by Alex Flinn
Maybe I’ll stay at school with the foreign kids. I hear there’s a girl from Guyana, so I could work on my French.
I don’t want to stay at school, though. I want to go to Vermont with Daisy, my best friend, instead of spending two weeks with a frenemy.
Pleeeeeeze!
Pleadingly, Jacaranda
To: [email protected]
Date: December 8, 8:05 a.m. Eastern Standard Time
Subject: Fine
Dear Mr. Smith,
I am in receipt of Ms. Lastra’s email, in which she states that you require me to go to New York with Phoebe, and she agrees it’s only nice. She states that, as my guardian, you feel it necessary to instruct me in the proper way of handling invitations, so that I may know it for my later life.
I will do as required. I thank you for your charitable attention to my welfare.
I wish you a happy holiday. I will be limiting my nonrequired correspondence as I have a great deal of work to do.
Respectfully, Miss Jacaranda Abbott
To: [email protected]
Date: December 16, 2:01 a.m. Eastern Standard Time
Subject: Phoebe for Christmas
Dear Mr. Smith,
You were right, and I’m sorry. Thank you for setting me straight.
The past week has been so difficult. If I were one of my classmates, I’d say “the hardest week of my life,” but, well, we know that isn’t true for me. If there’s one good thing I can say for my childhood, it’s that I’m not spoiled.
Still, it’s been a lot of work. I’ve stayed up late every night, as late as I could without making myself sick and sending the whole thing crashing down.
Friday, the day of the show, I could barely concentrate in classes. I’ve worked so hard on “I Could Have Danced All Night.” Sometimes I woke up singing it. I arrived at 6:00 for an 8:00 show. The cafeteria staff prepared a dairy-free dinner of stir-fry chicken and veggies (milk creates phlegm on the vocal cords, so half the cast hasn’t had dairy in a month). Some people didn’t even eat that. At 6:30, Owen called me. “Come on!”
“What?” I’d planned a leisurely 90 minutes of applying my makeup and staring into space.
He explained that before each show, they have rituals: first, a half hour of yoga, led by Owen, who can stand on his head and do something called “wounded peacock” (there’s a Sanskrit name for it, which I can’t pronounce). This involves standing on one hand, legs flung behind and up in the air. But we just did regular yoga, and by the end of it, the Savasana (corpse pose), I felt as one with my fellow thespians. Next, we did vocal warm-ups. Finally, a group chant, which was like a prayer to the theater gods. It was all very warm and fuzzy, as if we weren’t hypercompetitive!
Then I went back to put on my costume for the Titanic number.
I was the first to the dressing room. At least, I thought I was. But when I got there, Phoebe was sitting by the mirror, no makeup, staring ahead, frozen, with this weird expression on her face, like she was Anne Boleyn headed to the guillotine.
When I tried to ask her why she missed warm-ups, she said, real softly, “I can’t do this.”
I was sure I’d heard her wrong. What did she mean, she couldn’t do this? Phoebe’s life revolves around theater. She’s super talented and has been working so hard.
I said, “Everyone’s counting on you.” Wrong thing to say.
“I don’t care,” she said.
“You don’t care?” I was sure I’d misheard her.
She took in a deep breath and let it out, shakily, like she was trying not to cry. Then she took another one. Finally, she said fine, she’d do the group numbers, but she couldn’t do that solo. It was wrong for her voice. She couldn’t hit the low notes. Her mother was in the audience, and people from colleges. “It’s too hard,” she kept saying, her breathing shallow and jerky.
Then other people started coming in, and she got up and walked outside, telling me to ask Harry to pull her solo.
Like hell I would! (Excuse my language.) I followed her, putting on my Titanic costume, which, fortunately, unfortunately, wasn’t warm enough for Michigan in December. It kind of made me angry. I mean, yeah, she could just decide not to do a solo. No one expected anything of Phoebe. If she bombed at this, she could do something else, and if she bombed at that, she’d get another chance, because she’s rich and everyone coddles her.
