by Alex Flinn
“Run!” Mom said. I bolted for the door just as I felt Oscar’s hand. We all ran out the door, Mom with her car keys. “Get in the car!” she shrieked. I had on flip-flops, and I remember them slapping against my feet as I dashed through the parking lot toward our blue Chevy, which was parked too far away. Oscar chased us, screaming names at me, all the names he always called my mother when he was mad. I remember thinking, “Run. Just run.” If I got to the car, he wouldn’t get me, wouldn’t get us. Finally, I grabbed the door handle, but it wasn’t unlocked yet. Mom got in on the other side. I heard the lock click.
He caught up with me.
“Get in! Get in!” my mother screamed. I scrambled, but Oscar pulled me back. I kicked him. Mom threw open the door and yanked me in. I lunged for the seat, trying to close the door.
Then, it’s all a blur. The car started to pull away. I heard yelling. Oscar was under the car! He was pinned there, screaming in pain. I remember finally getting the door closed. I can still picture my hand on the blue door handle.
Later, the police came and took Mom away. They waited until Aunt April came to get me. I tried to tell them that my mother hadn’t meant to hurt Oscar. It was an accident. But I didn’t remember exactly how he went from grabbing me to being under the car. Maybe he slipped? Or maybe I pushed him.
My mother got fifteen years. It was worse because a car is a weapon. I’ve read up on this.
Often, women get worse sentences for killing men (even abusive men) than men get for killing women, because women usually have to use a weapon while, a lot of times, men strangle a woman with their bare hands—which doesn’t allow for as bad a charge.
I’m going to just leave that there, in bold. Also, Oscar’s legs got messed up. I’m glad. I hope other parts of him don’t work either.
So that’s what happened. It’s at least partly my fault because, if I hadn’t been singing, Oscar wouldn’t have gotten so mad . . . that time. But if we hadn’t been living with that turd, if my mother had been stronger, if she’d been able to keep a job instead of needing him or some other scumbag to support her, hell, if she had been as brave as Falcon’s mom, who lived in a shelter, it wouldn’t have happened.
So I blame myself. But that doesn’t mean I don’t blame her too. And I blame Oscar most of all.
Love, Jacaranda
To: [email protected]
Date: January 4, 11:20 p.m. Eastern Standard Time
Subject: (no subject)
Dear Mr. Smith,
As I was finishing up my email to you, Jarvis texted me. He’s restricted himself to once a day the past few days. But he said he understood that he was going too fast. He suggested maybe we could just text about television or books or something. He wanted to know what I thought of the plays and books he loaned me, if I’d read them. He said he’d refrain from declaring his love.
He said he’s lonely and wants someone to talk to.
It’s hard to believe someone like Jarvis who has a million friends could be so lonely. But I know what it means to be lonely in your heart, even if you’re surrounded by people.
I want to tell him about Falcon and The Glass Menagerie and the play. I want to tell him everything, and I want him to understand and say it’s okay.
Should I text him back?
Love, Jacaranda
To: [email protected]
Date: January 4, 11:29 p.m. Eastern Standard Time
Subject: (no subject)
I did.
To: [email protected]
Date: January 4, 11:58 p.m. Eastern Standard Time
Subject: (no subject)
Not about everything, but I texted him a photo of Falcon’s Crust of Humility installation-in-progress and told him all about it and about meeting her. He talked about his friend, Stewart, who has a crush on a girl who walks dogs in their neighborhood and wants to adopt a dog in order to meet her. He seemed to be okay with just texting about that and dropping the subject of where I’d been and whether I was mad at him.
He dropped the subject of how much he loves me too.
I’m glad.
To: [email protected]
Date: January 5, 12:01 p.m. Eastern Standard Time
Subject: (no subject)
No, really. I’m glad.
To: [email protected]
Date: January 6, 9:04 p.m. Eastern Standard Time
Subject: Secrets
Dear Mr. Smith,
Five days until auditions, and my classmates have become like Vegas oddsmakers, making predictions. There are several potential “cast lists” circulating. I try not to look, but I’m told I’m considered likely to get some part and a long shot for a few of the big roles, like the Baker’s Wife or Red Riding Hood.
But I won’t worry about that. I just want to be in the play!
Also, I have a math test tomorrow because somehow, algebra is still considered important.
JK, of course algebra is important. I plan on using it constantly in my future.
I’m glad I texted Jarvis because he takes AP Calculus, so he was able to explain Algebra 2 to me. None of my friends here are much better at math than I am.
People think Phoebe might be Cinderella, but we don’t speak of it.
Speaking of freaking out, I’m also applying for summer programs. MAA invited me to stay for their camp with a scholarship. I can also take a paid position here, if I want. The camp has a little shop where they sell smoothies and stuff. And I have sales experience. This would show independence if I want to file for emancipation.
But they’re also encouraging me to apply for summer programs, which are mostly 2–3 weeks long. The office helped me get financial aid so I don’t have to pay the application fees. Most of the schools require recordings of me singing and a monologue. However, the New England Conservatory has a local audition in Detroit. Phoebe and I and some others are going.
Also, we’re going shopping for room décor on Saturday.
