“You have the prettiest voice,” Sylvanie says. “I wish I had a voice like yours.”
“Thanks.” I figure she’s just being nice, to make up. Sylvanie’s like Gigi—one of those people who’s good at everything so she can afford to be kind to mere mortals. Two weeks into rehearsals, my screw-ups in dance are legendary. She probably feels sorry for me.
But Gus’s sidekick, Rex says, “How high can you go with that thing? Can you break glass?” He holds up his watch, a digital one.
“Not that glass. It’s plastic. I hit an E-flat the other day, though. A high one.”
“Prove it,” Gus says.
“Nope.” I learned early—and the hard way—that people may say they want to hear you sing in public places, but if you actually do it, they’ll think you’re tremendously weird. Nick told me that, actually, but even Nick could be right sometimes.
“Please,” Gus says.
“Please,” Rex repeats. “I think I’m in love with you.”
I laugh and shake my head. “No way. You’ll have to wait until dress rehearsal.” Then in case they think I’m being a snob, I say, “Okay, so how bad did we suck today in Drama?” Because I also learned early on that if you’re good, people think you’re a snob, and the best way to keep that from happening is to put yourself down.
And it works.
“You were fine,” Rex says. “Davis doesn’t appreciate brilliance. I mean, she gave me a C on my scene.”
“The noive!” Gigi says.
And then everyone starts talking about how mean Miss Davis is, and, for the first time since I’ve been here, I feel like maybe, just maybe, I’m not the weirdest person around.
Subj: Practicing
Date: 10/14, 10:35 p.m., Eastern Standard Time
To:
[email protected] From:
[email protected] It was fun practicing the other day. Don’t you think we should get 2gether again sometime? There’s no rehearsal tomorrow.
It took me an hour to compose that e-mail, so I don’t sound like I’m nagging or stalking him or anything. And then I saved it in Mail Waiting to Be Sent for another two before I decided to go for it.
The next morning, there’s a reply.
Subj: Practicing
Date: 10/15, 2:03 a.m., Eastern Standard Time
To:
[email protected] From:
[email protected] we could do it 2morrow (actually 2day) if you don’t mind coming here.
CHAPTER 21
I can’t do my homework if you’re going to scream like that!”
I’m in Sean’s actual room in Sean’s actual apartment. The voice comes from the kitchen. “Learn to appreciate great music!” Sean yells back.
“You call that music?” says the voice from the kitchen.
It’s after six, and we barely started singing. It took ninety minutes to get here from school—an hour to drive here, and another half hour to pick up Sean’s sister, Desi, from aftercare. Then it took another half hour to get Desi started doing her homework. Now she’s stopped again.
“Can you come help me?” she asks.
From Sean’s bedroom window I see a guy working on an old Toyota, and a group of boys playing basketball with a hoop made from a milk crate. The place looks like the type of apartment complex you live in if your dad stops paying child support. For the first time ever, I appreciate my dad. Well, maybe just for a second.
“No, I can’t help you,” Sean says. “I’m trying to sing.”
“Trying is right,” his sister says. “I need heelllllppp!”
What I do appreciate is Sean. I’ve figured out why Sean never hangs around after school. He doesn’t have time. I don’t even know when he practices for himself.
“Why don’t you warm up,” he tells me. “I’ll be back in a second.”
I sing some warm-ups, trying not to listen. I look at the walls. Every inch is covered with murals. Behind me, refugees arrive on a boat made from an old car. To my left, the Space Shuttle breaks up, shattered pictures of astronauts raining to the ground. Sean explained that his father’s an artist “in his spare time,” but mostly he paints houses.
When Sean gets back, I say, “It’s nice that you help her so much.”
“Nah, it’s not nice. She’s my sister.” He heads for the keyboard in the corner of the room and sings, “Step to the keyboard, my dear.”
“You do that too?” I say.
“What?”
“Sing things. Like you’re in an opera.”
“Sure. Doesn’t everyone?”
I shake my head. “No one I know.”