But I knew that wasn’t true. She loves singing and theater. If she didn’t do this, she’d regret it. I remembered that day I overheard her on the phone, saying, “I didn’t flip out this time.” Was this something that happened a lot? Did she not realize how talented she was, that she was better than most of us, even on a bad day?
I found her over by some trees behind the theater, taking deep breaths and shivering because she was only wearing a leotard and yoga pants. I wondered what to say. The logical thing was that she’d look worse by not singing than by singing and having it not be perfect. But I knew logic wouldn’t work on her. So I said, “Sure. Go ahead. I’ll tell Harry. But can we . . . I don’t know, can we talk about what we’re going to do over break?”
She looked at me suspiciously. I mean I was obviously trying to change the subject, keep her calm, not have her notice me looking at my watch. But I guess she appreciated the effort because after a minute of breathing, she said, “My family gives this great party on Christmas Eve. You’re so lucky to get invited.”
I turned away so she couldn’t see my eyes roll.
She kept going, describing the people who were coming: “really important people, like producers, and we have a ton of food, and even Broadway performers. I’ll loan you a dress if you don’t have anything good to wear.”
I ignored this. Being snotty is second nature to her and better than running away. Her breathing sounded more normal-ish now.
I said that sounded nice. “I’ve never been in a penthouse. How many stories is that?”
She told me 22 and talked some more about the party until finally, I told her I was looking forward to that but right now, I was freaking out about juries.
She said, “Oh, no, you’ll be fine. You’re so talented.”
“You think so? I’ve always been jealous of you.”
She seemed surprised. “Why?”
“Give me a break. You know you’re good. That first day when I heard you sing ‘Hallelujah,’ I was ready to go home. I thought I didn’t belong in the same room as you. And your song for this is so good too.”
“You really think so?” she said.
“Absolutely. You’re great at acting it out. I feel so sad for the soldiers you’re singing about. That song is so meaningful, and I bet a lot of people would appreciate it. I mean, there’s probably at least someone here who fought in a war. But if you can’t . . .” I shrugged and let my voice trail off.
“I know you’re right,” she said.
“Look,” I said through my chattering teeth. “What if you just do the group numbers and see how it’s going? Your song’s in the second act. There’s no good time to tell Harry you’re quitting, so you might as well wait until intermission.”
She thought about it for a minute. “I guess that’s true.” She turned and headed inside. I followed her. But the funny thing was, dealing with her freak-out really kept me from freaking out myself. By then, there was only enough time to defrost myself and get dressed.
It went really well. I’m telling you this because you weren’t there. But why would you come, when I was so rude to you? Still, I looked for a tall older man with a red rose in his lapel. Or maybe in his hand like that guy at the Met.
But you weren’t there.
Who really surprised me by showing up was Jarvis Pendleton. He never mentioned he’d decided to take his aunt up on her invitation to fly to Michigan to see the show.
Anyway, I sang onstage, in front of people, and they applauded! My first solo!
It feels like a lifetime ago when I was in Miami. I was just some kid who liked to sing i
n the shower, if the water hadn’t gotten cut off. Aside from Mr. Louis and maybe my chorus teacher, you were the first person who ever took me seriously as an artist. If it weren’t for you, I’d be in foster care, going to my old school, taking Personal Development because there isn’t any chorus. I’d be dreaming of being a Publix manager instead of a Broadway star.
Phoebe’s solo ended up going really well after all. When she came into the dressing room, she said, “I saw people wiping away tears!”
After the show, sure enough, Jarvis was there. He stood at the stage door, carrying two giant bouquets of roses, white for Phoebe, pink for me. “For the stars!” he said.
I’ve never gotten roses before, not even from the supermarket, and I buried my nose in them, inhaling their scent.
