I would have wanted to go home, if I’d had a home to go to. As it was, I wanted to go back to my room, to my bed with its lavender-and-white sheets, and I wanted to stay there until they kicked me out for not attending class.
I probably shouldn’t tell you this.
I sighed and said, “Everyone else knew who wrote their song.”
Nina replied, “You went to public school, right?”
I could have let this be the reason for my cluelessness, let myself be the poor, pathetic public school kid. But it kind of made me mad. Most people go to public school. They can’t all be ignorant. And, if they are, the government should give schools more money so that they can teach things like drama and music, because those things are important. I mean, how often do you hear someone say, “I stayed in school because I loved math so much”?**
So I changed the subject. I told Nina she was incredible. Everyone who sang that day was. “I’m kind of scared to perform Wednesday,” I admitted.
“Don’t be,” Owen said. “You wouldn’t be here if you didn’t deserve it. I mean, your family didn’t donate a building, did they?”
I knew he was talking about Phoebe, who, by the way, was not one of the ones laughing when I said “gherkin.” She acts like I don’t even exist, though. The nights that I haven’t been embroiled in a research project, Daisy and I have been going to dorm activities, like cookie-baking or movie night. Phoebe never goes. She didn’t even want a cookie.
Anyway, I told Owen my family didn’t even have enough money to donate a port-a-potty.
And I didn’t end up singing Wednesday, which means I’m singing tomorrow, which means I should go to sleep, but Daisy is knocking on the door.
I’ll write more over the weekend. Enjoy reading up on Gershwin!
Love, Jacaranda
Date: September 11, 3:01 p.m. Eastern Standard Time
Subject: I’m sorry!
Dear Mr. Smith,
By now, I assume you’ve heard from Vanessa about our escape (or, at least, escapade). How bad did the school make it sound? Did we seem like drunken deviants? Because that is not the case, though I’m deeply sorry and drowning in a pool of self-loathing for disappointing you.
Here’s the whole story:
As you know, I was sitting (innocently) at my desk at 9:30, planning an early bedtime, when Daisy pounded on the door and called my name.
I opened it to find both Daisy and Phoebe standing there, which was certainly a surprise. As I said, Phoebe hasn’t even acknowledged me since the first day.
Daisy was stammering nervously and said she had to show me something downstairs. Phoebe nudged her and said, “Stop acting weird.”
I asked if I should get dressed, since I was wearing a T-shirt and pajama pants. Daisy told me to put on shoes and take a jacket. I figured it wouldn’t be long since our curfew is 10:00.
When we reached the lobby, five other new juniors were there, along with a few other girls, including Shani and Nina. I guess I was the last one, because once I was there, they walked outside. I noticed that no one was at the desk. Shani had offered to watch the door while Angie took a cigarette break. When we got outside, Phoebe and Nina and some of the others were holding bandannas.
“Time for secret junior initiation!” Nina said.
“What?” one of the other new juniors asked.
Nina explained that they have all sorts of rituals for new freshmen, but since we’d missed them, they came up with something special for the new girls in the junior/senior dorm. This sounded cool but also sketchy. Wouldn’t we get in trouble? And what were the blindfolds for?
But Daisy was there. She whispered, “Don’t worry. It’s not a big deal,” and I trusted her. Besides, they couldn’t kidnap all of us, could they? So I let Phoebe put a purple bandanna on me. It smelled nice, sort of lemony. I wanted to ask her why she didn’t like me, but of course, I couldn’t. Acting super needy doesn’t make people like you.
Also, I’ve learned that, sometimes, someone’s in a bad mood and it has nothing to do with me.
We started walking. I tried to peek, but it was dark, and I couldn’t see anything. Daisy put her arm around my shoulders. I knew it was her because she whispered in my ear. I started thinking about all the news stories I’d read about fraternity pledges drinking themselves to death in hazing rituals. But this is ARTS SCHOOL. That couldn’t happen here. Still, I decided right then and there that I wasn’t going to drink. (That’s a good thing, right?) I asked Daisy if we’d get in trouble for breaking curfew, and she said she thought the school sort of knew about it.
I wasn’t sure, but I wanted to make friends and have a “bonding experience.” We walked pretty far without hearing any sounds. The ground was soft, so I guessed we were in the woods. Did I mention there are woods all around the campus? It was cool but not yet cold. Still, Daisy helped me zip my hoodie.
I relaxed a little. Daisy was probably right. The school must know. Finally, we reached the road. We walked about five minutes more, and then Phoebe ripped off my bandanna. “We’re here!”
We were in front of a place called Hobie’s Hideaway I’d heard people talking about at school. It wasn’t so much a bar as a hangout where people went on weekends. I saw a sign outside, saying “Karaoke Thursday 9–12.”
Was this my initiation, karaoke? People at my old school, especially in chorus, sometimes talked about doing karaoke at parties, but since I moved a bunch of times, I was never invited. I always thought I’d rock at it.
Except I hoped I didn’t get expelled from school.
But what could I do at this point? Call someone? I didn’t have my phone. Also, it sounded fun. So I pushed back my trepidation and went in.
Only when I saw the sort-of crowd (maybe twenty people, some dressed up in special outfits) did I remember I had on pajama bottoms with hot pink chameleons on them! I wished the chameleons could fade into the background.
A girl was onstage, singing the song from Titanic badly. I thought she should go down with the ship. But she got pretty good applause after, so what do I know?
We found seats at a long table in back. There were twelve or thirteen of us in all. Then Phoebe said, “Who’s first?”
This girl who called herself Lucky, a creative writing major with purple hair and a nose ring, said, “We have to SING? I can’t sing.”
“Can we do it in pairs?” I asked Phoebe.
“I thought you were supposed to be so good,” she said.
I don’t know where she heard that. I certainly didn’t say I was good. But I thought maybe I could help Lucky. Phoebe agreed—grudgingly—and Lucky and I went over to the corner to consult. A girl with very long blond hair who I think plays the violin lined up by the DJ. She kept saying she might as well get it over with because it was going to be bad.
Lucky looked unlucky, so I said maybe she didn’t have to sing at all, just dance.
She shook her head and, at that moment, I knew what I was going to do. I said, “How about walking? Can you walk like this?” I imitated walking in kind of a stylized way. Lucky said she guessed so, so I showed her a box step, which we’d been learning in Broadway jazz.