by Alex Flinn
“But how do you know? And how do you know he won’t do the same thing to you, if he could do it to her?” Trying to appeal to her selfish side—a big side.
“Caitlin, it’s complicated.”
“I went to see her.”
“Who?”
“Arnold’s wife. I talked to her.”
She stands and makes an I’m so shocked gesture, knocking her freshly polished hand into the lamp. She looks at it and curses. It wasn’t dry. “You talked to her?”
“Yes.” I’m sort of enjoying that she’s freaking out. Actually, really enjoying it.
“When? What did you say?” She looks from her nail to the phone, like she’s thinking about calling Arnold to do some kind of damage control. “Oh, Caitlin, what did you do?”
“She’s a nice lady, Mom,” I say, still not giving her the information she wants. I actually love that she’s in total freak-out mode. Maybe it will bring her to her senses. “They have a yellow Lab. Did you know that? And she told me about how she worries about her daughters when they’re out at night.”
“Caitlin, when was this? When did you talk to her?” She’s fanning her hands so much it looks like she might take off. “How could you do this to me?”
“How can you do this to her, Mom? You got dumped by Dad. You know what it’s like. How can you put someone else through that? How can you be like this?”
“Caitlin? Answer my question.”
“Answer mine!”
She reaches for the phone. “I have to call him.”
“So you don’t care what I think? You only care about him.” When she doesn’t answer, I say, “Look, I didn’t tell her about you and Arnold. I … couldn’t. But I wanted to. I wanted her to know because it isn’t fair.”
“Fair?” She plunks down the phone. “Fair? Is it fair that I’m here all by myself while your father has everything? Is it fair that you’ll go to college soon, and I’ll be old and fat and alone?”
“You’ll never be fat,” I say. “You’re thin and perfect, and you don’t even diet. You’re never lonely either.”
“You don’t know anything about me. And you’re the one that got me thinking this way.”
“What way?”
“About the future. That I need to get married, to find someone who can sup—be with me. When you said what you said last summer, I realized I could end up with nothing.”
“What did I say?”
“What you said last summer. You could leave, and I’d have no one, nothing. I’d be all alone.” She looks away. “That’s when I knew I needed someone like Arnold.”
Oh, God. When I’d threatened to leave and take Dad’s child support with me, that was a wake-up call. She realized her free ride might be over. It will be over when I hit eighteen anyway. And that makes me so mad, thinking that all these years, I’d been nothing but a meal ticket to her, and now Arnold is her meal ticket, and she doesn’t care who she hurts.
I say it. The instant after I think all those things, I say them. All of them. And then I keep going. I scream, “I can’t believe you. You’re that lazy? Maybe if you stopped worrying for two seconds about your bikini wax and your nails…” I knock against her hand. “… And getting a man, you could get a real job and not have to leech off Dad!”
I stop yelling, but I can still hear the words. My ears feel tight with them. I can almost see them, as if they exist in some physical form.
She stands there a moment, and then she lunges for me, like she’s going to hit me. In my whole life, she’s never hit me, and she doesn’t this time either. Instead, she starts screaming, “You little brat! You think you know everything! You think you’re better than me? You have the world at your feet, and it’s because of me! Me! You think that scumbag father of yours would do one thing he’s not court-ordered to?”
She keeps on like that, screaming ugly things about Dad, things I can’t even argue with. I know they’re true. And I just stand there, staring, trying not to blink because if I blink, I’ll cry. And I won’t give her the satisfaction.
She keeps going. “I could have been something, but instead, I had you. You think I wanted to be thirty-seven with a daughter who thinks she’s so hot? I used to be hot too. You are exactly like I was!”
Well, this is too much. Better to be slapped physically. Worse to be compared to her. I feel the first tear starting down my cheek, but before she can see it, I scream, “I am nothing like you!”
And I run.
* * *
Opera_Grrrl’s Online Journal
* * *
Subject: Tortures and Triumphs
Date: December 3
Time: 11:11 p.m.
