Diva (10 page)

Group numbers. Which presumably means—
gulp
!—dancing.

I raise my hand. "Do we have to do the group numbers if we don't get a solo?"

Miss Davis nods. "Everyone will want to participate in the group numbers to gain experience. Remember,

there are no small parts—only small actors."

Okay. I look like a diva who doesn't want a small part. There's no way for me to turn back the too-swift

hands of time and explain what I meant. I'm stuck with it.

Oh, well. No solo for me. Hopefully, they'll let me dance in back.

I'm in the bathroom between classes, when I hear a voice through the stall door.

"What are you planning for auditions?"

It sounds like Misty. But since Misty's never actually spoken to me, except to rag on my dancing, it's hard

to be sure. Two girls are practicing a scene from
The Crucible
in the other two stalls (I've gotten used to the fact that people do plays at all times here, so when the first girl screamed, "Yellow bird!" I didn't flinch). She must be talking to them. I go back to what I was doing.

"Hey, Caitlin, you in there?" Misty bangs on the door of my stall.

I flush and come out. "Don't know. Something classical. Or maybe what I did for my audition—this song

from
Phantom
."

Misty sits on the bathroom counter, and spits on her eye makeup brush to get it wet. Mom would be
soooo

appalled. I've heard Misty sing by now, and she has one of those breathy soprano voices chorus teachers

love because they blend (I don't blend) but she's not hugely talented. Just okay.

"How about you?" I say.

Misty's wrinkling her nose so bad I think it's an allergic reaction to the makeup. "I don't know, Cait Do

you really think you should?"

Cait
? "Why not?"

She shrugs. "Well, you probably know best."

"No. Tell me what you mean."

"Oh, I don't know. I was in this program where they took a bunch of us to Broadway shows." She takes out a blue eyeliner pencil and turns her eyelid inside out to draw a line under her eye. "And all the revues

were pretty jazzy. I just don't know if that longhair opera stuff will fly. You know?"

"I don't know." I totally do know, actually. I was wondering about it myself.

"I mean," Misty continues, "
we
understand music like that. But do the vulgar masses? Maybe people here would be more interested in hanging with you if you didn't always do stuff like that, act like you're better

than them."

She's right. I rocked in class the other day, but I still feel like I'm a different species. Before I can think of an answer, she finishes her other eye, looks at her watch, and says, "Oh, gotta go to class."

She hurries off, and I head in the opposite direction.

I hear Mom's key in the lock, and for the first time in—ohhhhh, my whole life maybe, I run to see her. I

want to tell her Gigi's theory, so she can dump this loser. "Hey, Mom."

She's dressed like her old self today—must have been a non-Arnold lunch. Denim micro-mini, pink

platform sandals, and two toe-rings.

"Hi, Caitlin. I'm in sort of a hurry." She looks toward her bedroom.

"Date with Arnold?"

"Yes, I need to get ready. He'll be here any—"

"That's what I want to talk to you about. Arnold takes you out on weekdays, but never Fridays. He calls at weird times. He never buys you dinner." I'm talking faster now, picturing Gigi and her mom in the towel

department. "Do you think maybe—"

"He's married, Caitlin." She's looking at her watch. "That's why we can't go out weekends. He has to be with his wife."

"But… you
know
he's married."

"Of course. I'm not stupid. I know the warning signs. I read

Dear Abby."

My mouth is so wide open I can feel air hitting my tonsils, my uvula, my lymph glands. "But… so how

come you're still dating turn?"

"Every man since your father was afraid of commitment. They had to concentrate on their careers or take

care of a sick mother,
or
they were just too much man for any one woman. Arnold doesn't have those

hang-ups. He's already made a commitment."

"Yeah. To someone else."

"Not really. If he was committed to her, he wouldn't be seeing me."

"But…" Her reasoning is a tennis ball being whacked back and forth.

"I'm not getting any younger, Caitlin. I want a husband before I'm old and fat. It hasn't worked with single men. Maybe this will be better."

"But…" I still don't feel capable of more than the one word.

"Don't you want the same things everyone else around here has? Your father sure isn't providing them."

