Love, Jacaranda

  Dedication

  To my mother,

  who gave me so many books,

  Daddy Long Legs among them.

  Epigraph

  The world is full of happiness, and plenty to go round,

  if you are only willing to take the kind that comes your way.

  —Jean Webster, Daddy-Long-Legs

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Viral Video

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Books by Alex Flinn

  Back Ad

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Viral Video

  When I was little, my grandma used to say, “Think before you open your big mouth and get in trouble.” Usually, she was right. But this time, opening my mouth without thinking changed everything.

  I work as a bagger at Publix, two days a week after school and most weekends. You get to know the customers, who wants you to fill up their reusable bags and who can’t lift anything heavy, who sneaks you a dollar and which ones want to remind you of Publix’s fabled “no tipping” policy after you bust your butt loading bags of ice into their Mercedes SUV.

  Mr. Louis is one of the good ones. Every Sunday, he comes in after church. He’s about seventy, maybe older, skinny guy with a shiny bald head, a limp, and a Haitian accent. He used to teach music, so he always asks me about chorus, my passion. So, even though I was having a bad day with aching feet and a smashed phone I couldn’t afford to fix, I smiled when I saw him.

  “How is the school chorus going, Jacaranda?” he asked me.

  He always brought two reusable bags, which he’d washed and even mended a couple times. I tried to put the heavy items like milk in the one that was in better shape, so it wouldn’t break through from the weight.

  “Good,” I told him. “Trying for a solo in the spring concert.” This time he had eggs, which made things tricky. I wanted to put them in their own plastic bag, but he was very picky about always using the reusable ones. But he loved talking about music, and so did I.

  “You don’t say.” He nodded. “I am glad to hear they still have concerts in our schools. The government always wants to cut, cut, cut the arts.”

  I wondered if that was why he’d stopped working. No, he was old. I said, “Well, we made it through this year. We’ll see about next. Do you mind if I put the eggs in a plastic bag?”

  “I do mind,” he said. “I brought reusable ones for a reason.”

  “We recycle. You can bring them back.” Though I knew what he would say.

  “Reduce, reuse, recycle—in that order. Those eggs will fit in my bags.”

  “Okay!” I nestled them in next to the toilet paper for cushioning.

  “Your mother must be very proud,” he said.

  I winced since I don’t hear much from my mother. But I turned it into a smile. “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”

  “What is the song called?”

  “Well, I’m trying for all the solos, but the one I hope to get is called ‘Lost in the Night.’” I added a can of mixed veggies to the bag with the milk. “You be sure to get your vitamin D, Mr. Louis. It’s important for bone health at your age.”

  He waved his hand. “I get plenty. How about you sing me some of that song?”

  “I can’t do that here, sir. I have a very strong voice, and it’s a loud song.” I added some yogurts to the bag with the eggs.

  “I wouldn’t mind.”

  “They would.” I gestured to everyone else in the store.

  “Then sing something else. Make an old man’s day.”

  I laughed, remembering that when I was little and my grandma was alive, I used to stay with her when my mother was “busy” (meaning high). Granny’s kitchen was always clean and smelled like Pine-Sol and cooking. She sang all the time, and one of the things she sang was this old Publix jingle. I missed her. So I started singing, “Publix, where shopping is a pleasure!”

  The cashier, Maria, looked at me weird, but Mr. Louis clapped and said, “Sing it, girl!”

  The second time, I put a little Beyoncé energy into it. If Bey was, you know, a bagger at Publix. “Publix, where shopping is a pleasure.” I riffed on that a few more times, channeling Gaga next, “Pa-pa-pa-Publix! Where shopping is a pleasure!” Then I really began to improvise, looking around and singing about everything I saw.

  Little Maria rings up your food

  Come to Publix and lighten your mood

  I’d come every day if I could

  Come to Publix, where everything’s good.

  Publix, where shopping is a pleasure!

  Publix, where shopping is a pleasure!

  Mr. Louis was laughing. He began singing along with me, adding some beebops and skee-wahs, like accompaniment. The old guy was good!

  Bread starts baking at seven each day

  Come to Publix and you’ll wanna stay

  Andrew’s in charge at the deh-lay

  Too much salami, you’ll get a big bell-ay.

  Publix, where shopping is a pleasure!

  Publix, where shopping is a pleasure!

  By then, everyone had stopped what they were doing. Some guy was even filming, and lots were clapping along.

  Come get some sushi rolled by Haruko

  Fish is brain food, so eat it and you’ll know

  Publix is tops from head to toe

  The bakery manager’s name is Jo.

  Publix, where shopping is a pleasure!

  Publix, where shopping is a pleasure!

  On the last one, I gestured to Mr. Louis. “Big finish!” We harmonized, “Publix, where shopping is a pleasure!”

  We finished, and everyone clapped. That’s when I started being a little self-conscious. I looked down and waited for Mr. Louis to pay while I packed up the last of his BOGO Oscar Mayer wieners. I hoped no one noticed me blushing. I put the bags in his cart.

  “Shall we go?”

  I always took the old people’s groceries all the way out to their cars, even if they only had two bags. Especially Mr. Louis with his limp. So there was no way out of it now.

  “Yes, ma’am.” He followed me.

  I tried to act normal. “How are your grandchildren?” I thought I remembered their names. “James and Patricia?”

  “Oh!” He grinned wide. “Patricia is finishing kindergarten, and she is already reading books—thick books.” He held his fingers an inch apart to indicate how thick her books were.

  “That’s wonderful. And what about—?”

  “Excuse me, miss.” It was the guy who’d been filming me. He was out of breath, like he’d been chasing me. “You have a beautiful voice.”

  “Thank you.” I started to turn away. Creepers trying to pick me up in the parking lot was nothing new, and they’re always hella old. This one looked in his twenties and was wearing a University of Miami T-shirt, but I’ve had guys twice that ask for my number. Not happening.

  “I was trying to see your name.” He glanced at my chest. “Is it Jacqueline? Jocelyn?”

  “It’s Jacaranda, like the tree.” I didn’t want to give out my name, but it was on my name tag for all to see, and I didn’t want him to tell the manager I got salty.

  “Jacaranda, like the tree?” He looked puzzled.

  “The purple trees?” I said. “They’re in bloom now. And they were blooming when I was born. That’s why I’m named that.” My sixteenth birthday had just passed, not that I had a party or anything.

  “Oh, uh . . .” College Boy looked like he was going to say something else.

  “I have to help this gentleman with his bags. If you’ll excuse me.” I saw Mr. Louis’s old Civic, parked real far. He should
get a handicapped tag.

  “Sure,” the guy said. “Thanks.”

  I put Mr. Louis’s bags on the floor of the backseat, where he liked them, and he handed me a dollar. I tried to refuse, but he waved me off.

  “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.

  To: [email protected]

  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.

  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 pr
ison 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.