by Alex Flinn
“No, I work at a church near here. Don’t change the subject. What do you mean, you’re not going?” To Peyton and Ashley, he says, “Your friend’s a fabulous singer—she’s going to be the next Renée Fleming.”
Like they know who she is. “Thanks. I don’t … I just didn’t think it was for me.”
“Of course, it isn’t,” Ashley says. “That’s where all the goths go.”
“And the freaks,” Peyton adds. “I see them on the train when we go downtown for Heat games. They don’t get out of school until, like, four-thirty, and they’re all there, singing and dancing on the Metrorail platform.” She wrinkles her nose. “So weird.”
I still can’t look at Sean, so I sit there, picturing a girl I once saw, doing what Peyton’s talking about; a girl in a black leotard with long, black hair, stretching and dancing between the columns, and none of her friends acted like that was weird at all. I watched her, even as the train pulled away, thinking she looked like a bat, dark and beautiful against the brilliant Miami skyline. I wanted to be her.
“I’m sorry you won’t be there,” I hear Sean say.
“Yeah,” Ashley says. “It’s a shame. Well, it was nice meeting you. Gotta go.”
I follow them, because that’s what I’ve become: a follower.
They’re barely outside before they start trashing him.
“Your friend’s going to be the next Brunhilde Fatso,” Ashley mimics.
“‘She’s fabulous!’” Peyton giggles. “He talks like you, Cait, all opera-y.”
My friends don’t get the opera thing. To them, it’s all fat ladies with horns, and I don’t even try to explain it. When I was a lonely fatgirl, I always had opera. Now I have other things, so I should give it up. But I don’t want to. I want to run to that school; maybe it’s running for my life.
“What was up with his shirt?” Peyton says. “It had a hole in it.”
“You should’ve given him your chips,” Ashley says. “He was so scrawny.”
“Like you’d want to go to that freaky school. Why’d you even try out?”
We reach Ashley’s car. I put my hand on it, steadying myself, feeling the warmth against my hand. I look through the window and see Sean looking at me. “I just wanted to see if I’d get in, okay? But I’m not going. My mom would never let me.”
I hold my breath. They hate my mom, even though they’re a lot like her. But Ashley says, “Yeah, well, even your mom can be right once in a while.”
* * *
Opera_Grrrl’s Online Journal
* * *
Subject: Rowena
Date: April 25
Time: 8:37 a.m.
Listening 2: Tape for my voice lesson (which is in an hour)
Feeling: Hyper
Weight: 116 lbs.
THINGS I LOVE ABOUT MY VOICE TEACHER ROWENA’S CONDO
1. She has a mirror over the piano, so I can see my face when I sing, but not my body.
2. Her cocker spaniel, Sailor, sings along when I hit high notes.
3. Her cat, Fred, sits on the piano and tries 2 grab the sheet music pages.
4. Sometimes Rowena’s next-door neighbor bangs on the wall 4 quiet. R always bangs back and shouts, “Someday, you’ll PAY 2 hear her sing!”
5. She used 2 be a real opera singer and has pictures of herself playing Suzuki in Madame Butterfly at the NYC Opera!!!
6. Rowena thinks I’m special and talented.
So why am I lying 2 Rowena??? It’s been 2 weeks since I got the letter from MHSA ....... Every week, she asks me if I got it & every week I say no. It’s just ....... she’ll be so disappointed that I can’t go.
* * *
CHAPTER 7
My voice lesson’s almost over, and she hasn’t asked me yet. Maybe I’ll get out without lying today. Rowena stops playing the piano. “So, have you heard?”
Or not. “Um, nope. Nothing yet.”
She grins. “Good. Then I get to tell you. I talked to a friend of mine who teaches at the school. You got in!”
“Great. Wow … um … that’s great.”
“Isn’t it? They’re all so excited about having you there.”
“Great.” Do you know another word? “Wonderful…”
“What’s wrong, Caitlin?”
