Love, Jacaranda

by Alex Flinn

  I laughed and said I definitely wasn’t rich.

  “So, a prodigy,” David said. Then he started asking me how long I’d taken voice lessons, what kind of dance I did, and where I’d studied acting. To change the subject, I asked if they did anything special for the first night, like at Hogwarts.

  They all laughed, and Daisy said, “They have the sorting ceremony tomorrow.”

  “But you’re rooming with Phoebe, right?” Shani said. “So you must be Slytherin.”

  Blakely said Phoebe was definitely a Slytherin, and David told a story about how her mother called and complained when she didn’t get a solo part in the musical, even though the family had endowed the school or something. He imitated her, making her sound like a snooty cartoon character. So I guessed Phoebe was one of those rich kids without talent. I’d started to ask him when I saw Daisy waving her hands wildly, and they all went silent. I turned. Phoebe was behind me.

  “Hi, guys.” Her eyes were a little pink, like she’d been crying. Daisy asked her to sit down, and Phoebe said she wouldn’t want to interrupt our conversation. She glanced at David.

  I knew she’d heard what he had said. She looked at me. I saw her eyes blaming me, even though I just got here.

  I’ve had enemies before, and more often than not, it was because of something I didn’t do. The boy who got stuck being partners on the bus because all his friends paired up without him. The girl who had her own room before they took on another foster kid. Not to mention all the people who somehow blamed me for stuff my mother did.

  I didn’t deserve those enemies, and I don’t deserve this one. So I said, “Please sit with us. We’re going to be suite mates.”

  She sat, mumbling something about guessing she had to sit somewhere.

  They didn’t have a sorting ceremony, but the headmistress, Miss Pike, made a speech welcoming everyone back and talking about the “exciting, diverse” campus and all the usual things principals everywhere talk about. Then there were performances. First was a string ensemble, well, one of the string ensembles, since they have three. They were incredible, and next, a vocal group performed. Phoebe got up for that, which I guessed was why she said she had to be there. It was a small group, an a cappella jazz ensemble of twelve guys and girls. They were amazing. It sounded like instruments, even though there weren’t any. They were all really professional. Phoebe didn’t have any solo lines until the last part of the medley, which was “Hallelujah” by Leonard Cohen. She sang the verse that ends, “I’ve seen your flag on the marble arch / And love is not a victory march / It’s a cold and it’s a broken Hallelujah.” Mr. Smith, her voice was clear as a sunny day in June, and she put in all the anguish the lines needed and still sounded good enough to give me literal chills. I was sitting on my hard, wooden bench, slack-jawed, my throat closing from the beauty. It was that glorious.

  She must have known she killed it too, because afterward, she actually had a pleasant expression on her face.

  And I was thinking about what David had said, about the rich kids and the prodigies. I assumed Phoebe was the first type and I was the second. But if Phoebe was an example of the people without talent, what must the prodigies be like?

  Whoa, it got real, real fast.

  Phoebe is way better than I am. They probably all are, and when the school realizes it, they’ll send me home.

  I can justify that to myself by saying she’s had more training than I have or more time to practice because she wasn’t working at Publix or hiding from her mother’s scrub boyfriends or moving from one sketchy apartment to another. That’s all true. For sure, she’s had more advantages. All of them have. But I still have to compete with them, and it’s going to be hard. In my old school, I was special. In this school, everyone is special, and I’m just one of them—one with a lot less schooling too.

  Can I even do this? Do I even belong here?

  And, on that note, I’m going to sleep. In my own bed in my own room, all by myself for the first time in pretty much ever.

  I hope they let me stay.

  Love, Jacaranda

  P.S. Are you Will Smith? I figure probably not, but I’ve been dying to ask. After all, you are rich enough to send a total stranger to school, so maybe . . .

  To: Johnsmith247@dll.com

  Date: September 8, 8:37 p.m. Eastern Standard Time

  Subject: It just keeps getting realer

  Dear Mr. Smith,

  I’d like to tell you about my first day of classes. But, unfortunately, I have to write a 500-word essay about George Gershwin because I didn’t know that he wrote the song I was singing. Because people apparently know that stuff here?