She looks at the door again. "Besides, he's really a sweet man."

Okay. Now I have words. "He's a scumbag who's cheating on his wife."

She shakes her head. "You don't know what it's like. sometimes you can be really lonely, even when

you're married to someone." She picks up her purse, a black one with little dogs all over it. "Look, I need to get ready. He's coming soon." She starts toward her bedroom.

"But Mom…" I'm about to say she obviously hasn't read the same Dear Abby columns I've read, the ones

that say married guys will just go back to their wives. Or the ones that say mothers should set a good

example for their daughters, for that matter.

"Yes?"

I shake my head. "Nothing." I can't say that stuff to her. It would be like calling her a slut. But I can't believe that. I'd rather believe she's just stupid, like Brianna Owens in the luggage rack of the bus. Maybe

sluts are really just stupid girls who want love. "Just wondered it you went shopping."

"There's some Healthy Choice in the fridge." She starts to leave the room.

I say, "Can I take the car? I want to buy some salad stuff."

"Sure." She fumbles in her purse, then tosses me the keys. "That's a good idea. It looks like you've put on some weight since you started this new school."

I take the keys and drive myself to KFC. I can't believe she's dating someone who is married.
On purpose
.

It's just so… wrong. On the way there, I see Nick's car at the French bakery again. I think about going in.

Would it really be so bad
? He's in counseling. But I remember what my therapist said. She said once a

vase is broken, you can't fix it, not really, and that's what it's like with relationships too. So I ride on.

Opera_Grrrl's Online Journal

Subject: Bart Simpson

Date: September 16

Time: 6:15 p.m.

Listening to: Cast recording of
Hairspray

Feeling: Confused

Weight: 117 lbs.

I've given myself one of those assignments Bart Simpson gets at school, where his teacher makes him

write something 50 times so he won't do it again. Here goes:

I will not think of Nick. I will not think of Nick. I will not think of Nick. I will not think of Nick. I will not think of Nick. I will not think of Nick. I will not think of Nick. I will not think of Nick. I will not think of Nick. I will not think of Nick. I will not think of Nick. I will not think of Nick.

Iwillnotthinkofnickiwillnotthinkofnickiwillnotthinkofnicki-

willnotthinkofnickwillnotthinkofnickiwillnotthinkofnickiwill-

notthinkofnickwillnotthinkofnickiwillnotthinkofnickiwillnotthi

nkofnickwillnotthinkofnickiwillnotthinkofnickiwillnot-

thinkofnickwillnotthinkofnickiwillnotthinkofnickiwillnot-

thinkofnickwillnotthinkofnickiwillnotthinkofnickiwillnotthink

ofnickwillnotthinkofnickiwillnotthinkofnickiwillnot-

thinkofnickwillnotthinkofnickiwillnotthinkofnickiwillnot-

thinkofnickwillnotthinkofnickiwillnotthinkofnickiwillnotthink

ofnickwillnotthinkofnickiwillnotthinkofnickiwillnot-

thinkofnickwillnotthinkofnickiwillnotthinkofnickiwillnot-

thinkofnickwillnotthinkofnickiwillnotthinkofnickiwillnot-thinkofnickwillnotthinkofnick

Doesn't work for Bart either

"So what are you thinking of doing for auditions?" Rowena asks at my voice lesson Saturday. "
Phantom
?"

"I'm tired of that."

Rowena raises an eyebrow, but doesn't say anything. "How about this then?" She points to the Mozart

piece I've been practicing.

I shake my head. "I was thinking of this." I take out the vocal selections from
Hairspray
, a rock opera on Broadway based on an old cult movie.

Rowena looks doubtful. "I have to say, this doesn't completely sound like you." Fred the cat jumps onto the keyboard and glares at my music.

"The girl in this song has a weight problem," I say. "Besides, I want to change my image." I pet Fred's head.

"Interesting. You know, I was talking to Ms. Wolfe about you the other day."

"Let me guess—she thinks I should change my major to dance."

I don't even get a smile from her. "Actually, she was wondering if perhaps you'd be more comfortable in

regular music, instead of musical theater."