At this point, Fred the cat nuzzles my shoulder, and I mumble, “I’m not sure I want to. I mean, I’m really happy studying with you. I don’t want anything to change.”
This is something I’ve thought about. I’ve been taking voice with Rowena since middle school. I had to beg Dad to pay for lessons, and I had to ride my bike to get there (still do), but it’s worth it. Rowena used to be a real opera singer. She traveled all over the world, but gave it up to raise her kids. The coolest thing about Rowena is she’s nothing like my mom. She’s like the Anti-Mom. She’s let her hair go gray and she wears it long down her back, and probably doesn’t even own any makeup. Rowena knows just how much to push me—enough so I have something to work for, but not so much that I want to drink gasoline after a lesson. And she’d never tell me to get long layers.
I’d miss it a lot if I couldn’t study with her, and maybe I wouldn’t have time if I changed schools.
But she says, “That’s the coolest part though. I just got a job there myself.”
“You what?”
“Yeah, I thought now that Harmony’s in college, I could work full-time. If you go, I can see you every day. Isn’t that just cool?”
I agree it’s very, very cool, even though my head’s pounding now, but her voice is all excited, and she asks again if I’m going to go. I hear myself say, “Sure.”
She wipes her hand across her forehead like, Whew! What a relief! “That’s so great. I was worried because, with the new job, I probably won’t have much time for my private students. But this way, I can keep you on.”
“You mean you couldn’t otherwise?” Because, um, my head’s about to explode.
“It doesn’t really matter now, does it, since you’re going?”
“No.” I agree that no, it doesn’t matter, and yes, it’s really wonderful, and then I ask if we can sing some more, because I really want to work on this piece I’m doing. It goes up to a high E-flat, and that’s the closest I can get to socially acceptable screaming.
* * *
Opera_Grrrl’s Online Journal
* * *
Subject: I am *Such* a Liar
Date: April 25
Time: 11:03 p.m.
Listening 2: Medea
Feeling: Worried
Weight: Same
I’m listening 2 Medea (see above). It’s abt. this wicked sorceress from Greek myths. Right now, Medea’s singing about how much she hates her ex-husband, Jason, how much she loves their kids, and finally—hey—why not kill the 2nd 2 get revenge on the 1st?
In her room, Mom’s screaming @ Dad about child support—now almost a month late.
See the irony???
* * *
I stop typing and turn off the stereo. A few minutes ago, Mom came in and said it was almost eleven and she had a headache, and couldn’t I just listen to rap music or something like other kids. I left it on until now just to prove my point.
“Do you want to go to court?” Mom screeches. Then she sings an aria about what her lawyer will do to Dad if that happens.
A pause while Dad checks his bank balance.
Then I guess he says something because she yells, “Oh, I’d like to see that!”
And she hangs up.
Mom’s in the bathroom when I walk in. She has all her Emma Leigh products in front of her on the counter. When I was little, she used to let me put makeup on her, like she was a big, pretty doll. She’d do makeovers on me too, and tell me that someday, when I lost weight (she called it “baby fat”), I’d be so pretty … just like her. Everyone would want to date me. I once went to career day dressed as a cosmetologist.
She hasn’t offered to do my makeup since I got thin and might actually look good.
>
I say, “What would you like to see?”
She jumps. “Oh… Caitlin … thought you were sleeping. The noi—singing stopped.”
“You told me to stop. What were you telling Dad you’d like to see?”
She sighs. “Caitlin, when you get to be my age, you’ll understand that sometimes, just occasionally, a person needs quiet.”
“I understand,” I say. “Really.”
“I hope so.”
“So what’d Dad say?”
“Dad?” She tries to look like she doesn’t know what I’m talking about. It doesn’t work. I notice a book on her dressing table. Find a Husband After 35. Terrific.
“You don’t scream at anyone else like that,” I say.
She slathers makeup remover on one eyelid, then dabs at it with a tissue. “I wasn’t screaming.” I give her a yeah, right look. “Well, he just makes me so mad. He thinks he can just do … whatever, the usual stuff. His kids—his other kids are in private school that costs as much as a Honda Accord—per year, per kid, but he thinks I should sell this house and move us to the middle of the stinkin’ Everglades if I need money.”
