by Alex Flinn
“Well, someday you will, I bet. You’ll meet someone who even likes opera.” He grins again. “I wasn’t sure if you knew about Rudy and me.”
I have to say something. “Oh, sure. It’s completely … obvious you two are a … couple.”
He nods. “Well, at my old school, it wouldn’t have been completely obvious. It’s still pretty … weird there. Most people there thought Misty and me were together, since we were such good friends. And when I got here, I figured people in the arts are more, you know, accepting, but I still thought I don’t have to give people info they don’t need.”
I nod. It’s still hard to talk and look at him too. I mean, yeah, I figured it out, but I was still hoping I was wrong. So I put my arms around his neck and hug him hard and manage to get out, “I know.”
And I do.
But for some reason, I still feel exactly like that day with the shark.
* * *
Opera_Grrrl’s Online Journal
* * *
Subject: What Would a Diva Do?
Date: November 27
Time: 12:58 p.m.
Listening 2: “Avant de Quitter” (“Before I Quit”) from Faust
Feeling: Bummed
Weight: 115 lbs. and holding. I’m very proud of myself for not pigging.
Can you believe it? Sean’s gay! I’m *seriously* bummed......
In real life, when some1’s in love w/some1 unattainable (4 whatever reason), they sit around and mope. In opera, they take action. Maybe that’s better. Let’s see ............
What do people in operas do???
MADAME BUTTERFLY—Commit ritual suicide (but I don’t know any rituals).
RIGOLETTO—Step in the path of a hired assassin (don’t know any of those either).
PAGLIACCI—Murder (trying 2 find a solution that avoids jail and/or death).
CARMEN—Ditto
IL TABARRO—Ditto (Seeing a pattern here?).
CAVALLERIA RUSTICANA—Get some1 else mad enough at the guy that *they* commit the murder.
In UN BALLO IN MASCHERA, Amelia goes 2 the graveyard & picks some special plants 2 make her forget the guy ....... but then he sees her & they make out ...... all of which leads 2 ............. MURDER.
It seems like an awful lot of operas end with murderers singing sorrowfully over the bodies of their beloved victims. I don’t want 2 kill Sean. He’s my best friend, and I love him.
Okay, so I’ll mope.
* * *
CHAPTER 30
On Sunday, Sean makes his long-promised visit to come help me with my dance steps. Now that the possibility of romance is zip, zilch, zero, nothing, nada, I would have thought I wouldn’t be as excited about having Sean over. But it’s really weird because I am excited. Maybe it has something to do with the fact that our performance is in two weeks and there’s still the constant threat of having to sing on the side of the stage like a defective. Or maybe I just love being with Sean that much, even if I can’t love-love him.
Mom has an open house that actually (yessss!) does happen. We practice our duet, then go over dance steps about fifteen times. We even get out the camera that Mom uses to make “digital tours” of the homes she’s listed. I film Sean dancing. “I promise to watch it every day.”
“You’d better,” he says. “You can do it.”
“I will, I will.” I actually think I can.
Then, since it’s still an hour before Mom gets home, we order a pizza, and film each other singing. We’re making up an opera about school. I play Ms. Wolfe, and Sean does a hilarious Miss Lorraine Davis, staggering on tiptoe, singing, “Art is suffering, my children! Suffer for art!” in a falsetto voice.
Later, while we’re eating pizza, Sean says, “Caitlin, you may be the perfect girl.”
A week ago, when I was thinking of Sean as the possible Man of My Dreams, this would have caused my stomach to lurch like I’m on the Tower of Terror ride at Disney, where you don’t know if you’re up or down. I may have actually been unable to speak. Now I smile and say, “Why?” Like a normal person.
“Well, you’re not only beautiful and talented. You are also the only girl on the planet—maybe the only human being—who likes pepperoni and olive pizza like I do.”
I laugh. “You’re right. Usually, if people like pepperoni, they aren’t into olives, and if they like olives, they want a veggie and think the pepperoni is too fatty.”
