Diva

107 lbs. I’ve been Slim-Fasting for two weeks to make a good first impression. I feel a little light-headed.

Everyone here’s like Peyton and Ashley said, and they all seem to know one another—maybe they’ve been having secret meetings all summer.

At the front of the room, an African-American girl with great cornrows is playing the piano. A guy is standing beside her, improvising a song about …

“Yeah, you. You’re the one that sang Phantom at auditions, right? You made it.”

Now, I recognize her by her voice. It’s Eyebrow-Ring Girl. But now her hair’s bright white and very short. She notices me staring.

I sort of sigh without meaning to. Mom had to drop me off today (other days, I’ll take the train, thank God) and wore one of her “business” outfits—a red miniskirted suit with a matching lace cami. In case I wasn’t weird enough.

“Sorry.” The girl puts her hands in front of her, protectively. She gazes at me a minute, then asks, “Do you do pageants?”

“Huh? Of course not.” But I feel my homecoming princess banner like a piece of skin across my chest. How did she peg me so easily? Does she remember my dress from auditions (I did better today—standard issue capri jeans and a blue T-shirt—but I still manage to look overdressed compared to most people). I’m too weird for the cheerleader crowd and too cheerleader for the weird crowd.

“Oh, I just thought I recognized you from somewhere. I’m Gigi. I used to do pageants as a kid. Then my parents got divorced, and my mom moved here because it’s a better pageant state. Last year, she made me enter Miss Teen Miami.”

“Wow. Did you win?” I size her up like Mom would. She’s skinny and pretty, but doesn’t have the hair to be a pageant type.

“What do you think?” She raises an eyebrow. “I didn’t exactly try my hardest. I might have slightly—and I mean just slightly—let some of my butt hang out of my bathing suit.”

“You bet. You’re supposed to spray your butt with glue so the suit won’t ride up. But Mom was all, ‘We’ll show ’em next time.’ So I killed her dreams with this.” She gestures to the eyebrow-ring, which I now see is shaped like a little crown. “I told her it made me feel better about losing. She wasn’t real sympathetic. But you looked like the type who’d go in for stuff like that.”

“Well, I’m not.” The music wails in my ears, and Gigi’s talking, and it’s just too much. I get up. “Excuse me.”

Terrific. Making enemies already. The song finishes, and everyone looks when I stand. It’s 7:28 and already I know this was a huge, huge mistake. Is it too late to register at my old school? I walk down the steps to the group clustered around the piano. The armpit guy is finished, and the girl who was playing piano starts in on an equally gross song about nose hair. I’m blown away that people can improvise like this when all I can do is sing other people’s music.

I’m not surprised to see Sean Griffin. Actually, I realize I’ve been looking for him the whole time. He’s with a girl I’ve never seen before.

Actually, Mom accused me of blackmail, but I didn’t care. I had to go. I felt like I used to feel when I was a fatgirl, outgrowing all my clothes, like I might blow up.

So I told her if I couldn’t come here, I’d move in with Dad. I lied. I knew she’d never let that happen, never let her nice, easy ride disappear.

“That’s great.” He gestures toward the girl. Actually, now that I look, she’s clinging to him like a barnacle. “Caitlin, this is Misty.”

Misty doesn’t smile. She’s this fattish blonde in a low-cut, tight pink crop top. She doesn’t really look at me, because that would mean taking her eyes off of Sean. “Come on, Shawnee. Octavio saved us seats.”

“See you around.” Sean follows her to the empty seats which are—apparently—near everyone they’ve ever met in their lives. I look around for an empty seat, but the only one left without someone in it is the one I left. By Gigi.

“I guess so. I wasn’t really planning on thinking about … guys this year. I want to get serious about singing.”

“You said you wanted to get serious about singing. You’re plenty serious.”

“Because I heard you. You’re good. You’re better than most people here.”

Is she for real? “Yeah, I thought you were incredible too. Everyone here’s really talented.”

I nod. “I lied to people at my old school—told them I was moving in with my Dad, so I wouldn’t have to explain that I just wanted to get away from them.”

