warned us to go light on the meal, but I didn’t listen. I had about a million things I was worrying about and I needed to bury them all under a chili cheeseburger with onion rings.
Fortunately, it worked.
Unfortunately, the lump of food stayed wadded up in my stomach all the way until morning.
When we got to the mall the next day, I almost asked Mom and Dad to carry me inside. Even the swishing motion of walking made the inside of my stomach boil.
The food court had a small stage set up right in the middle of it. I got a whiff of something cooking over at the Frank-N-Furters stall. Not good. I ran over to a garbage can, ready to say goodbye to the corn nuggets I’d ordered halfway through dinner. But I forced my stomach to go back into hibernation mode.
“Dillon! Over here!” Kassie yelled.
She was standing in a wide hallway at the back of the food court. There was a tall piece of cloth strung up behind her, with a pair of dressing room signs over two curtain doors. One for boys and one for girls.
“Dude, look at what her mom made!” Austin handed me a pin. It was about as wide as a soda can top and had Kassie’s Dizzee Freekz design printed on it.
“That is so cool!” I said.
“Thanks,” Kassie said. “I sort of stole Austin’s business card idea.”
“I’m just glad you put the YouTube link on them.” Austin reached into Kassie’s backpack and pulled out a handful of pins. “I’m gonna go pick out a good spot to film and pass these out to people.” He yanked his half mask down and disappeared into the crowd of mall-walking senior citizens and kids on leashes.
“Thanks for doing that for him,” I said.
“I want people to see our dances. We’re a good crew.” Kassie smiled and my heart instantly tore in two. But I guess that’s what I deserved for giving Dance-Splosion permission to crawl inside my head. I’d imagined myself in some of those classes about a million times. And in each one, there wasn’t a shred of ninja freestyling. Just real moves. Real technique.
Kassie pointed to the guys’ side of the dressing room. “You better go get changed. Carson’s already in there.”
I walked in, expecting a room full of tall, deerlike dancers to be decked out in unitards and sequined shirts. But the only people in there were Carson and some old janitor with a broom.
“Where’s everyone else?” I asked, pulling out my football pants and mask.
“This is it,” Carson said. “Unless everyone’s taking the fashionably late approach.”
When we finished suiting up, we walked back out into the hallway. Kassie pulled the bottom of my shirt down. Her hand grazed my butt and I almost yelped like a Chihuahua.
“At least the stain’s nearly gone,” she said, nodding and walking off. Thankfully, my face was hidden behind a ninja mask. If it hadn’t been, the entire mall would’ve seen it go supernova red.
The stage was about a foot off the ground, sort of like the one our school dragged out when we had assemblies. The entire backdrop was an ad for Smoothietopia and had a picture of a family all smiling and laughing, holding their not-even-touched smoothies.
The announcer walked to the middle and grabbed the microphone. He was an older guy dressed in a full suit with no tie. His shirt was unbuttoned enough so a poof of chest hair stuck out. He tapped his microphone and the crowd quieted down. “Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the first annual Smoothietopia Dance-Off!”
I spotted the tiny table in front with the judges. A man and a woman, both wearing Smoothietopia polos.
“We have a great show for you today. And remember, the winners each get a twenty-dollar gift certificate to Smoothietopia, where the only thing sweeter than your first smoothie is your next one!” He laughed like their slogan was the cutest thing he’d ever heard. “And judging today’s competition we have Mr. and Mrs. Smoothietopia, Vincent Damico and Margaret Goldman!”
They stood and waved. I’d
Fortunately, it worked.
Unfortunately, the lump of food stayed wadded up in my stomach all the way until morning.
When we got to the mall the next day, I almost asked Mom and Dad to carry me inside. Even the swishing motion of walking made the inside of my stomach boil.
The food court had a small stage set up right in the middle of it. I got a whiff of something cooking over at the Frank-N-Furters stall. Not good. I ran over to a garbage can, ready to say goodbye to the corn nuggets I’d ordered halfway through dinner. But I forced my stomach to go back into hibernation mode.
“Dillon! Over here!” Kassie yelled.
She was standing in a wide hallway at the back of the food court. There was a tall piece of cloth strung up behind her, with a pair of dressing room signs over two curtain doors. One for boys and one for girls.
“Dude, look at what her mom made!” Austin handed me a pin. It was about as wide as a soda can top and had Kassie’s Dizzee Freekz design printed on it.
“That is so cool!” I said.
“Thanks,” Kassie said. “I sort of stole Austin’s business card idea.”
“I’m just glad you put the YouTube link on them.” Austin reached into Kassie’s backpack and pulled out a handful of pins. “I’m gonna go pick out a good spot to film and pass these out to people.” He yanked his half mask down and disappeared into the crowd of mall-walking senior citizens and kids on leashes.
“Thanks for doing that for him,” I said.
“I want people to see our dances. We’re a good crew.” Kassie smiled and my heart instantly tore in two. But I guess that’s what I deserved for giving Dance-Splosion permission to crawl inside my head. I’d imagined myself in some of those classes about a million times. And in each one, there wasn’t a shred of ninja freestyling. Just real moves. Real technique.
Kassie pointed to the guys’ side of the dressing room. “You better go get changed. Carson’s already in there.”
I walked in, expecting a room full of tall, deerlike dancers to be decked out in unitards and sequined shirts. But the only people in there were Carson and some old janitor with a broom.
“Where’s everyone else?” I asked, pulling out my football pants and mask.
“This is it,” Carson said. “Unless everyone’s taking the fashionably late approach.”
When we finished suiting up, we walked back out into the hallway. Kassie pulled the bottom of my shirt down. Her hand grazed my butt and I almost yelped like a Chihuahua.
“At least the stain’s nearly gone,” she said, nodding and walking off. Thankfully, my face was hidden behind a ninja mask. If it hadn’t been, the entire mall would’ve seen it go supernova red.
The stage was about a foot off the ground, sort of like the one our school dragged out when we had assemblies. The entire backdrop was an ad for Smoothietopia and had a picture of a family all smiling and laughing, holding their not-even-touched smoothies.
The announcer walked to the middle and grabbed the microphone. He was an older guy dressed in a full suit with no tie. His shirt was unbuttoned enough so a poof of chest hair stuck out. He tapped his microphone and the crowd quieted down. “Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the first annual Smoothietopia Dance-Off!”
I spotted the tiny table in front with the judges. A man and a woman, both wearing Smoothietopia polos.
“We have a great show for you today. And remember, the winners each get a twenty-dollar gift certificate to Smoothietopia, where the only thing sweeter than your first smoothie is your next one!” He laughed like their slogan was the cutest thing he’d ever heard. “And judging today’s competition we have Mr. and Mrs. Smoothietopia, Vincent Damico and Margaret Goldman!”
They stood and waved. I’d
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