Listening 2: “Triumphal March” from Aïda
Feeling: Triumphant
Weight: 114 lbs. (purely by accident, haven’t been dieting @ all)
You’d think when I mastered the dance steps after tremendous personal sacrifice that Ms. Wolfe might—just might—have something 2 say. Something like, “Good job, Caitlin” or “Hard work really paid off.”
Nah. I didn’t think so either.
2day @ rehearsal, I failed 2 screw up for the 1st time, and Ms. Wolfe failed 2 yell at me ......... for the 1st time.
But when we finished our approximately 900th run-thru of the dance numbers, she faced us w/her usual doglike expression.
She pointed @ a redheaded girl who was previously the 2nd worst dancer. “Ainsley! There are a few 2 many dancers. Just sing on the side of the stage.”
I struggled w/2 impulses: wanting 2 give Ainsley some kind of sympathetic look and not wanting 2 draw attention 2 myself. I didn’t move. Next, Ms. Wolfe singled out 2 fatgirls who danced OK but the 90-lb. Ms. Wolfe probably thought they wouldn’t look great in the costume (leotards w/glittery vests over them) and told them the same thing. That bugged me. I noticed she didn’t pull any guys out, even tho there were several who were worse than the girls that she cut. Guys are held 2 a completely different standard here, or, as Gigi says, “If you have a penis, you don’t *need* talent.” Speaking of which, Gus still has no jockstrap, and when he’s in the room, it’s hard 2 look @ anything else ........ though we all try.
Finally, Ms. Wolfe got to me. She gave me a long look, & I thought for sure she’d cut me. I knew if that happened, after all my work, I’d burst into tears or just plain burst. What if she didn’t notice my failure 2 screw up 2day & just remembered the 8,000 times I was bad???
But finally, she clapped her hands and told us 2 do it 1 more time.
And I breathed. Sean reached over 2 hi-5 me, & Gigi grinned, but I shook my head. I didn’t want 2 jinx it.
But on the inside, I felt like I could do grandes jetés if I wanted!
* * *
CHAPTER 34
On Friday, I go early to Rowena’s office. I feel tremendously guilty over the New York thing, so I want to smooth things over with her. I want to do what she tells me, but I don’t want to. When I get there, I have to wait because she has a student in there, a blond girl. I recognize her as one of the students who sang at the La Traviata auditions, one of the less-good ones.
They’re in there a really long time, but just as I decide to give up, she runs out. She’s crying, and Rowena comes to the door, too, yelling, “Mary! Wait!” But the girl doesn’t stop. That’s when Rowena notices me there.
“This is a bad time?” I ask.
Rowena sighs. “No … I mean, it’s always hard.”
“What is?”
“Having to tell a student she should change majors—that I don’t think she’ll make it in performance and she should consider music education or merchandising instead.”
“That’s what you told her?” I’m thinking, I’d die.
Rowena nods. “She was promising at auditions last year, but she hasn’t improved much. I understand she parties quite a bit, and it doesn’t seem like the commitment’s there. You have to want it more than anything. You have to sacrifice.”
Sacrifice. I think about the Ne
w York program. “What will happen to her now?”
“She has to decide. She can change majors, which is what I suggested. Or she can decide I don’t know what I’m talking about. Maybe she’ll take it as a challenge and practice more and show me I’m wrong. It’s her choice.”
“Am I good enough?” I say.
“Caitlin, this isn’t about you.”
“But it could be. You said she seemed promising last year at auditions. You never can tell, right?”
“I can tell. I know you. And I know you’re very committed.”
“Am I?” I feel my headache right down in my neck. If I had to sing now, I couldn’t. I want to confess my lie about New York. But Mom’s so furious with me now, she probably would say no if I asked her.
“Yes. You’re one of my most talented students ever.” She touches my hand. “Don’t worry. Just keep doing what you’re doing.”
At lunch, I tell Gigi about it—not about lying to Rowena because I know what she’d say (she’d kill me!), but about Mary.
