Nickelodeon is effectively taking over BAM for the weekend, with their highly anticipated Mega Music Fest. No, I can’t get you tickets, but I am doing a little scheming of my own.
Today, I was waiting in line on the 5th floor for the bathroom (There are 2 stalls there to accomodate roughly 300 people, so a line is typical. The best part is to see the look on someone’s face after they’ve taken “a while,” when they come out to see 7 people giving them the evil eye.) I saw a sign on the wall: Quiet, Rehearsal in Process.
“Don’t tell me what to do!” I shouted at the sign, then quickly covered my mouth. I rounded the corner to peak into the Attic Studio, where I found a group of kid dancers rehearsing for the show this weekend. There were about 12 years old, and O.M.G. were they fierce. I mean, they could strut. Gently, I placed my hands to the window, peering in at what I wanted to be, a pre-adolescent back-up dancer.
I watched them as the sergeant, excuse me, choreographer, shouted “5, 6, 7, 8!” Those kids broke it down, and it was only 9am (I saw them later around 5:30, so I’m pretty sure they are slaves). “I wanna be you,” I mouthed threw the window. “I wanna be just like you.”
Tomorrow, I plan to wear my hair in pigtails, and sport lots of pink, maybe something with hearts or words like “Brat” or “Cool.” I’ll casually walk into the studio with the rest of the kids and their parents. I’ll stand in the back to pick it up, at first, and I’ll join when I feel more confident. Sure, I’llmess up all the steps, bump into the other kids and maybe even accidentally punch a chick in the face if she gets in the way of my money shot, but that’s how I do.
“Who’s the tall one?” one of the mother’s will ask another, as she admires the diamond ring that little Tyler got her after dancing back-up in a Demi Lovato video.
“I dont know,” another will say, “but she’s completely overdeveloped and can’t even do a friggin jazz square.”
These two heinous stage mother’s will plot to destroy me, but during a bathroom break, I’ll head down to my actual work desk, take down my pigtails, and no one will be the wiser. That is, until I get busted (in kid attire, again) flirting with Justin Beiber in the elevator.