by Alex Flinn
The question ur all wondering about (even tho probably no 1 is reading this): The reason I had a therapist is b/c I recently broke up w/the boyfriend from HELL!!!
What is the Boyfriend from Hell? It is one who seems really perfect:
• wicked-hot
• nice car
• showed up on time
• brought flowers
• wrote poetry
But also:
• hit me
• told me I was fat
• said I should only hang out w/his friends b/c mine were all losers
• said no one would ever want 2 be w/me but him
• said my singing was stupid
• and, um, did I mention, HIT ME???
So this past Dec., I broke up w/him, & I actually went 2 court and got a piece of paper that says if he comes 2 close, I can call the cops & they will throw his butt in jail.
That’s when I got the shrink. I went for a month or 2, sat in a circle w/other girls who’d had bad boyfriends, talked about them, wrote poetry about them, did interpretive dances about them, role-played what we’d say if we saw them, cried, etc., etc., etc ............ then I got tired of wallowing in my problems so I stopped going. I use the time for practicing my singing now. *That’s* therapy.
But every once in a while, I think about getting back together w/Nick. How wacko does that make me???
Which is why I’m also thinking about switching schools.
* * *
CHAPTER 2
Ex-boyfriend at 3:00. I fumble with my lock. He walks closer. I try not to look like I’m looking at him, but I also try not to look like I’m not looking at him, if that makes sense.
Of course it doesn’t.
Ex-boyfriend at 2:30. I open my locker and stick my head completely inside. Maybe he won’t notice me, and he’ll just go away.
Yeah, right. He probably has my schedule tattooed on the back of his hand. Last month, I changed my locker and my lock because he broke in and left me flowers (white roses) for my birthday. It was beyond creepy.
I look around the side of my door. Ex-boyfriend at 1:00. Mayday! Mayday!
And … he’s … past me.
I realize I haven’t breathed in about a minute. I inhale quickly and exhale slowly, like I’m singing. I back away from my locker, all shaky. I can’t even remember what I came here to get. I close it and stand, pretending to rest my hand against a locker. Really, I’m looking to see if Nick’s still there, looking at me.
But he isn’t looking. He’s going around the corner. 9:00 … 8:00…
Nick gets to the end of the hallway and turns. Our eyes meet a second. Then he looks away. I start walking in the opposite direction …
… and bump right into my friend Peyton.
“’Sup, girlfriend?” Peyton says.
I answer, truthfully, “I don’t know.” I hope she didn’t see me looking at Nick.
No such luck. Peyton points to the corner Nick’s just disappearing around. “Omigod, was that Nick? Were you talking to him, Cat?”
I wince at Cat. That’s what Nick used to call me. My friends aren’t known for their sensitivity, and I know Peyton’s just looking for good gossip. Before Nick, I used to have real friends. But Nick made me dump them and just hang out with his friends, who were so fakey-perfect that staying friends with them was work. Now my old friends are mad at me for dumping them, and even though Nick’s friends took my side in the breakup, I still don’t know them that well—and they sure don’t know me. If I cop to looking at him, it will be all over school by lunch.
I shake my head. “Are you on crack? No. No!”
She shakes her head. “Right. Sure. Of course not. So, you going to the basketball pep rally, Friday?”
“Can’t. There’s a state competition for chorus in Tampa. We’ll be there all day.”
“God, I’d gouge my eyes out—missing important stuff for an elective. You should’ve taken driver’s ed instead of chorus. Can’t you just be sick that day?”
“I have a solo too.” One that I beat twelve other girls out for.
Peyton rolls her eyes. “You would. Will you be back in time for the game?”
“I really, really hope so.” Not a snowflake’s chance …
“You know, you’re not going to have time for that stuff if you make the squad next year. They expect you to be at every practice every game, unless you’re, like, dead or something. And even then, you’d better have a note from the mortician.”
Not a snowflake’s chance of that either. I’m not trying out for cheerleading squad. I wouldn’t make it anyway. I’m not what you’d call coordinated, and Peyton’s right. I’d have to give up chorus. Which is so not happening. But I haven’t figured out how to explain that to my friends. I know when I do, they’ll ditch me for sure.
