up big-time! It wouldn’t happen. Keisha didn’t even wish for that.
She bit her lip. If she hadn’t been so nervous all the time, she could have practiced a harder routine! This routine was an elbow bone, not a backbone.
Someone came up behind her and covered her eyes. “Don’t turn around too fast,” the person whispered. “Or you’ll tip me over.”
Keisha turned around slowly and gave a squeal. “How did you get in here?” she asked, giving Sarge a big hug. “And what about your leg?”
“It’s fake! Didn’t I tell you? No, it was fine. I used a lot of pillows. And to get in, your coach gave me this.” Sarge held up a registration badge. “I have a confession to make, Keisha. Your dad gave me Coach Rose’s phone number, and I called him up a while ago to tell him about the fun roping you’ve been doing. And guess what? I brought the music from Razi’s show.”
Keisha looked up at Sarge, confused. She sat down on the bleachers. Sarge sat next to her.
Coach Rose came and sat down beside them. Keisha could see the rest of the Steppers hanging around in the background. “Keisha, you have worked hard for this team for two years,” Coach said. “We both know you are better than the routine you’ve been practicing. I say give this new one a try. We don’t have anything to lose. From what Sarge is telling me, there’s a greater degree of difficulty in this routine.”
“But …” Would fun roping be fun in competition?
“I think you should do it, too, Key,” Marcus said, stepping forward. “And not just so we can bring home a trophy but because it’s fun to watch.”
“Here’s why
I
think you should do it.” Aaliyah jutted out her chin and walked toward them like an Egyptian.
“Uh-oh.” Marcus poked Jorge.
“Aaliyah’s gettin’ her swagger on,” Jorge teased.
“I say, let’s show ’em how it’s done on the West Side.” Aaliyah leaned back, pumping her arms and hula-hooping.
“We don’t live on the West Side,” Jorge said.
“We sure do.” Aaliyah gave Jorge her all-that look.
“West Side of Michigan,” Wen explained.
Sarge tugged on the lapels of his jacket. “Coach says I get to put the music in, and that means I’ll have my usual front-row seat at one of your performances.”
Performance.
As Keisha walked over to the freestyle-competition area, her mind was whirling. She almost ran into aBuzzing Bee. Competing made her mess up, but performing was all about the flow. And if she was going to try to get a higher score, she had to do something … more.
Keisha tapped the tape on the competition square three times for good luck. Then she took her place. “Judges ready?” she asked.
They nodded. No one was even looking at her. They were all finding the right form, checking the number on her shirt and filling in her name and school. Keisha nodded to Sarge, who was standing by the CD player.
The music from Razi’s mid-winter recital was so different from the pounding beat of other jumpers’ music that afterward, Keisha told Sarge that might have been what helped her most. How could you call this competing?
Keisha stood completely still, listening to the music and waiting for the first cold breeze. It whirled around her, and then, after a few jumps, she became airborne herself: scudding, rolling, swaying, soaring. Just the way a snowflake would feel on a crisp, sunny winter afternoon, floating near the river, passing the squirrels and the joggers and the children onthe swing set in their shiny plastic boots. Keisha translated—from cold to skip, from blow to kick, from flutter to swing. Then, almost as soon as she’d begun, she was finished. She drifted down onto the top hat of a snowman and took a bow, blinking at the crowd.
People leapt to their feet in the bleachers. Keisha could see Grandma shouting into a megaphone, but she couldn’t hear her over the roar of the crowd.
Coach Rose grabbed her up in a big bear hug and walked her over to Sarge. As
She bit her lip. If she hadn’t been so nervous all the time, she could have practiced a harder routine! This routine was an elbow bone, not a backbone.
Someone came up behind her and covered her eyes. “Don’t turn around too fast,” the person whispered. “Or you’ll tip me over.”
Keisha turned around slowly and gave a squeal. “How did you get in here?” she asked, giving Sarge a big hug. “And what about your leg?”
“It’s fake! Didn’t I tell you? No, it was fine. I used a lot of pillows. And to get in, your coach gave me this.” Sarge held up a registration badge. “I have a confession to make, Keisha. Your dad gave me Coach Rose’s phone number, and I called him up a while ago to tell him about the fun roping you’ve been doing. And guess what? I brought the music from Razi’s show.”
Keisha looked up at Sarge, confused. She sat down on the bleachers. Sarge sat next to her.
Coach Rose came and sat down beside them. Keisha could see the rest of the Steppers hanging around in the background. “Keisha, you have worked hard for this team for two years,” Coach said. “We both know you are better than the routine you’ve been practicing. I say give this new one a try. We don’t have anything to lose. From what Sarge is telling me, there’s a greater degree of difficulty in this routine.”
“But …” Would fun roping be fun in competition?
“I think you should do it, too, Key,” Marcus said, stepping forward. “And not just so we can bring home a trophy but because it’s fun to watch.”
“Here’s why
I
think you should do it.” Aaliyah jutted out her chin and walked toward them like an Egyptian.
“Uh-oh.” Marcus poked Jorge.
“Aaliyah’s gettin’ her swagger on,” Jorge teased.
“I say, let’s show ’em how it’s done on the West Side.” Aaliyah leaned back, pumping her arms and hula-hooping.
“We don’t live on the West Side,” Jorge said.
“We sure do.” Aaliyah gave Jorge her all-that look.
“West Side of Michigan,” Wen explained.
Sarge tugged on the lapels of his jacket. “Coach says I get to put the music in, and that means I’ll have my usual front-row seat at one of your performances.”
Performance.
As Keisha walked over to the freestyle-competition area, her mind was whirling. She almost ran into aBuzzing Bee. Competing made her mess up, but performing was all about the flow. And if she was going to try to get a higher score, she had to do something … more.
Keisha tapped the tape on the competition square three times for good luck. Then she took her place. “Judges ready?” she asked.
They nodded. No one was even looking at her. They were all finding the right form, checking the number on her shirt and filling in her name and school. Keisha nodded to Sarge, who was standing by the CD player.
The music from Razi’s mid-winter recital was so different from the pounding beat of other jumpers’ music that afterward, Keisha told Sarge that might have been what helped her most. How could you call this competing?
Keisha stood completely still, listening to the music and waiting for the first cold breeze. It whirled around her, and then, after a few jumps, she became airborne herself: scudding, rolling, swaying, soaring. Just the way a snowflake would feel on a crisp, sunny winter afternoon, floating near the river, passing the squirrels and the joggers and the children onthe swing set in their shiny plastic boots. Keisha translated—from cold to skip, from blow to kick, from flutter to swing. Then, almost as soon as she’d begun, she was finished. She drifted down onto the top hat of a snowman and took a bow, blinking at the crowd.
People leapt to their feet in the bleachers. Keisha could see Grandma shouting into a megaphone, but she couldn’t hear her over the roar of the crowd.
Coach Rose grabbed her up in a big bear hug and walked her over to Sarge. As
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