Diva (6 page)

"What?"

"You said you wanted to get serious about singing. You're plenty serious."

"How do you know?"

"Because I
heard
you. You're good. You're better than most people here."

Is she for real
? "Yeah, I thought you were incredible too. Everyone here's really talented."

She shrugs. "Not everyone. But it definitely beats regular school."

I nod. "I lied to people at my old school—told them I was moving in with my Dad, so I wouldn't have to

explain that I just wanted to get away from them."

"Running screaming from conformity," she says.

"Yeah. Something like that."

But even though I'd lied about moving in with Dad, Ashley'd figured out the real reason—that I was going

to performing arts school. "You'll be back," she'd said. "You might think you're weird enough to hang with those people, but you're not." I wonder if she's right.

A woman who must be the drama teacher shows up. She's sixty-something, short, with hair that auburn

color older people get that almost looks purplish, a flowing green shirt and pants, and the highest heels

I've ever seen. She stands front and center, glaring, until everyone's silent.

"Welcome to the theater," she says, "to the magic. To the fun."

I wonder if that's from a play or if she just talks like that. A few people laugh.

She continues. "I'm Miss Lorraine Davis. I want to be
called
Miss Davis. I'll be your Drama teacher on this fabulous ride you call high school. As musical theater majors, you should know that acting is as

important as singing. I watched all your drama auditions, and some of you were very promising. Others

need some work."

She scans the room, and I move in my seat. I'm so not into acting. Rowena found me a monologue for my

audition, and I memorized it and said it okay… but I'm sure I got in based on singing.

"First, let's go around the room and talk a little about ourselves." Miss Davis teeters by me. "Name, previous training and experience, and any other interesting tidbits you want to share."

Interesting tidbits? Check.

Miss Davis points to a girl who recites the names of thirty-seven interesting and worthwhile gifted

performing arts programs she's attended since she was two. I try to think of something non-boring to say

when it's my turn.

Hi, I'm Caitlin, and I was a homecoming princess last year.

I'm Cat, and
I've gained and lost 300 pounds since I was twelve years old
.

I have a restraining order against my ex, so let me know if you see him.

"I'm Gus," Armpit Guy's says. "I went to Southwood performing arts magnet, and I was in three

productions at Actor's Playhouse. I have two brothers, three sisters, a father, a mother, five sets of aunts

and uncles, an
abuela
here and one back in Cuba, and a faithful dog, and not one of them can understand why I waste my time on this song-and-dance stuff instead of going into the family furniture business." He

crosses his eyes. "Oh, and I'm the most talented guy in the room."

He's cute, and people laugh. A few guys yell stuff like, "Yeah, right" and "We'll see about that." The girl/guy ratio here is a little better than at the audition; maybe two to one instead of three to one. But still, if what Gigi says is true, it cuts the odds of romance considerably.
Good
.

The Piano-Playing Girl is next. "I'm Sylvanie. Not Sylvia, not Sylvania. Not Pennsylvania or

Transylvania. Sylvanie." She then lists the usual five hundred community theater programs. I zone out

again.

I can't act, but I can hit a high E Here, I'll do it right now. Aaaaaahhhh!

When I come back to reality, Misty—a.k.a Barnacle Girl—is enlightening us about how gifted she is.

"I was in the Miami Children's Theater summer program for the last two years. Last year, I had the lead in my school's production of
My Fair Lady
, so I decided to come here in hopes of finding some

competition."

Her face says she thinks that's unlikely. Gigi mutters, "And I'm a bitch."

I giggle. I feel like Gigi and I have bonded.

Sean's next. He recites the same list of programs and mentions that he was in
My Fair Lady
too. He

doesn't say which role, but he doesn't have to. Obviously the lead. "I'm a senior. I tried out as a freshman, but I had some family issues and couldn't go here. I'm really glad I could come this year. It's sort of a

dream of mine."

"How cute," Gigi mutters, killing any solidarity I felt for her. Sean
is
cute—not that I'm thinking of him that way. I'm over guys. Besides, he's obviously taken by Barnacle Girl.

