The Victoria in My Head

by Janelle Milanes

  TO MY ENTIRE FAMILY, BECAUSE IT WAS IMPOSSIBLE TO CHOOSE JUST ONE OF YOU

  Chapter One

  “YOUR BEST AMERICAN GIRL”

  —MITSKI

  I can predict my life with scary accuracy. I know my morning will start with a piece of toast for breakfast, slathered in peanut butter and topped with sliced banana. After breakfast I’ll get on the downtown A train and put on a perfectly timed playlist for my twenty-three minute commute to school. I’ll meet my best friend, Annie Lin, at my locker, and we’ll go to first period with Mr. Davis and stare at his mustard-yellow pit stains for forty-five minutes. I’ll have cross-country practice after school, where Coach B will make us run six miles along the murky Hudson River. At home, Mom will make spaghetti for dinner, and my bratty little brother, Matty, will complain that the tomato sauce is too chunky.

  I’m not psychic. My life is just that boring. Every day moves like a treadmill, a straight line without fluctuation.

  I shouldn’t complain. I know it could be much worse. But when I really think about it, I realize that every day of my life is exactly the same, and it’ll continue to be the same as it was yesterday, and the day before that, until the end of high school.

  Until, suddenly, it isn’t.

  Across a sea of plaid uniforms on the opposite side of the sophomore hall, I see him, and the treadmill that is my life comes to a grinding halt.

  “Hello?” Annie snaps her fingers at me. Her black hair is swept off her forehead by a satin headband that perfectly matches her pleated skirt. “What’s with the face?”

  “What face?” I reply. I have no awareness of what my face is doing. You know how in movies, when a girl sees a halfway-decent-looking guy and all of time stops and this wah wah indie song plays and it’s so dumb because she doesn’t even know the guy and that never happens in real life?

  “You’re blushing,” Annie says with a frown, following my gaze.

  It happens to me when I see this boy. Cue the soft, strumming guitar, the thumping drums, an airy falsetto in the background.

  He’s stapling a flyer onto the bulletin board, and when he lifts his arms to push into the stapler, I catch a glimpse of what I imagine to be soft cotton boxer-briefs peeking out from his pants. With his slouchy posture and tangled hair, he looks nothing like the preppy breed usually found at this school. He’s . . . messier. Different. And yes, indisputably gorgeous, but that’s not the point.

  Annie thrusts her watch into my field of vision, effectively blocking my view of the pretty boy. “Helloooo. We’re going to be late.”

  This is Annie’s mantra. She’s punctual to a fault, while I’m in no rush to snag a front row seat for Mr. Davis’s underarm sweat.

  “I’ll meet you there,” I say, blinking myself awake. “I forgot something in my locker.”

  “What did you forget?”

  “My, um . . . snargenblag,” I mumble.

  “Your what?”

  The warning bell shrieks overhead, which sends Annie into a panic. “Come on, Vi!”

  “Go ahead. I’ll meet you there,” I assure her, and she gives me a final disapproving scowl before hurrying to math.

  All at once the hallway drains as students swarm to their first period classes, but the boy doesn’t rush. As he steps back to admire his handiwork, I inch toward him. I’m not entirely sure what my master plan is, but I have to know what’s on this flyer. I have to know more about him.

  He turns his head and looks right at me as soon as I reach him, like I tripped a sensor.

  Holy sweet Jesus, his eyes. Those were unexpected. His eyes are the stuff of those Harlequin romances Mom reads, the kind of eyes that are always compared to something cheesy, like a midwinter sky. Annie and I used to sneak the books into my room and pore over passages about tight breeches and ripping bodices.

  The thing about this boy’s eyes, though? They are the color of a midwinter sky, which I didn’t think was possible in reality.

  “Do you sing?” His voice echoes through the empty hallway.

  I stare at him, my brain officially a useless lump. “Huh?”

  Ugh. Get a freaking grip, Victoria. I’m not one to turn into a puddle of idiocy when I see a cute guy. I’m better than that. Usually.

  He nods toward the flyer he’s posted. It’s simple—black Sharpie against stark white computer paper. In large block print it says:

  LEAD VOCALIST WANTED.

