Screaming Divas (3 page)

Harumi knew about sacrifices. She'd given up jazz dance and the photography club and shopping and TV. She'd given up her friends, too, all so that she could become the best young violinist in the state. She was a freak, not even remotely aware of the latest movie or high school gossip. She didn't even know what kind of music was popular. Sometimes this made her feel incredibly lonely. At school, she felt a pang when she passed Esther Shealy in the hallway. They'd once been like sisters. Esther had even beaten up a kid in defense of her honor. But her parents had quashed the friendship. They pretended to forget to pass on Esther's phone messages until she stopped calling altogether. And when Esther dropped by on her bicycle, they told her that Harumi was practicing her violin. As for boys—forget it. Harumi was forbidden to date until she was eighteen.

“Look at handsome guy,” her mother stage-whispered in the sushi restaurant. This was her attempt to make up for all the girl talk Harumi missed among her peers.

Harumi's eyes followed the direction of her mother's nod. A young Japanese man in a well-cut suit was settling in at a booth near the door. He had smooth hairless skin and slicked back hair. Even from across the room, Harumi could see that his fingernails were manicured. He looked the picture of success. And he was Japanese. Husband material.

Harumi didn't think her mother had ever had a fling. She might have had a few harmless crushes in her girlhood, but as soon as she'd been old enough for dating, her mind had been on marriage. She'd married fresh out of an all-girls college, at the age of twenty-two.

Harumi had heard the story of their courtship plenty of times. A friend of the family had brought over a young man visiting from America, where he was studying to be an architect. Her mother, who had never had a boyfriend before, had been smitten at first sight. Letters were exchanged. On his next visit a wedding was hastily arranged, and she went back with him to a tiny roach-infested apartment in married housing.

Probably the idea of life abroad had seemed exotic at first, but these days her mother's dreams were about going back to Japan. They all knew, however, that architects didn't make as much money there as in the States, nor did they have the same kind of prestige. Plus, after a certain age, it was hard to start over. So they stayed in America.

Sometimes Harumi wondered if her mother wished she had married someone else. She was sure that she'd never slept with anyone other than her husband.

Harumi suddenly felt dizzy. She was nervous and she hadn't eaten, but there was more to it than that. Her life was like a box and Mrs. Yokoyama was hammering down the lid. Everything had already been decided by others who claimed to know what was best for her. No one had ever asked her what she wanted. Maybe she just wanted to take her violin out on the back porch and play for the crickets. Maybe she wanted to sprawl across Esther Shealy's bed watching
General Hospital
and eating marshmallow pies. Maybe she had no interest in living in a tiny walk-up apartment in New York, far from her brother and father.

After a few more mouthfuls, Harumi pushed her plates away and followed her mother out of the restaurant. They went back to the hotel where Harumi changed from jeans and a polo shirt into a blazer and skirt.

“You look very nice,” her mother said. “Very serious. Do you want to practice some more before we go?”

Harumi shook her head. “No, I'm ready. Ready as I ever will be.” She grabbed her violin case and headed for the door.

There was a line of nervous mothers and their children at the school. Harumi registered at a long table and took her place in the queue. The others—ranging in age from about twelve to eighteen, and in color from pearl to ebony—eyed her suspiciously. Friendly conversation didn't seem likely.

Harumi slumped into a chair. She cradled Sadie II in her arms, as if it were a baby in need of a lullaby. She remembered the day that she had traded in her first violin for the full-sized one she used now. It had been nearly a ceremony. Hashimoto-sensei, the music shop clerk, her mother and father, and even her brother had stood around her as she first fondled the instrument. They'd watched her stroke the strings with her horsehair bow and strained to catch each plaintive note. Everyone knew that Harumi was destined for great things, that she'd be a guest of the Carolina Symphony, and that in the future, they might be asked to recount this day for some journalist.

Harumi had tried several instruments before she found the right one. No one else would have been able to tell the difference, but when Harumi hoisted this one onto her shoulder, it fit just right. When she plucked the strings, they seemed to be communicating with her. This was Sadie II.

