Love, Jacaranda

by Alex Flinn

  Weirdly, I know all the lyrics to the song, a sort of girl-power 1960s anthem about a woman walking out on a cheating man, because, when I was little, it was one of my mother’s favorites. Any time she had a bad, lying, cheating, drugged-out boyfriend, she’d walk around our apartment singing it. I sang along. It is one of my best memories of her.

  Maybe if she’d kept those walking boots in mind, she wouldn’t be doing time.

  But I missed my mom when I belted out: “One of these days these boots are gonna walk all over you!”

  Daisy and Lucky were doing a good job, acting like go-go dancers, and the older people in the audience were whooping, saying stuff like “Go, girl!” and “Shake it!”

  And right during the musical interlude, where the three of us go-go’d around the stage, I noticed some grown-ups had joined our group.

  Specifically, Angie and Headmistress Pike.

  Uh-oh.

  But I figured there was nothing else to do but finish at the top of my lungs (to generous applause, by the way). Miss Pike was already lining everyone up. When I came down, she said, “Start walking, boots!”

  Of course, you know the rest. We got dragged back to campus in humiliation. And this was not, in fact, a tradition everyone knew about. Someone had called the police and said they’d seen us being frog-marched to a karaoke club blindfolded. Luckily, the police recognized what was happening and called the school.

  They called everyone’s parents but mine. For me, they called Vanessa (not the worst possible consequence—she sounded like she was out at a club when I talked to her). The word “expulsion” was thrown around. But finally they said we’d only be suspended for one day and “confined to our dorm” on weekends for a month. Plus, we have to clean up the cafeteria after dinner. And we got a l-o-n-g lecture about the wonderful opportunity we were being given, so we couldn’t do anything like that again, or we’d be expelled.

  I was in tears during this, because it’s particularly true due to my situation. But Phoebe spoke up. “It wasn’t the new girls’ fault. We dragged them there from their beds. I mean, look at her.” And she gestured at my pajamas.

  Miss Pike said we should have refused to go, which was impossible. But I calmed down and said I would never do anything wrong again. Daisy squeezed my hand and, when I looked at her, she gestured to her feet and pretended to be walking.

  It was totally worth it, but I hope you aren’t disappointed in me.

  Anyway, that’s why I still haven’t sung in Harry’s class. Hopefully Monday.

  Love, Jacaranda

  To: Johnsmith247@dll.com

  Date: September 13, 4:16 p.m. Eastern Standard Time

  Subject: Your way-too-generic name

  Dear Mr. Smith,

  Do I have to keep calling you Mr. Smith?

  Forgive me if that’s a rude question. But seriously. It’s not very creative. As someone who never had a father or uncle or even a cousin to write to, I’d rather not write to a mysterious Mr. Smith. Plus, I tell everyone here I’m writing to a relative, because these rich kids all have relatives. When you’re rich, everyone wants to be related to you.

  When I was little, one of my friends had this Uncle Bob she talked about all the time. I used to wish I had an uncle (I have an aunt I lived with when my mom first got arrested, but you can guess how that worked out). But I don’t have an uncle or a doting aunt, just you, who probably doesn’t read this anyway.

  If you’re not Will Smith, are you Sam Smith?

  I’m signing this “Best wishes” because it’s hard to love an inanimate object.

  Best wishes, Jacaranda Abbott

  To: Johnsmith247@dll.com

  Date: September 15, 5:01 p.m. Eastern Standard Time

  Subject: Your rebel beneficiary

  Dear Mr. Smith,

  I’m famous! Well, again. But this time, I’m famous as the rebel who blew out of MAA in the middle of the night and led a girl gang to a bar to sing onstage. Very little of the story is true, but it makes me sound cool, so I let it go. Several people have asked me to perform “These Boots Are Made for Walkin’” in the hallways, the cafeteria, outside.

  I’ve become intimately familiar with both the cafeteria dishwasher and the girls from that night. We’ve bonded, scraping plates and sweeping the floors. Someday, when we’re once again allowed to leave campus, we plan to go shopping or to Starbucks to get a Frappuccino.

  And I finally sang in Harry’s class. I thought I was going to be the only one to sing on Monday, but it turned out that Phoebe also hadn’t sung yet. So Harry pulled us both aside and said, “Which one of you young convicts wants to sing first?”

