by Alex Flinn
“Who?” I say. “Dr. Toe-Jam, that’s who. Mom’s boyfriend. He’s married and has daughters in college—little Toe-Jams. Mom’s a home-wrecker.”
“Watch it!” Gigi elbows a guy who’s pushing her. “Probably not. Usually men with a honey on the side never actually leave their wives.”
“That’s what Dear Abby says.”
“Yeah, that’s where I got it. Plus, my mom’s guy dropped her like the proverbial potato when his wife found out. Your mom’s guy probably will too.”
“That’s comforting.”
“Well, maybe…”
But I don’t get to hear the rest of Gigi’s thought because that’s when Miss Davis stumbles in, holding something that looks suspiciously like a cast list. You’d think a bunch of theater students would show more control than football players waiting for the starting lineup to be posted. You’d think that, but you’d be wrong. They rush at her shouting, “Miss Davis, did my number get chosen?” (She ignores this.) Since I know I didn’t make it, I give up my spot by Gigi because I can give her moral support from a quiet corner near my locker. What was I thinking, singing that song? What possessed me? Did I not want to make it?
But I know what possessed me. Misty did. She wanted me to fail, but I was pretty clueless to go along with her.
And Misty, did she do something “jazzy” after telling me to? She did not. She sang “Popular” from Wicked, which would have been perfect from her, if only she could have sung it well. She did a duet with Sean too, and I tried to ignore the creeping tentacles of jealousy, reaching up my back.
The cluster around the cast list becomes a living thing, screaming and moaning. I start to slink off toward class.
“Caitlin!” Gigi’s calling me from the screaming, jumping group.
“Catch you later!” I wave. I didn’t realize I was upset until now. I’d rather wallow in private. I walk away. A hand grabs my wrist—a hand with black fingernails. Gigi. She drags me toward the mob around the cast list.
“Let go of me!” I protest. “I’m happy for you, but I’ve got—”
“Good news and bad news, girl.”
She drags me through the subsiding crowd and places one black fingernail on the yellow page. I look at the spot where she’s pointing. It says:
AN OPERATIC DUET TBA ................... CAITLIN MCCOURT AND SEAN GRIFFIN
“Good news and bad news, girl,” Gigi repeats.
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Opera_Grrrl’s Online Journal
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Subject: Good News/Bad News—Again
Date: September 22
Time: 9:33 p.m.
Listening 2: Cecilia Bartoli, Mozart arias
Feeling: Surprised
Weight: 117 lbs.
The good news is: I get 2 sing in the show even though I tanked, tanked, tanked at audition. The bad news is: I have 2 sing w/Sean.
Explanation: I thought Sean was reeeeeeally nice (and cute!) when we 1st met. But ever since the day w/La Traviata, he hasn’t even talked 2 me. He just hangs w/his friends ...... esp. the evil Barnacle Girl ....... so I guess he doesn’t think I’m as good as wonderful him. Oh, well.
When I saw Rowena, I asked her why—O, why—she put us together.
She let me know the faculty wasn’t exactly thrilled w/my audition (thx, Misty) but that she told them I’d done really well w/La Traviata (!) “You 2 sound good together .......... it’ll be great.”
Great. She gave me Sean’s phone # and suggested I call 2 talk abt. our duet. I left a message on his ans. machine hours ago, and he hasn’t called back.
Also on the upside (the 2nd good news, I guess): Misty didn’t get a solo @ all! She has some solo lines in group #’s and that is IT!
I think I understand the term “poetic justice” now.
* * *
CHAPTER 18
The next day, Sean passes me a note in Davis’s class. Any ideas? Opera’s not my “aria” of expertise (Haha)
The joke surprises me. So does his asking my advice. I write back:
Rigoletto?
The note comes back almost immediately:
Do I get to play a hunchback???
I write back:
Hunchback = Rigoletto = baritone. Duke of Mantua = tenor = you
Bummer! he writes back.
The Duke in Rigoletto is also a big jerk, so that sounds perfect for Sean.