At the end of the line, a boy wearing a necktie and horn-rimmed glasses unzipped his cello from its case. He stood perfectly straight while his mother licked her finger and smoothed back a stray lock of hair. The mother looked ordinary. She wore orthopedic shoes and a suit two or three years out of fashion. Harumi wondered if all of that family's fortunes depended upon the boy. Had they poured all of their savings into his future? Were those slender shoulders strong enough to support the weight of their expectations?

Harumi felt sick to her stomach. She'd heard stories about dutiful Japanese daughters, girls who devoted their lives to caring for sick parents. They gave up on careers, on love, on motherhood, to play nurse. And then when the parents died, they had nothing left in their lives. But her parents weren't sick. Her father's salary was enough to feed and clothe them and keep them in a house with a swimming pool. Her father hadn't said a word when his wife made a reservation at the Savoy.

“Go see a show on Broadway, too,” he'd said, pressing his credit card into her hand.

Harumi's parents could get by without her. They were greedy, that's all. They wanted a famous daughter to make up for every humiliation they had suffered as a member of a minority in America. With Harumi's success, they would be able to rise above the Confederate flag bumper stickers, the slurs of Jap/Chink/Gook, the fact that Harumi's mother hadn't been invited to join the Junior League or the Garden Club.

She looks so smug, Harumi thought, looking over at her. All of that praise directed at me has gone to her head.

“Harumi Yokoyama!”

Harumi startled at the sound of her name. She hadn't noticed that the three in front of her had already finished their auditions.

Mrs. Yokoyama nudged her out of her seat. “
Ganbatte
,” she said. “Do your best.”

Harumi took a deep breath and strode toward the stage door. She nodded to the man with the clipboard, and went out onto the bare stage. There were no chairs, no music stands, only a pool of light. Harumi stepped into the beam and took her instrument out of its case.

“We're ready when you are,” a voice called from the shadows just beyond the stage. The voice was gentle and patient, seemingly disembodied. If she looked carefully, she might have been able to make out the figures seated there, but she chose to ignore them. She pretended that she was alone in a forest, far away from New York City.

Harumi lifted Sadie II onto her shoulder, the gesture almost second nature by now. She picked up her bow, her fingers forming a fox's head. And then she launched her bow-turned-rocket and began wheedling sweet music from the strings. Her touch was perfect and she felt herself flowing with the notes, her spirit soaring through the treetops. Her body swayed with the melody, as if she were dancing with an invisible lover.

But then a black crow flew into her thoughts. She became aware of the judges sitting in the dark, of her mother praying on a folding chair. She became aware of the dim theater and it suddenly seemed like a jail. If she kept playing, this would be her home.

Harumi's playing became more furious, more beautiful. It was as if the music had a mind of its own. She had to stop. She had to let the bow fall from her fingers and clatter to the hardwood floor. She had to tell those invisible judges that she wouldn't play for them. And so she summoned all of her strength, siphoned it from the music, from the deepest part of her, and raised Sadie II high into the air.

She closed her eyes and cupped her hands over her ears as the violin smashed and splintered on the floor.

Cassie Haywood was in her room, listening to Billie Holiday, smoothing foundation over the scythe-shaped scar that ran along the right side of her face. It was the same kind of special heavy-duty makeup that had been used on her mother after the accident. Before they put her in the ground. In another couple of years, she could have cosmetic surgery again. She'd never be able to wear a bikini, but maybe something could be done about her face. Her broken heart was another story; that could never be fixed.

“You're a beautiful girl,” her father always told her. “So what if you don't have a crown.”

She knew that even though he had married a beauty queen himself, he had never approved of the pageants. He was unimpressed by her titles—Miss Peach Blossom, Little Miss Chitlin Strut—and her once-possible future appearance in Atlantic City. Others squealed over her sausage curls and vocal talent, but her father always said that there was something sick about parading a five-year-old around in sequins and mascara.