Sounds like Dad. He can definitely afford the child support, but I’m guessing he hates having his ex-wife and ex-kid sucking money out of him that he’d rather spend, buying out the entire stock of Limiteds One and Too, for Macy and the girls. I can’t imagine not living in this house. We’ve been here forever. The way I see it, Dad owes me that money—he doesn’t give me anything else.
“Yeah, he’s a jerk,” I say and mean it. We share a rare moment of mother-daughter solidarity. One, two, three …
“That’s why you need to be careful, Caitlin. Once you have kids with someone, you’re stuck with them forever.” She tosses out the mascara-blackened tissue and starts on the rest of her face with Emma Leigh makeup remover.
Love you too, Mommy.
“I mean stuck with the man, not the kids.”
“Sure.” I try again. “What did you mean when you said you’d like to see that?”
She moves her fingers in circles along her cheekbones. “Hmm? Oh, he threatened to try and get custody if I kept nagging for money. As if.”
She likes to do that, use expressions she thinks sound youthful. But she’s always behind, so by the time she discovers something, no one’s saying it except people on TV. “You really should have a beauty routine, Cait. Moisturizer and night cream. Young people think they’re invincible, but once those crow’s-feet show up, it’s too late.”
“There’s always Botox.” I’m still processing the idea—me living with Dad. Obviously, he didn’t mean it, not unless Macy needs a free babysitter. But maybe … “Mom, I really want to go to Miami High School of the Arts.”
“Caitlin, we’ve been over this.”
“No, actually, we haven’t. You just said no, that it isn’t safe.”
I know I could get her to let me go in a second, just by saying I want to get away from Nick. She’d have to let me go then. She went with me for the restraining order. But I hate to play that card. It makes me seem too pathetic.
“I still think so,” she says.
“Rowena has a job teaching there. She says we could probably take the train together.” Rowena didn’t say that. But Mom doesn’t know. I try not to notice her nose getting all wrinkly when I mention Rowena’s name.
“Caitlin…” She finishes removing her makeup and tosses the last greasy tissue into the toilet. I watch it floating, making a film on the water. I think of Rowena, gone, and me, trapped here with Peyton and Ashley; trapped in this cheerless cheer-girl existence, when really, I want to be like that girl at the train station.
Mom’s rinsing her face, and when she turns off the water, I hand her a towel.
“You know,” I say, “if I moved in with Dad, I bet he’d let me go.”
CHAPTER 8
I ’m here. Now what?
107 lbs. I’ve been Slim-Fasting for two weeks to make a good first impression. I feel a little light-headed.
Everyone here’s like Peyton and Ashley said, and they all seem to know one another—maybe they’ve been having secret meetings all summer.
Right, Caitlin.
At the front of the room, an African-American girl with great cornrows is playing the piano. A guy is standing beside her, improvising a song about …
“I looooove your armpits! They are so fiiiiiiiine!”
Yup. Armpits. Check.
“Hey, Diva!”
I turn.
“Yeah, you. You’re the one that sang Phantom at auditions, right? You made it.”
Now, I recognize her by her voice. It’s Eyebrow-Ring Girl. But now her hair’s bright white and very short. She notices me staring.
“Are you, like, so shocked?”
“Oh.” I laugh. “It’s … pretty.”
“Pretty weird. My mom stopped looking freaked by the red, so I tried this.”
“When I’m away from your arrrrmpits, nothing is the same!”
She runs a hand across her hair. “Was that your mom who dropped you off?”
I sort of sigh without meaning to. Mom had to drop me off today (other days, I’ll take the train, thank God) and wore one of her “business” outfits—a red miniskirted suit with a matching lace cami. In case I wasn’t weird enough.
“Probably wouldn’t take much to shock her,” the girl says.
“What’s that mean?” I snap.
“Sorry.” The girl puts her hands in front of her, protectively. She gazes at me a minute, then asks, “Do you do pageants?”
