Diva (5 page)

6. Rowena thinks I'm special and talented.

So why am I lying to Rowena??? It's been 2 weeks since I got the letter from MHSA…every week, she

asks me if I got it & Every week I say no. It's just…she'll be so disappointed that I can't go.

My voice lessons almost over, and she hasn't asked me yet. Maybe I'll get out without lying today.

Rowena stops playing the piano. "So, have you heard?"

Or not
. "Um, nope. Nothing yet."

She grins. "Good. Then I get to tell you. I talked to a friend of mine who teaches at the school. You got

in!"

"Great. Wow… um… that's great."

"Isn't it? They're all so excited about having you there."

"Great."
Do you know another word
? "Wonderful…"

"What's wrong, Caitlin?"

At this point, Fred the cat nuzzles my shoulder, and I mumble, "I'm not sure I want to. I mean, I'm really happy studying with you. I don't want anything to change."

This is something I've thought about. I've been taking voice with Rowena since middle school. I had to

beg Dad to pay for lessons, and I had to ride my bike to get there (still do), but it's worth it. Rowena used

to be a real opera singer. She traveled all over the world, but gave it up to raise her kids. The coolest

thing about Rowena is she's nothing like my mom. She's like the Anti-Mom. She's let her hair go gray and

she wears it long down her back, and probably doesn't even
own
any makeup. Rowena knows just how

much to push me—enough so I have something to work for, but not so much that I want to drink gasoline

after a lesson. And she'd never tell me to get long layers.

I'd miss it a lot if I couldn't study with her, and maybe I wouldn't have time if I changed schools.

But she says, "That's the coolest part though. I just got a job there myself."

"You what?"

"Yeah, I thought now that Harmony's in college, I could work full-time. If you go, I can see you every day.

Isn't that just cool?"

I agree it's very, very cool, even though my head's pounding now, but her voice is all excited, and she asks

again if I'm going to go. I hear myself say, "Sure."

She wipes her hand across her forehead like, Whew! What a relief! "That's so great. I was worried

because, with the new job, I probably won't have much time for my private students. But this way, I can

keep you on."

"You mean you couldn't otherwise?"
Because, um, my head's about to explode
.

"It doesn't really matter now, does it, since you're going?"

"No." I agree that no, it doesn't matter, and yes, it's really wonderful, and then I ask if we can sing some more, because I really want to work on this piece I'm doing. It goes up to a high E-flat, and that's the

closest I can get to socially acceptable screaming.

Opera_Grrrl's Online Journal

Subject: I am *Such* a Liar

Date: April 25

Time: 11:03 p.m.

Listening to:
Medea

Feeling: Worried

Weight: Same

I'm listening 2
Medea
(see above). It's abt. this wicked sorceress from Greek myths. Right now, Medea's singing about how much she hates her ex-husband, Jason, how much she loves their kids, and finally—

Hey—why not kill the 2nd to get revenge on the 1 st?

In her room, Mom's screaming @ Dad about child support—now 40 days late.

See the irony???

I stop typing and turn off the stereo. A few minutes ago, Mom came in and said it was almost eleven and

she had a headache, and couldn't I just listen to rap music or something like other kids. I left it on until

now just to prove my point.

"Do you want to go to court?" Mom screeches. Then she sings an aria about what her lawyer will do to

Dad if that happens.

A pause while Dad checks his bank balance.

Then I guess he says something because she yells, "Oh, I'd like to see that!"

And she hangs up.

Mom's in the bathroom when I walk in. She has all her Emma Leigh products in front of her on the

counter. When I was little, she used to let me put makeup on her, like she was a big, pretty doll. She'd do

makeovers on me too, and tell me that someday, when I lost weight (she called it "baby fat"), I'd be so pretty… just like her. Everyone would want to date me. I once went to career day dressed as a

cosmetologist.

She hasn't offered to do my makeup since I got thin and might actually look good.

I say, "What would you like to see?"

She jumps. "Oh… Caitlin… thought you were sleeping. The noi—singing stopped."