But even though I’d lied about moving in with Dad, Ashley’d figured out the real reason—that I was going to performing arts school. “You’ll be back,” she’d said. “You might think you’re weird enough to hang with those people, but you’re not.” I wonder if she’s right.

A woman who must be the Drama teacher shows up. She’s sixty-something, short, with hair that auburn color older people get that almost looks purplish, a flowing green shirt and pants, and the highest heels I’ve ever seen. She stands front and center, glaring, until everyone’s silent.

I wonder if that’s from a play or if she just talks like that. A few people laugh.

She continues. “I’m Miss Lorraine Davis. I want to be called Miss Davis. I’ll be your Drama teacher on this fabulous ride you call high school. As musical theater majors, you should know that acting is as important as singing. I watched all your drama auditions, and some of you were very promising. Others need some work.”

She scans the room, and I move in my seat. I’m so not into acting. Rowena found me a monologue for my audition, and I memorized it and said it okay … but I’m sure I got in based on singing.

“First, let’s go around the room and talk a little about ourselves.” Miss Davis teeters by me. “Name, previous training and experience, and any other interesting tidbits you want to share.”

Miss Davis points to a girl who recites the names of thirty-seven interesting and worthwhile gifted performing arts programs she’s attended since she was two. I try to think of something non-boring to say when it’s my turn.

I’m Cat, and I’ve gained and lost 300 pounds since I was twelve years old.

“I’m Gus,” Armpit Guy says. “I went to Southwood performing arts magnet, and I was in three productions at Actor’s Playhouse. I have two brothers, three sisters, a father, a mother, five sets of aunts and uncles, an abuela here and one back in Cuba, and a faithful dog, and not one of them can understand why I waste my time on this song-and-dance stuff instead of going into the family furniture business.” He crosses his eyes. “Oh, and I’m the most talented guy in the room.”

He’s cute, and people laugh. A few guys yell stuff like, “Yeah, right” and “We’ll see about that.” The girl/guy ratio here is a little better than at the audition; maybe two to one instead of three to one. But still, if what Gigi says is true, it cuts the odds of romance considerably. Good.

The Piano-Playing Girl is next. “I’m Sylvanie. Not Sylvia, not Sylvania. Not Pennsylvania or Transylvania. Sylvanie.” She then lists the usual five hundred community theater programs. I zone out again.

I can’t act, but I can hit a high F. Here, I’ll do it right now. Aaaaaahhhh!

When I come back to reality, Misty—a.k.a. Barnacle Girl—is enlightening us about how gifted she is.

“I was in the Miami Children’s Theater summer program for the last two years. Last year, I had the lead in my school’s production of My Fair Lady, so I decided to come here in hopes of finding some competition.”

Her face says she thinks that’s unlikely. Gigi mutters, “And I’m a bitch.”

Sean’s next. He recites the same list of programs and mentions that he was in My Fair Lady too. He doesn’t say which role, but he doesn’t have to. Obviously the lead. “I’m a senior. I tried out as a freshman, but I had some family issues and couldn’t go here. I’m really glad I could come this year. It’s sort of a dream of mine.”

“How cute,” Gigi mutters, killing any solidarity I felt for her. Sean is cute—not that I’m thinking of him that way. I’m over guys. Besides, he’s obviously taken by Barnacle Girl.

Miss Davis looks at her roll book. “I don’t have a Gigi here. Are you certain you got an acceptance from us?”

Gigi smiles. “Quite sure. Check if you have a Maria Georgina de la Iglesia Correa. But I prefer Gigi. Okay with everyone?” When Miss Davis nods, Gigi continues. “I’m from New York—the center of the universe. I understudied Young Eponine in the Broadway cast of Les Miz. I’ve done commercials for Band-Aids and Children’s Tylenol. I went to La Guardia—the real High School of Performing Arts. Then divorce struck, and I moved to Miami with the other refugees.”

A few people react to refugees. The rest stare in awe. Then, since I’m sitting next to Gigi, they all turn to me. Wonderful.

