Home > Turning Point(5)

Turning Point(5)
Author: Paula Chase

Sheeda laughed to cover up her giddiness. “Lennie didn’t give me time to.”

After standing in the darkened hallway, the brightness of Mo’s room was blinding. Music played from a tiny lip-shaped speaker. Leotards, tights, and shorts were strewn everywhere. Sheeda scooted worn ballet slippers and shiny, barely worn pointe shoes to the side and plopped onto Mo’s bed.

“Hey, sorry,” Mo said.

“You fine,” Sheeda said.

Mo waved toward her dresser. “No, I’m talking to Mila.”

Sheeda noticed the phone propped up. Mila’s chocolate face smiled back at her.

“Hey, Sheeda,” Mila said.

“Oh, hey.” Mila was going to have Mo half the summer. Couldn’t this time with Mo be hers? The selfish thought shamed Sheeda into a fake, high-pitched, “So do your room look like Mo’s? There’s stuff everywhere. I barely have any place to sit.”

Mila chuckled. “Believe it or not, mine looks worse. Plus, my aunt brought me a good year’s worth of pads and tampons. It’s like a drugstore over here.”

“I’m not mad. Now I can borrow from you and not bring as much,” Mo said. She scooped up an armful of T-shirts and dropped them beside Sheeda. “Can you fold these, please?”

“No fair, you have help,” Mila said.

Mo’s fingers raked through her hair. It hung straight to her shoulders with enough bend at the end to say it was curled. Until she got really into dance, Mo was the type that went to the hair salon every two weeks. Now her hair was in a bun most of the time. Still, it always looked neat and sleek, not like Sheeda’s full head of fuzz. Sheeda followed her gaze, wondering what Mo was looking for.

“I should have got braids.” She took a step toward the dresser, talking at her phone. “Now Imma have to wash my hair at intensive. That’s dunk.”

Mila’s mountain of tiny braids shivered as she laughed. “So then, it’s official. You’re really keeping ‘dunk’ in rotation?”

“I’m definitely keeping it in rotation. ’Cause it’s messed up and for real, nothing says messed up like dunk,” Mo said, her half smile disappearing as she fretted again. “I know my scalp gonna get nasty after dancing all day, every day. What should I do? I don’t even have a blow-dryer anymore.”

Sheeda had never seen Mo worry about anything. More importantly, Mo hated braids. She said they took too long to get done and hurt her scalp. She’d been on a mission all middle school to get Sheeda to change up her twists. “Your hair gonna start breaking off. You should give them a rest.”

Wasn’t like it was Sheeda’s choice. Her aunt didn’t have money to send her to the salon every other weekend or time to do the hair herself. The Senegalese and Marley twists were all Sheeda knew. And for the record, her real hair was long and healthy—something she’d never bothered to remind Mo. When Mo thought she was right, there was no real point in arguing. That’s why seeing her look worried made Sheeda want to hug her friend.

She picked up a T-shirt that had the silhouette of a dancer on her toes, arms above her head in what Mademoiselle called “high beach ball.” She creased it down the middle and began folding, then tried to get into the conversation, “You don’t like braids, though.”

Mo looked Sheeda’s way, then Mila’s voice drew her away.

“It’s only three weeks. I keep my braids in longer than that without washing. I think you’ll be fine.”

“You probably right,” Mo said. She swooshed her hair into a messy bun, then patted it. “This stuff gonna be wooly as I don’t know what when we get back, though.”

Sheeda sped up folding the shirts. “I think you’d look cute in braids. The box kind would be perfect for you?”

Mo’s nose wrinkled. “But I don’t want them snobby ballet girls to think I’m ghetto.”

“Why—” Sheeda started.

“So, wait. I’m ghetto?” Mila asked, shaking her skinny braids at the camera. She laughed at the look of busted embarrassment on Mo’s face.

“My bad. I didn’t mean it like that,” Mo said. She sighed toward the ceiling. “I don’t want to be worried about impressing nobody. But, ugh. I am.”

“You’re a good dancer, Mo. Mademoiselle says intensives aren’t about competing. You’re there to strengthen your technique,” Mila said.

“Girl, please. Everything’s a competition,” Mo said with a snort. “I mean, Ms. Noelle know better than I do. But, like, no, it’s still a competition.” She pulled shorts out of her dresser and laid them in a sliver of empty space to Sheeda’s left, the request to fold clear.

Sheeda obeyed, robotically. The Mo she knew never cared what anyone thought. The tremor in Mo’s voice, her deep breath like the air in her chest was heavy, was all new.

A tiny pile of T-shirts rose up against her leg, a wall between her and the clutter of ballet slippers. Her eyes lingered on the pointe shoes. Once Mo and Mila started what they called pointe work, they had a language only the two of them understood. Sheeda had no idea what jet glue was, or why they’d ever spray shellac in them. She’d had to look up what that even was.

She had a million questions about them. Did it hurt? How did they stay up on their toes like that? She’d never asked them, though.

She was thinking how to get herself into their conversation when her phone dinged once. She grabbed it, greedy for the distraction.

Before Mo could see Lennie’s profile pic shining from the screen, Sheeda cuffed the phone closer to her face. She shook her head, smiling at his message:

what u gon do when u don’t have my sister as a excuse to come see ’bout me?

She pretended to listen to Mo and Mila while they talked about lamb’s wool—whatever that was—while she tried to think of a cute or flirty response. It took her a few seconds to realize Mo was talking to her.

“What did you say?” Sheeda clicked her screen off.

Mo frowned. “What you grinning so hard for? Who dat?”

“Nobody grinning.” Even though the smile pulled her cheeks hard. “It’s just one of my friends from church. They tripping.”

Mo plucked the pile of T-shirts off the bed and laid them in a suitcase. “Is it that basket boy? Jalen?” She fussed playfully. “Tell him I wasn’t trying get with him last year and you not trying this year.”

Jalen most definitely had tried to holler at Mo during the teen retreat. He found a way to sit next to her every night at revival and called himself helping Mo weave a basket at arts and crafts. He really had thought he was getting somewhere until, after one direction too many, Mo had said—loud enough for everybody to hear—“Boy, look, I don’t care nothing about this basket. Please take your basket-weaving, naw-it-go-like-this-not-that self somewhere else.”

He’d kept his distance after that.

Sheeda giggled. “Naw, it’s not him.”

Mo folded her arms. She was used to being answered. “Who is it then? I mean, let us in on the juice. I need something to take my mind off this intensive. I’m starting to trip a little bit.”

Sheeda had bad-mouthed all the First Bap dudes to the squad. They were all cocky (Jalen), geeky (Carlos), or not committed enough to the youth ministries—Auntie D’s words (Gerard). It was her own fault the squad clowned on First Bap. Sheeda rarely stopped them. And sometimes she started it. She fumbled to get herself together. Mila’s voice floated through the air, saving her from making up something.

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