  I looked at Phoebe. She looked down at the floor. I remembered her glorious voice on “Hallelujah” the first day. I’ve heard enough of my classmates to know that some are better than I am, and some are not. Phoebe’s definitely in the first category, so why follow her? I told him, “I’ll go first” at the very same moment she said it.

  Finally, Harry pointed to Phoebe.

  I sat. Phoebe walked up to the front of the room. She looked kind of terrified. She drew in a long, shaky breath and stared at each one of us individually. Then she glanced down.

  Harry said, “Whenever you’re ready, Miss Hodgkins.”

  Another shaky breath. Then she said, “I’ll be singing ‘Glitter and Be Gay’ from Candide by Leonard Bernstein.” The accompanist started the piano part, and a second later, this voice came out, singing, “Glitter and be gay / That’s the part I play / Here I am, Oh sorry chance!”

  Maybe she was supposed to look miserable. The song was about how sad she was. She even sobbed a bit on a line that ended with “bitter circumstance.”

  But her voice, Mr. Smith! It was like nothing I’ve ever heard. Okay, maybe Mariah Carey back when she was good. It went up, up, up to the stratosphere. She was laughing, “Ha-ha!” and it sounded like opera, only funnier, and then she went down to her lowest range, and that was strong too. There was a spoken-word section, where she bemoaned her cruel fate. Then the music came back on, and she was laughing again. This was the hardest song I’ve ever heard, and after the momentary terror, she was singing it like a boss, ending with a series of incredibly high notes, one after the other.

  Finally, it was over, and I burst into applause. I mean, she’s like a tall Kristin Chenoweth (see, I’m learning—I now know who that is). The rest of the applause was only polite, which I didn’t understand. I mean, sure she’s a pain, but she’s REMARKABLE.

  But maybe that’s why they don’t like her. Jealousy is a thing around here, in the caring, accepting womb that is MAA.

  I went up to sing next, which, at this point, was anticlimactic. I introduced it as “Someone to Watch Over Me” by George Gershwin from Oh, Kay! (Again, I’m learning.)

  Harry smiled encouragingly.

  Mr. Smith, I know the song is about a girl who wants a husband or at least a boyfriend, but it made me think of you. The lyrics talk about a shepherd for a lost lamb, and I feel like I’m the lost lamb, and you’re the shepherd, keeping me from being eaten by wolves. What would I have done without you?

  Anyway, I thought about all that while I was singing, and I tried to think about other things, singing things, like doing a cool run on the part that goes, “To my heart, he carries the key—he-e-e-e-e carries the key!” What I tried not to think of was Phoebe, who was slumped in her chair, right in my sight line, in abject misery. She couldn’t possibly have thought she was bad! She had to be doing it for attention! And suddenly, jealousy hit me too. How dare she be so good and act like she’s not! I looked away and finished. Owen and David stomped their feet in support, and David even whistled. But some of the girls were doing golf claps. I sat with a smile.

  Harry said he would put up the list of who was in what scene by the end of the week. Everyone started buzzing about who would get which part, but I don’t know any of them, so I wasn’t in on it.

  After class, Phoebe bolted before I could tell her how we
ll she’d done. We had dance, and since it was ballet day, I didn’t see her again until dinner. Then she avoided eye contact. What is with that girl?

  In music theory, we’re learning major scales and key signatures. I’m practicing scales, but it’s slow going. The practice rooms are across campus, so it’s hard to go there at night. Most people in my theory class took piano as children, so I’m way behind. But I’m working very hard!

  In other news, I saw my first leaf starting to turn red, and it made me feel a little giddy. Soon they’ll all turn, and the campus will be a riot of color.

  Thank you for sending me here!

  Now I’m going to dinner and to sweep the floors and scrape plates.

  Love, Jacaranda

  To: Johnsmith247@dll.com

  Date: September 16, 8:17 p.m. Eastern Standard Time

  Subject: My mother

  Dear Mr. Smith,

  I haven’t written to my mother since I came here. Before I left, I wrote as if everything was perfectly normal, as if I wasn’t flying across the country to come to this school and I didn’t have a new guardian and a benefactor and a bed with lavender-and-white sheets.

  Why haven’t I told her? It’s not like she can do anything about it. Yet it’s hard to sit here at my nice desk in my room with a lavender duvet and think of her reading my letter on her prison bunk.

