Diva (19 page)

realized her free ride might be over. It will be over when I hit eighteen anyway. And that makes me so

mad, thinking that all these years, I'd been nothing but a meal ticket to her, and now Arnold is her meal

ticket, and she doesn't care who she hurts.

I say it. The instant after I think all those things, I say them. All of them. And then I keep going. I scream,

"I can't believe you. You're that lazy? Maybe if you stopped worrying for two seconds about your bikini

wax and your nails…" I knock against her hand. "… And getting a man, you could get a real job and not have to leech off Dad!"

I stop yelling, but I can still hear the words. My ears feel tight with them. I can almost see them, as if they exist in some physical form.

She stands there a moment, and then she lunges for me, like she's going to hit me. In my whole life, she's

never hit me, and she doesn't this time either. Instead, she starts screaming, "You little brat! You think you know everything! You think you're better than me? You have the world at your feet, and it's because of

me! Me! You think that scumbag father of yours would do one thing he's not court-ordered to?"

She keeps on like that, screaming ugly things about Dad, things I can't even argue with. I know they're true.

And I just stand there, staring, trying not to blink because if I blink, I'll cry. And I won't give her the

satisfaction.

She keeps going. "I could have been something, but instead, I had you. You think I wanted to be thirty-

seven with a daughter who thinks she's hot? I used to be so hot too. You are exactly like I was!"

Well, this is too much. Better to be slapped physically. Worse to be compared to her. I feel the first tear

starting down my cheek, but before she can see it, I scream, "I am nothing like you!"

And I run.

Opera_Grrrl's Online Journal

Subject: Tortures and Triumphs

Date: December 3

Time: 11:11 p.m.

Listening to: "Triumphal March" from Aida

Feeling: Triumphant

Weight: 114 lbs. (purely by accident, haven't been dieting @ all)

You'd think when I mastered the dance steps after tremendous personal sacrifice that Ms. Wolfe might—

just might—have something 2 say. Something like, "Good job, Caitlin" or "Hard work really paid off."

Nah. I didn't think so either.

Today @ rehearsal, I failed 2 screw up for the 1 st time, and Ms. Wolfe failed 2 yell at me…for the 1 st

time.

But when we finished our approximately 900th run-thru of the dance numbers, she faced us w/her usual

doglike expression.

She pointed @ a redheaded girl who was previously the 2nd worst dancer. "Ainsley! There are a few too

many dancers. Just sing on the side of the stage."

I struggled w/2 impulses: wanting to give Ainsley some kind of sympathetic look and not wanting 2 draw

attention 2 myself. I didn't move. Next, Ms. Wolfe singled out 2 fat-girls who danced OK but the 90-lb.

Ms. Wolfe probably thought they wouldn't look great in the costume (leotards w/glittery vests over them)

and told them the same thing. That bugged me. I noticed she didn't pull any guys out, even tho there were

several who were worse than the girls that she cut. Guys are held 2 a completely different standard here,

or, as Gigi says, "If you have a penis, you don't *need* talent." Speaking of which, Gus still has no jockstrap, and when he's in the room, it's hard 2 look @ anything else…though we all try.

Finally, Ms. Wolfe got to me. She gave me a long look, & I thought for sure she'd cut me. I knew if that

happened, after all my work, I'd burst into tears or just plain burst. What if she didn't notice my failure 2

screw up today & just remembered the 8,000 times I was bad???

But finally, she clapped her hands and told us to do it one more time.

And I breathed. Sean reached over to hi-5 me, & Gigi grinned, but I shook my head. 1 didn't want to jinx

it.

But on the inside, I felt like I could do grandes jetes if I wanted!

On Friday, I go early to Rowena's office. I feel tremendously guilty over the New York thing, so I want to

smooth things over with her. I want to do what she tells me, but I don't want to. When I get there, I have to

wait because she has a student in there, a blond girl. I recognize her as one of the students who sang at the

La Traviata
auditions, one of the less-good ones.

They're in there a really long time, but just as I decide to give up, she runs out. She's crying, and Rowena

comes to the door, too, yelling, "Mary! Wait!" But the girl doesn't stop. That's when Rowena notices me there.

