by Alex Flinn
So much emotion!
My singing is all I have to give, and he’s the one I want to give it to.
Then I snuck back into bed and pretended nothing had happened. I lay there, unable to sleep, just like Eliza Doolittle. Finally Phoebe woke up and asked me what had happened after we got home. I said, “Nothing much” and suggested she call Emma about getting her coat back.
Mr. Smith, I’m sending you a recording of me singing “I Could Have Danced All Night.” It’s my gift, but you sponsored it. I hope someday you’ll come hear me in person.
Merry Christmas!
Love, Jacaranda
To: [email protected]
Date: January 1, 12:11 p.m. Eastern Standard Time
Subject: New year, new problems
Happy New Year, Mr. Smith!
I’m sorry I haven’t written before. I hope you haven’t been worried.
You see, I returned to school early, the day after Christmas.
But let me back up.
Jarvis left on the 23rd, full of plans for when he came back. He texted me on Christmas Eve about how boring it was at the client’s mansion (sigh!) and on the 25th, with Christmas wishes.
I opened your Christmas gifts. THANK YOU for the beautiful presents. The jade green cashmere sweater is my favorite color and just the right size! I needed the gloves—mine are not warm enough for the Michigan winter. I’ve already eaten the fancy chocolates. They are my first, best, grown-up Christmas gifts, and I will cherish them forever. Well, except the chocolate, which is gone!
Thank you also for the generous Delta Air Lines gift card. I appreciate that I can buy my own airline tickets and not have to ask permission. But, you’ll see, I’ve already used part of it.
I had another present to open that morning, the little blue Tiffany box Jarvis left under the tree. It held a sterling silver ring with the infinity symbol and a card, signed “Love, Jarvis.” I would have been so excited to open it, a ring from my wonderful boyfriend! It should have been my best Christmas ever. Except . . .
Except there was that other envelope in my suitcase. I saw it when I took out your gift.
Do you remember? The letter I found in the school mail and stuck in my suitcase, right before I left? My mother’s letter that I put away for Christmas?
I opened it. But it didn’t contain warm Christmas wishes or love. She’s still upset about my leaving. “How can they take my baby all the way to Michigan?” she asked.
But, also, she had good news. Apparently, a women’s advocacy group has taken on her case. They think her attempted murder was self-defense (it was) and that they can get her out of prison. Then I can come home and we can be together. Wasn’t I so happy, she asked?!?!?!?!?!
I should be happy, Mr. Smith. I am happy. Of course, I don’t want my mother imprisoned for a crime she didn’t commit. I’m not a monster! I love my mother and miss her.
But, Mr. Smith, I also don’t want to leave MAA!
I especially don’t want to go back to Miami and live with her and her boyfriends and her addicted, irresponsible behavior. I’ll be seventeen in April, but that’s not old enough to live independently.
And then I started thinking of my friends, of Phoebe and Daisy, all of them, and especially Jarvis. Jarvis is the only one who knows ANY of my story. But still, he doesn’t know the whole truth about my mother, about the world I grew up in. It’s a world that bears so little resemblance to his that we might as well not even live on the same continent. And I don’t want him to know!
He wouldn’t be sending me cards signed with love if he knew what a liar I was.
I know it’s probably premature to say I love him. I don’t know him well enough, and he doesn’t know me. Right now, he’s like Jim, Laura’s gentleman caller in The Glass Menagerie (Jarvis loaned it to me), a too-good-to-be-true boy with no flaws. I’d have to know him better to see his flaws.
But I know I could love him.
They say adversity shows character. Maybe Jarvis hasn’t known adversity like I have, and that’s why he can afford to be so good. He’s like a child who hasn’t been hurt by the world, so he hasn’t built up a hard shell like I have.
But he’s been hurt, in his own way. And yet, he’s still so kind and giving. Maybe he would still love me if he knew my past, but I don’t want him to be with me out of charity.
Then I thought about how he said he wasn’t sure he wanted to go to MIT, even though that’s his dream school.
