Picture the next three weeks, being a replay of the first one. Fast-forward through visuals of me, dancing badly, me, playing the piano badly, me, acting like various furry or feathered creatures or inanimate objects, me, hardly singing at all, and me, hanging with Gigi, who is almost always eating and whose hair has now taken on a pinkish hue. Picture my weight going up and down on a daily basis. Picture Sean, not saying hi to me because, I guess, I don’t rate. Also picture me, not having much to do on the weekends, and sitting home Saturday nights watching Cops with Mom.
Picture lots of oatmeal cookies (I’ve discovered this place called The Pit, where they have machines that sell them).
Picture Dr. Toe-Jam, ignoring Mom a lot of the time. Picture her acting all depressed. Then picture them at our house Tuesday night, Wednesday night, acting like newlyweds.
“It’s weird,” I tell Gigi the Wednesday after the third Tuesday this happens. “He doesn’t take her out on weekends, and she gets so mad I assume they’re breaking up. Then he shows up on a Tuesday.”
We’re on the train. Since I live only one stop from Gigi, we’ve been meeting up each morning. She gets off at my station, waits for me on the platform, and we get back on together.
Gigi takes a bite of her salt bagel. “He’s probably married.”
“Married?”
“Duh. This is a surprise, Cait? You were thinking, what … he’s a secret agent?”
I giggle, picturing Arnold as James Bond. “No, he’s definitely not hot enough.” I stop laughing and think. “I don’t know. It’s weird.”
“My mom dated a married guy when we first moved here. He was the same way. He’d take her out during the week—probably told his wife he was working late. Then on weekends, we never heard from him. He’d say he was out of town or something.”
“Wow. How’d she find out?”
Gigi takes another bite of her bagel and talks with her mouth full. “We saw him at Bloomies with his wife. Man, was that ugly!” A couple of women sitting near us glare at her. I don’t know if it’s because of the see-food or because she’s talking so loud, but Gigi glares back. “We were shopping for sheets, and there he was. Mom goes up to him, and he pretends he doesn’t know who she is, like he thought she was a saleswoman or something. He actually asked which towels were more absorbent. Mom’s trying to figure out why, when this big blond woman shows up. She says, ‘Jeff, do you prefer the peach towels or the apricot?’”
Gigi says it in this snooty accent, like a cartoon rich lady, and I try not to laugh.
She continues. “So I say I like the peach best, and can we paint my room that color when Mom and I move in. That’s when he starts looking for security. His wife’s going, ‘Jeff? Jeff? What did she mean by that?’ and I go, ‘But you told me we would be a real family as soon as you got rid of your old bat of a wife.’”
That’s when I lose it. “I’m sorry,” I say. “I was just picturing it. I know it’s not funny.”
“It’s totally funny. It was like one of those improvs we do in Davis’s class. And then the Bloomies security guy shows up, and Jeff tells him to get us away from him. The guy looks at Jeff like he’s nuts. ‘I’m supposed to guard the towels, Mister.’”
Now Gigi’s cracking up too. “The next day, Jeff calls and tries to explain—like that’s possible. I’m proud to say Mom told him to piss off.”
“Good for her.”
“Yeah.” Gigi gets serious. “But she was real sad. She felt stupid that she got used that way, like she should’ve known better. Anyway, that’s when I let her talk me back into pageants for a while. I figured it would get her talking about something besides what jerks she thinks men are.”
The train rumbles toward our stop, and the guy announces it on the P.A. system.
“I can’t believe my mom would go for a married guy,” I yell above the noise.
“Tell me about it. I couldn’t either. Maybe all men are jerks.”
Just as she says that, the announcement ends, so she’s screaming, “All men are jerks!” into the quiet car. Everyone stares.
For their benefit, I say, “No comment,” and we both crack up.
But I’m thinking that sounds about right. All my life, Mom’s been trying to impress some guy—first my dad, then other guys. She even flirts with guys I bring home. It’s like love is a competitive sport for her and she needs to win to feel good.
But all my life, she’s never dated anyone like Arnold.
“Next Monday,” Miss Davis announces after an intense hour of pretending we’re trees, “we will hold auditions for our first performance of the year. It will be a revue with a theme of Welcome to New York.”
Sylvanie already has her hand up. “Will new people have a chance, or will you all just be rewarding the seniors for the time they’ve put in?”
“We’ve chosen the revue format to showcase as many students as possible. Those not chosen to perform individually will participate in the group numbers.”
Group numbers. Which presumably means—gulp!—dancing.
I raise my hand. “Do we have to do the group numbers if we don’t get a solo?”
Miss Davis nods. “Everyone will want to participate in the group numbers to gain experience. Remember, there are no small parts—only small actors.”
Okay. I look like a diva who doesn’t want a small part. There’s no way for me to turn back the too-swift hands of time and explain what I meant. I’m stuck with it.
Oh, well. No solo for me. Hopefully, they’ll let me dance in back.
I’m in the bathroom between classes, when I hear a voice through the stall door.
“What are you planning for auditions?”
It sounds like Misty. But since Misty’s never actually spoken to me, except to rag on my dancing, it’s hard to be sure. Two girls are practicing a scene from The Crucible in the other two stalls (I’ve gotten used to the fact that people do plays at all times here, so when the first girl screamed, “Yellow bird!” I didn’t flinch). She must be talking to them. I go back to what I was doing.
“Hey, Caitlin, you in there?” Misty bangs on the door of my stall.
I flush and come out. “Don’t know. Something classical. Or maybe what I did for my audition—this song from Phantom.”
Misty sits on the bathroom counter, and spits on her eye makeup brush to get it wet. Mom would be soooo appalled. I’ve heard Misty sing by now, and she has one of those breathy soprano voices chorus teachers love because they blend (I don’t blend) but she’s not hugely talented. Just okay.
“How about you?” I say.
Misty’s wrinkling her nose so bad I think it’s an allergic reaction to the makeup. “I don’t know, Cait. Do you really think you should?”
Cait? “Why not?”
She shrugs. “Well, you probably know best.”
“No. Tell me what you mean.”
“Oh, I don’t know. I was in this program where they took a bunch of us to Broadway shows.” She takes out a blue eyeliner pencil and turns her eyelid inside out to draw a line under her eye. “And all the revues were pretty jazzy. I just don’t know if that longhair opera stuff will fly. You know?”
“I don’t know.” I totally do know, actually. I was wondering about it myself.
“I mean,” Misty continues, “we understand music like that. But do the vulgar masses? Maybe people here would be more interested in hanging with you if you didn’t always do stuff like that, act like you’re better than them.”
She’s right. I rocked in class the other day, but I still feel like I’m a different species. Before I can think of an answer, she finishes her other eye, looks at her watch, and says, “Oh, gotta go to class.”
She hurries off, and I head in the opposite direction.