Love, Jacaranda, Page 2

  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

  To: [email protected]

  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.”

  “Yeah.” I looked down.

  “You have a beautiful voice,” she said. “They said you’d be in my dorm. I’m Angie your dorm advisor.”

  “Does everyone know I’m the Publix girl?” I asked her.

  She thought for a second before saying, “Oh, I doubt it. There are kids here whose parents are famous.” She nodded toward a girl in the back of the line and told me her mom was some actress I’ve never heard of. But I acted impressed.

  I told her I was going by Jackie, in any case.

  Angie said as long as I worked hard, I’d be fine. She handed me a marker and told me to use it to change the name tag. I had no idea what she meant, but I took it. She said don’t worry.

  I wondered, will it be that easy here? Is it enough to be talented? I hope so.

  But on the way to my room, each step seemed like a mountain, and not just because I was dragging two suitcases. What would my roommates and suite mates be like? What would they think of me? I thought I got off easy, because I didn’t have to audition for the school. But this was the audition, right here.

  Do you think it’s wrong that I don’t want to talk about my past? Because I don’t, not even to you. I want to turn my back on everything that came before today, shut out all the bad memories. I want to be like other girls, like everyone else here except me. I hope you don’t mind. You’re probably not even reading this anyway, so you won’t.

  I stepped off the elevator and into a long hallway with closed doors all along each side. On each door were cutouts of stars and moons and planets with names on them. My room was number 107. When I got there, my name, Jacaranda, was written on a cutout of Saturn. I turned it over, took the tape off the other side, and wrote “Jackie” on it with the marker. Then I taped it back up. A cutout of the moon said “Abigail.”

  I thought maybe I should knock, in case Abigail was already there, so I wouldn’t scare her. I settled for rattling my key as I put it in the lock. I needn’t have worried. When I walked into the room, it was empty.

  I pulled my suitcases inside and let the door shut behind me.

  I am entirely alone for the first time in at least five years.

  Love, Jacaranda

  To: [email protected]

  Date: September 5, 4:35 p.m. Eastern Standard Time

  Subject: Roommate troubles?

  Dear Mr. Smith,

  So this just happened.

  I was lying on the bed, minding my own business and contemplating the enormity of the fact that I, Jacaranda Abbott, am going to live in this beautiful place with gleaming wooden floors, music coming through the walls, and a semiprivate bathroom (we share it with the room on the other side—Angie said it’s called a Jack and Jill bathroom) and only one roommate instead of as many as three I’ve had in the past when suddenly . . .

  I’m pausing for dramatic effect here, but also to thank you for my room décor. Vanessa bought everything, but I know the foundation paid for it. When I arrived, it was all piled on the bed closer to the window. I have a fluffy lavender comforter—something called a duvet (it’s French—ooh-la-la!) that goes over a real feather quilt. My sheets are lavende
r-and-white pinstripes. I have pillows in a deeper purple, and a fluffy white rug for when I get out of bed on cold mornings, and even a dorm fridge in a matching shade of lavender because that’s a thing that exists and that Vanessa thought I needed! I’ve long believed that lavender should be my signature color because of my name, but to decorate a whole room in it . . . I’ve never had so much as a bath mat! It was always someone else’s old castoffs or from Goodwill, so nothing matched. These are from Pottery Barn. So classy!

  Anyway, picture this serene environment. Imagine me lying on my beautiful bed. Then, suddenly, this shrieking person bursts through the bathroom door.

  “Abigail!” She ran up to me. When she saw my face, she jumped back.

  “WHO ARE YOU?” she shrieked. “WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE?” She looked around. I couldn’t tell if she was trying to find someone to report to or something to hit me with. She was a tall blonde. Very white, if you know what I mean, with blue eyes and skin that’s probably never seen the sun. Literally no one in Miami looks like this. She opened her mouth like she was going to scream again.

  I froze. I should have explained that it was MY room and I had every right to be there, but first off, I was having trouble believing it myself and, secondly, this girl was LOUD.

