JK. I don’t do drugs. You were probably wondering about that, since my mom’s in prison. She’s not in prison for drugs either. She’s in prison for the attempted murder of her boyfriend, Oscar. She shouldn’t be. He would have killed us both, so it was self-defense. I lived there, so I know. But she wouldn’t even have had boyfriends like that if it wasn’t for drugs, so I stay away from them.
Change of subject: I’ve never flown before. I bet you probably go on airplanes all the time, but this is my first. I’ve also never been out of Florida. I’ve never seen snow or red leaves, except in pictures. Vanessa took me shopping for a goose-down jacket and boots. They’re also being shipped to the school, since they don’t exactly sell that kind of thing in Miami.
By the way, Vanessa is really nice. She told me to call her by her first name and also says I should call her if there’s an emergency, like if I get kicked out of school. But she assumes I won’t be. She didn’t say I should call her just to talk, so I’ll put everything in these letters. Maybe she’ll read them. Hi, Vanessa!
I asked Vanessa what you looked like, old or young, tall or short, fat or skinny, black or white. All I could get out of her was that you are tall, and she laughed when I asked if you were bald, so I guess you aren’t. Vanessa is very good at keeping your secrets.
Anyway, the plane. We had to get up at the butt-crack of dawn (Is “butt” a bad word? I feel like I shouldn’t use bad words because you’re probably old). My flight left at 6:00 a.m., and I was checking a bag. Two bags, actually. I now own two matching suitcases plus a carry-on bag and a laptop (!) bag. The thought is insane to me! You know what I used to move my stuff to my foster home? A Hefty bag. One was enough, too.
I woke up five times before it was time to get up anyway, since I was so excited.
When I got on the plane, I had a middle seat, with two big men on either side. In the front of the plane, a baby was crying. It didn’t bother me. I’ve lived in apartments with thin walls. Babies are like white noise to me.
What wasn’t white noise was this guy in a suit who was having. A. Fit. I mean, he was yelling louder than the baby. “Can someone please quiet that baby down?” he yelled to no one. “CAN SOMEONE PLEASE QUIET THAT BABY DOWN?”
Working at a supermarket, I’ve heard some privileged rants, but you never get used to it.
He yelled it about five times until I just . . . wanted . . . to . . . !
Finally, the flight attendant lady said, “He’ll quiet down once we take off, sir.”
“How could a stewardess possibly know that?” he demanded, as if the mere fact that she does this every day of her life wouldn’t make her more of an authority than him.
The poor flight attendant tried to answer, but he kept yelling, ragging on her, saying he couldn’t stand sitting there. Any seat, anything farther back would be better.
I said, “He can switch with me.”
Well, he wasn’t too happy with that when he saw I had a middle seat, but I guess he realized he’d look bad if he said no, so he took it. I got to move up ten rows and sit in an aisle seat that had “in-seat entertainment,” a little TV with free movies. But I didn’t watch a movie because I was too busy looking around, thinking, “I’m on an airplane!” I made friends with the baby and even offered to hold him so the mom could get settled in. His name was Ashton. He calmed down real quick after we were in the air.
But it made me wonder, if you were on this flight, would you be that rich guy who couldn’t handle being around a crying baby? Obviously, you’re a much better person than that man, because, odds are, he isn’t volunteering to send kids to boarding school. But are you someone who flies all the time and gets bored with it, or do you still see the magic in life?
Oh, we’re landing, and the flight attendant is telling us to put up our tray tables. I’ll send when I’m on the ground . . . assuming we make it. I’ll write more later.
I know you probably think it’s silly, but writing to you, having you care enough to send me to school, it makes me feel like I’m part of your family, like I belong to someone, even though I don’t know your name. I’m even going to sign it with love because I love you for sending me here!
Also, I don’t have anyone else to write to.
Love, (Miss) Jacaranda Abbott
Date: September 5, 3:41 p.m. Eastern Standard Time
Subject: I’m here!
Dear Mr. Smith,
This place is BEAUTIFUL. I admit that when I heard the school was in Michigan, I pictured Detroit, or what I’ve heard about Detroit, which sounds a lot like Miami only without the sun or the beach or the palm trees or pretty much anything that makes Miami a cool place. But this place is green and beautiful, and there’s a lake and even hills. When we were driving from the airport, I saw some beautiful trees, and I asked the girl in the next seat (a tiny dark-haired girl with an instrument case she said was a flute) what kind they were.
She looked at me funny but said, “They’re cherry trees.”
Then I felt ignorant. “We don’t have cherry trees where I’m from.”
She laughed. “Where are you from?”
“Miami. We have mangoes and avocados. There’s a lady on the corner who sells mangoes from a wagon all summer.”
After I said that, I wanted to stuff the words back into my mouth because people selling mangoes on the street didn’t exactly make me sound like I lived in the classiest part of town (I don’t), but the girl said, “I’ve never had a mango. What are they like?”
“Kinda like peaches. Only bigger and more tropical.”
“Now I have to try one.” She pointed to the cherry trees. “They’re so pretty, though. In the spring, they have pink flowers all over. I’m Daisy Murtaugh-Li, by the way. Daisy like the flower.”
“Cool.” I wanted to say I was Jacaranda, also like the flower, but I’ve decided that I don’t want to be identified as Jacaranda the Publix Girl and have everyone be able to figure out the whole rest of my history, so I said, “Jackie.”
“What do you play, Jackie?”
“I’m in musical theater.”
She said her roommate was in musical theater. She made kind of a stank face when she said “roommate,” which made me wonder what that was about, but she kept talking, telling me everything about the school. If everyone here is as friendly as Daisy, I’ll be good.
We got to campus (which is also beautiful and woodsy, like a summer camp in a movie), and Daisy ran into some people she knew, so I was alone, but she said she’d look for me at dinner. At least I know someone. Starting as a junior, I was worried about that. I found my dorm and went to check in.
“Where are you from, Jacaranda?” the lady at the desk asked.
When I said Miami, she squinted like she was trying to think of something. I wondered what she knew. That I was here on scholarship? That my mom was in prison, so they had to worry, lest I murder my roommate in her sleep?
Do you like my use of the word “lest,” by the way? I’ve been reading John Green novels to up my vocabulary for this place.
But after a second, she hummed a few bars of “Where Shopping Is a Pleasure.”