  More tomorrow or whenever I come up for air.

  Love, Jacaranda

  To: Johnsmith247@dll.com

  Date: September 10, 9:28 p.m. Eastern Standard Time

  Subject: Update

  Dear Mr. Smith,

  Almost a week since I arrived at Midwestern Arts Academy. Every day, I take my regular classes (language arts, history, algebra, and French) in the morning. In the afternoons, I take:

  Monday/Wednesday/Friday

  Period 5: Musical Theater Workshop

  Period 6: Dance (ballet on Monday, Broadway jazz on Wednesday and Friday)

  Tuesday/Thursday

  Period 5: Drama

  Period 6: Music theory/class piano

  I thought music theory or dance would be hardest, since I’ve never taken either. But they put me in beginning music theory with mostly ninth graders. It’s a little embarrassing, but I’m learning. And I’m not even in the lowest dance class, because some people are just plain uncoordinated.

  No, it’s musical theater where I struggle.

  Why?

  Apparently, there are all these Broadway musicals everyone has seen and are actually bored with that I’ve barely heard of. Even if they are from Des Moines, Iowa, they all seem to have grown up taking weekend trips to New York to see plays like Hamilton, going to the national tour that came to their town, or at least having Tony Award–watching parties and downloading all the albums from the nominated shows.

  Can I tell you a terrible secret? I’ve never seen Wicked. Or Phantom of the Opera either. Or Les Mis. But especially Wicked. Some people here have seen it seven or eight times. They saw it in utero. I’m dying to see it, but I’m pretending I already have.

  Once, in Miami, we went on a field trip to see West Side Story at a local theater. I could barely concentrate because Christian Miranda was kicking my seat the whole time, and it was so loud with all those school groups there, but I still sang, “I like to be in America, okay by me in America” for a week until my mother’s scrub-of-the-week boyfriend yelled at me to stop . . . or else.

  On the first day of class, the teacher, who told us to call him Harry, an older black guy with a voice that makes everything sound like Shakespeare, told us the titles of the musicals we’ll be doing scenes from. The only one I’ve heard of is My Fair Lady. He said we all had to sing for him, and that we should have an audition piece ready at a moment’s notice, in case we had an opportunity. Then he went around the room and asked for the titles. Most people had something ready. I hadn’t done any Broadway stuff, but last year I sang “Someone to Watch Over Me” in a school concert, so when Harry got to me, I told him I’d sing that.

  “From . . . ?” he asked, his voice booming like he was onstage.

  It took me a second to realize he meant what show the song was from. No clue. I tried to visualize the sheet music my teacher had copied for me. Nothing.

  “Do you at least know the composer’s name?” Harry said, his voice rising on “least.”

  Behind me, I heard David whisper something that sounded like “gherkin.” Which made no sense because a gherkin is a kind of pickle (this is Publix knowledge here). But maybe the pickle was named after the person who discovered it. So I said, “Gherkin?”

  Harry scoffed. “What Mr. Sanders whispered was ‘Gershwin,’ one of the most widely
known American composers, of whom you’ve apparently never heard.” Then he told me I must never sing a song in this class or anywhere else without knowing the name of the show, the composer, and the lyricist.

  People giggled and this girl named Brooke, a brunette with big eyes who sits behind me, whispered she couldn’t believe I didn’t know that. I said, “Yes, sir,” trying not to cry.

  He made me write a 500-word report on George Gershwin, no copying out of Wikipedia, because now he thinks I don’t know better. I’m attaching the report in case you’re interested in knowing more about Mr. Gershwin.

  After class, David came up to me with this other guy, Owen, and a girl named Nina, who had sung that day in class. She sang a song called “Show Off,” and she also tap-danced! David said, “Don’t worry about it. That guy’s a jerk* to everyone. I wanted to go home my first week.”

  I would have wanted to go home, if I’d had a home to go to. As it was, I wanted to go back to my room, to my bed with its lavender-and-white sheets, and I wanted to stay there until they kicked me out for not attending class.

  I probably shouldn’t tell you this.