He doesn’t want to go to MIT because he wants to be near me, a girl he’s known for 2 months and who’s lied about everything. He’s too invested in me, an investment I can’t repay. He thinks he loves me. But he doesn’t even know who I am.
And, suddenly, I felt like I couldn’t see him again, couldn’t go to museums and eat diner food as if everything is okay when it isn’t. It never can be, when everything he knows about me is a lie.
I told Phoebe my parents wanted me to come home for a few days. I texted Jarvis the same thing. Then I used part of your gift to exchange my ticket for an earlier one back.
I’ve been at MAA, studying hard and practicing ever since. I may as well get the most out of this place before I have to leave.
I haven’t talked to Jarvis. His texts to me have gotten more concerned. Am I okay? Can I please contact him? He knows I’m not close to my mother, so he probably didn’t believe my explanation in the first place. But I don’t know what to tell him. I cry every night, not just because I miss him but because I know he must be hurt.
I have to forget him. It’s for the best.
But I can’t forget the rest of my situation. I love it here! I don’t want to leave MAA! I feel like my life has finally begun, and now it is being taken away from me.
Is there anything you can do?
Love, Jacaranda
To: [email protected]
Date: January 1, 3:59 p.m. Eastern Standard Time
Subject: Thank you
Dear Mr. Smith,
I just got off the phone with Vanessa. I appreciate her calling me over a holiday weekend. She said it might be possible for me to become emancipated, so that even if my mother was released, I would be an adult and able to make my own decisions, such as about school. She said she’d call your attorney on Monday and get back to me.
Meanwhile, I have another sad (and lengthy) text from Jarvis.
Please talk to me. I don’t want to seem like a stalker, but two days before Christmas, I had a girlfriend who almost said she loved me and kissed me goodbye on West 54th Street and planned to see me in a few days. So I feel like I have reason to be concerned that she’s gone missing. If I wasn’t clear, I love you. I didn’t say it before but I’m saying it now. Please talk to me, Jackie. . . .
I don’t know what to do. I don’t know what to tell him.
I’m immersing myself in music. In my nearly empty dorm, I’m singing warm-ups and learning Phoebe’s entire playlist. We have auditions for a musical right after break.
Singing is the one thing in which I can take real comfort and pride right now.
Love, Jacaranda
P.S. I wish I could talk to you.
To: [email protected]
Date: January 2, 10:45 p.m. Eastern Standard Time
Subject: A ray of light
Dear Mr. Smith,
Today is the last day before everyone moves back in. This campus is peaceful and freezing, as if real snow fairies have visited, touching each pine bough with sprinkles of white powder. I went for a late-morning walk, to take a break from thinking about Jarvis.
He hasn’t texted since the last long one I told you about. I’m hoping he’s given up. But I’m also hoping he hasn’t given up. You know?
When it was warm enough to leave the dorm, I put on every piece of clothing I own, sweater, scarf, hat, boots, your gloves, all covered by my plum-colored down coat. I headed toward Hobie’s Hideaway, where we went for karaoke that night. When they’re not serving as a den of iniquity for teen desert
ers, they make a good chicken chili. Cafeteria offerings haven’t been as imaginative over break—there are only so many string beans a person can eat. Or perhaps I got spoiled from living with the Hodgkins family for a week.
On my way back, stomach full, whistling “I Whistle a Happy Tune” from The King and I, I felt someone behind me.
I turned, sucking in my whistle. It was a girl from school who I couldn’t place at first. Her hood covered her hair and some of her face.
“You didn’t have to stop whistling,” she said. “It was nice.”
I asked if she’d just gotten back, and she shook her head. She’d been here the whole time.
Which was weird because it’s mostly only the foreign students who don’t go home for winter break. I’d sat with a girl from Sri Lanka last night. But this girl had no accent.
“I’ve been here a week,” I said.
She nodded. “I saw you in the cafeteria.”
“I was staying with a friend, but after a while . . .” I shrugged.
“The crust of humility . . .” The girl nodded, knowingly.