  But I’m going to write to her tonight. As soon as I finish this email.

  And write a three-paragraph essay in French.

  And do 30 algebra problems.

  And study the key signatures for music theory. Daisy told me a funny mnemonic device to memorize the order of sharps on the staff. It’s FCGDAEB. Fat Cows Get Drunk After Eating Babies. This makes no sense if you don’t know music, but it’s definitely helpful!

  And watch The Sound of Music . . . which is three hours long.

  Maybe I’ll write to her tomorrow.

  I miss her sometimes. I miss having a mother.

  Love, Jacaranda

  To: Johnsmith247@dll.com

  Date: September 17, 8:25 p.m. Eastern Standard Time

  Subject: I’ve never eaten a lobster

  Dear Mr. Smith,

  Are you Kevin Smith? This is an important question, because if you’re a famous filmmaker, you could probably help me in my career.

  Nvm.

  Today, after dinner, Lucky came to my room to work on a history project. She took in the bare walls and pristine bookshelves. I have one poster, and it says, “What would Beyoncé do?” I’ll buy more, but I’ll never match Daisy’s walls. She has collages of every family vacation since she was five. Most other rooms are the same. Lucky said, “Your room’s so empty.”

  I waved it off, saying I didn’t like having a lot of possessions. I left out the fact that, if you’d moved as much as I have, you didn’t let stuff weigh you down.

  Lucky nodded. “Oh, yeah, my parents weren’t into stuff either. Like when I was little, they preferred giving experiences as gifts, instead of a lot of Barbies or whatever. They didn’t want me to get spoiled.”

  No risk of that with me. When I asked what she meant by experiences, she said they went on vacations or to the opera or sent her to writing camp.

  So, basically, they took her to Europe instead of buying her a $10 Barbie. Barbies are cheap. “Experiences” are expensive. I’ve had a ton of Barbies. Rich people love donating them to toy drives. But you can’t get theater tickets from Toys for Tots.

  Don’t worry. I didn’t say any of that. I probably didn’t think it until after she left.

  There are so many things everyone here takes for granted. I’m not even talking about how none of them ever had the power turned off, had to remember not to flush because there was only one flush per toilet since no one paid the water bill, or saw anyone shoot up. They all grew up watching television shows like Shake It Up and Austin & Ally. They’ve all seen every episode of SpongeBob. They’ve all had Netflix passwords since forever and cell phones since they were nine. None of them have ever not had unlimited data or not repaired a cracked screen. Some of them get a new phone when the screen cracks!

  They’ve all eaten crab, lobster, and sushi. They know how to pronounce “quinoa.”

  They’ve all seen The Nutcracker at Christmastime, even the Jewish kids.

  They’ve all taken piano lessons, ballet lessons, or been on a team, and they were all in Girl or Boy Scouts.

  I’m trying to improve myself. I used part of your allowance to buy myself Amazon Prime so I can watch the movie versions of the musicals people talk about. That way, I’ll be less ignorant. I watched the entire works of Rodgers and Hammerstein. The Sound of Music is my favorite. How can people here think it’s boring? I cried when Captain von Trapp sang “Edelweiss” and was so scared when they were fleeing the Nazis! Carousel, on the other hand, I could do without. A woman returning to an abusive man and saying it doesn’t hurt when he hits her comes too close to my reality. After The King and I, South Pacific, and Oklahoma!, I watched Sweeney Todd, which kept me awake, and Hairspray, which was adorable and empowering and had Queen Latifah in it, and Les Misérables. Who knew Wolverine could sing? Every night, after homework and practice, I see another movie. Tonight, it’s My Fair Lady. We’re doing a scene from it in class. I stay up late and use earbuds so no one can hear.

  The first weekend I’m allowed to leave, I hope to finally eat some kind of shellfish.

  Wouldn’t it be embarrassing if I was allergic?

  Love, Jacaranda

  To: Johnsmith247@dll.com

  Date: September 17, 11:09 p.m. Eastern Standard Time

  Subject: You are Henry Higgins

  Dear Mr. Smith,

  OMG, I love My Fair Lady! It is like my life story. Have you seen it? Of course you have. Maybe you’re even old enough to remember when it premiered.