“Look,” I say. “I’ve got to go to English. See you later.”
“Caitlin?”
I want to look at my watch. But that would be rude, and I have to be nice or I won’t have any friends at all. “What?”
“You’re not getting back with Nick, are you?”
“Are you kidding? No. I wish I never had to even see him again.”
I think that’s true.
* * *
Opera_Grrrl’s Online Journal
* * *
Subject: More about Nick
Date: April 7
Time: 4:01 p.m.
Feeling: Nervous
Weight: 116 lbs. this morning (Emergency!)
Days Since I Auditioned for Miami HS of the Arts: 25
No responses 2 my 1st entry, which proves no 1 is reading this. GOOD. I had this secret fear that every1 I ever met would magically figure out this was me!
Saw Nick in the hall 2day. He didn’t say anything 2 me, which I guess is good. Maybe he’s figured out that I’m not going 2 get back w/him.
Two weeks ago, he called me and asked me 2 meet him @ the beach.
What I can’t believe is: I didn’t say no. I said yes. I was dressed & out the door b4 I came 2 my senses. But part of me maybe wanted 2 go.
Nick was the only guy I ever loved .......... I liked him since 7th grade, only I wasn’t hot enough 4 him 2 notice then. He’s been part of my life always. And he was the only 1 I ever ....... did anything with. It’s hard 2 look at some1 you were so close 2 and say you’re never going 2 speak 2 him again. The world is different w/out him. I dated this other guy 4 a while, but it wasn’t the same.
After Nick & I broke up, even w/the restraining order, he followed me around, just far enough away that I’d look all paranoid if I said anything. I got hang-up calls 2. It wasn’t his number on the Caller ID, but I knew it was him, maybe from a pay phone.
Sad Truth: It’s flattering 2 think he still cares that much.
I feel him watching me in the halls. It’s when I watch back that worries me.
ON 2 ANOTHER TOPIC .......... I should be getting my letter from MHSA any day now ............ I auditioned there almost a mo. ago & they said they’d get us the letters “next month.” Next month means w/in 30 days, right? If they just meant sometime in April, I may die. OMGOMGOMG!
This makes me happy (I’m dying 2 find out if I got in!!!) but it worries me 2. Thing is I never told mom I was trying out b/c ................
• I wasnt sure if I wanted 2 go even if I do get in (I really might just want 2 know if I’m good enough)
• I’m not sure I’ll get in & I don’t even want her to know I tried out if I don’t get in.
But she’ll def. be mad I tried out w/out telling her, so I need 2 break the news gently if I get in.
So the way I’ve dealt w/this is ......... I’ve been running home the moment the bell rings at 2:43 ................ actually SPRINTING home would be a better word 4 it (you’d think I’d be losing major poundage) ....... knocking down unwary people in my path. Our mail gets delivered at 3 & mom’s home then b/c she sells real estate ............ so I’m out there waiting for our pruny old mailman like I’m hot
4 him .............
But on Fri. we have state chorus competition and I’ll be away when the mail comes. What if the letter comes then????????
* * *
CHAPTER 3
The television isn’t on when I get home. That’s the first sign of a problem. There are always warning signs: Rattlesnakes rattle. Cats’ fur stands on end. With my mother, the first sign of trouble is the eerie silence of a TV-free living room.
But maybe I’m just being crazy. The whole drive home from Tampa, I’ve been freaking out, not singing “Ninety-Nine Bottles of Beer on the Wall” with everyone else, not even whispering and giggling (okay, not too much) when Brianna Owens and Josh Eisenberg crawled up into the bus luggage rack and were definitely doing way more than just making out. Even then I was worried about Mom and the letter.
But what are the odds that the letter would have come today?
I stand by the door waiting for something to happen. It really is weird that the TV isn’t on. There’s always a makeover show on some station.
What are the odds?
Mom’s sitting on the sofa, staring at something in her lap. I walk closer, talking. “Hey, we got a superior rating. I got a superior on my solo too, and…” I’m talking just enough so she won’t comment on it when I leave.