I did a double take because the line was from The Glass Menagerie, the play Jarvis loaned me. In it, Amanda, a depleted Southern belle, describes women who can’t support themselves as “little birdlike women without any nest, eating the crust of humility all their lives.” I so related to that line. That’s exactly how I’ve felt ALL MY LIFE. My mother and I lived first with my grandmother, then with boyfriend after boyfriend and, after she was gone, I lived with my aunt April, then in foster homes. And even though Phoebe’s and Daisy’s families were perfectly nice, I didn’t feel like I belonged there either. It felt like, well, being a little birdlike woman with no nest.
“I like that play,” I said.
She nodded. “I’m doing an art installation based on that line, about the plight of women and children on the streets.”
And that’s when I put together who she was, the art and the big brown eyes. It was Falcon, the girl I’d heard about who’d lived on the street before coming to MAA.
As if to confirm this, she said, “Should we keep walking? It’s cold out, though I’ve dealt with worse.”
I nodded, and started walking. “You’re Falcon?” I said.
“The famous. And you’re Jacaranda, right?”
I started at my full name.
“Faculty told me you were coming,” she said. “Thought we’d have stuff in common, I guess.”
Right. Because we both had sob stories. Except everyone knew her story, while I’d lied about mine. I was such a coward. That’s why I’m in this mess with Jarvis.
She kept talking. “I was looking for you those first few days, but when I finally saw you, you had a friend group.” She made air quotes around the words “friend group” because it was something a guidance counselor would say. “I thought maybe they didn’t know your whole thing, where you came from, and who was I to tell, if you were ashamed.”
Did I imagine the hint of judgment in her voice? Was it because I felt I deserved it?
“I’m sorry,” I said.
“No, I get it.” She pulled her scarf tighter around her neck. “At first I kept it secret, too, invented reasons why I didn’t go home for breaks, told people my parents were out of the country. But then it just got too tiring living a lie. You know?”
I nodded. I did know.
Falcon said her mom has an apartment now. But she couldn’t afford the airfare to bring Falcon home for breaks. “I’m friends with all the people who stay,” she said. “We’re like a family. And I get a lot of work done.”
I said I’d love to see her art sometime. We were near the dorm at that point, and she invited me to her room. Every square inch of the room, every wall, every surface, was covered with her artwork and art supplies. Drawings of children hung from a string across the room. On her desk was a pile of collaged paper birds.
I asked her if people made comments about her situation. Were they mean about it?
I expected her to, idk, equivocate, make excuses. But she said no. “Arty people are just so chill. If anything, they go out of their way to reach out.”
Falcon and I sat together at dinner. She knows the Sri Lankan girl, Ayomi. We made plans to meet up other times, and now, I’m wondering if I’m underestimating my friends. If Falcon isn’t feeling judged for her situation, maybe I wouldn’t be judged for mine.
Except I’ve been lying all this time.
Love, Jacaranda
To: [email protected]
Date: January 4, 10:01 p.m. Eastern Standard Time
Subject: New year, new life
Dear Mr. Smith,
It’s Monday, and everyone’s back. When Phoebe saw me, she actually HUGGED me. Perhaps you’ve gotten enough of a sense of Phoebe to understand how momentous this is.
“I’ve missed you!” she said. “I had to spend the rest of break with my family.” She said it like it was a swear. Apparently, in my absence, she and Jarvis had taken her brother to the play.
I was hoping she’d tell me more about Jarvis, but instead she told me all her different decorating ideas for our suite—complete with Pinterest pages for each. Then Daisy came back and Phoebe repeated the whole thing. By dinner, we’d decided on a tropical sunset theme.
I told them I could probably get Falcon to help us design a mural. As I said it, I realized that I wasn’t supposed to have been at school this past week, so how would I have met Falcon? But they didn’t seem to have noticed.
Phoebe said, “Falcon? That art girl?”
I nodded, holding my breath. If they judged Falcon, they’d probably judge me too.
