Motownphilly Girl Scout

“Five more minutes, girls.”

Finally!

For two hours my friend Teal and I had been craning our necks at every exit sign, anticipation dancing in our eyes, as we kept watch for the one that would take us to our destination.

Manteca Waterslides. Turn right.

We were eight that summer and finally old enough to attend Girl Scout sleepaway camp. As a bonus for our bravery—the only two from our Brownie Troop going—my parents promised a stop at a popular waterslide park before dropping us off at the buses that would take us to camp.

We squealed when we heard the news.

With our sleeping bags, pillows, and favorite stuffed animals packed in the back, my grandma “Mommo” along for the ride, we hit the road for the two-hour drive.

Bathing suits, towels, and smiles in tow.

Pulling into the parking lot was a thrill in itself. I’d never seen a waterslide park that big. The expanse of it seemed to stretch on for miles. Chico Water World and Sacramento Raging Waters—where I had spent my summer birthdays—paled in comparison.

This is going to be epic!

While my dad slept off a hangover in the backseat of our parked car, my mom and Mommo walked us inside, quickly joining the other overstimulated parents lounging in the shade.

That was it. We were free.

We spun in slow circles, heads tilted up to view the slides that intertwined overhead. Blue, red, yellow, loops, steep drops, some fast, some slow—it was so much to take in.

Where to start?

We blended into the sea of smiling faces, the screams of fun and terror mingling, impossible to tell the difference. There were flat mats, single inflated tubes, tandem tubes—we vowed to try them all.

We felt so old, so mature. Like big kids…

Who still needed to check in every so often.

During one of our check-ins, hair dripping chlorinated water, mats tucked under our arms—“Hi! Yes, we’re fine. Okay, bye!”—my mom grabbed me before we were able to bolt and pointed toward the center of the park. I squinted my eyes to focus on what I saw. Park employees erecting a large platform.

Time slowed.

Instant butterflies fluttered in my stomach. Goosebumps rose on my damp skin. A rush of exhilaration surged through my small frame.

That’s a DJ booth!

Nearby signs advertised a lip-syncing competition at noon.

My mom didn’t have to try hard to convince me. I lived for opportunities like this. School plays, church productions, dance recitals, band and show-choir concerts—the limelight always called me.

I dropped my mat.

Dragging Teal behind me, water slides forgotten, we rounded the back of the stage to enter our names and choose a song.

Did she want to do it with me? Who knows.

This was my—I mean, our—time to shine.

I spotted the emcee holding a clipboard for the hopefuls. Before I could grab the pen and scrawl our names onto an empty line, I noticed Teal had stopped moving. She stood frozen behind me.

“I can’t do it.”

Her lips quivered. Her eyes, wide. Head shaking side to side. “I can’t go on that stage with you, Dev.”

“Teal, come on! Yes you can! You can do this!”

She shook her head harder as tears spilled down her cheeks. Her doubt, louder than my pleas.

Was I let down? Yes.

Was I mad? Yes.

Did I still want to enter?

Hell yes.

My heart had decided back at our towels in the shade that I was going to be on that stage.

I steadied my nerves—part excitement, part terror—as I sent Teal back to my mom and grandma.

I would go on alone.

I went back to the emcee, took hold of that clipboard, and grinned knowingly as the perfect song—the only song for me—made itself known. I circled it, scrawling my name on the line next to it, and thanked God for the easy choice.

I was selected to go second, behind a young boy in bright swim trunks, scrawnier than me. I took one look—

Piece of cake.

I analyzed his dance moves from off stage, passing judgement at his lack of skill compared to the choreography I’d been rehearsing in my head. A collection of steps I’d mastered during all the concerts I’d performed in my bedroom.

When he finished, the crowd provided obligatory claps and cheers as he exited stage right.

“Up next we have…”

My name echoed throughout the park.

I took a deep, steadying breath as I walked out in my one-piece swimsuit with holes cut out of the middle, fake bows sewn along both sides, revealing my skeletal midsection. You’re Mariah Carey, I told myself as the emcee handed me the microphone. The sunshine was my spotlight.

When that first beat dropped, I was ready.

Showtime.

The Running Man. The Roger Rabbit. The Butterfly—MC Hammer had nothing on me.

My eight-year-old limbs moved in perfect rhythm as I mouthed the lyrics to Motownphilly by Boyz II Men. My favorite song.

For three minutes and fifty-five seconds, I was a Fly Girl on In Living Color, a backup dancer for Janet Jackson, a contestant on Star Search. The crowd sang and danced along with me, their energy feeding my star-studded performance.

As the music faded and I landed in an ending pose that would humble LL Cool J, I knew I’d nailed it. I floated offstage on a musical high, convinced I was going to win.

Until the next act went on…

Three African American women, slender and toned in their brightly colored bikinis—“The Pointer Sisters,” my mom would later call them—were next.

I watched their performance in awe. At eight, they seemed so much older than I was, though looking back, they could have been just teenagers. They moved gracefully, in unison, portraying everything I wanted to be when I grew up: beautiful, talented, and rhythmically gifted.

The reality of what I’d just witnessed set in when they left the stage. Crushed, I stood there with one thought:

I don’t stand a chance.

At the end of the competition, the emcee brought the contestants back on stage—five of us in total: the boy, the three women, and me. My heart hammered in my chest as I squinted into the sunlight.

A hush fell over us all.

This is it…

When the winner’s name was announced, the crowd erupted in a frenzy.

Only, I hadn’t heard it. I’d gone momentarily deaf with shock. My ears rang as I realized the name the emcee had called.

It wasn’t the scrawny boy’s….

It wasn’t the Pointer Sisters….

It was mine.

I couldn’t celebrate. No jumping up and down. No whooping and hollering. I was too caught off guard to do anything but smile ear to ear while my heart thundered wildly.

I scanned the roaring crowd for the only set of eyes I cared about.

My mom’s.

When I found them, beaming with pride, she gave me an enthusiastic thumbs-up with both hands and an exaggerated wink.

Atta girl, Dev.