“Not us, huh? We’re naturally skinny.”
I stare at him like, Are you blind, boy? “Not me. I was fat for years.”
“Really?”
“I was hideous.”
“I doubt that.”
I reach across him to the end table where Mom keeps our old photos. A week ago, I wouldn’t have done this either, but I find my freshman class picture. “See?”
He takes it. I expect him to recoil in horror. No! No! This swamp thing can’t possibly be you! Instead, he grins. “You look so cute with pigtails.”
I stare at him. “Right.”
“Yeah.” He looks at the photo again. “I mean, maybe you’re not a model type like now. What do you weigh, a hundred pounds? But you were so cute. Look.”
He shows me the photo. I stare at it, at me, trying to look like Lizzie McGuire in braids, grinning like crazy. It’s like I’ve never seen the photo before, or that person. Sean’s right. I was cute. I weighed over twenty pounds more than now—thirty-five pounds more than my thinnest—which is not that big. I wasn’t a beast. I was cute. I say, “You really think I look like a model?”
He nods and hands back the photo. “You’re beautiful.”
That’s when the door flies open and my mother does a happy dance across the living room. “Someone made a full-price offer, Caitlin! We get to eat this month!”
Which is, of course, an exaggeration. We eat every month. Dad pays.
She sees Sean. “Oh, you have company.” She walks closer. “And pizza … oh, but you got pepperoni. I’ll have to pick that off. Too fatty.”
I see Sean stifle a laugh, then wink at me. Of course, that’s exactly what we said everyone does. I wink back, and it feels good to be with him, good and warm and comfortable.
“What?” Mom says. “What?”
“Nothing, Mom. Get a plate. There’s a slice here with hardly any pepperoni. We should’ve gotten a veggie.”
As soon as she walks out, Sean and I burst into silent giggles.
CHAPTER 31
Rowena corners me on the way out of her class Tuesday. “Did you talk to your mother?”
I know what she means. Did I talk to my mother about the summer opera program? The answer is no. No, I didn’t.
“Yeah. Yeah, I did. She said no.”
I don’t know why I didn’t ask, except that I just wasn’t sure I wanted to go. I want to just enjoy where I am for a while, and not have to leave. Still, I’m surprised when Rowena says, “Caitlin, are you sure you asked her?”
“What? Of course I did. What would make you say something like that?”
“Caitlin, I know that to some people, the idea of success can be as scary as failure.”
“What does that mean? That makes no sense.”
“I think it does. If you fail, that’s comfortable. Nothing changes, right? You can stay exactly where you are.”
“I don’t want to do that. That’s why I transferred schools. I wanted a change.”
“I know when your acceptance letter went out. I know you thought long and hard about whether to transfer. I doubt you would have if it hadn’t been for my pressure.”
I look away. “That was because my mother—”
“Your parents don’t support your dreams. Which makes it easy to sit back and say that you can’t do it. But there are people who have overcome worse adversity to make their dreams come true. It isn’t always easy or comfortable.”
I think of Sean again and what he said about tenacity. Am I un-tenacious because I don’t want to pick up and leave everything again—because I don
’t want to go someplace where I might not be that talented? “I don’t expect it to be easy.”
“I hope not, because it won’t be. But that doesn’t mean you can’t do it. It just means you have to want it. And you have to want it more than anything else.”
“I do want it. Really, my mother said no. I’m sorry you don’t believe me.”
Rowena relents. “Okay, I’m sorry. Do you think it would help if I talked to her?”
“No!” I look over at Gigi, who’s waiting for me near the door. “I mean, no, I don’t think so.” I’m lying like the proverbial rug now. “My mom … we’ve been having some problems. Money stuff. She says I need to get a job over the summer.”
“Oh, I see.” Rowena looks surprised. Finances aren’t usually a problem in our neighborhood.
I say, “But if there’s something near here, I could go during the day and work nights.”
“Okay.” Rowena pats my hand. “We’ll find something wonderful for you to do this summer. Don’t worry.”
I head for the door, not looking at Rowena.