  Then the bathroom door flew open again, and another girl was in there, yelling, “What’s wrong? What’s wrong?”

  Then, just as the first girl started talking, the new girl said, “Jackie?” Daisy from the bus.

  She seemed glad to see me, and she turned to the screamer like everything was perfectly normal and said, “This is Jackie. She’s new.”

  Okay, so this should have been the part where the screechy girl apologized, right? You’d think? Or at least looked embarrassed. But she started explaining how she was looking for Abigail, who was supposed to be there. I glanced over at the other bed, as if to say, “There’s two beds in this room.” I still hadn’t actually spoken words.

  She must have figured it out too then, because she said, “I guess you’re her roommate.” Then she said she and Abigail were supposed to be roommates, but there must have been some mix-up ’cause they were only suite mates and she’d contacted Abigail over a month ago to correct the problem, but Abigail hadn’t gotten back to her. Probably Abigail got smart and didn’t want to room with the cray girl. I mean, she hadn’t even told me her name yet.

  I stared at her until finally she said, “I’m Phoebe Pendleton- Hodgkins.”

  Like the disease, I guess. Then she said we should switch rooms.

  Remember how I’d just unpacked everything?

  Deep breaths.

  When I worked at Publix, there was this girl, Jasmine, who always tried to convince me to give her my Saturday shift because, she said, they must have gotten our names mixed up. I stood my ground with Jasmine. I stood it with Phoebe too. I said, “I don’t think so. We should stick with our assigned rooms for now. I don’t want to rock the boat.”

  She stormed off in a huff, saying something about talking to Angie.

  “Nice meeting you?” I said, and Daisy laughed.

  “She’s usually not that bad,” Daisy said.

  I stared at her, and she said, “Okay, she’s pretty bad,” and added that they probably put Phoebe in the room with her because they were roommates last year, and Daisy is the only one who can stand her. Daisy said she gets along with everyone.

  And then, as if to prove this, she asked me if I wanted to go to dinner with her and her friends. So I have dinner plans in an hour!

  I wonder, though. When Phoebe Hodgkins-Disease saw me in the room, she was so sure I didn’t belong here. Do I? And is it obvious to the world that I don’t? Do I have “Mom in Prison” stamped across my forehead?

  Love, Jacaranda

  To: [email protected]

  Date: September 5, 5:23 p.m. Eastern Standard Time

  Subject: I know this is way too many emails.

  Dear Mr. Smith,

  Turns out, Abigail isn’t returning. Phoebe is shattered, and because I didn’t switch with her, I have my very own private room. At least, Angie says, until someone can’t get along with their roommate and gets switched. But she said that would be at least a month.

  But for now, I’m going to be all alone for the First. Time. Ever. This means:

  1.I can stay up all night if I want, and no one will complain. I once had a roommate throw a full soda bottle at my head because I was studying!

  2.I can talk to family and friends until all hours without anyone judging me. (JK. I don’t have any family and friends.)

  3.No one will be in my room:

  a.Crunching Takis

  b.Keeping the lights on when I want them off

  c.Engaging in disgusting personal grooming rituals that I won’t describe

  d.Practicing giving an oral report

  e.Fighting with their boyfriend

  f.Sneaking guys through the window and NOT fighting, if you know what I mean

  g.Crying

  h.Walking around naked

  i.Doing drugs

  Daisy is knocking on the door between our rooms, asking if I’m ready for dinner. I am!

  Love, Jacaranda

  To: [email protected]

  Date: September 5, 9:18 p.m. Eastern Standard Time

  Subject: And one more

  Dear Mr. Smith,

  I promise not to write 5 times a day all year. I guess you can ignore it. I’m used to being ignored. But, if you ignore it, you won’t get to hear all the exciting things that happen.

  Like, tonight, we had chicken divan. That’s what it said on the cafeteria menu sign.