Gigi stands to introduce herself. "Gigi Correa."

Miss Davis looks at her roll book. "I don't have a Gigi here. Are you certain you got an acceptance from

us?"

Gigi smiles. "Quite sure. Check if you have a Maria Georgina de la Iglesia Correa. But I prefer Gigi.

Okay with everyone?" When Miss Davis nods, Gigi continues. "I'm from New York—the center of the

universe. I understudied Young Eponine in the Broadway cast of
Les Mix
. I've done commercials for

Band-Aids and Children's Tylenol. I went to La Guardia—the
real
High School of Performing Arts. Then

divorce struck, and I moved to Miami with the other refugees."

A few people react to
refugees
. The rest stare in awe. Then since I'm sitting next to Gigi, they all turn to me. "Wonderful.

"Um," I say. "I'm Caitlin. I like to sing. I've been in chorus since sixth grade. I sing opera. I like musical theater too, and… I'm really happy to be here."

That's it. I've told them nothing about myself and everything important. They don't know about Nick or

about the whole humiliating homecoming princess debacle, or my mother. I could have said I'd sung at the

Metropolitan Opera, and they'd have believed it. And it's amazing to be able to say I love opera and no

one thinks it's weird. Okay, not
that
weird.

The rest of the period, we do improvisations. We play this game called Freeze where two people start

making up a scene. Then when they get into a funny position, someone yells, "Freeze!" They have to stop, and the person who called out takes one person's place in the scene and makes it a completely different

situation. Most skits are funny, and a lot are… R-rated. Miss Davis doesn't seem to mind. I never yell,

"Freeze!" Nothing I think of seems funny enough.

Finally, Miss Davis claps her hands. "Okay, that's it for today. Those who didn't participate this time will begin Wednesday. And there's homework."

Everyone groans, not just me.

"Art is suffering, children. Don't forget that. Wednesday, I want everyone to come prepared to act as their favorite animal."

Perfect.

Next is American History, a "regular" class—if a class can be regular when people start singing "I'm Only a Bill" from
Schoolhouse Rock
… and the teacher doesn't seem to mind. Gigi's in my Geometry

class, and I practically fall over when she moves her books off the seat beside her for me to sit.

"You got lunch this period?" she asks after class. "We can sit together."

"Yeah." I skipped breakfast, and now my stomach feels tight.

When I get to my locker, Sean's just closing up his. "Hey, some morning," he says. "Want to sit with us at lunch?"

I take out my lunch bag. I'm about to ask him to sit with me and Gigi, when Misty bounces up. "Come on,

Shawnee!" I'm invisible.

"Sorry," I say. "I told Gigi I'd sit with her."

"Some other time, then."

"Sure." I walk toward the cafeteria. Misty still hasn't noticed I'm there.

I was expecting the cafeteria to be like the scene in this old movie,
Fame
, which I rented twenty times, then pretended I'd lost so Mom would have to buy it from Blockbuster. It's about the New York High City

School for the Performing Arts (the
real
one, as Gigi would say). In the movie, one guy starts playing the piano, then people start singing, dancing, drumming, until it was a huge production number about "Hot

Lunch."

It's a little like that here, but not as organized. At one table, a group of art kids talk about "basic color principles" and use words like "chiaroscuro" with a brazen lack of fear of being beaten up. At another, some people look at sheet music and burst into song between bites of spaghetti.

I picture lunch at my old school. Peyton and Ashley are wearing their cheerleader outfits, just so people

know who they're dealing with. If I was there, maybe I'd be wearing one too—my friends wanted me to

try out. They said they'd vote me on if I did. I wonder if there's a new girl sitting in my spot, wearing my

uniform, maybe even flirting with my boyfriend (
ex
-boyfriend). If I could, would I go back?

"Caitlin, over here!"

Gigi's gesturing me toward her table. I think about what my friends would say about her. But then she

wouldn't care. She wouldn't like them either. I sit.

"Having fun?" she says.

"Yeah. You're probably used to this from your old school."

