Shrinking Violet by Danielle Joseph Page A
Authors: Danielle Joseph
Tags: United States, Fiction, General, People & Places, Family, Juvenile Fiction, Social Issues, Performing Arts, Girls & Women, School & Education, Secrecy, Parents, Schools, Miami (Fla.), Dating & Sex, High schools, Emotions & Feelings, Mothers and daughters, secrets, radio, Disc jockeys, Bashfulness
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Derek swings around. "Oh, hi. Tere, right? Rob told me you'd be stopping by."
Derek reaches out his hand and shakes mine. His palms feel like sandpaper. I quickly pull away.
He's wearing the same orange shirt as last Friday, with the first three buttons undone. A gold chain rests between the hairs on his chest. It's a figure of a woman with huge breasts. Actually, it would be more accurate to say, it's a pair of gigantic boobs with a woman's body attached to them.
So I shouldn't be surprised that he's staring at my chest right now. I let go of his hand. If he needs someone to drool over, Pop-Tart has a pretty nice set.
"Like what you see?" He laughs. "They don't call me Dynamite Derek for nothing."
I cringe. There's nothing dynamite about this guy. Yeah, he still has his hair and is in good shape for forty, but if he walked into a room full of high school girls, we'd all think he was some lounge singer hired to entertain the teachers at a retirement party. He's got a good on-air voice, though. I'll give him that.
77
Derek goes back to his laptop, so I just continue standing in the middle of the room like a coatrack. I need to talk to him. Otherwise, he'll tell Rob I hung around here like a fungus.
"Thanks," I mutter.
He doesn't answer me, so I try it again. "Thanks . . for letting me chill here."
"Damn," he says to the computer. At least I think he's talking to the computer.
Finally he turns around. "Sorry, thought I had the wrong commercial loaded. Those plastic surgery people are always counting to make sure all their slots run." He plays with a few levels on the board. "Oh, and you're welcome. Anything for the boss's kid."
He laughs. "Sit down." He points to the chair a few feet away from him.
I sit. It's one of those swivel office chairs. It'll make a good getaway vehicle if needed.
"You want to be a DJ?" he asks.
I nod but realize he doesn't have eyes on the back of his head, so I clear my throat and say, "Yeah."
"Got to pick out a name first. What do you want to be called?" Derek turns around to face me and leans back on the console, exposing even more chest hair. Something I didn't think was possible. "Trixie? Bubbles? Baby?"
Wait, is this a strip club or a radio station? I instinctively pull up the neck of my scoop tee. "Sweet T."
If I had a turtleneck with me, I'd put it on right now.
78
"That'll work. A name and a voice is all you got out here in radio land." Derek fades down the Maltese track and brings up Gracie May.
"Now that's a sexy woman. I wouldn't mind getting into her pants." Derek grins.
I don't say anything and it's not because I don't have anything to say, it's just that I have nothing nice to say.
"You don't talk much," Derek says.
"Nope." I cross my arms.
"That can be a good thing, too." He winks at me. His brown eyes are soulless.
God, I know he's good at his job, but one dose of him is enough to send anyone into cardiac arrest.
Just when I think he's done talking, he swings his chair around again. "By the way, you're in violation of the dress code."
"Huh?" I look down at my Little Miss Trouble tee and jeans. Since when does anyone other than the salespeople dress up at a radio station?
He points directly at my breasts and laughs. "So you're trouble? That's a provocative statement. You can't wear anything suggestive here."
Does he really think he's funny? I'm trashing this shirt as soon as I get home.
Jason, Derek's producer, busts into the studio with a box of Krispy Kreme doughnuts.
"Here you go, dude." He slaps them on the console next to Derek. Unlike Derek, Jason's very clean-cut.
79
He's tall, with blond hair and hazel eyes. He's GQ to Derek's Unpopular Mechanic.
"Man, you're good." Derek pulls out a glazed and takes a huge bite. Before he's even finished chewing, he asks, "You want?"
"No." I grab my bottle of water to clear out my throat. He is so gross.
Derek's halfway through a second doughnut when the song ends and he has to go back on the air. "Good
Derek reaches out his hand and shakes mine. His palms feel like sandpaper. I quickly pull away.
He's wearing the same orange shirt as last Friday, with the first three buttons undone. A gold chain rests between the hairs on his chest. It's a figure of a woman with huge breasts. Actually, it would be more accurate to say, it's a pair of gigantic boobs with a woman's body attached to them.
So I shouldn't be surprised that he's staring at my chest right now. I let go of his hand. If he needs someone to drool over, Pop-Tart has a pretty nice set.
"Like what you see?" He laughs. "They don't call me Dynamite Derek for nothing."
I cringe. There's nothing dynamite about this guy. Yeah, he still has his hair and is in good shape for forty, but if he walked into a room full of high school girls, we'd all think he was some lounge singer hired to entertain the teachers at a retirement party. He's got a good on-air voice, though. I'll give him that.
77
Derek goes back to his laptop, so I just continue standing in the middle of the room like a coatrack. I need to talk to him. Otherwise, he'll tell Rob I hung around here like a fungus.
"Thanks," I mutter.
He doesn't answer me, so I try it again. "Thanks . . for letting me chill here."
"Damn," he says to the computer. At least I think he's talking to the computer.
Finally he turns around. "Sorry, thought I had the wrong commercial loaded. Those plastic surgery people are always counting to make sure all their slots run." He plays with a few levels on the board. "Oh, and you're welcome. Anything for the boss's kid."
He laughs. "Sit down." He points to the chair a few feet away from him.
I sit. It's one of those swivel office chairs. It'll make a good getaway vehicle if needed.
"You want to be a DJ?" he asks.
I nod but realize he doesn't have eyes on the back of his head, so I clear my throat and say, "Yeah."
"Got to pick out a name first. What do you want to be called?" Derek turns around to face me and leans back on the console, exposing even more chest hair. Something I didn't think was possible. "Trixie? Bubbles? Baby?"
Wait, is this a strip club or a radio station? I instinctively pull up the neck of my scoop tee. "Sweet T."
If I had a turtleneck with me, I'd put it on right now.
78
"That'll work. A name and a voice is all you got out here in radio land." Derek fades down the Maltese track and brings up Gracie May.
"Now that's a sexy woman. I wouldn't mind getting into her pants." Derek grins.
I don't say anything and it's not because I don't have anything to say, it's just that I have nothing nice to say.
"You don't talk much," Derek says.
"Nope." I cross my arms.
"That can be a good thing, too." He winks at me. His brown eyes are soulless.
God, I know he's good at his job, but one dose of him is enough to send anyone into cardiac arrest.
Just when I think he's done talking, he swings his chair around again. "By the way, you're in violation of the dress code."
"Huh?" I look down at my Little Miss Trouble tee and jeans. Since when does anyone other than the salespeople dress up at a radio station?
He points directly at my breasts and laughs. "So you're trouble? That's a provocative statement. You can't wear anything suggestive here."
Does he really think he's funny? I'm trashing this shirt as soon as I get home.
Jason, Derek's producer, busts into the studio with a box of Krispy Kreme doughnuts.
"Here you go, dude." He slaps them on the console next to Derek. Unlike Derek, Jason's very clean-cut.
79
He's tall, with blond hair and hazel eyes. He's GQ to Derek's Unpopular Mechanic.
"Man, you're good." Derek pulls out a glazed and takes a huge bite. Before he's even finished chewing, he asks, "You want?"
"No." I grab my bottle of water to clear out my throat. He is so gross.
Derek's halfway through a second doughnut when the song ends and he has to go back on the air. "Good
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