“Then why did you let her make me go up on all those stages?” Cassie hadn't minded. She'd loved having her mama fuss with her hair before she went onstage to sing, the heft of the gold cups, the sparkle of the crowns. She hadn't known anything different.

Her father shrugged. He didn't like to talk about his first wife, Cassie's mother.

A motor rumbled outside and Cassie turned to the window. She pulled the curtain back. A red Mustang was idling in the driveway. After a moment, the engine cut off. The door swung open and there he was, Todd Elsworth, star quarterback at Irmo High School. He stepped out onto the driveway and marched to the front door.

Cassie pulled away from the window and fluffed up her hair. She'd dressed casually in a black miniskirt and an oversized red sweatshirt that grazed her thighs. They were just going to a movie—no need to get too dressed up, even if it was a first date.

Billie's voice drowned out the sound of the doorbell. Cassie stayed in her room till she heard Johnette shouting up the stairs for her.
Better get down there before she starts flirting with him.
Cassie turned off the stereo, grabbed her pocketbook, and left the room.

She found them in the living room—Todd sunk into one of the plush arm chairs, a Coke in hand, and Johnette on the edge of the sofa, leaning toward him.

“Okay, I'm ready,” Cassie said loudly. “Tell Dad I won't be out late.”

Johnette jumped, surprised, then recovered. “You kids have a good time,” she said. “No drinking and driving, Todd.”

Cassie slit her eyes at Johnette before shooting out the door. Why did she always have to make allusions? And why did she have to fawn all over Cassie's dates? Was she sorry she'd married a much older man?

“That's your mother?” Todd asked once they were in the car.

“My stepmother.”

“She doesn't look like anybody's mother.” Todd's eyes were a little too bright. “She's … she's gorgeous.”

They all said that—all the zit-faced boys who climbed the steps to her front door. They were floored by Johnette's teased honey tresses, her firm Nautilus-trained figure, her huge green eyes. She was your basic thirty-two-year-old trophy wife.

Cassie sighed. “She's married, so get over it.”

“I didn't mean it like that. C'mon. Don't get mad. You're gorgeous, too. I don't care about your scar. I think you're the prettiest girl at school.”

“Gee, thanks.”

Cassie remembered the first time her father had brought Johnette home. He'd met her at the health club where he'd started working out, on his doctor's advice. Johnette had probably been impressed by her father's air of wealth and sophistication. And then there was the sob story about the tragic car accident, the dead wife, the motherless waif. Women always fell for that.

Cassie's father Dex, short for Dexter, threw open the door one evening and called out, “Honey, I've got a surprise for you!”

Cassie had rushed down the stairs, expecting a new car or maybe a puppy. Whatever. She'd stood in the living room, curious, while her father started up a drum roll on the doorframe. His eyes were on something in the driveway, out of Cassie's field of vision. Then he did his
Tonight Show
introduction: “Heeeerrrrre's Johnette!”

A giggling blonde stepped into the room. It was summer and she was wearing a skinny-strapped sundress splashed with bright pink flowers.

Cassie couldn't fit everything together at first. Was this some secret love child? A singing telegram? Her father's last girlfriend had been a divorced junior high teacher with kids Cassie's age.

“Um, hi,” she said, as Johnette pulled her into a hug. The woman reeked of Chanel No. 5. “Dad?”

“This is my fiancée.” He was wearing a goofy grin. Cassie was sure that he was drunk or maybe even stoned, but later, when the three of them sat down to dinner, he proudly assured her that his bride-to-be never drank alcohol.

“I'm strictly vegetarian,” she said. “Macrobiotics have changed my life.”

“Great.”

They'd gotten married in Hawaii, sparing the family the embarrassment of a church wedding. Ever since then, there'd been plenty of tofu and carrot juice in the refrigerator. Stacks of yoga videos flanked the TV. Brightly colored jogging bras and skimpy lingerie spilled out of the laundry basket.

And now, sitting here with Todd drooling over Johnette's image, she suddenly didn't want to be on this date. She didn't want to sit in a dark movie theater for an hour and a half while his hand inched slowly toward her thigh.

“I've got an idea,” she said.