn’t have time to think. I just started singing the first verse, and Doug’s Band, with Wonder Blake at the mike, took off from there.

  Step 2: check.

  Thirteen

  For the month of November, I forgot all about Tig and any hopes of becoming a pop princess. I even forgot about nagging Mom to take me to get a learner’s permit. I was the new chick singer with Doug’s Band, so good they sometimes let me sing solo along with backup for Doug, so good they even bought me my own “Doug’s Band”-emblazoned T-shirt. I did have to wonder if they really thought I wore a “small” or if they just wanted to check out my rack in the wicked tight tee.

  Word spread fast at Devonport High. Wonder Blake was no longer just a former summer B-Kid—she sang with Doug’s Band. The revised secret memo might have read, Wonder Blake: Okay not to treat her like a nobody. Tread carefully.

  Little things changed at school. Seats opened for me at lunch. Girls complimented me on my lip gloss in the bathroom. Guys stared dreamily at me in study hall when I sat at my desk and read song sheets, mouthing the lyrics to myself. Between Doug’s Band and my part-time job, I wasn’t studying much (at all), so my G.P.A. wasn’t improving, but I couldn’t have cared less.

  What did not change at school was Jen Burke. If she had disliked me before, now that Doug and I were hanging out, she hated me. She bumped into me in the cafeteria, saying, “If you think just because you’re in Doug’s Band that he likes you now, I know for a fact that you’re wrong.”

  I had my Trina moment, and I said, “I know for a fact that I don’t care what you think.” That shut her up for the time being. Though she did purposely knock over my chocolate milk.

  Doug was into me, I was pretty sure. How many times did I catch him smiling at me or scamming on me when I was belting out the tunes? By our tenth rehearsal, I had counted eighteen real times, though I was open to the possibility that five of those times were imagined.

  But I knew I wasn’t going crazy fantasizing his interest when I arrived early to rehearsal one evening and, as I approached the garage, heard the drummer say to Doug, “Man, she’s got it going on. Don’t fool around with her. You know that’ll ruin everything. Do you realize how many gigs we could get next summer if she’s with us? Dougie boy, don’t do it.”

  “I won’t!” he said, sounding defensive.

  Way to eavesdrop, Wonder. Now I just had to figure out how to get him to go back on his promise to his bandmates.

  I knew this much by now about Doug: His parents were divorced and he lived with his dad, who was a car mechanic; Doug’s dream was that the band would buy a van after graduation and move to L.A. and become rock stars; if he graduated from Devonport High, it would be just barely; his favorite band was Guns ’n’ Roses (whatever) and his favorite artist was Bob Marley (much better); and the shorter my skirts got at rehearsal, the better his guitar played along with me.

  Opportunity knocked one night soon after Thanksgiving. He was walking me home around nine in the evening after rehearsal, and we’d taken the route along the beach. It was one of those sickeningly beautiful Cape nights before winter hit hard: brisk, windy, moody. A half-moon hung over the water and if we’d cared enough to look, we probably could have seen all the way to Nantucket.

  Doug lit a joint as we walked. He passed it to me. I’d never had one before. Square much?

  We were about two blocks from my house; I could see it lit up in the distance. The nearby summers’ houses were all dark. I plopped down on the beach and placed the joint between my index finger and thumb. I said, “Show me how. I’ve never . . . you know.” What I really wanted to say was, Feel free to pounce on me at any time, Dougie.

  “Really?” he asked. He took the joint back from my fingers. “Let me show you a better way to learn.” He inhaled on the joint, and before I knew what he was doing, he had leaned right into my face and placed his lips on mine. I opened my mouth and he blew the smoke inside. When he pulled away, I coughed hard.

  “What the hell was that?” I sputtered.

  “Shotgun,” he said. “Wanna try it again?”

  I said, “Let’s try it without the joint.” The air was cold and the breeze whipping hard, the night sky dark and starry, but his lips managed to find mine, and mine managed not to fumble the experience too terribly worrying about nose positioning and breathing. I wouldn’t say the earth moved or anything, but after a minute or two of awkward lip fumbling that was about as sexy as making out with Screech from Saved by the Bell, I got the hang of i
t. After five straight minutes of kissing, in fact, my lips were feeling quite competent. Hands, necks, hair, on to stomachs—I guess you could say we safely rounded second base, with an attempt at third. At last, I thought, Wonder Blake has her moment. It was the kind of moment so perfect that only a kid brother could ruin it.

  “Wonder!” Charles yelled out in his loud Boston accent: Won-DAH! I could hear the wheels of his skateboard stumbling across the gravel road above the beach. “Ma’s looking for you.” Paranoia consumed Mom ever since Lucky’s death. She wanted Charles and me to call her every two minutes to tell her where we were, and when we’d be home. If we were ten minutes late she sent out a search party.

  I kissed Doug one more time, fast and memorably, and he escaped across the darkened beach. I stood up on the sand and shouted, “Shut up, CHAH-les!”

  Fourteen

  Strange that hooking up with Doug could give me a new sympathy for Jen Burke. Now I understood how she could get to be so mean. The guy could give some serious lip lock, but watch out if you tried to truly get close to him.

  Rules for fooling around with Doug:

  DO let him feel you up in darkened places when no one is around.

  DO NOT attempt to hold his hand in public, or let on in any way, shape, or form that the two of you are an item. This fact is strictly a state secret, and the world order as we know it could topple should this secret come out.

  DO fantasize about him during school, preferably during exams that will determine whether or not you pass.

  DO NOT fantasize that Doug will acknowledge you as his make-out buddy to the band or at school, and for God’s sake, DO NOT demonstrate any sign of affection for Doug in front of his buddies.