Phoebe said, “I didn’t know you knew her. Her story is so inspiring.”
“Art lifted her up,” Daisy agreed, and they started talking about how cool it was. They both wanted to meet her, like she was a celebrity.
Over lunch, I heard all about Daisy’s ski trip. She went on her first black-diamond ski trail (whatever that means, but it sounds hard). She also said, “Danny was so disappointed that I didn’t bring you!”
I was surprised that Danny cared so much, but it turns out, Daisy and Brent were skiing together the whole time, so I was supposed to keep Danny occupied.
I wanted to be like these people, whose biggest problem was who to ski with.
I checked my email after lunch, but there was nothing from Vanessa.
Then came musical theater class and Harry’s long-awaited announcement of the musical.
We’re doing Into the Woods!
Yay! I watched the movie! It’s a bunch of different fairy tales.
Behind me, Brooke was butthurt that it wasn’t a dance musical. All the good dancers were. But I’m happy because it has lots of smaller roles. Maybe I can be a stepsister or Cinderella’s dead mother. I think Harry likes me.
That is, if I’m still here for the musical.
Phoebe was very closemouthed, but when I asked her what she thought, she said she was “cautiously optimistic” that she could be Rapunzel.
“More like Cinderella,” I said. She looks and sounds perfect for it.
She shook her head and said they’d give it to a senior. This girl Ava Tamargo will get it. She already got into NYU early decision.
“You don’t know how good you are,” I told Phoebe.
Owen was debating which prince he’d be—boys have it so much easier—and David asked how tall I was. I told him 5'4".
“Nah, Nina will be Red Riding Hood,” Owen said. He looked at me. “Sorry, Jackie.”
Someone asked Harry whether he was going to double-cast the leads. He wiggled his fingers and said all would be revealed and that we needed to have sixteen bars of a ballad and an up-tempo—one by Sondheim—for next Monday.
Since I’ve been practicing almost nonstop for the past week, I actually have that already. Actually, one of the songs on Phoebe’s list is a Sondheim song, “There Won’t Be Trumpets.”
After dance, just as I was checking my emai
l for the fifth time, Vanessa called. She’d spoken to your lawyer.
The good news (if we’re calling it that) is that I’ll definitely finish this school year. My mother’s case will take several months to appeal, and more time for a new trial, if she gets it. I may even be enrolled as a senior by then, so my court-appointed attorney (called a guardian ad litem) could make an argument that I should stay here for the year, even if my mother gets out.
The bad news is that if she gets a new trial, I’ll probably have to go to Miami and testify on her behalf. I was the only witness to what happened, after all. It might be on the news too.
The attorney does think I could file to be emancipated. There are several strategies.
But it’s unlikely I’ll be able to keep this all a secret. I want to, though. I want to spend the next few months as a normal girl, texting a boy until all hours, worrying about what part I’ll get in the musical, and applying to summer programs.
Vanessa says to try not to worry for now.
I wish I could talk to you like a real relative. I wish I could talk to Jarvis too.
But thank you for helping me.
Love, Jacaranda
To: [email protected]
Date: January 4, 11:09 p.m. Eastern Standard Time
Subject: My story
Dear Mr. Smith,
When Vanessa met with my Publix manager, they said you knew “my story” when you agreed to send me to school. But I’m guessing you don’t know exactly what happened that day.
No one knows but me and my mom.
We’d been living with Oscar for about six months. He was a cokehead, which gave him a bad temper. I got in trouble for things like singing, laughing, “talking back,” basically, being 11. My mom got yelled at for clinking the dishes too loudly when she washed them. Once, she touched Oscar when he was asleep, and he threw her against a wall.
That day it was my singing. I was watching The Little Mermaid. I wanted to be Ariel. I started singing “Part of Your World.” Oscar, who was sleeping one off, yelled at me to shut the %@#$% up.
Mom put the sound down so low I could barely hear, but when it got to “Kiss the Girl,” I started humming the “sha-la-lalalala” part. Next thing I knew, Oscar was standing over me.