“You know me.” He gestures to the keyboard. “Now warm up.”
I continue, but the whole time he’s playing exercises, I’m so worried about impressing him that I can barely sing. Finally, he stops playing. “You’re really tense.” He starts massaging my neck, kneading the muscles. “Roll your head back.” His hands are really strong, stronger than he looks, and I find myself relaxing, like I could fall asleep in his arms.
“Mmm … that feels good,” I say.
“I used to live with my mom. She typed all day, and she’d come home all tense. So she taught me to give her neck rubs from an early age. If this singing thing doesn’t work out, I’ll be a masseur.”
“How long did you live with your mother?”
“Until I was ten. Then she left.” He stops rubbing my neck. “Okay, ready?”
“Thanks.” I nod. I want to ask him more about his mother, but I don’t think he wants me to. So I say, “Yeah, let’s do it.”
We go through the song five times. It’s tough going at first because I’m still—let’s admit this—thinking about what it was like to have Sean’s hands on my neck. What is wrong with me? But finally I get a grip and get through it a couple of times decently.
“Good,” Sean says. “Want to call it quits—end on a high note?”
“Sure,” I say. “You were good too.”
“Thanks.” He looks at me. “You’re not like I thought you were.”
“What?”
He shakes his head. “Sorry. It’s just … I really didn’t want to bring you here today. That’s why I’ve been avoiding practicing together.”
“What do you mean?”
“Nothing. It’s just … I thought you were kind of a snob, but you’re not, are you?”
“No.” Is he kidding? “You thought I was snobby?”
“I wasn’t sure. You seemed nice at auditions, sort of shy. But then I saw you at Wendy’s that time, with those friends of yours, and after that, you barely looked at me. So I figured, Okay, the girl’s a homecoming queen from hell.” He shrugs. “Sorry.”
“Thanks a lot.” But I remember that day at Wendy’s, Peyton and Ashley, laughing at Sean. I hope he didn’t see them, but I bet he did. I want to think of a way to explain it away, but I can’t. “I’m not really friends with those girls.”
It’s my way of apologizing. Sean nods.
“I thought you weren’t talking to me because I’m not as good as you,” I say.
“Really?” He looks confused. “No way. You’re incredible.”
I smile at that but say, “You were hanging with Misty all the time, and she’s … scary. You never talked to me. So I figured you had enough friends.”
“Misty and I … we drifted apart.” He makes a drifting gesture with his hand.
“In the past week?” Stupid!
“Yeah. It had something to do with her saying she talked you into singing that dumb song at auditions.”
“It wasn’t that dumb,” I say.
“Yeah, it was,” he says.
“Okay. It was. But what does that have to do with you?”
“She was laughing about it, about how stupid she thought you looked. I just thought it was a really bitchy thing to do.”
“Mm-hmm.” I nod and turn away, so he can’t see me blushing.
“Anyway, we’re not enemies or anything. I just decide
d I needed other friends.”
“So you two were just friends?”
“Yeah, what else?”
“Hey, I don’t hear any singing in there!” Desi’s voice comes from the living room. “Are you guys … kissing or something?”
I feel my face heat up, and I look away from Sean. He says, “We’re caught.”
“Let’s sing it again,” I say. I’m in no hurry to get home. It’s a Tuesday, a probable Arnold night. I’d much rather stay here awhile.
* * *
Opera_Grrrl’s Online Journal
* * *
Subject: Noises I Can Hear, Sitting in My Bedroom
Date: October 15
Time: 10:45 p.m.
Listening 2: See below
Feeling: Distressed
Weight: 113 lbs.
