Sweet by Emmy Laybourne Read Free Book Online Page B

together. I’m not that good, not enough to compete, for sure, but maybe someday.
    At first I was just a twelve-year-old kid and Derek was just my b-boy coach, but then we became friends. Derek has since stopped focusing on dance and he has his own personal training business. He trains me and we talk, every day.
    I hadn’t focused on b-boy since that first year with Derek, but when I started seeing Bonnie Lee I got the idea to surprise her at her eighteenth birthday party.
    Me and Derek worked on it in secret.
    When she dumped me I almost spilled it.
    Can you imagine: “But I can be fun. I’m gonna breakdance at your birthday party!”
    TMZ would have had a field day.
    Some kind of slow song comes on and a short but very pretty brunette tries to lock me in, but I back away.
    â€œGotta hydrate,” I tell her with a wink.
    Fake smile, fake wink. It’s easier to dodge girls when you act like a jerk. So I do it sometimes.
    Back at the table, Rich and Tamara are talking about the next day’s shoot.
    Rich starts applauding as I walk up.
    â€œNow that is what an ambassador does! He gets the crowd moving!”
    â€œThank you.” I laugh. I down a bottle of water. “I actually like to dance.”
    My mom keeps pressuring me to go on Dancing with the Stars.
    But I don’t know—that seems like a last resort.
    I haven’t given up hope on film.
    â€œTom, you are one intriguing fellow,” Rich says. “You should be the new ‘most interesting man in the world.’ The teenage version.”
    â€œThat’s not a bad idea,” Tamara says. “I’m going to text Molly.”
    â€œIt’s what I do, people,” Rich says, twisting the ends of his mustache with a flourish.
    Rich really is some kind of a publicity genius. His age is a secret, but he can’t be more than twenty-two or twenty-three. He’s known for big ideas and apparently only takes on one client a year. This year it’s Solu.
    I signal for more water.
    â€œWow. You are really sweating,” Tamara observes.
    I’ve soaked through my tux shirt. Even the bow tie hanging round my neck is drenched.
    â€œYeah,” I say. “When you’re in shape, you sweat a lot. That’s what my trainer says.”
    â€œYou have some serious moves,” Rich tells me.
    I do a little pop and lock. I grin.
    â€œI can really work with this. I got some good shots,” Rich says, showing me his phone.
    Then it happens—the new single from Daft Punk blares out, blasting over the end of the slow song.
    It’s the song my routine is set to! And I’m feeling good. Endorphins, probably.
    â€œYou want some video?” I ask, giving Rich a crooked grin. “Something worth posting?”
    â€œHells yes, I do,” he sings.
    I toss back the rest of my water and throw the bottle on the ground.
    I step out onto the dance floor, Rich close on my heels.
    â€œShoot it! Shoot it, y’all!” Rich calls out, recruiting others to take video.
    On the floor, I dart back and forth, clearing a little space, top-rocking. Three bounds and I drop. Lots of handwork, a set of swipes, then windmills, working into my power moves, then I pop up onto my elbow.
    Derek would be proud. I’ll have to send him the footage.
    I circle up on the tip of my elbow—I stole this move from him, with his blessing.
    Everyone is screaming for me, hollering with surprise. Egging me on.
    Rich is taping. I see him at the edge of the crowd.
    I roll up into some footwork, now, a little break.
    Then I knee-drop into some CCs. Up for some flares.
    I feel good. I feel alive.
    I wonder, for a second, if Sabbi’s arrived yet.
    I do a swipe to launch myself up onto my feet.
    Only—SHOOT—the floor’s too wet. My own darn sweat. I slip.
    I fly forward, my feet coming out from under me, and I slam into a girl.
    We go down.
    THIS IS WHAT HAPPENS WHEN YOU LOSE CONTROL, I’m shouting