  MUST HAVE A DECENT VOICE AND GENERALLY NOT SUCK AS A HUMAN BEING. BAND WILL PERFORM AT THE BATTLE OF THE BOROUGHS IN THE SPRING. MUSIC TASTE SHOULD BE ECLECTIC.

  PLEASE E-MAIL LEVI.SCHUSTER@EA.ORG FOR AUDITION INFORMATION.

  “Oh,” I manage, brilliantly. I can’t process the fact that a school like Evanston has other people like him, people who do things besides study and play lacrosse and run for student council. “Um . . . no.”

  “Maybe you should try.” He twirls his stapler around and snaps it shut with one hand like some pistol-packing cowboy. It’s weirdly hot.

  The final bell rings. He and I are officially late for class, but neither one of us moves.

  I should fess up at this point. I should let him know that I am way too boring to be a lead singer. I should let him know that I can barely speak, let alone sing, in front of people. I should also let him know that there is no way, under any circumstances, my overprotective Cuban parents would let me join a band.

  “Okay,” I blurt out instead of these important things he should know. Then, without another word, I bolt.

  * * *

  Mom studies me as we sit around the dinner table that night. “You okay? You look pale.”

  “I’m fine.” I twirl some overcooked spaghetti noodles around my fork and silently refuse to go into any more detail. It’s helpful to remember my Miranda rights when it comes to dinner with my family. Anything I say can and will be used against me.

  “Are you sick?” Matty asks me, his eyes lighting up with interest. “Are you gonna puke?”

  “Eat your food,” Dad tells him.

  Matty pokes at his pile of noodles. “I think I’m sick too.”

  We all ignore him. Matty will do anything to get out of eating dinner, unless it’s one of the three meals that he tolerates: mac and cheese, pizza, or peanut butter sandwiches (no crust, hold the jelly). Sameness doesn’t seem to affect him yet. Actually, he thrives on it.

  “Maybe I’ll make you a doctor’s appointment,” Mom says to me.

  “I’m fine, Mom. Really.”

  “You don’t look fine.”

  “I just have a lot on my mind.”

  “Are you depressed?” Mom asks, her voice rising. She eyes me with intensity. Ever since I bought a vintage Nirvana T-shirt last week, Mom has been on teen suicide watch. It’s ridiculous.

  “Of course she’s not depressed,” Dad says, speaking right through me. “What does she have to be depressed about?”

  “Can I have a sandwich?” Matty asks. He pushes his plate away in disgust.

  “You can eat spaghetti like the rest of us,” Mom informs him.

  “But I don’t like spaghetti.”

  Dad points his fork at me. “Did you eat any dairy today?”

  “Dairy?” I echo. I’m not fully here at the dinner table. I’ve been replaying the scene with the blue-eyed boy all day, wishing I had said something smarter, or funnier, or anything at all. I should have at least asked him his name.

  “Yes. Dairy,” Dad says. “Maybe at breakfast?”

  Since he found out he was lactose intolerant, Dad believes dairy to be the root of all evil. In his opinion, it’s the underlying cause of every malady known to man. He can’t even look at a cow without a vein popping out of his neck.

  “I had toast for
breakfast,” I reply absentmindedly.

  He scratches the stubble on his chin. “What about lunch? You’re always eating pizza for lunch.”

  “I’m making an appointment with Dr. Ferber,” Mom decides.

  “Fine,” I concede, hoping it will shut them both up.

  Of course it doesn’t. Nothing does.

  “I know you all insist on eating dairy,” Dad continues, “but it’s been linked to heart disease, diabetes—”

  “Mrs. Soldera told us that milk is good for your bones,” Matty pipes up.

  “Mrs. Soldera is an idiot.”

  “Jorge . . . ,” Mom cautions, pouring herself a glass of wine.

  “Whatever.” Matty’s ten-year-old body heaves a weary sigh. “Can I have dessert now?”

  We go through this every night. Practically word for word.

  Mom closes her eyes and massages her forehead. “Matty, you didn’t even touch your dinner. Jorge?”

