Friday afternoon, instead of Dance (a.k.a. the third circle of hell), we get called into the auditorium. “I hear they do this all the time,” Gus says on the way in. “Pull us out of class to watch some program that’s supposed to be good for us. Gives us a chance to catch up on all that sleep we’re missing, having to catch the bus here at six-thirty.”
I shrug. “To get out of Dance, I’d watch eye surgery.”
Gus grins. “Hey, you wouldn’t be bad at it if you’d just loosen up.” He grabs my arm and pulls me toward him like Antonio Banderas with Madonna in Evita. He tries to dip me, sending me crashing to the floor. Crowds run for cover, and I think one girl screams. But maybe that was me.
“Take your seats everyone!” It’s Rowena onstage, and I try to scramble up before she sees it’s me. But that just means I almost knock someone down. Specifically Misty.
“Watch it!” she says. “Do you get off on hurting people?”
I ignore her. “See?” I tell Gus. “I’m hopeless.”
I wait for him to agree with me, but he says, “Nah, you’re not hopeless. You just got to shake it, baby. You should dance with us at lunch.”
“Take your seats quickly.” Rowena sees me. “Caitlin, are you okay?”
“Yeah, sorry.” I half-stand and slink to the seat Gigi’s holding. “I am so glad you’ll still be seen with me after that.”
Gigi laughs. “No Dance today. Be happy.”
I am. For about three seconds. Then I think about what Gus said about dancing with them at lunch. Does everyone think I’m a snob because I don’t do stuff like that? Don’t they realize there are people on the planet who don’t want to be the center of attention at all times?
I glance over at Gus, who’s grabbed another willing girl and is doing the cha-cha, yelling “one, two, cha-cha-cha!” Guess not.
Finally, when everyone has settled down, Rowena says, “I thought it might be interesting for you to watch. The college-level students are having auditions for La Traviata.”
Groans. Gnashing of teeth. Opera’s no normal teenager’s favorite thing, not even here. I, being abnormal, am instantly excited. I’ve heard that the college Opera Workshop program, which is held on the same campus as the high school, is really great.
“Any duels in it?” a guy asks.
“Can we go to Dance?” this girl, Kimberley, who’s an incredible dancer, asks.
“No, we’ll be here today.”
“Cool idea,” Sean says. “After all, we’ll be in college soon too.”
I hear someone mutter, “Suck up,” behind me. I agree. Sean hasn’t said a single word to me since Monday. He just hangs out with his old friends all the time and acts like he’s better than everyone else. I don’t get it. He was so friendly at my audition.
Rowena’s having all the tenors and sopranos audition by singing the “Brindisi,” a drinking song from the first act, where the two main characters flirt with each other.
La Traviata is my all-time favorite opera. I discovered it years ago, when Mom was watching this movie Pretty Woman. Julia Roberts plays a hooker who gets hired by a millionaire played by Richard Gere. In one scene, Richard takes Julia to the opera to see La Traviata, which is about a woman of ill repute, Violetta, who falls for this guy, Alfredo, then leaves him when his family disapproves—then dies of tuberculosis. (They used the same plot in Moulin Rouge, with Nicole Kidman.) Julia loves it (and Richard), and in the big final scene, Richard drives down her street in his convertible, playing “Dammi tu forza, o cielo” on the car stereo, climbs Julia’s fire escape, and they live happily ever after.
I loved that scene. I cried. I begged Mom to buy the movie so I could hear the music over and over. She bought it because she wanted to do her hair like Julia Roberts. It wasn’t until three years later when I started taking voice, and Rowena took a bunch of us to a dress rehearsal for La Traviata at the Florida Grand Opera, that I knew where it was from. I bought the CD and listened to it a million times.
Anyway … back in the real world.
The girl onstage is the third to sing. She’s a fatgirl, about forty pounds overweight, but beautiful, and has a lot of control in the difficult middle range of her voice and what’s more, she seems like Violetta—really strong and in charge of her destiny, which, of course, is what makes the story so tragic. If Violetta had lived today, she wouldn’t be a hooker. She’d be the CEO of IBM.
“She looks like an opera singer,” the blond surfer dude behind me whispers. “All she needs are the horns.”
A girl agrees. “Right. Moooooo.”
I give them a look, but I know they’re right. The girl onstage is the best Violetta so far, but she wouldn’t be real convincing as someone dying of a wasting disease. My jeans feel tight, and I think of the pizza Gigi talked me into at lunch. Some girls I know would go and stick a finger down their throats, but that is one particular disorder I’ve managed to avoid. I’ll do better this weekend. Should be easy, as I no longer have a social life. I’m sure my friends have forgotten me completely.
The pair onstage finish, and Rowena says, “That it for sopranos and tenors?”
No one volunteers. Sean raises his hand. “Can we try? I mean, just for fun.”
Rowena checks her watch. “Can I get a soprano to go with you?”
Gigi nudges me. “You should go.”
“What? No! Why?”
“Because you’re really good. You’ve seen what everyone else can do—show them what you can do.”