"You told me to stop. What were you telling Dad you'd like to see?"

She sighs. "Caitlin, when you get to be my age, you'll understand that sometimes, just occasionally, a

person needs quiet."

"I understand," I say. "Really."

"I hope so."

"So what'd Dad say?"

"Dad?" She tries to look like she doesn't know what I'm talking about. It doesn't work. I notice a book on her dressing table.
Find a Husband After 35
. Terrific.

"You don't scream at anyone else like that," I say.

She slathers makeup remover on one eyelid, then dabs at it with a tissue. "I wasn't screaming." I give her a
yeah, right
look. "Well, he just makes me so mad. He thinks he can just do… whatever, the usual stuff.

His kids—his
other
kids are in private school that costs as much as a Honda Accord—
per year, per kid
, but he thinks I should sell this house and move us to the middle of the stinkin' Everglades if I need

money."

Sounds like Dad. He can definitely afford the child support, but I'm guessing he hates having his ex-wife

and ex-kid sucking money out of him that he'd rather spend, buying out the entire stock of Limiteds One

and Too, for Macy and the girls. I can't imagine not living in this house. We've been here forever. The

way I see it, Dad owes me that money—he doesn't give me anything else.

"Yeah, he's a jerk," I say and mean it. We share a rare moment of mother-daughter solidarity.
One, two,
three
…

"That's why you need to be careful, Caitlin. Once you have kids with someone, you're stuck with them

forever." She tosses out the mascara-blackened tissue and starts on the rest of her face with Emma Leigh

makeup remover.

Love you too, Mommy.

"I mean stuck with the man, not the kids."

"Sure." I try again. "What did you mean when you said you'd like to see that?"

She moves her fingers in circles along her cheekbones. "Hmm? Oh, he threatened to try and get custody if

I kept nagging for money. As if."

She likes to do that, use expressions she thinks sound youthful. But she's always behind, so by the time she

discovers something, no one's saying it except people on TV. "You really should have a beauty routine,

Cait. Moisturizer and night cream. Young people think they're invincible, but once those crow's feet show

up, it's too late.

"There's always Botox." I'm still processing the idea—me living with Dad. Obviously, he didn't mean it, not unless Macy needs a free babysitter. But maybe… "Mom, I really want to go to Miami High School of

the Arts."

"Caitlin, we've been over this."

"No, actually, we haven't. You just said no, that it isn't safe."

I know I could get her to let me go in a second, just by saying I want to get away from Nick. She'd have to

let me go then. She went with me for the restraining order. But I hate to play that card. It makes me seem

too pathetic.

"I still think so," she says.

"Rowena has a job teaching there. She says we could probably take the train together." Rowena didn't say that. But Mom doesn't know that. I try not to notice her nose getting all wrinkly when I mention Rowena's

name.

"Caitlin…" She finishes removing her makeup and tosses the last greasy tissue into the toilet. I watch it floating, making a film on the water. I think of Rowena, gone, and me, trapped here with Peyton and

Ashley; trapped in this cheerless cheer-girl existence, when really, I want to be like that girl at the train

station.

Mom's rinsing her face, and when she turns off the water, I hand her a towel.

"You know," I say, "If I moved in with Dad, I bet he'd let me go."

I'm in here.

Now what? 107 lbs. I've been Slim-Fasting for two weeks to make a good first impression.

Everyone here's like Peyton and Ashley said, and they all seem to know one another—maybe they've been

having secret meetings all summer.

Right, Caitlin.

At the front of the room, an African-American girl with great cornrows is playing the piano. A guy is

standing beside her, improvising a song about…

"I looooove your armpits! They are so füüüüne!"

Yup. Armpits. Check.

"Hey, Diva!"

I turn.

"Yeah, you. You're the one that sang
Phantom
at auditions, right? You made it."

Now, I recognize her by her voice. Its Eyebrow-Ring Girl. But now her hair's bright white and very short.

She notices me staring.

"Are you, like, so shocked?"

"Oh." I laugh. "It's… pretty."