“Huh? Of course not.” But I feel my homecoming princess banner like a piece of skin across my chest. How did she peg me so easily? Does she remember my dress from auditions (I did better today—standard issue capri jeans and a blue T-shirt—but I still manage to look overdressed compared to most people). I’m too weird for the cheerleader crowd and too cheerleader for the weird crowd.
“I want your armpits today, and I’ll still want them tomorrow.”
“Oh, I just thought I recognized you from somewhere. I’m Gigi. I used to do pageants as a kid. Then my parents got divorced, and my mom moved here because it’s a better pageant state. Last year, she made me enter Miss Teen Miami.”
“Wow. Did you win?” I size her up like Mom would. She’s skinny and pretty, but doesn’t have the hair to be a pageant type.
“What do you think?” She raises an eyebrow. “I didn’t exactly try my hardest. I might have slightly—and I mean just slightly—let some of my butt hang out of my bathing suit.”
“On purpose?”
“You bet. You’re supposed to spray your butt with glue so the suit won’t ride up. But Mom was all, ‘We’ll show ’em next time.’ So I killed her dreams with this.” She gestures to the eyebrow-ring, which I now see is shaped like a little crown. “I told her it made me feel better about losing. She wasn’t real sympathetic. But you looked like the type who’d go in for stuff like that.”
“If I can’t have your armpits, then let me have your loooooooove!”
“Well, I’m not.” The music wails in my ears, and Gigi’s talking, and it’s just too much. I get up. “Excuse me.”
Terrific. Making enemies already. The song finishes, and everyone looks when I stand. It’s 7:28 and already I know this was a huge, huge mistake. Is it too late to register at my old school? I walk down the steps to the group clustered around the piano. The armpit guy is finished, and the girl who was playing piano starts in on an equally gross song about nose hair. I’m blown away that people can improvise like this when all I can do is sing other people’s music.
No, it’s easy. Just think of something gross. Boogers.
Boogers, boogers are so sweet. They are things I like to eat.
I can not sing that!
“Caitlin, you made it!”
I’m not surprised to see Sean Griffin. Actually, I realize I’ve been looking for him the whole time. He’s with a girl I’ve never seen before.
>
“Yeah,” I say. “My mom changed her mind.”
Actually, Mom accused me of blackmail, but I didn’t care. I had to go. I felt like I used to feel when I was a fatgirl, outgrowing all my clothes, like I might blow up.
So I told her if I couldn’t come here, I’d move in with Dad. I lied. I knew she’d never let that happen, never let her nice, easy ride disappear.
“That’s great.” He gestures toward the girl. Actually, now that I look, she’s clinging to him like a barnacle. “Caitlin, this is Misty.”
Misty doesn’t smile. She’s this fattish blonde in a low-cut, tight pink crop top. She doesn’t really look at me, because that would mean taking her eyes off of Sean. “Come on, Shawnee. Octavio saved us seats.”
“See you around.” Sean follows her to the empty seats which are—apparently—near everyone they’ve ever met in their lives. I look around for an empty seat, but the only one left without someone in it is the one I left. By Gigi.
She smiles and glances at Sean. “Nice.”
“I guess so. I wasn’t really planning on thinking about … guys this year. I want to get serious about singing.”
That’s true, isn’t it?
“Probably for the best. Most guys here are gay.”
I look at Sean and Barnacle Girl, still barnacling. “Obviously not him.”
The nose hair song’s still going. Gigi says, “You are serious.”
“What?”
“You said you wanted to get serious about singing. You’re plenty serious.”
“How do you know?”
“Because I heard you. You’re good. You’re better than most people here.”
Is she for real? “Yeah, I thought you were incredible too. Everyone here’s really talented.”
She shrugs. “Not everyone. But it definitely beats regular school.”
I nod. “I lied to people at my old school—told them I was moving in with my Dad, so I wouldn’t have to explain that I just wanted to get away from them.”
“Running screaming from conformity,” she says.