I’m happy as I can be, trying to be normal.
Love, Jacaranda
To: [email protected]
Date: January 10, 11:07 a.m. Eastern Standard Time
Subject: 1 day until auditions
Dear Mr. Smith,
In case you have a burning desire to know, I think my algebra test went well.
More importantly, I’ve finally selected my songs.
Ballad: “The Music That Makes Me Dance” from Funny Girl by Jule Styne.
Up-tempo: “There Won’t Be Trumpets” from Anyone Can Whistle by Stephen Sondheim. It’s a great song about someone looking for a hero. I think of you when I sing it.
Last night, I was leaving the practice building after a marathon session. I planned to take today off to rest my voice and hang out with Daisy and Phoebe to decorate our room. I passed 3 people from my musical theater class and said hi, like a normal person.
No response. Then, when I was at the door, one of the girls said, real loud, “Isn’t it funny, how some people think they can just show up here junior year and steal our roles when they haven’t paid their dues?”
Okay, so you know I’ve tried to be very chill and Gandhi-like since I’ve been here. I haven’t fought with anyone, and I even made friends with Phoebe, who started out as my enemy.
But, maybe because of that, or maybe because I’m upset about the whole situation with my mother . . . Well, her comment hit me like an apartment door slamming when your stuff is on the curb because you’re evicted. I felt my body get hot, even though the cold air was rushing in from outside. I couldn’t breathe.
I whirled around, taking leave of the heavy door. The wind caught it, and it clanged shut so hard that the sound reverberated throughout the building.
On the momentum of that slam, I caught up with them. I got right next to the girl who said it. Brooke. “Was that comment meant for me?”
Her two friends were all denying it, but she said, “Well, yeah. It’s not fair that you got a solo in the December show when some of us who
’ve been here longer get nada.”
FAIR????
“So you think you’ve paid your dues, so you’re more deserving?”
At this point, her friends were waving their hands, but Brooke said, “What? It’s the truth.”
I’d had it. I said, “So you paid your dues by going to this fancy school for two years longer, by having rich parents who made sure you had more training and more advantages?”
I waited for Brooke to answer. When she didn’t, I went on. “And after all those extra classes and lessons, you aren’t better than someone who just walked in off the street. But you think you deserve a pity solo? And that’s somehow my fault?”
I knew I was out of control. I could feel my heart racing, and I was trying to stop myself because what I’d said was mean. Brooke didn’t know about my past. She thought I just didn’t care as much as she did. She didn’t know anything about me. In the words of Freddie Mercury (of the classic rock band Queen), “I’ve paid my dues, time after time.” But how would she know that?
I finally stopped talking. I stared at Brooke.
She stared back like I’d slapped her. I turned and walked away.
The guy she was with yelled after me, “You can’t talk to people like that!”
I didn’t answer. What could I say? Four months here, and I’ve officially become Phoebe.
But maybe Phoebe was treated like that too. Maybe that’s why she’s so afraid to fail.
And maybe people are trying to psych me out. But I have a scholarship to live up to, and I have your expectations. No one has ever expected much of me, but now you put your faith in me. I won’t disappoint you.
I stormed back through the freezing night. I still felt hot, except my face, which had tears frozen to it. I reached my room, threw myself onto my lavender bed, and sobbed.
I guess I must have been too loud because a minute later, Daisy stuck her head into my room and asked if I was okay.
Between gulps and sobs, I recapped the whole experience. Phoebe came in partway through, and when I finished she said, “Who was it? I bet I know.” I told them it was Brooke. Phoebe nodded like it was as she’d expected.
“I shouldn’t have gone off on her,” I said.
Phoebe shrugged. “She shouldn’t have said that. Pretty cowardly to yell it at your back.”
Daisy was shocked, but Phoebe said, “I believe it. People can be mean here. You didn’t see it because you were new, so people didn’t view you as a threat. Now they do.”
I said, “Do you see me as a threat?”
“A little,” she admitted. “But you make me work harder.”
Then she offered to watch me do my songs and give me notes. “But only after we order art supplies to fix up our room.”
I love my roommates.
Love, Jacaranda
To: [email protected]
Date: January 11, 9:23 p.m. Eastern Standard Time
Subject: Audition day . . . well, first day
Dear Mr. Smith,
A singer stands before an audience of her peers. She glances around. Not every face is friendly; not everyone wishes her well. She still has her friends, but she has detractors too.
She breathes. It’s okay.
And then, she starts singing.
There won’t be trumpets or bolts of fire
To say he’s coming.
Did I mention it’s not a happy, positive song overall?
So I sang the whole thing straight to Brooke. Ha!
I finished. It was the best I’ve sung that song, maybe the best I’ve ever sung anything.
And the applause was . . . scattered. David and Owen clapped their hands off. Phoebe and Nina, who are my best female friends in the class (isn’t it weird that I’m saying that about Phoebe?), clapped a normal amount. But there were some golf claps, and even some seniors were giving me side-eye.