"Pretty weird. My mom stopped looking freaked by the red, so I tried this."

"When I'm away from your arrrrmpits, nothing is the same!"

She runs a hand across her hair. "Was that your mom who dropped you off?"

I sort of sigh without meaning to. Mom had to drop me off today (other days, I'll take the train, thank God)

and wore on of her "business" outfits—a red mini-skirted suit with a matching lace cami. In case
I
wasn't weird enough.

"Probably wouldn't take much to shock her," the girl says.

"What's that mean?" I snap.

"Sorry." The girl puts her hands in front of her, protectively. She gazes at me a minute, then asks, "Do you do pageants?"

"Huh? Of course not." But I feel my homecoming princess banner like a piece of skin across my chest.

How did she peg me so easily? Does she remember my dress from auditions
(I did better today—

standard issue capri jeans and a blue T-shirt—but I still manage to look overdressed compared to most

people). I'm too weird for the cheerleader crowd and too cheerleader for the weird crowd.

"I want your armpits today, and I'll still want them tomorrow. "

"Oh, I just thought I recognized you from somewhere. I'm Gigi. I used to do pageants as a kid. Then my

parents got divorced, and my mom moved here because it's a better pageant state. Last year, she made me

enter Miss Teen Miami."

"Wow. Did you win?" I size her up like Mom would. She's skinny and pretty, but doesn't have the hair to be a pageant type.

"What do you think?" She raises an eyebrow. "I didn't exactly try my hardest. I might have slightly—and I mean just
slightly
—let some of my butt hang out of my bathing suit."

"On purpose?

"You bet. You're supposed to spray your butt with glue so the suit won't ride up. But Mom was all, 'We'll

show 'em next time.' So I killed her dreams with this. She gestures to the eyebrow-ring, which I now see

is shaped like a little crown. "I told her it made me feel better about losing. She wasn't real sympathetic.

But you looked like the type who'd go in for stuff like that."

"If I can't have your armpits, then let me have your loooooooove!"

"Well, I'm not." The music wails in my ears, and Gigi's talking, and it's just too much. I get up. "Excuse me."

Terrific. Making enemies already. The song finishes, and everyone looks when I stand. It's 7:28 and

already I know this was a huge, huge mistake. Is it too late to register at my old school? I walk down the

steps to the group clustered around the piano. The armpit guy is finished, and the girl who was playing

piano starts in on an equally gross song about nose hair. I'm blown away that people can improvise like

this when all I can do is sing other people's music.

No, it's easy. Just think of something gross.
Boogers
.

Boogers, boogers are so sweet. They are things I like to eat.

I can
not
sing that!

"Caitlin, you made it!"

I'm not surprised to see Sean Griffin. Actually, I realize I've been looking for him the whole time. He's

with a girl I've never seen before.

"Yeah," I say. "My mom changed her mind."

Actually, Mom accused me of blackmail, but I didn't care. I had to go. I felt like I used to feel when I was

a fatgirl, outgrowing all my clothes, like I might blow up. So I told her if I couldn't come here, I'd move in

with Dad. I lied. I
knew
she'd never let that happen, never let her nice, easy ride disappear.

"That's great." He gestures toward the girl. Actually, now that I look, she's clinging to him like a barnacle.

"Caitlin, this is Misty."

Misty doesn't smile. She's this fattish blond in a low-cut, tight pink crop top. She doesn't really look at me, because that would mean taking her eyes off of Sean. "Come on, Shawnee. Octavio saved us seats."

"See you around." Sean follows her to the empty seats which are—apparently—near everyone they've

ever met in their lives. I look around for an empty seat, but the only one left without someone in it is the

one I left. By Gigi.

She smiles and glances at Sean. "Nice."

"I guess so. I wasn't really planning on thinking about… guys this year. I want to get serious about

singing."

That's true, isn't it?

"Probably for the best. Most guys here are gay."

I look at Sean and Barnacle Girl, still barnacling. "Obviously not him."

The nose hair song's still going. Gigi says, "You
are
serious."