After class, I stand outside waiting for Act Two with Sean. He shows up with, as usual, Misty hanging on him. I say, “Hey.”
Misty keeps talking. “So unfair,” she’s saying. “They obviously knew who they were going to pick before the auditions. It’s all favoritism.”
I go through this little dream sequence in my head: I push her out of the way, she topples, propelled downward by her enormous chest, and can’t get up but, instead, lies there, kicking like a cockroach on its back. And I say, “Excuse me? May I interrupt?”
In real life, I just say, “Excuse me? May I interrupt?”
Misty’s face is all, Please die! but Sean says, “Catch you in class, Mist.”
She stomps off. I stand there a minute, and when Sean doesn’t say anything, I say, “Can we get together after school maybe? I have lots of CDs.”
“Um, today’s difficult.”
“Tomorrow, then.”
“No, not tomorrow either.”
“Well, they’re going to start rehearsals soon. Do you plan on being there?”
“When I have to.”
“When you have to?”
He looks at me. “You know some people do have other responsibilities in life. We can’t all be princesses.”
“Excuse me?”
“Nothing. Forget I said anything.”
But I heard him. My throat’s all hardening up like it does when I’m about to cry. Très embarrassing. I try to say something else, I don’t know what, something about how I am anything but a princess, or I just want to do what I’m supposed to, and what’s up his butt that he acts like that’s a bad thing, but I just walk away.
He follows me. Don’t follow me. “Hey, look, I can’t do it today. Why don’t you bring your CDs tomorrow, and I’ll try and listen to them if I get a chance?”
I don’t look at him, because I don’t want him to see how red my face is. I say, “If you get a chance?”
“Yeah. If I get a chance.”
Unreal. I reach my History class. I stand there, and think for a minute, gulping a few times. That’s when the bell starts to ring. I say, “If I get a chance, I’ll bring them.”
I don’t know if he heard me, and I don’t care.
* * *
Opera_Grrrl’s Online Journal
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Subject: Un-Stinkin’-Real
Date: September 23
Time: 6:45 p.m.
Listening 2: Duets 2 Die For ...... searching for a duet w/a great soprano part for me and a sucky tenor part for Sean
Feeling: Angry
Weight: Didn’t weigh myself
Where does he get off calling *me* a princess? I’m sooo not a princess. Peyton & Ashley, maybe, but not me. Just b/c he’s PO’d that he doesn’t get 2 sing w/his fat girlfriend doesn’t mean he has 2 take it out on me. What a SNOT!
* * *
After going through every CD I have, I call Rowena.
“What a coincidence. I just got off the phone with Sean about the same thing.”
“With Sean?” Seems like I’m all about repeating other people today.
“Yeah, I’m so excited about you two performing together. He’s such a nice boy too.”
“Yeah.” If “nice boy” is adult-speak for a person who sucks up to teachers while terrorizing all others.... “What did he say?”
“He was picking my brain for duet suggestions. I gave him a few.”
Rowena is just about done telling me her duet ideas when Mom starts banging on the door. I keep talking. If Mom and I had struggled out of armed truce-land after school started, we went right back the day
she admitted she knew Arnold was married. But finally, I get off the phone with Rowena and open the door.
“Thought maybe you wanted to go out to dinner,” she says.
“We went out the other day.”
Mom looks at the stereo, which is playing a track from La Traviata. “Actually, I didn’t mean together. I thought maybe you’d like to take the car and see your friends. I’d give you money. You never see your friends anymore.”
I have no friends.
The song on the CD ends, and I look at her. She’s wearing a blue striped suit. Her hair is on top of her head, and her makeup’s in natural skin tones.
“Oh.” The next song starts. “He’s coming over.”
“Who? No, he isn’t.”
“I’m not stupid, you know. You want me out of the way, so you can be alone together.” I sniff the air. Something’s cooking—no Healthy Choice today—something with wine. I start to close the door. Around me, Violetta sings high A’s. “Forget it.”
She blocks the door. “At least turn off that racket when he gets here. And don’t walk around in that outfit. It’s obscene.”