  That might not sound very exciting except these were boneless, skinless chicken breasts, the kind that cost $7.99 per pound. I may know people who buy boneless, skinless chicken breasts, but I’m certainly not related to any of them.

  Of course, I didn’t say anything. I took the chicken divan as if it was perfectly mundane.

  A digression: I’ve always been on free lunch at school. It wasn’t bad. I mean, I never got Lunchables or a bento box lovingly prepared by my mother like the rich kids, but on the other hand, I always had lunch. I went into the cafeteria, gave my number, and no one had to know my mom hadn’t put the money in my account.

  Then, one time in fourth grade, we had field day, and instead of going to the cafeteria, the PTA bought pizza and juice boxes and cupcakes, and there was enough for everyone, especially since most of the kids were so juiced about missing class and running around that they barely touched the pizza.

  I was excited about pizza. We never got it at home unless it was frozen Totino’s, but as I was going back for another slice, the teacher, Mrs. Mirabal, called my name and the names of some other kids from my neighborhood. I didn’t want to lose my place in line, so I ignored her.

  Mrs. Mirabal repeated, “Jacaranda?”

  She gestured, and I saw one of the lunch ladies standing there with a tray that was, I guessed, mine. I shook my head. She said they were legally required to give us our free lunch even on field trips.

  When she said “free lunch” I looked over at my friends, Vershona and Cristina. They’d stopped talking, so they’d definitely heard. Now they knew I had free lunch, and I knew they didn’t. I took the tray, but my stomach hurt, and I didn’t eat anything, not even the plastic cup of peaches that I usually liked so much I ate my friends’ peaches too. It would be more dramatic to say I never ate peaches again because I was so upset, but I’m not in a position to turn down food. It just never tasted as good anymore.

  Today, when I lined up behind Daisy, one of her friends, this guy named Blakely (that’s his FIRST name), who is maybe the best-looking guy I’ve ever seen in person (picture a 16-year-old Chris Hemsworth), said, “Mmm, white mystery sauce! Anyone figure out what it is?”

  Daisy shushed him. “You’re going to give Jackie a bad impression of the food here.”

  “The food gives a bad impression of the food here,” he said.
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br />   Daisy said it wasn’t that bad. To me, she added, “Blakely’s family flies to Scotland to eat fermented lamb with kelp.”

  I had no idea what those words even meant. Blakely laughed and said, “They didn’t serve the lamb and the kelp together, Daisy.”

  I pretended to get the joke. At least, I thought they were joking. Do rich people like you eat kelp? I told them I was sure the chicken would be fine.

  When I tasted it, it was juicy and soft and a million times better than anything from the school cafeteria in Miami. Still, I tried not to act like I enjoyed it too much or eat too fast or in any way act like someone who hadn’t always had enough to eat. These were people who worried about their carb intake. I once ate bean burritos from Taco Bell every meal for a week because that was all we could afford. This was back when they were on the dollar menu.

  But no one was watching me, so after a few minutes, I relaxed. It was a big reunion for Daisy’s friends, who hadn’t seen one another all summer.

  In addition to Blakely, there was a girl named Shani, who played the drums, which I thought was cool, and her boyfriend, named David, a tall black guy with short dreads, who was in musical theater. They chattered away for a while, and then they all turned and looked at me.

  “So what’s your deal?” David asked.

  I looked at him. I didn’t want to discuss my “deal,” considering it involved an incarcerated mom and a life without boneless chicken breasts.

  “Are you rich, or are you a prodigy?” he asked.

  I said I didn’t think I was either.

  “Everyone’s one or the other,” Blakely said. He explained that everyone there was either a rich kid with so-so talent whose parents could pay the tuition and justified sending them away because it was so artsy, or a prodigy whose parents scrimped and saved and got financial aid so they could go there. So, apparently, even the “poor” kids have enough money to afford some tuition. They also had parents who knew this place existed.

  “So which are you?” David asked while Shani shushed him.