Phoebe’s mother, Mrs. Hodgkins, introduced herself. She was an icy blond lady who gushed about how wonderful everyone was. The show was wonderful, I was wonderful, Phoebe was wonderful, all equally wonderful. I tried to picture her at our apartment back in Miami, where the roof leaked on our beds and there was a rooster that crowed every morning at 4:00 and we only had one AC window unit in the 90-degree weather, and it let in palmetto bugs. Would she be so happy then?
I heard Phoebe mutter something about Valium, actually. She turned to Jarvis and asked him what he really thought.
He seemed kind of flattered that she even asked and said, “Gosh, cousin, you didn’t stink up the place at all.” But he had a smile that went all the way to his eyes, so I know he thought she was good.
“Gee, thanks,” she said, but I could tell she was happy he’d come. I noticed some other girls looking at him too, and one even took his picture. Phoebe looked pretty proud.
Jarvis started talking to me about visiting over break. He’s planned days of outings. He’s going to take me to see all of what Phoebe calls the “silly tourist stuff,” the Museum of Natural History, the top of the Empire State Building, and skating around the Rockefeller Center Christmas tree. His plan, he says, is to invite Phoebe along oh-so-sweetly, and when she scoffs at it, we can be alone together. I’m tired already just thinking of this trip!
Then, just as he was talking about taking me to see the Statue of Liberty, and Phoebe had gone back to being the eye-rolling mean girl I’ve come to expect, a lady came up to us.
“Ah, here are the two I’ve been looking for!” she exclaimed.
When we turned toward her, she handed us her cards. Her name was Wendy Lessing and she was on the admissions committee for the New England Conservatory, which has a summer program for high schoolers. She invited us to audition.
Phoebe took the card, not looking too interested. I said thank you but I didn’t think I could afford a summer program. She said they offered scholarships and need-based aid, and someone as talented as I was should be able to get a full ride. She said we should ask Harry about it, and that they were having regional auditions in Detroit next month.
We both thanked her, as did Phoebe’s mom, a little too enthusiastically. Phoebe said, “It’s probably like those scams where a Nigerian prince contacts you to say you won a prize.”
Jarvis said, “Maybe. But you guys were incredible.” Phoebe turned away, but Jarvis grabbed my hand in his. “Especially you. You were . . . I’ve seen the play a dozen times, but I never understood what it meant, how she felt.” He bit his lip, like he was trying to find the right word. Then he lowered his voice and looked into my eyes. “You’re astonishing, Jackie.”
He held my gaze, and it felt like we were the only two people there, in the midst of all the clamoring families. It was as if I could feel his pulse, like we were connected through our veins. No one ever called me astonishing before.
I squeezed his hand. “Thank you.”
The next day when I showed up for warm-ups, Harry said he heard his friend Wendy had talked to me and that I should strongly consider auditioning. “Strongly consider” is what adults say when they mean you’d better do it. She only gave her card to the two of us and to David and one other guy, Garret. Everyone’s looking for more boys.
After Saturday’s show, Phoebe came up and said . . . (pausing because this was beautiful) “I wanted to thank you for yesterday. I hope we get to be better friends next semester.”
Hearing her say that made me think of the card, that beautiful card and the playlist and gifts I got from my Secret Snow Fairy, and I knew who they were from. I pictured Phoebe taking all that time to make that card, and . . . wow. Mind . . . blown.
I mean, maybe I’m wrong, but I don’t think so.
“That’s why I invited you for break,” she admitted. “It wasn’t because of Jarvis. I mean, he definitely has some kind of weird thing for you, but I’m sorry I was mean.”
Whoa. This was as nice as Phoebe got by a lot. I’m sure it won’t last. But I thanked her, and suddenly, I was hugging her. And she let me!
So, anyway, you were right. It would have been super rude to turn down Phoebe to go to Vermont with Daisy. Phoebe would have definitely found out, and any hope of friendship would have been gone.
Also, Jarvis is ridiculously excited. I’m ridiculously excited to see him. Going skating at Rockefeller Center sounds like something from a romance novel! I can’t believe this is my life now!
Plus, Daisy said I could come to Vermont with them for Presidents’ Day instead.