I look down. I’m wearing the same green leotard I had on the first day Dr. Toe-Jam got all pervy on me. “You don’t have to worry about that. I’m not coming out.”
But as soon as I hear Arnold at the door, I start feeling hungry. No, I am not just thinking about food to annoy Mom. I was really good at lunch today. I spent the entire time complaining about Sean instead of eating. Result: I’m starving. I turn down La Traviata so I can hear what Mom and Arnold are saying. I walk into the hall.
“So, your daughter’s home,” he asks.
“She’s going out. We’ll be alone.”
“I knew I heard music. You said she’s an opera singer, right?”
Mom told someone about my singing. How weird. She always acts like it’s stupid. But she must think having an opera singer daughter makes her seem more classy. Or at least a little classy.
How sad.
Mom’s talking now. “She must have left the CD player on.”
I snap the music off in mid-song. Let her explain that one.
“I made my special coq au vin.” Mom’s voice is like a little song—the “Chicken Song.” Since when is coq au vin her specialty? Microwaved Healthy Choice has always been her specialty when I’m around. My stomach gives a mighty growl that can probably be heard from the dining room. I decide I’m going in. I’m just going to nuke my Healthy Choice, come back in here, and eat it.
At the last minute, I decide to throw a T-shirt over my leotard, just so he can’t look at my boobs.
“See, she’s home!” Arnold declares, not too happily.
“What do you know?” Mom fake-smiles at me. “Caitlin, I thought you went out with your friends. Otherwise, I’d have set a place for you.”
Unlikely. But I say, “That’s okay. I was just getting a Healthy Choice. I’m on a diet.”
Arnold’s been standing since I came in, like he’s ready to leave. “A diet? Pretty girl like you doesn’t have an ounce to lose. Come sit with us. There’s plenty.”
“Oh, no thanks.”
“The recipe really only makes enough for two, sweetheart,” Mom says to Arnold. To me, she adds, “If I’d known you were dining at home, I’d have made more. Of course, we’d love to have you join us.”
On the other hand, the chicken does smell good. “Well, maybe I’ll just have a little bit then. I’ll get a plate.”
“I’ll help you.” Mom follows me. She closes the kitchen door and says, through clenched teeth, “What are you doing here?”
“Having dinner.”
“But this was supposed to be our special time together, me and Arnold. If you crash our date, he’ll think he’s never going to be alone with me if we’re together. Like I’m—”
“A mother?”
“Very funny. Do you know how hard it is to date when you have kids? Any time a man’s interested, he gets a whole family.”
I take out my silverware and drop it on the plate. “Well, obviously Arnold doesn’t mind a family. He already has one of his own.” I head for the dining room.
“Caitlin, so glad you decided to join us.” Arnold spoons some chicken onto my plate.
“Well, it did smell good. Mom’s an incredible cook.”
“So tell me about your day, honey,” Mom says, looking past me to Arnold.
But Arnold’s still looking at me. “Did I hear La Traviata just now? I’ve always been a big opera fan.”
“Really?” Surprise on surprise. My mother—who doesn’t go to anything artsier than an Adam Sandler movie—is dating an opera fan.
“Oh, yes, we have season tickets.”
We being him and his wife. I smirk at Mom.
She leans closer to Arnold. “More asparagus?”
“What? Oh, no, I’m fine. Everything’s delicious.” To prove it, he takes an enormous mouthful and turns to me, chewing. “That’s from the final act, right?”
“Yes. It’s my favorite opera.” I’m loving that Mom’s completely left out.
“Mine too. Have you seen it live?”
“Yes, my voice teacher took me. It was the first opera I ever saw.”
“My first too. What a coincidence. Of course, that was when dinosaurs ruled the earth, but you never forget your first opera, do you?”
Mom’s looking from her plate to Arnold and back, obviously trying to think of something to add. She knows I’ll call her on it, if she says she goes to the opera, but there’s nothing else to talk about. I’m screwing up my courage to pull a Gigi—to ask him if his wife loves opera too—when Mom says, “We should go sometime.”
