My voice lesson’s almost over, and she hasn’t asked me yet. Maybe I’ll get out without lying today. Rowena stops playing the piano. “So, have you heard?”
Or not. “Um, nope. Nothing yet.”
She grins. “Good. Then I get to tell you. I talked to a friend of mine who teaches at the school. You got in!”
“Great. Wow … um … that’s great.”
“Isn’t it? They’re all so excited about having you there.”
“Great.” Do you know another word? “Wonderful…”
“What’s wrong, Caitlin?”
At this point, Fred the cat nuzzles my shoulder, and I mumble, “I’m not sure I want to. I mean, I’m really happy studying with you. I don’t want anything to change.”
This is something I’ve thought about. I’ve been taking voice with Rowena since middle school. I had to beg Dad to pay for lessons, and I had to ride my bike to get there (still do), but it’s worth it. Rowena used to be a real opera singer. She traveled all over the world, but gave it up to raise her kids. The coolest thing about Rowena is she’s nothing like my mom. She’s like the Anti-Mom. She’s let her hair go gray and she wears it long down her back, and probably doesn’t even own any makeup. Rowena knows just how much to push me—enough so I have something to work for, but not so much that I want to drink gasoline after a lesson. And she’d never tell me to get long layers.
I’d miss it a lot if I couldn’t study with her, and maybe I wouldn’t have time if I changed schools.
But she says, “That’s the coolest part though. I just got a job there myself.”
“You what?”
“Yeah, I thought now that Harmony’s in college, I could work full-time. If you go, I can see you every day. Isn’t that just cool?”
I agree it’s very, very cool, even though my head’s pounding now, but her voice is all excited, and she asks again if I’m going to go. I hear myself say, “Sure.”
She wipes her hand across her forehead like, Whew! What a relief! “That’s so great. I was worried because, with the new job, I probably won’t have much time for my private students. But this way, I can keep you on.”
“You mean you couldn’t otherwise?” Because, um, my head’s about to explode.
“It doesn’t really matter now, does it, since you’re going?”
“No.” I agree that no, it doesn’t matter, and yes, it’s really wonderful, and then I ask if we can sing some more, because I really want to work on this piece I’m doing. It goes up to a high E-flat, and that’s the closest I can get to socially acceptable screaming.
Opera_Grrrl’s Online Journal
Subject: I am *Such* a Liar
Date: April 25
Time: 11:03 p.m.
Listening 2: Medea
Feeling: Worried
Weight: Same
I’m listening 2 Medea (see above). It’s abt. this wicked sorceress from Greek myths. Right now, Medea’s singing about how much she hates her ex-husband, Jason, how much she loves their kids, and finally—hey—why not kill the 2nd 2 get revenge on the 1st?
In her room, Mom’s screaming @ Dad about child support—now almost a month late.
See the irony???
I stop typing and turn off the stereo. A few minutes ago, Mom came in and said it was almost eleven and she had a headache, and couldn’t I just listen to rap music or something like other kids. I left it on until now just to prove my point.
“Do you want to go to court?” Mom screeches. Then she sings an aria about what her lawyer will do to Dad if that happens.
A pause while Dad checks his bank balance.
Then I guess he says something because she yells, “Oh, I’d like to see that!”
And she hangs up.
Mom’s in the bathroom when I walk in. She has all her Emma Leigh products in front of her on the counter. When I was little, she used to let me put makeup on her, like she was a big, pretty doll. She’d do makeovers on me too, and tell me that someday, when I lost weight (she called it “baby fat”), I’d be so pretty … just like her. Everyone would want to date me. I once went to career day dressed as a cosmetologist.
She hasn’t offered to do my makeup since I got thin and might actually look good.
I say, “What would you like to see?”
She jumps. “Oh… Caitlin … thought you were sleeping. The noi—singing stopped.”
“You told me to stop. What were you telling Dad you’d like to see?”
She sighs. “Caitlin, when you get to be my age, you’ll understand that sometimes, just occasionally, a person needs quiet.”
“I understand,” I say. “Really.”
“I hope so.”
“So what’d Dad say?”
“Dad?” She tries to look like she doesn’t know what I’m talking about. It doesn’t work. I notice a book on her dressing table. Find a Husband After 35. Terrific.
“You don’t scream at anyone else like that,” I say.
She slathers makeup remover on one eyelid, then dabs at it with a tissue. “I wasn’t screaming.” I give her a yeah, right look. “Well, he just makes me so mad. He thinks he can just do … whatever, the usual stuff. His kids—his other kids are in private school that costs as much as a Honda Accord—per year, per kid, but he thinks I should sell this house and move us to the middle of the stinkin’ Everglades if I need money.”
Sounds like Dad. He can definitely afford the child support, but I’m guessing he hates having his ex-wife and ex-kid sucking money out of him that he’d rather spend, buying out the entire stock of Limiteds One and Too, for Macy and the girls. I can’t imagine not living in this house. We’ve been here forever. The way I see it, Dad owes me that money—he doesn’t give me anything else.
“Yeah, he’s a jerk,” I say and mean it. We share a rare moment of mother-daughter solidarity. One, two, three …
“That’s why you need to be careful, Caitlin. Once you have kids with someone, you’re stuck with them forever.” She tosses out the mascara-blackened tissue and starts on the rest of her face with Emma Leigh makeup remover.
Love you too, Mommy.
“I mean stuck with the man, not the kids.”
“Sure.” I try again. “What did you mean when you said you’d like to see that?”
She moves her fingers in circles along her cheekbones. “Hmm? Oh, he threatened to try and get custody if I kept nagging for money. As if.”
She likes to do that, use expressions she thinks sound youthful. But she’s always behind, so by the time she discovers something, no one’s saying it except people on TV. “You really should have a beauty routine, Cait. Moisturizer and night cream. Young people think they’re invincible, but once those crow’s-feet show up, it’s too late.”
“There’s always Botox.” I’m still processing the idea—me living with Dad. Obviously, he didn’t mean it, not unless Macy needs a free babysitter. But maybe … “Mom, I really want to go to Miami High School of the Arts.”
“Caitlin, we’ve been over this.”
“No, actually, we haven’t. You just said no, that it isn’t safe.”
I know I could get her to let me go in a second, just by saying I want to get away from Nick. She’d have to let me go then. She went with me for the restraining order. But I hate to play that card. It makes me seem too pathetic.
“I still think so,” she says.
“Rowena has a job teaching there. She says we could probably take the train together.” Rowena didn’t say that. But Mom doesn’t know. I try not to notice her nose getting all wrinkly when I mention Rowena’s name.
“Caitlin…” She finishes removing her makeup and tosses the last greasy tissue into the toilet. I watch it floating, making a film on the water. I think of Rowena, gone, and me, trapped here with Peyton and Ashley; trapped in this cheerless cheer-girl existence, when really, I want to be like that girl at the train station.
Mom’s rinsing her face, and when she turns off the water, I hand her a towel.
“You know,” I say, “if I moved in with Dad, I bet he’d let me go.”