“Thank you,” I told him. “You tell Patricia to keep reading.”
“I will.”
I pocketed his dollar and went into the store, where the rest of my shift was uneventful. I’m always dead tired at the end, and that day, my phone was busted, and I wouldn’t be able to fix it ’til I saved up. So I didn’t talk to anyone until I got to school Monday. When I walked into English class, people stood and began to clap.
“It’s the famous Jacaranda!” someone said.
“Too famous to answer her phone,” my friend Ally said.
“What are you talking about?” I was dimly aware that, in the background, someone was singing the Publix jingle pretty well.
Hey, wait.
Someone stuck a phone in my face, and I saw auburn curls and a green uniform. It was me. The caption on the video said, “Publix Bag Girl Has a Set of Pipes,” and it had a couple hundred thousand views.
I’d gone viral.
Well, I guess you’ve seen it.
Then it got a little embarrassing. I didn’t have work Monday, but Tuesday, as I was walking through the parking lot, some guy started honking at me and yelled, “Sing, sister!” out the window. Then, when I walked up to the door, I saw someone had put up a whiteboard sign saying, “Jacaranda will be in at 3:00 today.” I noticed that someone had smudged out where they’d originally written “Not” before “be in.”
Whaaaa-aaat?
When I clocked in, Bev in Customer Service said, “Mr. Howard wants to see you. Now.”
Was I getting fired? For singing? My throat tightened at the thought. I love my job! It’s the most stable thing in my life.
“Where is he?” I managed. Mr. Howard was usually out and about, all over the store.
But Bev said, “He’s in his office with some lady.” Weird.
I shuffled in. Deep breaths. I was just having fun. They’d never specifically told us not to sing while bagging groceries, but it was probably one of those things that’s assumed. Still, the song was very pro-Publix. They couldn’t get that mad.
It was all I could do to put one foot in front of the other.
When I walked in, Mr. Howard was at his desk across from a skinny brunette lady with high-heeled shoes and a black dress. Her legs were crossed gracefully, so I could see that the shoes had red bottoms, which even I know are expensive.
“Jacaranda Abbott!” She rose to her feet as she said it, like I was someone important. She was very tall and elegant, and I felt like I should curtsy or something. Instead, I said, “Yes, ma’am?” real quiet. Did they bring this lady in specifically to can me?
“Jacaranda.” Mr. Howard was grinning and shifting in his seat like there was a bug in his pant leg. “This is Vanessa Lastra. She came all the way from New York City to offer you a very important opportunity.”
“So you don’t work for Publix?” I’m pretty sure they only have Publixes in the South.
She laughed, a tinkly laugh, and sat back down. “No.”
“So I’m not fired?” I felt light as I said it, but it was sort of bad, because I felt so light I thought I might fall over. Why was this lady here? Was she a lawyer? Was my mother getting out of prison?
Ms. Lastra held out her hand. She must have noticed how freaked I was because she pulled me down into the seat next to hers then took both my hands.
“Jacaranda, I work for a private educational foundation. A member of our board, a wealthy gentleman who wishes to remain anonymous, saw your video and asked me to call Publix. After learning about your situation . . .” She looked uncomfortable.
“My situation? You mean, that I’m a foster kid and my mom’s in prison?” I mean, I knew what my situation was. Why cha-cha around it?
“Yes, that situation. After learning about that, and in light of your talent, this gentleman—I’ll call him Mr. Smith—would like to send you to a prestigious boarding school up north to study musical theater.”
Boarding school? I didn’t know those existed outside of books.
At that point, I was glad I was sitting down. Otherwise, I’d have fainted. Still, I had to take deep breaths, and while I did that, she explained some details. Like, she’d be my guardian instead of Laurie, my foster mom, who’d keep me until I left in September. The school had seen the video and was interested in having me as a student. But they asked me to write a thousand-word essay about why I wanted to go there, to make sure I wasn’t being coerced into it (like that would happen!). The foundation would pay for it. “Mr. Smith” told them to pay room, board, and everything else. I’d even get an allowance, like a rich kid. Ms. Lastra said other stuff, important stuff, but all too much to take in at once.
You’re looking at the essay, obviously. It’s way longer than a thousand words, but I think it’s hard to make it shorter when I have so much excitement in my words, so I thought I’d tell you the whole story. But I still haven’t gotten to the why-I-want-to-go part.
I want to go to Midwestern Arts Academy for a few reasons.
The first is that, starting in middle school, I’ve always taken chorus. It’s the best part of the day, sort of like a little vacay right in the middle of school. It’s when all the bullying and craziness about who has the better sneakers or the less-nasty backpack stops, and we all sing together in harmony—something our government should do more of. But Miss Rojas, the chorus teacher, says this is her last year, and they aren’t going to replace her, so I’ll probably have to take Personal Development since I can’t afford to rent an instrument for band.
Also, I’m good at singing. I write songs too. So being able to do that on a regular basis and be around people who think music is actually important would be a dream come true.
But the biggest reason is, I’ve been alive sixteen years, and this is the first time since my granny died that anyone has ever noticed me, especially. Some people get noticed for good things, like getting high grades. Others get noticed for bad things. I bet there’s a lot of people who get noticed by their families because their parents think they’re cute or smart, even if they aren’t. Old people like Mr. Louis might notice me a little, but he’s got his own grandkids to love and care for. I had my first taste of being noticed with that viral video, and I want it to keep going. I want to be special.
Please take me. I’m way out of words now.
Date: September 5, 9:00 a.m. Eastern Standard Time
Subject: Introduction
Dear Kind-Gentleman-Who-Sends-Teens-to-Boarding-School,
I wanted to introduce myself and thank you. Vanessa says you are the person responsible for my being sent to school. I asked her if I could write to thank you and let you know how I’m doing. She said you probably wouldn’t read it, but if I wanted to write occasionally, like once a month, that would be lovely. She said I could write to John Smith, not your real name, because you want to remain anonymous. She set up an email account for it.
ANYWAY, I’m here on the plane to Midwestern Arts Academy in sunny (I’m guessing not really) Michigan.
Thank you for my “allowance” (I’m putting that in quotation marks because I’ve never had such a thing in my life, and it seems like something someone else would say, not me). The amount I’m getting each week is—WOW—what I’d make in a month of working at Publix, and considering Vanessa took me shopping and bought me clothes and shoes and makeup and an Apple laptop (!), on which I’m typing this letter, and a new phone, and there’s supposed to be a bunch of stuff waiting for me at the school too, sheets and dance clothes and books and blankets, I don’t even know what I’ll spend it on. I promise it won’t be drugs.