The television isn’t on when I get home. That’s the first sign of a problem. There are always warning signs: Rattlesnakes rattle. Cats’ fur stands on end. With my mother, the first sign of trouble is the eerie silence of a TV-free living room.
But maybe I’m just being crazy. The whole drive home from Tampa, I’ve been freaking out, not singing “Ninety-Nine Bottles of Beer on the Wall” with everyone else, not even whispering and giggling (okay, not too much) when Brianna Owens and Josh Eisenberg crawled up into the bus luggage rack and were definitely doing way more than just making out. Even then I was worried about Mom and the letter.
But what are the odds that the letter would have come today?
I stand by the door waiting for something to happen. It really is weird that the TV isn’t on. There’s always a makeover show on some station.
What are the odds?
Mom’s sitting on the sofa, staring at something in her lap. I walk closer, talking. “Hey, we got a superior rating. I got a superior on my solo too, and…” I’m talking just enough so she won’t comment on it when I leave.
She holds up the thing in her lap. It’s a letter. The letter. I can see on the return address where it has the Miami High School of the Arts emblem thing.
Life lesson learned: Whenever you say, “What are the odds?” the odds-gods automatically up them to 100% certainty.
“What’s this, Caitlin?”
I don’t know. What is it? Acceptance or rejection? Acceptance or rejection?
“Um, I thought I’d try out for the performing arts school.”
“You thought you’d try out? Don’t you have to get a parent’s permission to transfer to a new school?”
“Can I see the letter please?” I say, trying to be nice.
“When were you planning on telling me this? Or were you?”
“Of course I was going to tell you. I didn’t transfer… I just wanted… Can I have the letter please? I want to see—”
She turns it over, and that’s when I see for the first time that it’s open. She read it! She read it before me. I’m trying really hard not to swallow my tongue.
“You opened it?”
“It was an accident. I thought it was junk mail.”
“Opening other people’s mail is a federal crime.” I read that somewhere.
“I said it was an accident. Now answer my question.”
“Give me my letter!”
“Caitlin!”
“Give me my letter!”
I’m sure I didn’t get in, and the thought of Mom knowing that just kills me. Up until now, I’d been telling myself that I wasn’t sure I wanted to go, that maybe I wanted to stay at Key Biscayne High with my friends. But now I know that’s a lie. If someone gave me a choice between an acceptance and breathing for the next five minutes … well, I’d have to think about it.
“Give me my letter!” With each time I yell it, I get louder until she’s holding her ears.
“Caitlin, stop yelling. I have the windows open. The neighbors—”
“Then give it to me! It’s mine!”
“Caitlin, how could you do something like this … try to switch schools without telling me?”
“Would you stop making it about you? It’s not always about you!”
“I’m your mother. I’m practically the only parent you have, and I—”
Her voice fades to static because that’s when I figure it out. I got in. If it was a rejection, she wouldn’t be mad. She’d be all sweetie and honey, comforting poor Caitlin who’d failed. Again. Don’t worry, sugarplum, Mommy’s here to pick up the pieces of your broken heart, as the old song goes. But if she’s mad, it could only mean…
I grab the letter. I’m giggling and crying, and I grab the letter from her and run until I get to the bedroom. I slam the door and lock it.
Dear Caitlin: We are pleased …
The letters swim before me, and I read it over and over again, memorizing it:
Dearcaitlinwearepleasedtoinviteyoutobepartoftheclassof … and I’m jumping up and down, screaming and smiling so hard I feel like my face might explode out of my throat. Mom’s pounding on the door, and I’m dancing and screaming, “I got in!” at the same time she’s screaming, “You’re not going!”
Opera_Grrrl’s Online Journal
Subject: Miami HS of the Arts Letter
Date: April 11
Time: 9:37 p.m.
Listening 2: Mad Scene from Lucia di Lammermoor (which mom hates b/c it’s 2 screechy)
Feeling: Crazed
Weight: 115 lbs. this morning
Guess what came 2day?
The good news: got in.
The bad news: can’t go.
I stop typing and eat three gummy bears—green, yellow, and red. My jeans feel tighter when I do this, though gummies only have nine calories each (times three). The thing about losing a lot of weight is that it feels temporary, like you’re just a thin fatgirl, and one good Big Mac will send you exploding from your jeans again. I weighed a hundred and five when I left camp last year. Since then I’ve gained and lost the same fifteen pounds a dozen times. Right now, I weigh one-fifteen, which is what the weight charts say you’re supposed to weigh at five-three. The guy who made the weight chart (and I’m sure it was a guy) didn’t go to my school, though. At my school, the most you can weigh is one-ten, even if you’re five-foot-nine.
I toss the rest of the bag into the wastebasket, stare at the computer screen, and listen to the opera on CD. This is the part where the soprano just went completely nuts and stabbed a guy. She’s covered in blood, singing like crazy in her nightgown in front of a crowd of people … all because her family wouldn’t just let her do what she wanted to do.
I can sooooo relate.