Which meant I killed it. Phoebe was right. People were nice because they didn’t see me as competition. Now they do. Before I came here, no one expected much of me. As long as I showed up and didn’t smoke weed on school grounds, it was okay. But now, I have a reputation. I need to do my best because people are counting on me to succeed . . . and others want me to fail.
But I miss the warm, comfortable MAA cocoon. It’s broken now, like a real cocoon, when a butterfly emerges. MAA had felt like a family.
But, then again, I guess families have petty jealousies too.
I started my ballad, “The Music That Makes Me Dance.” And when I sang, “He’ll sleep and he’ll rise in the light of two eyes that adore him,” the only eyes I could picture were Jarvis’s.
I didn’t even listen to the applause when it was over. I knew I rocked it.
Tomorrow we read for the parts. More news then. I’m going to bed.
Well, after I text Jarvis to tell him how it went.
Love, Jacaranda
P.S. Phoebe kicked butt, too, not that anyone will admit it.
To: [email protected]
Date: January 12, 6:14 a.m. Eastern Standard Time
Subject: My mother
Dear Mr. Smith,
I wrote to my mother to tell her I’m very happy that group is taking on her case and that I’ll be there if she needs me to testify. But I’m hoping I can stay in school here, even if she gets out of prison.
Also, maybe she could move to Michigan and come live near me. There’s certainly nothing for her in Florida other than bad ex-boyfriends and worse memories.
I hope it all works out.
Love, Jacaranda
To: [email protected]
Date: January 12, 7:29 p.m. Eastern Standard Time
Subject: Second day of auditions—the DRAMA!
Dear Mr. Smith,
Into the woods we go!
Today were the acting auditions.
Harry had us raise our hands for the parts we wanted to read for. Nina chose Red Riding Hood, Owen chose Cinderella’s Prince (the better prince), David, the Wolf. Despite saying she’d only get Rapunzel, I noticed Phoebe raised her hand for Cinderella and Brooke for the Witch.
Harry was pacing back and forth, eyeing all of us with his Shakespearean stare. He stopped in front of me.
“What about you?” His voice was thundering, and he pointed a long finger.
“Um . . .” I realized I was the only one who hadn’t raised my hand yet. But he’d only mentioned four female parts, Red, Cinderella, the Baker’s Wife, and the Witch. I knew I wasn’t going to get any of those big parts.
“I’m managing expectations,” I said.
Harry’s eyes widened. “You want to be in the show?” he boomed.
“Of course . . . sir. If I get in.”
Behind me, I heard someone whisper something, possibly mocking my “sir.” I once had a foster mom from Mississippi who used to cuff me if I didn’t say “sir” and “ma’am.”
I said I knew I wouldn’t get any of those big parts, since I’m only a junior.
Harry agreed that was probably true, but, “Allow me to make that decision, young lady.” He said in the first round, he’d call people up for the larger parts, and then he’d cast the smaller parts based on those auditions. He suggested I try for the Baker’s Wife or the Witch.
I chose the Witch. I tried to make my voice sound high and witchy. The other girls all sounded the same, copying Bernadette Peters. The only one who sounded different was Ava Tamargo, a senior, but she was the one Phoebe said would be Cinderella.
Brooke tried for the Witch too. Her voice was too nasal. She tried for Cinderella, the Baker’s Wife, and Red Riding Hood too, all with the same nasal voice.
Then Harry asked me to read for the Baker’s Wife, but probably just because he wanted to have different people read. He had Phoebe read for Cinderella twice and the Baker’s Wife as well.
Then there’s a dance call tomorrow with callbacks Thursday (to be posted Wednesday night).
I hope I get a part. I admit that Brooke being such a hater really motiv
ated me.
Love, Jacaranda
To: [email protected]
Date: January 12, 9:16 p.m. Eastern Standard Time
Subject: Can’t sleep
Dear Mr. Smith,
Today, I was almost too tired to go to dinner. My head started nodding onto my music theory homework, and I had to walk around the room to stay awake. I could barely brush my teeth.
But as soon as my lights were out, I was WIDE awake. My mind was racing. What if I didn’t get called back? Would I get called back? Would people hate me if I got called back? What if I got a part and then had to leave school?
I turned the lights back on.
This is why Phoebe gets so nervous, because she knows she’s being judged.
Now I know too.
Last semester, when I was nervous about juries, the one who talked me down in the middle of the night was Jarvis. Now, we barely talk. I think he’s giving me my “space.” We text about movies and homework, but we don’t have the long conversations we used to have. I know that’s my fault. Ever since I got that letter from my mother, I’ve pushed him away.
Do you think I’m right to? Now, it seems like I might have a chance of staying at MAA. Maybe I can relax. Maybe I can talk to him about something real.
I miss him.
I know you probably won’t even read this, but maybe you could give me a sign.
How about this? I’ll take a nonanswer as you telling me I should call him. I’ll give you until 10:45 to tell me not to.
Love, Jacaranda
To: [email protected]
Date: January 12, 10:46 p.m. Eastern Standard Time
Subject: Nothing from you
Okay, I’m going to call him. Thanks!
To: [email protected]
Date: January 13, 12:01 a.m. Eastern Standard Time
Subject: Thank you
Dear Mr. Smith,