Breathing Underwater (26 page)

I sit beside him on the curb. “We’ll start a club, Brothers in Celibacy.” I hold out my hand.

He accepts it, a germ of a smile forming. “To the brotherhood.”

“To the brotherhood.”

We shake. I move away, saying, “She spared your feelings. She really dumped you ’cause you’re ugly.”

He laughs. “Hey, I just want to hang out with you to look taller by comparison.”

“Asshole!”

Tom takes off running, and I follow.

L
ots of girls I know call themselves divas. “I’m such a diva!” they say, as they’re rubbing your nose in some five-hundred-dollar shoes their daddy bought them. But being a diva’s a lot more than just being a rich grrrl. It’s about singing, about getting flowers thrown onstage—about being brilliant. I plan to be a diva someday. But first, I have to get through this audition.

And—wouldn’t you know it—there’s a wad of phlegm stuck in my throat.

The scene: I’m in an auditorium with, maybe, fifty other wannabes, trying out for the musical theater program at Miami High School of the Arts. Goths sit with goths, punk rockers with punk rockers. The girl next to me has an eyebrow-ring and hair Jell-O–dyed acid red. Everyone here has something freaky about them … except me. I’m the one and only person here in a dress (which maybe
is
freaky).

And
I bet I’m the only one here with gunk in my throat.

Don’t think about it
. But I can feel it lying behind my tongue like cafeteria spaghetti, at a life-changing audition. I clear my throat and Eyebrow-Ring Girl gives me a look and nods at the person onstage.

’Scuse me—I’ll choke more quietly in the future
.

I sneak another look at her. My cheerleader friends would say she probably isn’t getting enough attention at home. But I think anyone who’d wear that outfit has to be cool, and I wonder what it would be like to
want
to be noticed.

Me, I’m all about not being noticed. I’m sixteen, and for the first fifteen, I was a fatgirl, invisible as they come. I was okay with that. Well, maybe not okay, but … used to it. But last summer, I went to fat camp and lost thirty-five pounds, and became (at least temporarily) a
thin
girl, a blond prettygirl. I actually made the homecoming court and dumped the hottest guy in school … and still became one with the walls most days.

If any of my friends knew I was here, auditioning for a performing arts school,
that
they’d notice. In a
bad
way. But I didn’t tell them. I didn’t even tell my mother. This is the first time in my life I’ve ever done anything all by myself.

There’s a bunch of reasons for that.

First, my friends all want me to be like them—cheerleaders, homecoming queens. I thought by losing weight I
could
be like that. But now, even though I’m thin enough, I’m still not cheerleader material. Funny, changing how I looked didn’t change who I
am
. I picture myself doing a pyramid or making up a cheer and …
oh, puke
.

“See anything interesting?”

Too late, I realize I’m still staring at the girl with the eyebrow ring.
I am a dorkus maximus
.

“Um… I love your hair.”

“What are you doing?” she asks.

I stare at her. Is it
that
obvious I don’t belong here? Is it the dress?

“For the audition?
Habla ingles?
What are you performing?”

“Oh… I sing … opera.” I wait for her to laugh or make a snarky comment.

“Cool.” She raises her pierced eyebrow. “You have one of those horn helmets?”

I make the face Mom calls my diva face—eyeballs up; trying not to snort. “Um, not yet.”

“Sorry. It’s just, you don’t look like an opera singer. You’re not…”

“Fat?”
No. Not anymore
.

The girl laughs. “That’s not what I was going to say.”

But I know it was. It always is.

The woman up front calls a name (not mine). Eyebrow-Ring Girl turns to look.

Opera is the second reason I’m here. I love it. Most people think opera is a weird thing. Probably so. But it’s
my
weird thing—the one thing I’m really good at. Maybe good enough to get a dessert named after me someday (Peaches Melba was named after a diva) or maybe a town. Maybe even good enough to get into this school.

The biggest, hugest reason I’m here (
and
the reason I’d never tell anyone) is my ex-boyfriend. I need to go somewhere where everyone hasn’t already heard the sad, sad saga of me and Nick. And also, where I don’t have to see him every day.

I pop a cough drop into my mouth and make myself sit still for two whole minutes, until the girl who’s auditioning finishes singing.

Omigod! What if I’m next?

“Sean Griffin,” the woman up front calls.

I actually really, really wanted to be next
.

I read a book about auditioning. It said the worst thing that could happen in an audition is that you don’t get the part, so you have no money, so you can’t buy food, so you die. Like … if you thought that the absolute worst thing that could happen at an audition was
death
, then you’d be less nervous about screwing up.

That so did
not
make me feel better.

“Here I am!” a voice sings.

The guy, Sean Griffin, is skinny and wears a purple unitard, which seriously clashes with his blond hair, and eyes so blue I can see them even from a distance. He looks older, and he’s been standing with the teachers, so I thought he was an assistant or something. Guess he’s just a suck-up. He walks onstage, plunks a Burger King crown on his head (Really!), and starts to sing.

As soon as he starts singing, I’m nervous. I mean,
more
nervous. Lots of people at the audition were good. But Sean Griffin is the first person who’s like a professional, even in that geeky outfit. I now know why he was standing up there with the teachers, like he belonged there. He knows he’s going to get in.

I wish I was confident like that. I know I’m good, but sometimes, when everyone’s staring, I wonder if it’s just some dumb idea, thinking I’m good
enough
.