A guy at the next table screams, "Fight for your manhood, you pathetic little vegetable!" I stare, startled, then realize they're reading a scene from a play.

I take out my yogurt. "My old school was way different." I look from the acting guy to the artists. I know the answer to my question. I don't want to go back to my old school. But I wonder if I could ever fit in

with people here. They're so… free. Can I ever be like that?

"So, what'd you think of Drama?" Gigi asks.

I shrug. "It's my first class. Are we going to do any actual acting in there?"

"Actual acting?"

"Like, you know, from a script?"

"What? You're not
so
excited about coming in as your favorite animal?"

I shake my head, massively relieved she isn't going to give me some lecture about how this stuff
is
acting.

"I just was sort of hoping to learn to play people first."

Gigi makes a scrunched up face. "I'm not a pug, but I play one on TV." She squints at my lunch. "You're actually going to eat that?"

That's familiar, except my friends would like what I brought—nonfat yogurt and celery sticks. "What's

wrong with it?"

"Nothing if you're an insect. But how are you going to get through Dance class on that? Here." She hands me an oatmeal cookie from her tray.

At the next table, someone starts some music, a sort of Latino fusion thing, really loud. A bunch of people

start dancing a conga around the tables, and the guy named Gus actually gets
on
the table and reaches out to grab a girl to join them.

I take Gigi's cookie. She's right about Dance class. I'll be taking Dance three days a week here, instead of

blowing off P.E., so I don't think a single cookie is going to turn me into the Thing

That Ate the Universe.

I bite into it. I'm happier already.

After lunch is Dance. I'm happy that leotards are stretchy so that mine fits even after the
two
cookies I ended up eating (I went and bought another one).

"So where are you taking Dance?" Gigi asks while we're changing.

"What do you mean?"

"Like, where do you dance?" she repeats.

"Here," I say.

"No, but…" Gigi tugs on the strap of her silver leotard. "I mean, before this, where have you been taking?

What's your studio?"

"Oh." I look away, so she can't see me starting to redden. Gigi's the kind of girl who
never
blushes and would look down on mere mortals who do. "I never took Dance before this. I mean, I took ballet-tap when

I was five or something, and one time, my mom talked me into taking a hip-hop class because she thought

I'd lose weight. Oh, and we play Dance, Dance Revolution in EE., and…"

Shut up! Shut up!

"I don't take Dance," I finish.

"It's okay," Gigi says, sort of the way you'd talk to a four-year-old or an old lady or a cat, maybe. "You'll do fine."

Fine, I'm not. Actually, I suck. Our teacher, Ms. Wolfe (who weighs about ninety pounds—
hate
that!) has just demonstrated a totally impossible dance combination. I'm stumbling through it okay. But it's hard

because there's this really irritating barking sound in my ear, like a deranged peke-a-poo. Something like

You! You
!

"You!"

Omigod! She means me. I stop dancing.

Me: Yes?

Ms. Wolfe: What is your name?

Me: Caitlin.

Ms. Wolfe: You need to pay attention, Caitlin. It's only the first day.

Misty (behind me): They really need to have a dance audition for this program.

My leotard, which fit fine over my butt in the dressing room, is crawling
inside
said butt, sent there by my formerly normal, currently sumo-sized tummy. Or maybe it's just trying to hide. I suck in my stomach.

Me: (Gulp)

Ms. Wolfe seems to be done with me anyway. The music starts up again, pulsing, pounding, and the whole

routine repeats in fast-forward—stumblestumblestumble, youyouyou—except this time, I am
very

discretely
yanking my leotard from my butt.

The second time Ms. Wolfe stops us—um, me—she demonstrates the whole routine, making me follow.

I'm the only one who didn't get this on the first try, so they're all watching—except Gigi, who is politely

looking away.

"What a spaz!" Someone giggles behind me. "She dances like an opera singer."

Misty, again. I consider bumping her with my stomach, like a real sumo wrestler.

"Pay attention, Caitlin!" Ms. Wolfe says. "And don't forget your jazz hands."

"What are jazz hands?"
Was this something I was supposed to bring
?