Gigi rolls her eyes. “You said yourself the girl wasn’t very good. Rowena probably did her a huge favor. Why does it bother you?”
“But can you imagine not singing anymore? Why wake up in the morning?”
“But that’s how you feel about it. If she felt that way, she’d have practiced more. Then she wouldn’t be getting this news.”
“I guess.”
“Absolutely. It’s like a reality show where they vote the weaklings off first. When you’re five and dancing in your mom’s dresses, everyone’s a superstar. But then some people get picked to be ‘listeners’ in music class, and others don’t make the good chorus in middle school, and others don’t get in here. And some people screw up. But that’s not you, Cait. You can make it.”
“I guess,” I repeat.
But that night and both days of the weekend, I sing scales for an extra hour.
CHAPTER 35
For the next week, I own you.” Miss Davis teeters for a second, allowing this shocking news to sink in. It’s the Monday before the show. “Homework in your academic classes? Unimportant. Family and friends don’t exist. Exercise? Burn calories onstage. Your love life?” She takes a long look at Gus and Misty, who are attempting to merge into one person. “Not on my time. And make no mistake about it—your every waking moment is my time. I’m not about balance.” She stares at us. “Understand?”
We all nod, somberly, like we’re supposed to. Even Gigi.
“Good. Places for the opening number.” We start to file offstage. Miss Davis holds out a painted claw, and fixes on Gus. “You!”
Gus executes a comic stop and gestures like, Me?
“Yes, you. Purchase an athletic supporter.”
“Why?”
“Because your … equipment is showing. If you don’t find one by tomorrow, I’ll take you shopping during lunch.”
We’re all trying real hard not to laugh, but someone (I’m not sure it wasn’t me) lets out a high-pitched giggle, and then we’re all cracking up.
Through it, I hear Gus. “Miss Davis?”
A sigh. “Yes, Gus?”
“If I’m not s’posed to be doing anything but practicing, when do I shop?”
I don’t even hear Miss Davis’s answer. But the rest of the afternoon, every time I pass Sean or Gigi, we say things like, “Excuse me? Do you happen to have your equipment with you?” or “Can you get your equipment? I need to change a lightbulb.”
Sean drives me home after rehearsal.
“How’s it going?” he says.
“Great. We’ll be rehearsing so much I’ll hardly see my mother.”
He laughs. “Yeah, all I can think about is this show. Would you believe the other day, I woke up, and my hand was stiff? I’d been doing jazz hands in my sleep!”
“What I can’t believe is that three months ago, I’d never heard of a jazz hand. And now…” I make a gesture like my hand is stuck that way, fingers straight and stiff.
“You’re really improving at dance.”
“Thanks to you.”
“No. Thanks to you.” He pulls into my driveway and stops the car. The lights are off inside the house, but I can see Harold the flamingo, who’s now dressed like Santa Claus. Sean pulls me toward him and hugs me, and it’s different than other times, because I know it’s just a hug; a friend-hug and nothing more.
When we part, I say, “So, do you think Gus went and found an all-night sporting-goods store Monday night?”
Sean laughs. “I bet he did. I wouldn’t want to go shopping for a jockstrap with Miss Davis!”
* * *
Opera_Grrrl’s Online Journal
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Subject: Sean
Date: December 7
Time: 11:35 p.m.
Listening 2: “Che Gelida Manina” from La Bohème (w/headphones so as not 2 incur the wrath of Mom)
Feeling: Tired
Weight: 112 lbs. (I think I lost weight from dancing so much)
I’ve spent a LOT of time thinking about the whole Sean thing, and what I’ve figured out is: everything happens for a reason .......... All my life, I wanted 2 be thin & have a boyfriend, but when I did finally get a boyfriend, it didn’t work out w/him ....... in fact, he HURT ME .......... and it didn’t work out w/the next guy either .......... & what I figured out is that I DON’T WANT A BOYFRIEND at this particular moment of my life. I think maybe what I need is a friend & w/Sean, I have that. I have that more than I’ve ever had that in my life. And what’s more, he’s SAFE. I can love him, and he isn’t going 2 hurt me, isn’t going 2 try and make me be some1 else. Does that make sense????????? I don’t even know if it does, & maybe any1 reading this will think I’m crazy (I don’t even know if any1 does read this) but I think it’s right. And what’s more, I think it’s more important 2 be w/some1 b/c you actually care about that person, than being w/some1 2 be w/someone.