"This is a bad time?" I ask.

Rowena sighs. "No… I mean, it's always hard."

"What is?"

"Having to tell a student she should change majors—that I don't think she'll make it in performance and

she should consider music education or merchandising instead."

"That's what you told her?" I'm thinking,
I'd die
.

Rowena nods. "She was promising at auditions last year, but she hasn't improved much. I understand she

parties quite a bit, and it doesn't seem like the commitment's there. You have to want it more than

anything. You have to sacrifice.

Sacrifice
. I think about the New York program. "What will happen to her now?"

"She has to decide. She can change majors, which is what I suggested. Or she can decide I don't know

what I'm talking about. Maybe she'll take it as a challenge and practice more and show me I'm wrong. It's

her choice."

"Am I good enough?" I say.

"Caitlin, this isn't about you."

"But it could be. You said she seemed promising last year at auditions. You never can tell, right?"

"I can tell. I know you. And I know you're very committed."

"Am I?" I feel my headache right down in my neck. If I had to sing now, I couldn't. I want to confess my lie about New York. But Mom's so furious with me now, she probably
would
say no if I asked her.

"Yes. You're one of my most talented students ever." She touches my hand. "Don't worry. Just keep doing what you're doing."

At lunch, I tell Gigi about it—not about lying to Rowena because I know what she'd say (she'd kill me!),

but about Mary.

Gigi rolls her eyes. "You said yourself the girl wasn't very good. Rowena probably did her a huge favor.

Why does it bother you?"

"But can you imagine not singing anymore? Why wake up in the morning?"

"But that's how
you
feel about it. If she felt that way, she'd have practiced more. Then she wouldn't be getting this news."

"I guess."

"Absolutely. It's like a reality show where they vote the weaklings off first. When you're five and dancing in your mom's dresses, everyone's a superstar. But then some people get picked to be 'listeners' in music

class, and others don't make the good chorus in middle school, and others don't get in here. And some

people screw up. But that's not you, Cait. You can make it.

"I guess," I repeat.

But that night and both days of the weekend, I sing scales for an extra hour.

For the next week, I own you." Miss Davis teeters for a second, allowing this shocking news to sink in.

It's the Monday before the show. "Homework in your academic classes? Unimportant. Family and friends

don't exist. Exercise? Burn calories onstage. Your love life?" She takes a long look at Gus and Misty,

who are attempting to merge into one person. "Not on my time. And make no mistake about it—your every

waking moment is my time. I'm not about balance." She stares at us. "Understand?"

We all nod, somberly, like we're supposed to. Even Gigi.

"Good. Places for the opening number." We start to file offstage. Miss Davis holds out a painted claw, and fixes on Gus. "You!"

Gus executes a comic stop and gestures like,
Me
?

"Yes, you. Purchase an athletic supporter."

"Why?"

"Because your… equipment is showing. If you don't find one by tomorrow, I'll take you shopping during

lunch."

We're all trying real hard not to laugh, but someone (I'm not sure it wasn't me) lets out a high-pitched

giggle, and then we're all cracking up.

Through it, I hear Gus. "Miss Davis?"

A sigh. "Yes, Gus?"

"If I'm not's'posed to be doing anything but practicing, when do I shop?"

I don't even hear Miss Davis's answer. But the rest of the afternoon, every time I pass Sean or Gigi, we

say things like, "Excuse me? Do you happen to have your equipment with you?" or "Can you get your equipment? I need to change a light bulb."

Sean drives me home after rehearsal.

"How's it going?" he says.

"Great. We'll be rehearsing so much I'll hardly see my mother."

He laughs. "Yeah, all I can think about is this show. Would you believe the other day, I woke up, and my

hand was stiff? I'd been doing jazz hands in my sleep!"

"What I can't believe is that three months ago, I'd never
heard
of a jazz hand. And now…" I make a gesture like my hand is stuck that way, fingers straight and stiff.

"You're really improving at dance."

"Thanks to you."