“Um,” I say. “I’m Caitlin. I like to sing. I’ve been in chorus since sixth grade. I sing opera. I like musical theater too, and … I’m really happy to be here.”

That’s it. I’ve told them nothing about myself and everything important. They don’t know about Nick or about the whole humiliating homecoming princess debacle, or my mother. I could have said I’d sung at the Metropolitan Opera, and they’d have believed it. And it’s amazing to be able to say I love opera and no one thinks it’s weird. Okay, not that weird.

The rest of the period, we do improvisations. We play this game called Freeze and justify where two people start making up a scene. Then when they get into a funny position, someone yells, “Freeze!” They have to stop, and the person who called out takes one person’s place in the scene and makes it a completely different situation. Most skits are funny, and a lot are … R-rated. Miss Davis doesn’t seem to mind. I never yell, “Freeze!” Nothing I think of seems funny enough.

Finally, Miss Davis claps her hands. “Okay, that’s it for today. Those who didn’t participate this time will begin Wednesday. And there’s homework.”

“Art is suffering, children. Don’t forget that. Wednesday, I want everyone to come prepared to act as their favorite animal.”

Next is American History, a “regular” class—if a class can be regular when people start singing “I’m Only a Bill” from Schoolhouse Rock … and the teacher doesn’t seem to mind. Gigi’s in my Geometry class, and I practically fall over when she moves her books off the seat beside her for me to sit.

“You got lunch this period?” she asks after class. “We can sit together.”

When I get to my locker, Sean’s just closing up his. “Hey, some morning,” he says. “Want to sit with us at lunch?”

I take out my lunch bag. I’m about to ask him to sit with me and Gigi, when Misty bounces up. “Come on, Shawnee!” I’m invisible.

“Sure.” I walk toward the cafeteria. Misty still hasn’t noticed I’m there.

I was expecting the cafeteria to be like the scene in this old movie, Fame, which I rented twenty times, then pretended I’d lost so Mom would have to buy it from Blockbuster. It’s about the New York City High School for the Performing Arts (the real one, as Gigi would say). In the movie, one guy starts playing the piano, then people start singing, dancing, drumming, until it was a huge production number about “Hot Lunch.”

It’s a little like that here, but not as organized. At one table, a group of art kids talk about “basic color principles” and use words like “chiaroscuro” with a brazen lack of fear of being beaten up. At another, some people look at sheet music and burst into song between bites of spaghetti.

I picture lunch at my old school. Peyton and Ashley are wearing their cheerleader outfits, just so people know who they’re dealing with. If I was there, maybe I’d be wearing one too—my friends said they’d vote me on if I tried out. I wonder if there’s a new girl sitting in my spot, wearing my uniform, maybe even flirting with my boyfriend (ex-boyfriend). If I could, would I go back?

Gigi’s gesturing me toward her table. I think about what my friends would say about her. But then she wouldn’t care. She wouldn’t like them either. I sit.

A guy at the next table screams, “Fight for your manhood, you pathetic little vegetable!” I stare, startled, then realize they’re reading a scene from a play.

I take out my yogurt. “My old school was way different.” I look from the acting guy to the artists. I know the answer to my question. I don’t want to go back to my old school. But I wonder if I could ever fit in with people here. They’re so … free. Can I ever be like that?

I shrug. “It’s my first class. Are we going to do any actual acting in there?”

I shake my head, massively relieved she isn’t going to give me some lecture about how this stuff is acting. “I just was sort of hoping to learn to play people first.”

Gigi makes a scrunched-up face. “I’m not a pug, but I play one on TV.” She squints at my lunch. “You’re actually going to eat that?”

That’s familiar, except my friends would like what I brought—nonfat yogurt and celery sticks. “What’s wrong with it?”

“Nothing if you’re an insect. But how are you going to get through Dance class on that? Here.” She hands me an oatmeal cookie from her tray.

At the next table, someone starts some music, a sort of Latino fusion thing, really loud. A bunch of people start dancing a conga around the tables, and the guy named Gus actually gets on the table and reaches out to grab a girl to join them.