I don’t know what I mean 2 say. But I know what I THINK: I’m happy.
* * *
CHAPTER 36
Six-thirty Thursday. We’re assembled in our costumes for dress rehearsal. The opening number is a medley of what Miss Davis calls rah-rah, let’s-put-on-a-show tunes—“There’s No Business Like Show Business,” “Applause,” “The Lullaby of Broadway,” etc. I’m dressed as a stagehand in overalls and a T-shirt, wearing a ton of Mom’s Emma Leigh samples. In fact, Mom doesn’t know it, but she donated makeup for most of the cast. I still haven’t told her about the performance this weekend and I don’t know if I will. I’m still that mad at her.
I stand near Gigi. Actually, behind Gigi. The good dancers are in front, while the “good singers” like me bring up the rear. At least I’m not on the side of the stage! I look around at the shadows behind me. My friends. I’ve only known them a few months, but we’ve bonded together working on this show. The lights fade, and I stare out at where the audience will be tomorrow. The music starts, and I feel a ripple down my spine as the follow spot hits Sylvanie, and she sings her first line:
“Welcome to the theater, to the magic, to the fun…”
It’s the same line Miss Davis quoted that first day. I didn’t know what it was from then, but now, I know it’s from a show called Applause. Applause. I love applause. That’s why I came here. I wanted—and still want—to be in the show.
The rest of the dress rehearsal goes pretty much as it should. I forget my steps twice, but I smile big like Ms. Wolfe told us, and go on like nothing happened. It’s too late for her to make me a side-singer. When it comes time for my duet with Sean, I get there early and wait in the wings in my satin dress (trying not to think about the fact that Arnold paid for it), the two drama students do the lead-in for our song. Halfway through, Sean joins me. I feel his hand on my arm.
“The script’s pretty lame,” I whisper.
“Yeah, but you class it up.”
The two girls finish their scene, and I have to bite my lip to keep from grinning as we go out to do Violetta’s death
scene.
Sean is the perfect Alfredo, and I die beautifully.
The only numbers after ours are the classic Broadway scenes and the finale. Gigi’s in the classic Broadway section, doing “If My Friends Could See Me Now,” a song-and-dance number from Sweet Charity. At this point, I’ve seen her do it approximately seven hundred times, so I head backstage to change into leotard and tights, vest and top hat, for the finale. I walk to the mirror to check how I look. I suck in my stomach. Someone steps beside me.
It’s Rowena. “Hey.” She squeezes my shoulder. “I just came back to tell you, all the faculty are raving about your performance.”
“Thanks.” I smile.
“I was thinking about that summer program,” Rowena continues. “I’m so sorry you’re not going.”
“Me too.” I reach down to fiddle with the strap of my character shoe.
“I was thinking that maybe if I had a word with your mother, it could help her understand what a great opportunity this is. Maybe you could get a part-time job in New York.”
“Oh, I don’t think so.” I unbuckle my shoe entirely, to keep from having to look at Rowena. From the monitor in the dressing room, I hear Gigi’s song start. Only two more numbers left until I’m onstage. Can I make this strap last two more songs? “My mom’s not even coming to the show.”
“Not coming? Are you sure?”
“Absolutely. She doesn’t want to come. She hates my being in performing arts.” It’s not a total lie. Mom isn’t coming. She could have asked when the show is, but she’s too worried about her own stuff to bother. Tomorrow’s the night she goes out on her big date with Arnold—possibly making him my stepfather-to-be.
I need to change the subject. “Is this what it was like, being an opera singer? Did you always feel so excited when you went onstage?”
Rowena nods. I know she’s going to say something else about Mom. So I ask another question.