This should be beautiful. Mom’s never been to the opera, so she doesn’t know what it’s like—all these rich people like Dr. and Mrs. Toe-Jam, seeing and being seen in jewels and tuxedos. A man could never go with his girlfriend. All his wife’s friends would see him. I wait for Arnold to tell Mom it’s impossible.
Mom’s saying, “Caitlin always goes with her friends, but I love the music.”
Right. I look at Arnold. Okay, tell her. Tell her you can’t take her.
“What a great idea,” he says. “I’d love to take you, Valerie. Nothing better than great music with a beautiful woman on my arm.”
Mom beams at him. “You’re so sweet.” I stare. Sweet. Right.
“The season doesn’t start until December,” Arnold says, “but we’ll definitely go.”
Mom’s smile widens when he says December, and I know what she’s thinking—he’s saying they’ll still be together in December, that he’ll blow his wife off. But me, I know he’s lying to her. And, mad as I am at her for being a home-wrecker, I’m madder at Arnold because she’s not wrecking his home. His home’s fine. He’s using my mother. And suddenly, even though Arnold looks completely stupid in sandals and socks, I realize he’s not stupid at all. He’s using her.
“Oh that would be wonderful,” she’s saying. “I’ll buy a new dress.”
“And we can have a fancy dinner before.”
I look at the chicken on my plate and wonder how Arnold would look with sauce covering his bald head.
“Which opera is it?” Mom asks. “Hope it’s a love story.”
I push my plate away. “I’ll let you two spend some time together.”
“Oh, that’s sweet of you, Caitlin,” Mom coos. “Don’t forget to clear your plate.”
I take the plate into the kitchen and eat everything on it. Then I go to the back cupboard, where we keep the semisweet baking chocolate. I take it to my room and open it. It’s white on the sides, and crumbles like a dog treat. I eat it anyway. I don’t start the music. I don’t want to sing anything he might hear.
It’s like an opera, really. The other woman, the woman scorned. Except where Mom sees herself as Violetta, strong and in control of her men and her destiny, I see her as the doomed heroine of Madame Butterfly—the beautiful geisha who thinks she’s married a handsome Ame
rican soldier for real, when really she’s just a plaything while he happens to be in Japan, until he can go home and get a real American wife, and she’s left there, singing “Un bel di,” one fine day, he’ll come back.
I finish the chocolate and go to bed.
In the morning, I find an e-mail from an address I don’t know. I open it.
Subj: Duets
Date: 9/24, 2:35 a.m, Eastern Standard Time
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
found these online
Sean
ps sorry I was a jerk
There’s an attachment. I open it and find a list of eight soprano/tenor arias—two from Rowena’s list, plus six others—and a link to an online classical music site.
I print out the list, but not the e-mail. Guys apologizing for being jerks is no new thing for me. Outside my door, I hear Mom singing around the house. Mom has a decent voice, but never sings unless she’s really happy. Happy because of Arnold. I so can’t deal with that now. I shower quickly and go out, taking my bicycle even though I know Mom will freak. I’ll put my makeup on on the train, and Gigi will have to understand why I missed her. Maybe I can catch Sean at school.
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Opera_Grrrl’s Online Journal
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Subject: I Didn’t Catch Sean @ School
Date: September 26
Time: 6:45 p.m.
Listening 2: “Con onor muore” (“Death w/Honor”) from Madame Butterfly—the aria she sings as she commits suicide b/c she realizes the man she loves is just using her
Feeling: Sleepy
Weight: 118 lbs.
I didn’t catch Sean @ school Thursday or Friday.
What I learned is:
1. Sean doesn’t come 2 school early.
2. Sean doesn’t stay late.
3. Sean doesn’t sleep.
We finally chose our duet, “Parigi o cara” from La Traviata (a duet that always makes me cry b/c the lovers are singing about how they’ll go 2 Paris 2gether & then—WHAMMO! She’s dead. It also sort of makes me cry 2 think that Dr. Toe-Jam & I have the same favorite opera) entirely thru e-mails, which Sean sends after 2 a.m. and I answer when I wake up at 5.