  I sighed and said, “Everyone else knew who wrote their song.”

  Nina replied, “You went to public school, right?”

  I could have let this be the reason for my cluelessness, let myself be the poor, pathetic public school kid. But it kind of made me mad. Most people go to public school. They can’t all be ignorant. And, if they are, the government should give schools more money so that they can teach things like drama and music, because those things are important. I mean, how often do you hear someone say, “I stayed in school because I loved math so much”?**

  So I changed the subject. I told Nina she was incredible. Everyone who sang that day was. “I’m kind of scared to perform Wednesday,” I admitted.

  “Don’t be,” Owen said. “You wouldn’t be here if you didn’t deserve it. I mean, your family didn’t donate a building, did they?”

  I knew he was talking about Phoebe, who, by the way, was not one of the ones laughing when I said “gherkin.” She acts like I don’t even exist, though. The nights that I haven’t been embroiled in a research project, Daisy and I have been going to dorm activities, like cookie-baking or movie night. Phoebe never goes. She didn’t even want a cookie.

  Anyway, I told Owen my family didn’t even have enough money to donate a port-a-potty.

  And I didn’t end up singing Wednesday, which means I’m singing tomorrow, which means I should go to sleep, but Daisy is knocking on the door.

  I’ll write more over the weekend. Enjoy reading up on Gershwin!

  Love, Jacaranda

  To: Johnsmith247@dll.com

  Date: September 11, 3:01 p.m. Eastern Standard Time

  Subject: I’m sorry!

  Dear Mr. Smith,

  By now, I assume you’ve heard from Vanessa about our escape (or, at least, escapade). How bad did the school make it sound? Did we seem like drunken deviants? Because that is not the case, though I’m deeply sorry and drowning in a pool of self-loathing for disappointing you.

  Here’s the whole story:

  As you know, I was sitting (innocently) at my desk at 9:30, planning an early bedtime, when Daisy pounded on the door and called my name.

  I opened it to find both Daisy and Phoebe standing there, which was certainly a surprise. As I said, Phoebe hasn’t even acknowledged me since the first day.

  Daisy was stammering nervously and said she had to show me something downstairs. Phoebe nudged her and said, “Stop acting weird.”

  I asked if I should get dressed, since I was wearing a T-shirt and pajama pants. Daisy told me to put on shoes and take a jacket. I figured it wouldn’t be long since our curfew is 10:00.

  When we reached the lobby, five other new juniors were there, along with a few other girls, including Shani and Nina. I guess I was the last one, because once I was there, they walked outside. I noticed that no one was at the desk. Shani had offered to watch the door while Angie took a cigarette break. When we got outside, Phoebe and Nina and some of the others were holding bandannas.

  “Time for secret junior initiation!” Nina said.

  “What?” one of the other new juniors asked.

  Nina explained that they have all sorts of rituals for new freshmen, but since we’d missed them, they came up with something special for the new girls in the junior/senior dorm. This sounded cool but also sketchy. Wouldn’t we get in trouble? And what were the blindfolds for?

  But Daisy was there. She whispered, “Don’t worry. It’s not a big deal,” and I trusted her. Besides, they couldn’t kidnap all of us, could they? So I let Phoebe put a purple bandanna on me. It smelled nice, sort of lemony. I wanted to ask her why she didn’t like me, but of course, I couldn’t. Acting super needy doesn’t make people like you.

  Also, I’ve learned that, sometimes, someone’s in a bad mood and it has nothing to do with me.

  We started walking. I tried to peek, but it was dark, and I couldn’t see anything. Daisy put her arm around my shoulders. I knew it was her because she whispered in my ear. I started thinking about all the news stories I’d read about fraternity pledges drinking themselves to death in hazing rituals. But this is ARTS SCHOOL. That couldn’t happen here. Still, I decided right then and there that I wasn’t going to drink. (That’s a good thing, right?) I asked Daisy if we’d get in trouble for breaking curfew, and she said she thought the school sort of knew about it.

  I wasn’t sure, but I wanted to make friends and have a “bonding experience.” We walked pretty far without hearing any sounds. The ground was soft, so I guessed we were in the woods. Did I mention there are woods all around the campus? It was cool but not yet cold. Still, Daisy helped me zip my hoodie.