She holds up the thing in her lap. It’s a letter. The letter. I can see on the return address where it has the Miami High School of the Arts emblem thing.
Life lesson learned: Whenever you say, “What are the odds?” the odds-gods automatically up them to 100% certainty.
“What’s this, Caitlin?”
I don’t know. What is it? Acceptance or rejection? Acceptance or rejection?
“Um, I thought I’d try out for the performing arts school.”
“You thought you’d try out? Don’t you have to get a parent’s permission to transfer to a new school?”
“Can I see the letter please?” I say, trying to be nice.
“When were you planning on telling me this? Or were you?”
“Of course I was going to tell you. I didn’t transfer… I just wanted… Can I have the letter please? I want to see—”
She turns it over, and that’s when I see for the first time that it’s open. She read it! She read it before me. I’m trying really hard not to swallow my tongue.
“You opened it?”
“It was an accident. I thought it was junk mail.”
“Opening other people’s mail is a federal crime.” I read that somewhere.
“I said it was an accident. Now answer my question.”
“Give me my letter!”
“Caitlin!”
“Give me my letter!”
I’m sure I didn’t get in, and the thought of Mom knowing that just kills me. Up until now, I’d been telling myself that I wasn’t sure I wanted to go, that maybe I wanted to stay at Key Biscayne High with my friends. But now I know that’s a lie. If someone gave me a choice between an acceptance and breathing for the next five minutes … well, I’d have to think about it.
“Give me my letter!” With each time I yell it, I get louder until she’s holding her ears.
“Caitlin, stop yelling. I have the windows open. The neighbors—”
“Then give it to me! It’s mine!”
“Caitlin, how could you do something like this … try to switch schools without telling me?”
“Would you stop making it about you? It’s not always about you!”
“I’m your mother. I’m practically the only parent you have, and I—”
Her voice fades to static because that’s when I figure it out. I got in. If it was a rejection, she wouldn’t be mad. She’d be all sweetie and honey, comforting poor Caitlin who’d failed. Again. Don’t worry, sugarplum, Mommy’s here to pick up the pieces of your broken heart, as the old song goes. But if she’s mad, it could only mean…
I grab the letter. I’m giggling and crying, and I grab the letter from her and run until I get to the bedroom. I slam the door and lock it.
Dear Caitlin: We are pleased …
The letters swim before me, and I read it over and over again, memorizing it:
Dearcaitlinwearepleasedtoinviteyoutobepartoftheclassof … and I’m jumping up and down, screaming and smiling so hard I feel like my face might explode out of my throat. Mom’s pounding on the door, and I’m dancing and screaming, “I got in!” at the same time she’s screaming, “You’re not going!”
* * *
Opera_Grrrl’s Online Journal
* * *
Subject: Miami HS of the Arts Letter
Date: April 11
Time: 9:37 p.m.
Listening 2: Mad Scene from Lucia di Lammermoor (which mom hates b/c it’s 2 screechy)
Feeling: Crazed
Weight: 115 lbs. this morning
Guess what came 2day?
The good news: got in.
The bad news: can’t go.
* * *
I stop typing and eat three gummy bears—green, yellow, and red. My jeans feel tighter when I do this, though gummies only have nine calories each (times three). The thing about losing a lot of weight is that it feels temporary, like you’re just a thin fatgirl, and one good Big Mac will send you exploding from your jeans again. I weighed a hundred and five when I left camp last year. Since then I’ve gained and lost the same fifteen pounds a dozen times. Right now, I weigh one-fifteen, which is what the weight charts say you’re supposed to weigh at five-three. The guy who made the weight chart (and I’m sure it was a guy) didn’t go to my school, though. At my school, the most you can weigh is one-ten, even if you’re five-foot-nine.
I toss the rest of the bag into the wastebasket, stare at the computer screen, and listen to the opera on CD. This is the part where the soprano just went completely nuts and stabbed a guy. She’s covered in blood, singing like crazy in her nightgown in front of a crowd of people … all because her family wouldn’t just let her do what she wanted to do.