  In case you haven’t, it’s the story of Eliza Doolittle, a poor flower seller on the streets of London with a hideous cockney accent. (Okay, that part isn’t exactly like me.) One day, Henry Higgins, a fancy linguistics professor, sees her and bets his friend, Colonel Pickering, that he can teach her to speak like a lady and take her to a fancy ball with no one suspecting she isn’t a princess. He moves her in with him, gives her beautiful clothes, and fulfills his mission. She’s perfect at the ball! Then Eliza gets her feelings hurt because Higgins acts like she didn’t do anything, like it was all about him. She storms off to marry a silly but rich guy named Freddy because what else can she do?

  But there’s music! And costumes! When Eliza goes to the racetrack, everyone is dressed in black and white and fancy hats. And when Freddy falls in love with Eliza, he sits in front of Higgins’s house day after day, singing about how beautiful the street is, because she lives there (which they didn’t call stalking then). Eliza dances with Higgins then sings about how she wishes she could have danced, danced, danced all night. Good thing no one could see me dance around the room!

  The ending is enigmatic. Eliza is clearly in love with Henry Higgins, and he with her. But they come from different worlds. It ends with her going back to his house, and I guess most people assume they live happily ever after. But I’m not sure. When Eliza goes back, Higgins doesn’t say he loves her or admit she triumphed at the ball. He says, “Where the devil are my slippers?” as if he just expects her to slip into staying with him, neither flower seller nor wife. It’s a bit sad. Just like real life.

  I would love to play Eliza in the scene we’re doing, but she has to have a beautiful voice, a voice like Phoebe’s. So I bet I won’t, even though I am Eliza in my soul!

  It’s after midnight, and I should go to sleep, but “My head’s too light to try to set it down!” That’s from the play too.

  Love, Jacaranda

  To: Johnsmith247@dll.com

  Date: September 18, 7:15 a.m. Eastern Standard Time

  Subject: Phoebe

  Dear Mr. Smith,

  Remember how I said I loved My Fair Lady and wanted to play Eliza?
<
br />   So this morning, I wake up to Phoebe SHOUTING into her cell phone in the bathroom between our rooms. There’s very bad reception in there, so even though shouting doesn’t actually help, people still do.

  And what she was shouting was, “MY FAIR LADY . . . YES, THAT’S WHAT HE SAID . . . WELL, WHO ELSE WOULD BE ELIZA? THEY’RE ALL BELTERS. BELTERS! HE HAD TO HAVE PICKED IT FOR ME. I WAS BORN TO PLAY THAT PART.”

  There was a long pause and then Phoebe tried to lower her voice, maybe realizing the whole dorm shouldn’t hear her. “No . . . No, I did fine . . . I SAID I DID FINE. I DIDN’T FLIP OUT . . . YES, I’M SURE. I DIDN’T FLIP OUT THIS TIME . . . Forget it. I can’t hear you. Stop.” And then she must have hung up, because I heard water running.

  So, Phoebe thinks she’s going to be Eliza. And she’s probably right.

  But I wish she was wrong.

  Love, Jacaranda

  To: Johnsmith247@dll.com

  Date: September 18, 9:31 p.m. Eastern Standard Time

  Subject: Exciting news!

  Dear Person-Who-Is-Going-to-Be-So-Surprised,

  Guess who is going to play Eliza Doolittle in a scene from My Fair Lady in the winter scenes production? If you guessed Phoebe Pendleton-Hodgkins because her voice is so perfect and she’s so beautiful, you’re . . .

  SPOILER SPACE

  WRONG!

  We’re doing the scene where Eliza finally learns to speak correctly, which includes the songs “Poor Professor Higgins” and “The Rain in Spain,” and I AM PLAYING ELIZA! Owen is Henry Higgins, and David is playing Colonel Pickering. We all sing together, and we dance!

  Phoebe was so sure she was going to be Eliza. But, in fact, she has an even bigger song, a solo from a musical called Bandstand. It’s about veterans with post-traumatic stress disorder and is depressing, so perfect for her.

  We are also doing several group numbers. I’m in one from Titanic (which I’m guessing is about the Titanic) and another from a show called Something Rotten!. But no one has more than one solo part, and some people don’t have any. That girl, Brooke, the basic bitch who practically wet herself laughing when I didn’t know my composer’s name, was giving me side-eye in class, and Phoebe won’t even look at me.