Diva (8 page)

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 another.

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 eke 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 thinks 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:

Let us drink, for with wine,

Love will enjoy yet more passionate kisses.

I take a deep breath and sing:

In life, everything is folly

Which does not bring pleasure

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.

Opero_Grrrl's Online Journal

Subject: I got to sing at school!!!

Date: August 21

Time: 5:35 p.m.

Listening to: "
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 to go to dance class 3x a week

2. You might gain back 40 lbs. any day now

3. It's Friday and you have no friends to 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 to 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.

So I just had to get out of the house this morning. Mom's moping around—no call from Arnold today—and

when the clock hit eight, she called Dad to scream about yet another late child-support check. So hoping

to kill, but not
literally
kill, the two hours before my voice lesson, I went to this French bakery on

Crandon Boulevard to drink coffee and write an essay for English class.

Key Biscayne is a Starbucks-Free Zone. But I guess everyone must've gone off-island to get their caramel

macchiato fix today, because there's only one person at the bakery when I walk in-—the one person I'm

avoiding more than anyone.

After we broke up, I'd look for Nick's car before I went anyplace, to avoid him. But he got a new car, and

I never asked what color it is, so now I can't.

He's sitting, writing in a notebook. He doesn't see me. Yet. You'd think I'd enjoy rejecting Nick, after what

he did to me, enjoy it like you enjoy slapping a mosquito and seeing it, smashed, still full of your own

blood. But it's not like that. I don't want to crush Nick. I just want to forget him. I want to turn around, to leave, to
run
even, but as soon as I start to go, I hear his voice.

"You don't have to leave, you know."

I turn back. "What?"

"I won't bother you. I have class at nine, so I'm going soon. And I meant what I said last time—I'm leaving you alone. So if you want to sit and… drink your tea, you can." He looks down at his book and shrugs.

"Or not. Whatever." He goes back to reading, ignoring me.

After that, it seems silly to leave. I go to the counter and order my tea (How did he remember about the

tea?) because I have a voice lesson later. I decide to get a black-and-white cookie too, because I ran out

of the house too quick to get breakfast—which you're supposed to eat or you get fatter, right? I stand there,

trying not to look at him.

But when you try not to look at someone, it's impossible to look at anything else. My eyes keep going to

Nick, the way they used to in seventh-grade Science class, when I sat two rows behind him. I couldn't take

my eyes off him then either.

Don't stare
. He's still writing in the notebook. I remember Nick used to write—not just homework either.

He wrote me poems—amazing poems. Right now he has a book beside him. He doesn't look up, doesn't

meet my eyes, but I'm sure he sees me seeing him. Even after all this time, I can't get over his looks. Just

like in seventh grade, only hotter. He has these green eyes that stand out against his dark skin and hair, and

they seem like they could look right through you. I never quite believed anyone as hot as Nick would be

into someone like me. I think that's partly why I made so many excuses for him—for the way he treated

me, even when he hit me the first time. Well, that and the poetry. It was incredible, finding out someone in

the "it" crowd had a poetic soul.

I'm fumbling for my pen, but I'm looking at the way the bottom of his hair meets the top of his cheekbone.

He's wearing a white T-shirt that is shocking beside his brown skin. I know how it would smell if I got

closer, like bleach and Calvin Klein cologne, with just a hint of the beach where he lives.

And if I close my eyes, I can feel his fist, smashing into my face.

Keep that thought. That's a good thought.

"Hey! Your tea."

I see Nick's eyes flicker up. I turn away, feeling my whole body get hot.

"Thanks." I take my tea. "Um, do you have a pen I can borrow."

"I only have one, and that's for the register. I could look in back." It's obvious he doesn't want to.