I can sooooo relate.
CHAPTER 4
I wake to the sound of screaming.
“Lance! Are you aware of the date?”
My mother. I check the clock on the night table. Seven-thirty.
“It’s April twelfth. Twelve! That’s eleven days late for this month, and we still don’t have March!”
Ah. Daddy-kins is late on the child support. Again.
“If I don’t get that check, I’ll have to buy her clothes at Wal-Mart! Do you care?”
I really don’t think my dad cares where she buys my clothes. I think about the gummies in the garbage.
“You try and feed and clothe a sixteen-year-old on what you give me! The least you could do is not insult us by being late on top of everything. Really late.”
I take the bag from the garbage, then go to the bathroom, and shake the bears into the toilet. They scream as they whirl down the drain. I read once that Lindsay Lohan, the actress, dumps her Diet Coke onto her plate when she’s through eating so she won’t be tempted to graze, which is why you can see every bone in her neck like it’s on display. I need to do that. Closer to the bedroom, Mom’s voice is louder.
“No, I don’t use the money for myself. We had an agreement, Lance! Lance! Don’t you dare hold the phone away from your ear!”
I’m about to turn the stereo louder, the better to avoid Mom’s Vengeance Aria, when I hear the finale.
“You think you could do better, raising her?” She laughs. “I’d like to see that!”
* * *
Opera_Grrrl’s Online Journal
* * *
Subject: In Their Gummy Graves
Date: April 12
Time: 8:00 a.m.
Feeling: Determined
Miami HS of the Arts Possibilities
• Work on Mom
• Forge Mom’s signature on registration paperwork
• Stay at Key Biscayne High, be a cheer-girl & get stalked by ex
• Try 2 live with Dad???
* * *
I hit the backspace button and erase the last one.
The first thing I remember my father doing was leaving. That was the second thing too, and the third, and the tenth. My father was always leaving for something—business trips, double-secret golf weekends. Then one day when I was five, he got tired of coming home for fresh Jockey shorts and he left for good.
The day he left, in a scene reminiscent of The Parent Trap but without the British accents, my parents divided up the important stuff: Mom got me. Dad got the Porsche. I can still see myself wearing my favorite Sleeping Beauty dress (I loved Aurora because she looked just like Mom). We came home from preschool, and Dad was loading his suitcase into the trunk of the aforementioned Porsche. I asked if he was going on a trip. He looked at Mom.
She shrugged, like, “You tell her,” and he said no, he was leaving for good.
Note word choice: For good. He didn’t say what I now know are the usual meaningless things about how we’d still be a family, that it wasn’t my fault. He said he was leaving for good. I had no idea what “for good” meant, except it didn’t sound any good to me. I started crying. He yelled at Mom that she brought me home on purpose to make it hard for him and that this was the kind of crap she always did. Finally, he pried my fat fingers from his pants leg and drove away.
Mom held me, to keep me from being crushed by the Porsche, then said, “We should have dinner at Mickey D’s. A shake always helps.”
“No!” I didn’t want a shake. I wanted everything to go back to the screwed-up way it was. Finally, I agreed to go. I got a shake. A Shamrock, because it was March. Large. Since then mint ice cream has always made me sick. It’s one thing I can’t eat. But if I had to guess, I’d guess that’s also the day I started eating when I felt bad.
Some people fantasize about their dads coming back, or about going to live with them. Not me! I see Dad twice a year, at Thanksgiving or Christmas (not both, even though he only lives twenty minutes away), and again on Easter. For a long time, I associated Dad with the smell of sweet potatoes. Mom drives me to his place, which he shares with his lovely wife, Macy, and their charming daughters, Thing One and Thing Two. I get there an hour before dinner and leave an hour after. I always get presents, even on Thanksgiving, since Macy wraps my Christmas gifts early. Last Easter, the bunny brought me a Movado watch, all stuffed inside a pink plastic egg. I spent the next week trying to figure out how to convert it to cash. The stupid thing would’ve paid for an opera subscription or a lifetime supply of sheet music. But the jeweler would only give merchandise credit.