"No. Thanks to you." He pulls into my driveway and stops the car. The lights are off inside the house, but I can see Harold the flamingo, who's now dressed like Santa Claus. Sean pulls me toward him and hugs

me, and it's different than other times, because I know it's just a hug; a friend-hug and nothing more.

When we part, I say, "So, do you think Gus went and found an all-night sporting-goods store Monday

night?"

Sean laughs. "I bet he did. I wouldn't want to go shopping for a jockstrap with Miss Davis!"

Opera_Grrrl's Online Journal

Subject: Sean

Date: December 7

Time: 11:35

Listening to: "Che Gelida Manina" from La Boheme (w/headphones so as not to incur the wrath of Mom)

Feeling: Tired

Weight: 112 lbs. (I think I lost weight from dancing so much)

I've spent a LOT of time thinking about the whole Sean thing, and what I've figured out is: everything

happens for a reason…All my life, I wanted to be thin & have a boyfriend, but when I did finally get a

boyfriend, it didn't work out w/him…in fact. He HURT ME…

. and it didn't work out w/the next guy either…

& what I figured out is that I DON'T WANT A BOYFRIEND at this particular moment of my life. I think

maybe what I need is a friend & w/Sean, I have that. I have that more than I've ever had that in my life.

And what's more, he's SAFE. I can love him, and he isn't going to hurt me, isn't going to try and make me

be someone else. Does that make sense????????? I don't even know if it does, & maybe anyone reading

this will think I'm crazy (I don't even know if anyone does read this) but I think it's right. And what's more, I think it's more important to be w/someone b/c you actually care about that person, than being w/someone

to be w/someone.

I don't know what I mean to say. But I know what I THINK: I'm happy.

Six-thirty Thursday. We're assembled in our costumes for dress rehearsal. The opening number is a

medley of what Miss Davis calls rah-rah, let's-put-on-a-show tunes—"There's No Business Like Show

Business."

"Applause."

"The Lullaby of Broadway," etc. I'm dressed as a stagehand in overalls and a T-shirt, wearing a ton of Mom's Emma Leigh samples. In fact, Mom doesn't know it, but she donated makeup for most of the cast. I

still haven't told her about the performance this weekend and I don't know if I will. I'm still that mad at

her.

I stand near Gigi. Actually,
behind
Gigi. The good dancers are in front, while the "good singers" like me bring up the rear. At least I'm not on the side of the stage! I look around at the shadows behind me. My

friends. I've only known them a few months, but we've bonded together working on this show. The lights

fade, and I stare out at where the audience will be tomorrow. The music starts, and I feel a ripple down

my spine as the follow spot hits Sylvanie, and she sings her first line:

"Welcome to the theater, to the magic, to the fun…"

It's the same line Miss Davis quoted that first day. I didn't know what it was from then but now, I know it's

from a show called
Applause
. Applause. I love applause. That's why I came here. I wanted—and still

want—to be in the show.

The rest of the dress rehearsal goes pretty much as it should. I forget my steps twice, but I smile big like

Ms. Wolfe told us, and go on like nothing happened. It's too late for her to make me a side-singer. When it

comes time for my duet with Sean, I get there early and wait in the wings in my satin dress (trying not to

think about the fact that Arnold paid for it), the two drama students do the lead-in for our song. Halfway

through, Sean joins me. I feel his hand on my arm

"The script's pretty lame," I whisper.

"Yeah, but
you
class it up."

The two girls finish their scene, and I have to bite my lip to keep from grinning as we go out to do

Violetta's death scene.

Sean is the perfect Alfredo, and I die beautifully.

The only numbers after ours are the classic Broadway scenes and the finale. Gigi's in the classic

Broadway section, doing "If My Friends Could See Me Now," a song-and-dance number from
Sweet

Charity
. At this point, I've seen her do it approximately seven hundred times, so I head backstage to

change into leotard and tights, vest and top hat, for the finale. I walk to the mirror to check how I look. I

suck in my stomach. Someone steps beside me.

It's Rowena. "Hey." She squeezes my shoulder. "I just came back to tell you, all the faculty are raving about your performance.