He finishes singing, and the applause is wild. He smiles like he’s used to it.

“Caitlin McCourt!”

Now
, it’s my turn. My throat feels worse. I wonder if it could be all in my head. Is there such a thing as psychosomatic mucus?

“Caitlin McCourt?”

“Here.” I start toward the front of the auditorium.

Onstage, the accompanist says, “Hey, how about a bathroom break?”

“Oh.” The teacher looks at her watch. “Okay. Caitlin, do you need an accompanist, or do you have a tape?”

I glance at the sheet music in my hands for
Phantom of the Opera
. But I’ve done the hardest part, I want to tell them, the standing up and walking down and having everyone stare at me in my too-cute dress part. I turn back around.

“I can play for her.” The guy, Sean, is reaching for my sheet music.

“Oh, that’s okay. I can wait. I wouldn’t want…”

“No worries. I can play anything. I’m a great sight reader.” He takes my book and flips it open to the page where I’ve had my thumb jammed for the past hour. “This?”

When I nod, he glances at the book. “Hard stuff.”

“I can wait if you can’t play it.” Except if I sit now, I might never get back up.

“I meant hard for you. This goes up to a C above high C, doesn’t it? That’s way high. Are you that good?”

Wow, thanks. That really helps me feel less nervous
.

Actually, I’ve had that C for over a year. I write down the dates when I add new notes to my range. High C was last March 13. Now I’m working on E-flat.

“Come on, Caitlin. It’s Caitlin, right?” Sean puts his hand on my shoulder and guides me toward the stage. My legs are all shaking.

My legs always used to shake when I sang. It hasn’t happened in a while…

Flashback: Me. Sixth grade. Looking like I might explode out of my jeans any second at middle-school orientation. I was with Mom (big mistake). I was signing up for chorus. The music teacher, Mrs. Hauser, said I could either go for Girls’ Chorus—no audition required—or try for Concert Choir, which was mostly eighth-graders.

“Girls’ chorus sounds fun. Right, Caitlin?” Mom stopped fiddling with the purple alligator clip in her hair and started toward the sign-up sheet on the piano. She was wearing hot pink size-one capris and a tube top. Doesn’t everyone’s mother?

“Wait. I don’t want to be in Girls’ Chorus. I mean, I do want to be, if that’s all I can be in, but I want to be in Concert Choir. I mean, I want to try.”

Mom had moved away from the sign-up sheet and was nudging me, all, “Caitlin, sweetie, there’s an
audition
. That means you’d have to sing in front of everybody. By yourself.”

“I know. I heard her. I get it.”

“But honey pie, you can’t sing by yourself in front of everyone. You’re…”

Fat
. I heard it even though she didn’t say it. I heard her thinking it.

“You’re shy … you’ve never sung in front of anyone in your life, dear.”

“Can I try?” I asked Mrs. Hauser, not Mom.

“Of course you can.”

“Are you sure, honey?” Mom said. “I have appointments. You heard what she said. It’s all eighth-graders.”

Mrs. Hauser stood there with an oh-god-don’t-make-me-get-involved-in-this look. I faced Mom down for the first time ever.

“I’m staying.” I took the pen from Mrs. Hauser and wrote my name on the audition sheet. I joined the kids in the corner, and Mom sat down.

When Mrs. H. called my name, I wanted to run. Mom was right. It was one thing to sing in my room. It was a completely ’nother thing to sing in front of fifty people—and not one of them looked like a sixth-grader. But I walked up, feeling like Snow White in the movie—pre-dwarves—when she’s dumped in the forest and all those eyes are looking at her from the darkness. My legs were shaking so hard I thought I’d fall over.

I closed my eyes, opened my mouth, and started to sing.

The world didn’t end. Halfway through, my legs stopped shaking.

I opened my eyes.

In
Snow White
, when the
A.M.
hours come, Snow realizes that the scary eyes in the night are really gentle woodland creatures. That’s how I felt that day. The people in that room were looking at me, but not in a bad way. I’d never met them, but they were like friends. They wanted to know me because I was good. I was really good. At that moment, maybe I was even a little visible.

I made Concert Choir that day—the
only
sixth-grade girl who did, thank you very much—and since then I’ve made most things I’ve tried out for.

Here and now: My legs are shaking so hard I can barely stand, so I lean against the piano like those opera singers on PBS. I’m calm. Really. I breathe. You’re good at breathing, Caitlin. Very good. You
practice
breathing for opera.

“Are you ready… Caitlin?” Sean says my name real soft.

I nod. If I could still close my eyes, I would. But of course, I’d look like a complete dork if I did that.

Right before the music starts is the quietest time in the world. I can hear other people breathing. Then my song. I can feel it in my body. It’s too late to back out now. It’s sing or be forever known as the girl who ran away in the middle of the audition.

Concentrate!

In the song, Christine’s this opera singer who’s possessed by the Phantom of the Opera. He sings through her, from inside her, making his voice come through hers. I try to feel the Phantom singing through me, locked inside me, making my voice climb higher, higher, until my muscles hurt from breathing.
Up!
I think, as I was taught, forcing the voice into my head, and through it all, I feel the Phantom inside me, hear his voice, screaming, “Sing, my Angel of Music! Sing to me!” like the voice on the CD. It seems so real, and my voice climbs higher, higher, and only when it gets to the highest note do I realize that the Phantom’s voice
is
real; it’s not just in my head. It’s Sean Griffin’s voice behind me at the piano.