“What’d she want?” Gigi asks, when I get into the hall.
“Oh, nothing. There’s just a lesson I need to reschedule.”
* * *
Opera_Grrrl’s Online Journal
* * *
Subject: Lies
Date: December 1
Time: 8:14 p.m.
Feeling: Confused
Weight: 115 lbs.
I lied 2 Rowena .......... Mom might have said no, but she might have said yes 2, since she just sold a house (an expensive 1 around here) and has some $$, and also b/c it would give her more time 2 play kissy-face w/Arnold ............ & now, of course, there’s not the whole issue of a relationship with Sean. But ................ I don’t know. The idea of sending a tape & then waiting 2 see if I get rejected just sort of makes me feel sick .......... not 2 mention having 2 go someplace new 4 the whole summer. New place, new people. It was hard enough coming here, and now I just sort of got used 2 it & am happy w/where I am.
Rowena thinks I’m afraid 2 try 2 be successful. That’s just crazy. Who fears success???? I want 2 be successful. Why wouldn’t I??? I just want 2 be successful here ............ for a while.
* * *
CHAPTER 32
Shopping with Mom during Christmas season. “Joy to the World” doesn’t begin to cover it. My plan, basically, is to make sure she’s dressed completely wrong for the opera, that is to say, let her buy the type of thing she usually wants—the three Bs: Bare midriff, Bustier, and Butt cleavage. It’s the least I can do for Arnold’s soon-to-be-ex-wife and soon-to-be-ex-dog.
Arnold actually gave Mom a thousand dollars to buy a dress, and the whole way to the Falls, Mom sits in the driver’s seat of ye olde purple convertible, talking about Arnold in fishing terms—hook, line, and sinker; reel him in; cast the net. But when we pull into our parking space, Mom clutches my arm.
“I am soooo glad you came with me.”
“What?”
“It’s just … I wouldn’t know how to dress around opera people!”
I stare at her. And then I feel the steel bars of my resolve melting. Melting, I tell you. I can’t send her out there looking stupid, if she knows she looks stupid. I can’t.
“It’s fine,” I say. “Come on. Let’s get down to some serious shopping.”
Play the shopping montage scene here (like the one in Pretty Woman, where Richard Gere took the hooker to Rodeo Drive). Mom and me at Macy’s, trying on satin, taffeta, and velvet; in Bloomingdales, putting makeup samples on each other; and at Mayors, trying on real jewelry we definitely aren’t buying. Since it’s nearly Christmas, I choose a black velvet dress with a dark green satin sash and a bare back—but no butt cleavage. Then we go downstairs to choose shoes.
“How about these?” Mom holds up a pair of silver high-heeled sandals.
“Too sexy,” I tell her. It’s fun playing What Not to Wear, saying what I actually think for once.
We finally get her into some black satin slingbacks with an open side and what Mom calls “toe cleavage” (the only cleavage I’d let her show) and some real-looking fake diamond and emerald earrings. We’re almost finished with our shopping trip and, so far, we’ve done a decent job of avoiding taboo topics, such as her dating a married man.
On the way out, we pass Jessica McClintock. Mom looks in the window.
“Uh-uh, Mom. Waaaay too young. That’s where my friends shop for prom dresses. You want to look sophisticated.” This is fun.
She puts her hand on my elbow. “I know, I know. I didn’t mean for me.”
She guides me into the shop and points to the most beautiful teal blue satin, full-skirted dress. “Do you have a dance or something coming up?”
The dress would be perfect for my opera scene. I was going to wear my last year’s Homecoming dress, but this is even better. “We can’t afford it.”
“I didn’t spend all the money Arnold gave me,” she says, showing me three hundred-dollar bills.
That’s just about what a plane ticket to New York would cost. I could ask her about the summer program. But she says, “Just try it on.” And I do. It won’t fit me anyway—it’s a size three. So I let her lead me into the fitting room.
“Remember that time when I was thirteen and I got stuck inside the dress I was wearing to Derek Wayne’s bar mitzvah?” I ask her.