If someone at my old school had said that, I’d figure they were trying to make me look bad. But even though I’ve only known Gigi a few days, I think she means it.
Sean’s making his way to the stage, and next thing I know, my hand’s up in the air.
And so are Rowena’s eyebrows. She knows I get scared. “Looks like we do have a volunteer.” I see that Misty also has her hand up, but Rowena’s pointing to me. I stand and walk to the front of the room.
But now that I’ve raised my hand and committed, I worry I’ll look like a show-off. Why did I volunteer? To impress Sean, the unimpressible? No. It’s just what Gigi said—to show the rest of them I’m actually good at something, even if it’s not what they think’s a big deal. After screwing up in Drama and Dance all week, I need to do that.
But I can’t think about that now, because the accompanist starts playing, and Sean begins to sing, and suddenly, I’m no longer here. I’m at a beautiful party in Paris. I forget all the people in the auditorium, the bored faces, the dance class I’ll have to go back to on Monday, even Sean’s cologne … soap … whatever. Now, I am Violetta.
Sean starts his last lines. His voice is as good on the opera stuff as it was on musical theater:
I take a deep breath and sing:
I visualize myself as sparkling, popular, beautiful, and beloved. Sean is Alfredo, totally hot for me. I smile at him and remember everything Rowena taught me. I focus my voice in the mask of my face (what zit cream commercials call the T-zone) and remember to breathe, and my voice just flows out of me. I know I sound great. I sound perfect. But will people here get it, or will they think it’s lame? Sean and I finish the song together, and the college students who were auditioning explode with applause. They get it, at least. I stand a few seconds, enjoying it, living it.
When I get back to my seat, Gigi grins and holds up her hand to high-five me. A minute later, the guy behind me, the surfer dude who made the comment about the horns, leans over and says, “Wow. If opera singers look like you, I’ll go to the opera.”
I don’t answer. Gigi says, “That was supposed to be a compliment, Cait.”
I smile. “Thanks.”
“You’re welcome. I’m Rex, by the way. Remember me when you’re a star.”
Rowena’s saying something about upcoming talent, which makes me blush and squirm some more. Then she starts calling up baritones. Sean’s sitting on the other side of the auditorium. I figure maybe he’ll say something to me on the way out. But when we go, he walks out the opposite side door. The girl who sang before me stops me, though. “You were incredible. You’ll be some competition for us soon.”
I can’t stop grinning. “Thanks. You were great too.”
“Hey, us opera girls gotta stick together.”
I smile some more. She smiles. I smile all the way to music theory class.
At least I’m best at one thing, the thing I love best.
Opera_Grrrl’s Online Journal
Subject: I got 2 sing at school!!!
Date: August 21
Time: 5:35 p.m.
Listening 2: “Brindisi” from La Traviata
Feeling: Happy
Weight: 109 lbs. (I’ve decided 2 leave my wallet @ home so I can’t buy food at school)
The thing I love about singing opera is: when you’re doing it, it’s all you can think of ....... so you’re not thinking about how:
1. You still have 2 go 2 dance class 3x a week.
2. You might gain back 40 lbs. any day now.
3. It’s Friday and you have no friends 2 do anything with.
4. Your mother’s dating a podiatrist!
Mom’s new bf, Arnold, took her out 2x this week + breakfast yesterday a.m. When I got home today, she was pacing the living rm in hot rollers ...... cell phone at her hip, and her portable in her hand, like a dr. waiting for word on an emergency surgery. “I’m expecting a phone call,” she said in case I had any doubt.
I have no plans for 2nite except 2 stay home and pretend I’m Violetta, set 4 my date with Alfredo .......... I’m sort of ok with that.
Unbelievable! Mom just knocked on the door. I figured she was just complaining about the noise, but she asked me if I wanted 2 go out 2 dinner. She called Arnold and he said he had 2 work late so no date.
I was nice. I didn’t point out that she always says *never* 2 call guys ...... Mom has tons of “rules” for dating, rules she got from books. Don’t ask guys out. Don’t accept a date with a guy on 2-short notice. And one of her big, big rules is NEVER call guys. In Mom-world, a girl who calls a guy might as well show up in English class and give him a lap dance.
I also didn’t point out that working late sounded like a lame excuse. (Aren’t I nice?) Obviously, if she was suggesting dinner w/her fat daughter, she must be ....... fragile.
So I suggested Hard Rock b/c it’s the loudest place I know & we won’t have 2 talk. She agreed, so maybe she had the same idea.
I’m on my way to the door when my cell rings.
It’s Peyton. “Hey, Cait, what are you doing tonight?”
“Nothing much. What are you doing?”
“Oh, you know … first game of the year, so we’re cheering. You could be too if you’d stuck around.”
“I know. Don’t remind me.” I try to sound appropriately regretful.
“Maybe you can come to the game,” she says.
I sigh. If there’s one good thing about this new school, it’s that I get to miss seeing You Know Who at football games. “I wish I could, but I’m meeting some friends for dinner at Hard Rock. Can I call you tomorrow?”
Dead silence on the other end.
Sometimes it’s just easier to lie.