  “Eat your dinner, Matty,” Dad says automatically. He’s already wolfed down his entire plate of spaghetti, sopping up every drop of sauce with a bread roll.

  “At least ten more bites,” Mom adds.

  “But the sauce is too chunky!” Matty slams his fist against the table, and my parents go bug-eyed.

  “Ten cuidado,” Dad warns. “Listen to your mother or you’ll go to bed hungry.”

  They continue to argue back and forth, Matty trying to haggle his way out of dinner and Mom and Dad crushing each attempt. In about ten minutes one of them will cave and fix him a sandwich. This is the Cruz family dinner experience, every night at seven.

  I stare down at my fork and contemplate sticking it through my eye.

  Chapter Two

  “AMERIGO”

  —PATTI SMITH

  I arrive at school five minutes later than usual, and the sophomore hallway buzzes with activity—lockers slamming shut, shoes squeaking against the tile floor. Life is back to moving at normal speed. Annie, I know, is already waiting for me at my locker, checking her watch and muttering to herself about my tardiness.

  At the end of the hall a cluster of admirers surround the two best-looking girls in the grade, Sophia Lowell and Olivia Bennett. Together, they’re a shampoo commercial, with silky curtains of hair spilling down their backs. Hair that grows vertically, not horizontally like mine. Both bask in the attention, wearing their usual shiny smiles.

  They have plenty to smile about. They’re tall, they have boobs, and they’re perfectly groomed from head to toe. Because they’re rich, they can afford to have our boxy Evanston uniforms tailored. Their collared shirts are taken in at the waist to accentuate their hourglass figures, and their hemlines graze the tops of their thighs for maximum leggy effect.

  Mom scoffed when I asked if I could have my uniform tailored, and Dad flat-out refused, saying my school was costing him enough as it is. I’m forced to roll up my skirt so I don’t look like a Puritan.

  When I first interviewed at Evanston, I expected to become a member of the elite. I thought going to a school like this would finally help me become someone. Someone who had a life, a purpose. I could go to Harvard like my parents always dreamed, because Evanston placed that goal within reach.

  I got my acceptance letter to Evanston on Friday the thirteenth. I should have taken it as a sign.

  My parents hovered over my shoulders as I opened the letter, and before I could finish reading out “Congratulations,” they enveloped me in a suffocating hug. In their arms I remember thinking that I should feel excited, or nervous. Scared, even. Something other than empty. I stretched my lips into a straight line, the best I could do at a smile, before pulling away from their grip.

  As one of the top twenty-five high schools in the country, Evanston oozes exclusivity. It’s a gated oasis amidst the mass of dour buildings comprising Manhattan’s Upper West Side. The campus’s ivy-laden buildings are arranged in a square with a manicured lawn in its center—Evanston’s own mini Central Park. Inside Evanston, everything seems serious and scholarly. Students walk around in crisp buttoned uniforms, and teachers have essays published in renowned academic journals.

  From the beginning it was clear that I wasn’t one of them. My family doesn’t own a summer home in the Hamptons, and we don’t take luxurious trips to Turks and Caicos over winter break. We’re not destitute, but we’re strictly middle class. My parents came to the US from Cuba when they were young, and they act like they’re playing a game of catch-up with the rest of the country. They don’t just work to make money; they work like they have something to prove. Mom teaches Spanish at St. Mary’s, the middle school where Annie and I went. Dad dropped out of high school to work at a company involved in refrigerators. I’m not sure what exactly he does with refrigerators, because I’ve never cared enough to find out. I think he either manufactures, repairs, or sells them. Maybe all of the above.

  The only reason I’m here is because of my scholarship. Evanston pays half of my tuition (already enough to drown my parents in debt), as long as I keep my GPA above a 3.0. Being a scholarship kid adds one more layer of stress to the load I already carry. Most Evanston students can coast through their classes, knowing Mommy and Daddy will buy their admission to a top college, but I’ll lose my scholarship, and my entire future, with the slightest dip of my GPA.

  Sometimes I wonder whether getting kicked out of Evanston would really be so bad. What would happen if I just stopped? Life would be easier. I could breathe again. But then I picture the disappointment on my parents’ faces as I shatter their American Dream, as all their sacrifices are flushed down the drain, so I continue playing the dutiful daughter.