I take Gigi’s cookie. She’s right about Dance class. I’ll be taking Dance three days a week here, instead of blowing off P.E., so I don’t think a single cookie is going to turn me into the Thing That Ate the Universe.

After lunch is Dance. I’m happy that leotards are stretchy so that mine fits even after the two cookies I ended up eating (I went and bought another one).

“No, but…” Gigi tugs on the strap of her silver leotard. “I mean, before this, where have you been taking? What’s your studio?”

“Oh.” I look away, so she can’t see me starting to redden. Gigi’s the kind of girl who never blushes and would look down on mere mortals who do. “I never took Dance before this. I mean, I took ballet-tap when I was five or something, and one time, my mom talked me into taking a hip-hop class because she thought I’d lose weight. Oh, and we play Dance, Dance Revolution in P.E., and…”

“It’s okay,” Gigi says, sort of the way you’d talk to a four-year-old or an old lady or a cat, maybe. “You’ll do fine.”

Fine, I’m not. Actually, I suck. Our teacher, Ms. Wolfe (who weighs about ninety pounds—hate that!) has just demonstrated a totally impossible dance combination. I’m stumbling through it okay. But it’s hard because there’s this really irritating barking sound in my ear, like a deranged peke-a-poo. Something like You! You!

My leotard, which fit fine over my butt in the dressing room, is crawling inside said butt, sent there by my formerly normal, currently sumo-sized tummy. Or maybe it’s just trying to hide. I suck in my stomach.

Ms. Wolfe seems to be done with me anyway. The music starts up again, pulsing, pounding, and the whole routine repeats in fast-forward—stumblestumblestumble, youyouyou—except this time, I am very discreetly yanking my leotard from my butt.

The second time Ms. Wolfe stops us—um, me—she demonstrates the whole routine, making me follow. I’m the only one who didn’t get this on the first try, so they’re all watching—except Gigi, who is politely looking away.

“What a spaz!” Someone giggles behind me. “She dances like an opera singer.”

Misty, again. I consider bumping her with my stomach, like a real sumo wrestler.

“Pay attention, Caitlin!” Ms. Wolfe says. “And don’t forget your jazz hands.”

As if on cue, every single hand in the class shoots up, fingers spread, just so I’ll know I was the only one who didn’t know this important bit of info.

“I guess,” I say. “But good luck remembering it Wednesday. You were incredible.”

“Mom started me in Dance when I was doing pageants. That part was good at least. You really have to be a triple threat to make it in theater.”

“Someone who can do all three things—sing, dance, and act. But I’m sure opera’s different.”

I see Sean leaving with Misty. I wave, but he doesn’t seem to see me. I shrug. “Guess I’m only a single threat. Do you know where we could buy some cookies or something? I’m starved.”

On the other upside, I haven’t sung yet. That’s tomorrow. I’m looking forward to that.

Opera_Grrrl’s Online Journal

Subject: Dancing Fool

Date: August 17

Time: 4:34 p.m.

Feeling: Scholarly

Weight: 109 lbs. (Yeah, I gained 2 lbs. during the day—thx to 2 packs of GrandMa’s oatmeal cookies I ate after dance class. Thx 2 Gigi for reminding me about cookies.)

3 great things about today

1. Not having 2 take P.E.

2. Getting a grade 4 singing

3. Not having 2 see u-know-who in the halls

3 not-so-great things about today

1. Dance class

2. Dance class

3. Dance class

I just remembered how *bad* I was at Dance, Dance Revolution in P.E. Who knew that was supposed 2 be *preparing* me for something?

I don’t miss my old school. OK, I can’t make up funny armpit songs, and who ever heard of drama homework (I don’t have a favorite animal. This 2 is Mom’s fault. If she’d let me get the hamster I campaigned for in 3rd grade, I’d be fine now)? But for the 1st time in my life, I’m around people who like the same things I like.

I just hope they don’t all think I’m weird.

CHAPTER 8