• Arnold’s car in the driveway
• Front door, opening & closing
• Giggling (Mom)
• Nerdy laugh (him)
• Her, asking if he’d like coffee (she doesn’t know how 2 *make* coffee. She buys it at Starbucks)
• Him, turning down coffee (like she must have known he would)
• Her bedroom door, opening
• Her bedroom door, closing
• Silence
• Silence
• Silence (If I listened closer, I bet I could hear something. But I don’t want 2)
• The 1st act of La Bohème on my headphones
• Her bedroom door, opening
• The front door, opening
• The front door, closing
• Arnold’s car, pulling out of the driveway
• Her bedroom door, closing
• The 2nd act of La Bohème, on my headphones
* * *
CHAPTER 22
In Bohème, Rodolfo loved Mimi. He was happy to hold her cold little hand, to light her candle, and stand in the dark, watching it flicker. Are there any guys like that in real life? Or is that why in the best operas, someone dies in the end? Because if they lived, they’d figure out that it’s not for real.
I watch Arnold’s taillights fade down the street and listen to Bohème. Musetta sings about how her beauty drives men mad. I know these characters better than I know anyone real.
I wish I was still at Sean’s apartment, singing “Parigi o cara.” Even helping Desi with her homework would be fun. I ended up staying another two hours and eating ramen noodles with them. I think about calling Sean. I know he’s awake. He’s always up late, judging from his e-mails. But it would be too weird to dump all my crap on him. We’ve only been friends a week.
I go online. I was going to write in my journal, but I start an e-mail instead.
Subj: Can’t sleep
Date: 10/15, 11:09 p.m., Eastern Standard Time
To:
[email protected] From:
[email protected] I lied when I said I wasn’t friends w/those 2 girls. I *was* friends w/them before ..... but now I see that they just made me feel bad about myself ....... like I have 2 be on my best behavior around them & have my makeup & hair perfect & pull in my stomach & not eat 2 much .......... and def. NOT SING OPERA!!! They make me feel like my mother does .... I don’t know who I really am ......... when I was w/u 2day was 1 of the 1st times in a long time I didn’t feel like I was trying 2 be some1 else. Not 2 much anyway......
I can’t send that to him. It’s an atrocity. I delete it and start another one. I try to make it sound casual, spending five minutes coming up with an opera aria title that will fit the subject line—“Questa o quella.” This or that. I hope he gets it. I don’t know what to write, that will let him know I like him, without letting him know I LIKE HIM.
Subj: Questa o quella
Date: 10/15, 11:35 p.m., Eastern Standard Time
To:
[email protected] From:
[email protected] Did Desi *ever* finish her homework? Will she get in trouble if she doesn’t? Will you? Thanks for helping me w/the song. Do you think we’ll be good 2gether (singing, I mean)? I’m listening 2 Bohème now. I wish I could go 2 Paris. I wish I was in Paris now, in a garret, w/a candle .......... Caitlin
I hit send before I can change my mind. I go to bed. The third act of Bohème begins on my headphones. Mimi’s death scene. I don’t fall asleep until it’s over. I cry. I always cry.
The next morning, there’s an e-mail from Sean.
Subj: Re: Questa o quella
Date: 10/16, 3:05 a.m., Eastern Standard Time
To:
[email protected] From:
[email protected] Great subject line (I had 2 look it up online 2 know what it meant)! Desi did finish. I might have accidentally done some for her, but I used my left hand so it looks authentic. Going 2 bed now—gotta get my full 2 hrs. sleep. Paris sounds good 2 me 2. Maybe we’ll sing there someday WE WILL BE GREAT (SINGING) TOGETHER!!! *YAWN* S
* * *
Opera_Grrrl’s Online Journal
* * *
Subject: Sean
Date: October 29
Time: 10:45 p.m.
Listening 2: “L’amour est un oiseau” (“Love Is a Bird”) from Carmen
Feeling: Busy
Weight: 114 lbs.
Sean and I have been hanging out 2gether the past 2 weeks. A lot. Most days after school, we have rehearsals. But at least 1x a week, I go home w/Sean, help Desi w/her homework (a thankless task), practice, then eat ramen noodles & sometimes watch his dad, “Griff,” paint the walls. We always go 2 his house, but 2day after rehearsal, he said maybe we could practice at my place, since it’s closer.
I must have had a look on my face ......... a look that said I’d rather have honey dripped on my eyes & be placed in an ant farm than have him come over b/c he raised an eyebrow and said, “I understand.”