  Students in tucked collared shirts swirl around me, and my mind flits back to the blue-eyed boy yesterday. To the midwinter sky and the small patch of skin exposed by his loose shirttail. There’s no sign of him in the hall today. I doubt he’s a sophomore, because I’ve never had a class with him. Is he the Levi Schuster from the flyer? Or is he a bandmate of Levi’s? Maybe he’s not even in the band. Maybe he just really enjoys stapling flyers.

  If he appeared here and now, I could have a do-over. Force myself to speak like a normal human being. I envision him approaching me, and my brain flips through a slide show of our day off, Ferris Bueller–style.

  You wanna get out of here? he might say, and I’d toss my stick-straight hair around (if I’m fantasizing, I might as well give myself manageable hair). I’d take his hand, and we’d skip school to spend the day holding hands and walking the Bow Bridge in Central Park.

  He would save me from another day of my treadmill life.

  My eye catches on the giant bulletin board where we met yesterday. It’s plastered with flyers advertising everything from school clubs to student gov elections to puppies for adoption. Today I’m pulled to his flyer, tacked onto the board’s top right corner.

  Maybe you should try, he said, in a tone like it was no big deal.

  I can’t decipher any of my actions that follow. Momentary demonic possession maybe, or a blip in my brain chemistry. The idea of me joining a band is laughable. There are glaring reasons why I shouldn’t, like keeping my scholarship, the fact that I’ve never sung in front of anyone but Annie, and the teeny issue of my all-consuming stage fright, the kind that paralyzes me when I’m called on in class.

  Yet inexplicably, despite all these reasons, I tear the flyer off the board and stick it in my blazer pocket.

  Chapter Three

  “CAROUSEL RIDE”

  —RUBBLEBUCKET

  Remember the music video we made in fifth grade?” I ask Annie at lunch. We’re eating on the grassy knoll beside the patio area. Annie’s having her usual Cobb salad and I’m on my third slice of pizza.

  I use the phrase “music video” loosely. Really, it was the two of us sitting in Annie’s living room with her parents’ laptop propped up on the coffee table. I sang to “Edge of Glory” by Lady Gaga, and Annie accompanied me on the violin.

  Annie’s taken violin lessons
since she could wrap her fingers around a bow. She’s the only sophomore enrolled in AP Music and has made it to the All-State Orchestra for the past three years. Last year, at Principal Tishman’s request, she composed the orchestral arrangement for our school song. In short, Annie’s a prodigy destined for the philharmonic while I’m destined to sing exclusively for my shower tiles.

  Annie pierces a lettuce leaf with her fork. “What music video?”

  “To Lady Gaga? Remember?”

  “Oh right.” She smiles slightly.

  “I think we were pretty good,” I say, picking at a string of cheese hanging off my pizza.

  “We were decent. For eleven-year-olds.”

  Sometimes she acts as though we’re geriatrics instead of high school sophomores. She wasn’t always like this. The intensity was there, of course, since we were young, but she used to channel it into fun. Like when she volunteered at summer day camp and taught sixty kids how to play Iron Maiden on their recorders.

  I blame this school for squashing her spirit. Going to an intense college prep school like Evanston is like stepping into a human pressure cooker. There’s no more time to sing Lady Gaga or conduct a heavy metal orchestra, because you can’t put those activities on a college application.

  “What’s with the trip down memory lane, Vi?”

  I avoid her eyes, fiddling with the flyer lodged inside my blazer’s front pocket. If I look at her, I’ll realize what a completely stupid idea it is and I won’t say it.

  “I’m thinking about doing something crazy.”

  “That extra credit project for Ms. Hammond?” she asks.

  It saddens me that, in Annie’s world, this is the definition of “crazy.”

  “No.” I pull the flyer out of my pocket and toss it to her.

  She unfolds it gingerly, scans it, and blinks at me. “Are you, like . . . having some kind of existential crisis?”

  “No,” I say again, a little huffily. My heart droops in response to her brush-off, which is dumb, because I wasn’t actually going to audition. It was another one of my elaborate daydreams.