And I survived juries. What a relief! It turned out the four “jurors” were more Katy Perry than Simon Cowell. It felt like they were rooting for me. When I walked in the door, Harry turned to the two voice teachers I didn’t know and said they were “in for a treat.” They nodded and said, “Yes, you’ve told us.”
I’m still waiting to get the results on Friday.
Fingers crossed.
Now I should go to bed, so I won’t get sick over break. I have big plans!
Yours apologetically, Jacaranda
To: [email protected]
Date: December 18, 3:15 p.m. Eastern Standard Time
Subject: Merry Christmas
Dear Mr. Smith,
Just a quick note because Phoebe and I are catching a plane.
I passed my juries! I mean, not just passed but got good grades—two Bs and two As—so all my paranoia was unfounded. I’m glad I worked hard though! I’m attaching copies of their comments. Apparently, I need to work on my posture. And Noreen, my own Noreen, marked me down for “spreading” my high notes. She was one of the Bs!
And I was right about Phoebe. She’s my Snow Fairy. As the final big gift (which was supposed to be a $30 limit), she gave me a pair of beautiful earrings, silver with stones that look suspiciously like diamonds. She said I could wear them to the Christmas Eve party at her parents’ place. I’m not going to google the designer because I don’t want to know how much she spent! I think Lucky liked my gift, a notebook and a fancy pen. And Daisy loved the pendant and promised to bring back a snowball from Stowe!
I’m sending a small gift, a picture of me that Daisy took, in a frame I bought in New York. Maybe you can put it next to photos of your grandchildren. It’s nothing compared to what I owe you, but know I was thinking of you. So check your mail. I’d send something more personal, but I don’t know your sizes or what you like.
So much has happened this semester! I’ve learned so much! Thank you!
Phoebe is yelling for me to hurry up! I’ll write soon.
Merry Christmas!
Love, Jacaranda
To: [email protected]
Date: December 18, 6:27 p.m. Eastern Standard Time
Subject: Surprise!
Dear Mr. Smith,
Writing from the airport. The last thing I did before I left was mail two items, your gift and a card for my mom. And I picked up my mail at the campus post office. What do you think was in it?
A Christmas package from you! A big one too! I put it away for Christmas morning, so I’ll have something to open when Phoebe is opening a roomful of treasures. I’m so excited!
There was a
lso a letter from my mother. Two in one month. Probably just Christmas wishes. I sent her a card and didn’t mention being mad about her last letter. I sent my love.
I stuffed both into my suitcase to open on Christmas.
Season’s Greetings, Jacaranda
To: [email protected]
Date: December 19, 12:42 a.m. Eastern Standard Time
Subject: I’m here!
Dear Mr. Smith,
OMG—this apartment! Phoebe said it was a penthouse, but it’s actually two whole floors, every window with a view of gleaming city lights! All the furniture is black and white, with huge modern sculptures that look like something out of a Tim Burton movie! Phoebe’s bathroom is larger than my dorm room, with a giant tub and another spectacular view.
Do you live someplace like this? Can I come see?
Sometimes, when I took the bus home from school, I’d look at the big houses in nice neighborhoods and wonder what people did inside. Did they have balls like in Cinderella?
Phoebe’s mom is still super nice in her Valium way, but Phoebe’s already annoyed with her because . . .
Today, bright and early, we are going out for brunch with a group Mrs. Hodgkins calls “the Thursdays.” Apparently, they’re Phoebe’s friends she’s known since their baby playgroup (which met on Thursdays). They all still get together. This is something rich people do. Phoebe said she couldn’t believe she had to waste time going out with girls who hate her, when she’s only home for two weeks. I texted Jarvis about it, and he texted back the emoji.
At least I get a fancy brunch at a New York restaurant called Red Rooster, where biscuits and gravy are $20. Isn’t it funny how people in the city always want to pretend they’re on a farm?
Love, Jacaranda
To: [email protected]
Date: December 19, 10:18 p.m. Eastern Standard Time