But the look on his face was like, I understand you don’t want me 2 meet your mother ...... so I said he didn’t understand. I didn’t want him 2 meet my mother b/c I didn’t want him 2 meet *her*, not the other way around.
Then I wanted 2 push the words back. He’d probably think I was a freak. But he nodded and said, “OK, my place it is.”
But on the way 2 his house, he told me about his own mom.
Griff, turns out, is Sean’s mother’s 2nd husband. She had Sean w/the 1st one, Desi w/some guy she met @ a party. Then she married Griff.
Sean says they were happy for *maybe* a year. Then his mom started not coming home nights. Even at 9, Sean knew what was up. Then 1 day, her things were gone. Griff told them, “It’s OK, dudes. You can hang w/me until she gets back.” That was 8 yrs. ago.
Sean says they’re happy, but he wonders if Griff could be a real artist instead of just a housepainter, if he didn’t have them around. So that’s why he tries 2 be superhuman, taking care of Desi, helping around the house, & doing every1’s homework. He wants 2 get a scholarship 2 U of M so he can go 2 school for free and still take care of Desi.
Sean says he thinks his crappy life has been a good thing because it’s taught him the tenacity (which means “persistent determination.” I looked it up) he needs 2 make it in the arts. “Some people aren’t willing 2 struggle,” he said. “They might quit the 1st time they have 2 wait tables. Me, I’m used 2 surviving.”
Wow. So after he was done, I told him the whole story of my life w/Mom and non-Dad (but not abt. Arnold!!!). No comparison 2 his. I mean, *my* mom’s not *on* anything. She’s just incredibly annoying. He said he bets I’m tenacious 2, since I’ve gotten 2 be really good w/o anyone encouraging me.
Maybe he’s right. I haven’t talked 2 my friends from Key in a long time.... I’ve been telling myself it’s b/c I don’t have time with rehearsals and everything, but it’s not just that. I’ve changed. I’m no longer Caitlin McCourt, mild-mannered cheerleader wannabe. Like Clark Kent or Bruce Wayne, I now have a stronger alter ego. I am Opera_Grrrl, defender of all things operatic!
* * *
CHAPTER 23
There’s no school because it’s a “teacher planning” day, so I’m sitting at Gigi’s house. I’m helping her dye her hair. Miss Davis told her she had to choose a color a little “closer to nature” for the performance. We’re dying it Light Spice—a reddish brown, and we’re channel surfing. Gigi stops at this morning show where a girl about our age is talking about how she got pregnant.
“There’s just three guys it could be,” she’s saying.
Gigi snorts. “Just three!”
“Shh. I want to hear this. Have some respect for the pregnant.”
“And one’s a one-night stand,” the TV girl continues. “He won’t support me.”
Gigi rolls her eyes. “Big surprise.”
“Shut up! Shut up!”
“I’m not sure I’m ready to be a mother,” the TV girl says.
Gigi starts to make another crack, but then looks at me and gets quiet. She waits until the show cuts to a commercial and then says, “Let’s make popcorn.”
“We just ate,” I say, not getting up. “It’s ten-thirty, and we had bagels before we went to Walgreen’s for the hair dye.”
“Pleeeeze, Cait, I’m starving. Humans actually need calories to sustain life.”
“Okay, but I’m not eating any.” I follow her into the kitchen. While the popcorn pops, I say, “Do you think people on those morning shows are for real?”
“Sure. Why not?” she says.
“I hear a lot of them are aspiring actresses.”
“We should go on one then—you and me—when we’re in New York trying to make it.” She checks out her reflection in the door of the microwave. “This is gonna look soooo totally lame.”
“It’ll look fine. What would the show be about—the one we’re going on?”
“I was a Teenage Pageant Queen,” Gigi says.
“No. I Was a Drama School Dropout.”
“No, wait. I have the perfect one for you,” Gigi says. “My Mother Won’t Stop Dressing Like Me!”
“Hey, watch it.”