  I relaxed a little. Daisy was probably right. The school must know. Finally, we reached the road. We walked about five minutes more, and then Phoebe ripped off my bandanna. “We’re here!”

  We were in front of a place called Hobie’s Hideaway I’d heard people talking about at school. It wasn’t so much a bar as a hangout where people went on weekends. I saw a sign outside, saying “Karaoke Thursday 9–12.”

  Was this my initiation, karaoke? People at my old school, especially in chorus, sometimes talked about doing karaoke at parties, but since I moved a bunch of times, I was never invited. I always thought I’d rock at it.

  Except I hoped I didn’t get expelled from school.

  But what could I do at this point? Call someone? I didn’t have my phone. Also, it sounded fun. So I pushed back my trepidation and went in.

  Only when I saw the sort-of crowd (maybe twenty people, some dressed up in special outfits) did I remember I had on pajama bottoms with hot pink chameleons on them! I wished the chameleons could fade into the background.

  A girl was onstage, singing the song from Titanic badly. I thought she should go down with the ship. But she got pretty good applause after, so what do I know?

  We found seats at a long table in back. There were twelve or thirteen of us in all. Then Phoebe said, “Who’s first?”

  This girl who called herself Lucky, a creative writing major with purple hair and a nose ring, said, “We have to SING? I can’t sing.”

  “Can we do it in pairs?” I asked Phoebe.

  “I thought you were supposed to be so good,” she said.

  I don’t know where she heard that. I certainly didn’t say I was good. But I thought maybe I could help Lucky. Phoebe agreed—grudgingly—and Lucky and I went over to the corner to consult. A girl with very long blond hair who I think plays the violin lined up by the DJ. She kept saying she might as well get it over with because it was going to be bad.

  Lucky looked unlucky, so I said maybe she didn’t have to sing at all, just dance.

  She shook her head and, at that moment, I knew what I was going to do. I said, “How about walking? Can you walk like this?” I imitated walking in kind of a stylized way. Lucky said she guessed so, so I sho
wed her a box step, which we’d been learning in Broadway jazz.

  “It would be better if we had a third girl,” I said.

  Phoebe overheard me and said, “No way. You’re not all going together.”

  I told her it would look more balanced with three of us. Then, getting brave, I said, “Then you do it with us. You can dance. I’ve seen you.” Because she’s in my Broadway jazz class, and I think she’s in the highest level for ballet.

  “I don’t do girl squads,” Phoebe said.

  This is actually something we have in common, but I was trying to be friendly. So I turned to Daisy and asked if she’d do it instead.

  “Oooh, what are you doing?” she asked. “‘All About That Bass’? ‘Miss Independent’?”

  The first girl was onstage now, singing “Single Ladies,” so I told Daisy my idea and that they’d just have to dance behind me.

  She turned to Phoebe. “You should so do this with us,” she said, then added, “Pleeeeze!”

  Phoebe turned away. Daisy gave up then and grabbed Lucky’s hand to go find the video on YouTube.

  Onstage, the girl was on her third repeat of “If you like it, then you should’ve put a ring on it.” A girl named Kira from our group was behind her, so I got in line. I asked Kira what she was doing.

  She giggled and said, “‘Shake It Off,’” explaining that her older sister used to sing it all the time. The girl onstage finished her final “Oh-oh-oh, oh-oh-oh.” Then Kira went up.

  Daisy and Lucky joined me. “We’re good,” Daisy said. “You do your thing in front, and we’ll try to stay together.” She was jumping up and down from excitement, which made me excited too. Then it was our turn. I told the DJ my song: “These Boots Are Made for Walkin’.” Too bad I was wearing Nikes.

  “Do you know the lyrics?” he asked.

  “By heart,” I said.

  “Nice pants, by the way.” He pointed to the chameleons.

  I went and sat on the stage. I said, “I’d like to dedicate this to my mother!”

  That got a laugh. Daisy and Lucky got on both sides behind me and started pretending to walk in rhythm.