the final ten who will compete for the prize.”
Abbi made some
dance notations.
“Alright, Louise,
think I can dance to this?”
She tried out some
movements while Louise watched.
“Go, Abbi!” Louise
said loudly. “You have some really good moves.”
“You like?” Abbi
asked.
Louise nodded but
looked doubtful.
“Abbi,” Louise
said. “Didn’t you want to talk?”
“Oh, yeah,” Abbi said,
still dancing.
“Your latest phone
call? About your parents?” Louise asked.
“I think
something’s cooking. Don’t know what,” said Abbi. “Or maybe they’re just late.”
“Late? Really? Abbi,
people aren’t late for weeks without calling or anything.”
Abbi could feel
her nose burning. She had to get her mind off her parents. Talking about it didn’t
always help. Nothing would help until she could actually DO something.
Before she could
change the topic, she quickly figured out a way she could sell the idea of
entering the dance contest to the Pelletiers, not easy since a dance contest
wouldn’t be “keeping a low profile”.
“This dance
contest is just three weeks away. I need to win! I need the money. There’s also
a contract that comes with it if I have the winning dance. Believe that?”
The dance contest
for the huge fried chicken franchise, Lip-Smackin’ Chicken Kitchen, known as
LSC Kitchen, sounded fun. Abbi needed some fun. All Abbi had to do to enter was
download the music, come up with the winning dance, send in the entrance form
and a video of the dance and then, if she landed an audition, make it look great,
worthy of a nationwide ad campaign!
“I have to give
this a try,” Abbi said, working on a modified chicken dance.
“Forget the
contest. I’m here if you want to talk.”
Lowell seemed to
be prepping for a cross between graduation and a pep band for a basketball
game. The various pieces of music he played sounded confused and raucous,
particularly when Dixieland Jazz was thrown into the mix.
Over the blaring
sounds from the trumpet, Abbi said, “There’s the situation with my parents, my
house was just broken into, your brother’s trumpet is on some heavy-duty
steroids, and I’m hoping that when my “guardian agent” calls again, he’ll anwer
my questions. Until then, I’m going to dance it off. Things seem a little crazy
right now, and I don’t know what else to do. I have to clear my head and think.
Fred’s Boots isn’t even in the phone book, for God’s sake! It’s not online
either. What am I supposed to think? Dance with me!”
“I can’t dance. But
you know, LSC sounds good!” Louise said, closing the magazine. “LSC’s Chinese
Chicken Bowl! I won’t need to cook tonight. Except maybe dessert!”
“Come on! Dance!”
Abbi pleaded.
Louise put down
the magazine and started dancing with Abbi. Her moves were fluid, actually remarkably
rhythmic. Her hips swayed with the music in a way only bigger girls can do, as
if her waist were a pivoting point. She watched Abbi’s
not-yet-ready-for-prime-time moves.
“We really need
to talk, Abbi. Entering a dance contest, is that ‘laying low’?”
Abbi sighed, stopped
dancing, and looked around. With the growing possibility of listening devices
planted around the house, talking about her parents wasn’t something she felt
comfortable doing. Her parents might be in serious trouble. Were they missing?
Were they dead? Again she diverted the topic to the dance contest.
“I have to do something,”
Abbi said.
Maybe it was the
physical activity allowing oxygen to reach her brain cells after the heat of
the day almost melted them. Anyway, it occurred to her that the dance contest
was weeks away. Abbi didn’t have that kind of time. Something was going on with
her parents. They needed her NOW!
“Remember what Mr.
Agent Man had said? Stuff about ‘Lay low for a few weeks. Don’t do anything to
bring attention to yourself. Your
Abbi made some
dance notations.
“Alright, Louise,
think I can dance to this?”
She tried out some
movements while Louise watched.
“Go, Abbi!” Louise
said loudly. “You have some really good moves.”
“You like?” Abbi
asked.
Louise nodded but
looked doubtful.
“Abbi,” Louise
said. “Didn’t you want to talk?”
“Oh, yeah,” Abbi said,
still dancing.
“Your latest phone
call? About your parents?” Louise asked.
“I think
something’s cooking. Don’t know what,” said Abbi. “Or maybe they’re just late.”
“Late? Really? Abbi,
people aren’t late for weeks without calling or anything.”
Abbi could feel
her nose burning. She had to get her mind off her parents. Talking about it didn’t
always help. Nothing would help until she could actually DO something.
Before she could
change the topic, she quickly figured out a way she could sell the idea of
entering the dance contest to the Pelletiers, not easy since a dance contest
wouldn’t be “keeping a low profile”.
“This dance
contest is just three weeks away. I need to win! I need the money. There’s also
a contract that comes with it if I have the winning dance. Believe that?”
The dance contest
for the huge fried chicken franchise, Lip-Smackin’ Chicken Kitchen, known as
LSC Kitchen, sounded fun. Abbi needed some fun. All Abbi had to do to enter was
download the music, come up with the winning dance, send in the entrance form
and a video of the dance and then, if she landed an audition, make it look great,
worthy of a nationwide ad campaign!
“I have to give
this a try,” Abbi said, working on a modified chicken dance.
“Forget the
contest. I’m here if you want to talk.”
Lowell seemed to
be prepping for a cross between graduation and a pep band for a basketball
game. The various pieces of music he played sounded confused and raucous,
particularly when Dixieland Jazz was thrown into the mix.
Over the blaring
sounds from the trumpet, Abbi said, “There’s the situation with my parents, my
house was just broken into, your brother’s trumpet is on some heavy-duty
steroids, and I’m hoping that when my “guardian agent” calls again, he’ll anwer
my questions. Until then, I’m going to dance it off. Things seem a little crazy
right now, and I don’t know what else to do. I have to clear my head and think.
Fred’s Boots isn’t even in the phone book, for God’s sake! It’s not online
either. What am I supposed to think? Dance with me!”
“I can’t dance. But
you know, LSC sounds good!” Louise said, closing the magazine. “LSC’s Chinese
Chicken Bowl! I won’t need to cook tonight. Except maybe dessert!”
“Come on! Dance!”
Abbi pleaded.
Louise put down
the magazine and started dancing with Abbi. Her moves were fluid, actually remarkably
rhythmic. Her hips swayed with the music in a way only bigger girls can do, as
if her waist were a pivoting point. She watched Abbi’s
not-yet-ready-for-prime-time moves.
“We really need
to talk, Abbi. Entering a dance contest, is that ‘laying low’?”
Abbi sighed, stopped
dancing, and looked around. With the growing possibility of listening devices
planted around the house, talking about her parents wasn’t something she felt
comfortable doing. Her parents might be in serious trouble. Were they missing?
Were they dead? Again she diverted the topic to the dance contest.
“I have to do something,”
Abbi said.
Maybe it was the
physical activity allowing oxygen to reach her brain cells after the heat of
the day almost melted them. Anyway, it occurred to her that the dance contest
was weeks away. Abbi didn’t have that kind of time. Something was going on with
her parents. They needed her NOW!
“Remember what Mr.
Agent Man had said? Stuff about ‘Lay low for a few weeks. Don’t do anything to
bring attention to yourself. Your
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