Mom giggles. “That was pretty funny.”
“It was not. I had to be cut out of it. It was totally humiliating.” I can still picture it: me, lying on my bed, squealing like a pig, while Mom took her pruning shears to the pink satin.
“Here, let me get that.” Mom turns me around so my back is toward her, then zips the dress in one move. “No problems now. You look perfect.”
I stare at my reflection. The dress fits great, and I look like a professional opera singer in it. I could be playing Juliet, singing her waltz song, or Marguerite in Faust, before she gets pregnant and arrested and dies, or Violetta, or … “Can I have it?”
Mom nods.
At the cash register, she’s still bubbling. “You look great. We’ll look like sisters.”
I roll my eyes, but turn away so she can’t see me doing it. When I don’t answer, she says, “You know what I wish?”
“What?”
“I wish you would like me, Caitlin. You used to.”
I’d been thinking the same thing, but I say, “Of course I like you.”
She gives me this look like, Yeah, right, and says, “Well, I guess we should pay for the dress before we find something else.”
* * *
Opera_Grrrl’s Online Journal
* * *
Subject: Shopping (Guilt) Trip
Date: December 2
Time: 4:35 p.m.
Listening 2: “Martern Aller Arten” (“Tortures Unabating”) from The Abduction from the Seraglio
Feeling: Tired
Weight: 116 lbs.
Shopping w/Mom 2day. It reminded me of when I was little and yet, fat, and Mom was this life-sized Barbie doll. We’d go shopping & I could live vicariously thru her—trying short skirts on her skinny body and satin bustiers on her perfect breasts. Back then, I was sooo proud that my mom was prettier than every1 else’s. She’d tell me that once I lost that “baby fat” I’d be beautiful—and then we’d go buy Häagen-Dazs at the food court. Once upon a time, I wanted 2 be just like her.
2day, I pretended I still do ............. When I used 2 like Mom, it was comfortable, like nothing could ever hurt me. I wish I could tell her everything, about Sean and how stupid I was not 2 figure out about him and Rudy sooner, about how right she was about Dad, and about how scared I am of not being good enough, or maybe being good enough ...... I haven’t talked 2 her in so long, since I grew up and learned what was what. I wonder if I could again.
But I remember Mrs. Arnold and ........ I can’t.
* * *
CHAPTER 33
I was thinking
about what you said before,” I say. Mom’s sitting on the sofa in the living room. She has her shoes off and her toes are in those foamy things that separate them to keep the polish from getting messed up. Now, she’s painting her fingernails a blood red. It’s Saturday night, and she has no date.
“Oh, Caitlin, come sit with me.” She points at her toenails. “It’s a ‘repairing night.’ Want me to do your toes? I was going to start a movie, but my nails are wet. Remember when we used to watch Pretty Woman together? It would be so fun.”
I shake my head. “I’m going out. But I can put the DVD in for you.”
“Thanks.” She gestures toward it.
I go pick it up, then stop. “After we talk.” I handled the whole Sean thing, and that’s made me brave, maybe? Maybe it’s time to stop avoiding Mom.
She fans her nails back and forth, looking at me but not really looking at me. “Sure. What did you want to talk about?”
“About Arnold.”
She fans faster. “Oh, Caitlin, we’ve been over this.”
“I know. But this afternoon, you said something. You said you wished I liked you, like I used to when I was little … younger.”
“Oh, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. I was just being silly. We had a great time today, and I screwed it up.”
“No, you were right. When I was little, I used to look up to you. You were a role model.”
“I suppose all mothers and daughters drift apart. When I was a teenager, I thought my mother was just a drone who did the laundry.” She stops fanning her nails and tests one, holding it to her lip. “It’s dry. Can you hand me that DVD?”
“Mom, I want to talk.”
“Caitlin, there’s nothing to talk about here.”
“But you’re dating a married man. It’s wrong.”
“It’s not much of a marriage anymore. He told me they haven’t been in love for a long time.”