"Oh." I get it. So I wouldn't have to take Dance. Or Drama. Or hang with people who can just improvise armpit songs, because

I'm a one-note wonder, not a triple threat. Got it. "But you recommended musical theater. You said if I

wanted to do opera, I should learn all that stuff—acting and movement—to perform onstage."

"Well, it's certainly nice when an opera singer knows those things. But on the other hand, lots of singers are—"

"Big fat blobs who have to be wheeled across the stage on a handtruck?"

"I didn't say that." Rowena stops petting Fred, who looks at her reproachfully. "And you could never be that anyway."

"I was that."

"You were… chubby. In any case, I told her not to write you off so quickly in dance. I said I thought you

were a young woman who could do anything she set her mind to—including dance."

I do Rowena's visualization exercise. I visualize myself dancing, flying across the stage, or part of a kick-

line like a stupid Rockette.

It doesn't completely work.

"Do you think I can do it?" I mean the program, not just this song.

"I think sometimes it's good to go outside your comfort zone. On the other hand, I hate to see you lose

track of who you are, just for the sake of trying to fit in," Rowena says.

"That's not what I'm doing. I just thought I'd like to try something different… for fun."

"Okay." Rowena reaches for the
Hairspray
music. "Well try it and see how it goes. For fun."

"Are you sure?" Gigi squints at me, a lot like Fred the cat, while we're waiting to audition. "Positive. My mom thought it was great."

"Like that's relevant."

Actually, what my mother—to whom I'm not currently speaking since the Arnold conversation—said was

that the song I'd chosen was "a lot quieter than your usual stuff."

Gigi looks around at the growing group in the auditorium. "Rowena probably has copies of your regular

music—I mean, if you change your mind at the last minute."

"I'm not changing my mind. Why do you care so much what I sing?"

"You're good at the opera stuff, Cait. Besides, I want you
to get
picked for the show because when—if—I get picked, we can go to practice together."

I look at her. Her hair's still pink, and if any of my old friends met her, they wouldn't understand why I

hang with her. But I have this big urge
to
hug her. Instead, I say, "Don't worry. Maybe I'll surprise you."

"Hope so."

The accompanist starts playing the opening bars of "Good Morning, Baltimore." I may puke. I may

actually puke right here, in front of a roomful of people.
What is wrong with me? What was I thinking
? I want to run. Hide, even.

But I start the first lines:

Oh, oh, oh, woke up today

Feeling the way I always do.

Oh, oh, oh, hungry for something that I can't eat

Then I hear the beat.

I look at the faces in the audience. They're frozen in fake smiles, sort of like in that one
Batman
movie when the Joker put chemicals in people's makeup that made them all look like him.

For the first time, I realize that:

1. The song requires a Broadway-belt voice, which I don't have.

2. The song requires me to move around (i.e., dance).

3. The girl who sang the song on Broadway was obese, wearing a bad wig and a hilarious costume. And,

even though I feel that way sometimes, I don't actually weigh three hundred pounds.

I stare out at the audience—the people I've been trying soooo hard to impress the past few weeks—and

for a minute, I wish I
was
really fat or ugly because that would give me a place to hide. They wouldn't laugh at me for being stupid and untalented then. They'd just ignore me like people ignore fatgirls. Being

heavy makes it so much easier to sink through the floor.

I make an attempt at moving my feet and see Gigi bury her face in her hand.

I am such an idiot.

When I sit down, Gigi says, too quickly, "It wasn't that bad. It was good."

"Wow, I must have really sucked if you're lying to me like this."

Gigi shrugs. "It's over."

Behind me, Rex says, "I liked when you sang that opera thing better. You rocked at that."

I turn to look at him. I can't believe he said that. I can't believe anyone thought I rocked at
anything
.

"Yeah, I thought you did better with the opera too," another voice says.

It's Misty, sitting by Sean her arm locked in his. That's when I realize she tricked me. She talked me into

singing something I'd look stupid singing, so I wouldn't be any competition for her. She must have thought

I rocked at opera too.

I start to say something, but then I accept: I only have myself to blame.

Opera_Grrrl's Online Journal

Subject: Unsurprisingly