Diva Read online

  (c.) shares your interests and is fun to be around. You could tell her anything.

  (d.) understands your passion for the arts and doesn’t even think it’s weird.

  8. Your favorite outfit is:

  (a.) silk or satin and low-cut with lots of big jewels.

  (b.) Juicy Couture or maybe even Prada, something you saw in your mom’s copy of Vogue and begged for until she gave in.

  (c.) jeans and a T-shirt about your favorite cause.

  (d.) comfortable and doesn’t interfere with your singing, and not too fancy to lie on the floor in.

  9. The last time you had an argument with someone, it was because…

  (a.) you both wanted the same man.

  (b.) you both wanted the same pair of shoes, and there was only one size 7 left.

  (c.) (s)he made fun of your stance on the latest news event.

  (d.) (s)he made fun of your dedication to opera.

  10. Which route to fame and fortune would you choose?

  (a.) Marry someone wealthy and become a socialite.

  (b.) Win a competition like American Idol. It’s all about looks, anyway, and you definitely have those!

  (c.) I have no desire to become famous, unless it’s for my good works.

  (d.) Work hard and persevere, the only way.

  Mostly A’s. Butterfly Herself.

  You’re not so much like a diva as like an actual character in an opera. Remember, Juliet, Tosca, Butterfly, and Gilda led exciting lives, but they also came to bad ends.

  Mostly B’s. Fashion Diva.

  Lots of girls think they’re divas for nothing more than dressing cool and making others feel bad. A true diva is known for her passion, not just her looks.

  Mostly C’s. Diva … not!

  You’re not a diva, and you’re okay with that. You love good friends and good times, but you know when to work hard too.

  Mostly D’s. Potential Diva.

  Like Caitlin, you know what you want and are willing to work and sacrifice to get it. You can be a diva, or pretty much anything else you set your mind to. You’ve got killer talent, the perseverance to go for it, and the heart to make it happen.

  Hey, Did This Stuff Really Happen?

  When I talk to teenagers who’ve read my books, one of the first things they usually ask is, “Did the stuff in your books really happen to you?” Since my other books are about subjects like school bombings, murder, and—in my most recent book, Beastly—a character being placed under a witch’s curse, I’m usually happy to say no. My books are fiction, and part of the fun of writing fiction is making stuff up.

  But when I was in high school, I attended a magnet program called Performing and Visual Arts Center (PAVAC), where I took classes in acting, singing, dance, music theory (ick!), and piano. It was a great experience, and I wanted to write about a girl who is in a program like that. So while the larger plot of this book is still fiction, many smaller events in it were inspired by things I experienced in high school.

  So, what’s for real and what isn’t?

  For Real: When I was in eighth grade, I went to a theater camp audition that involved singing. I didn’t know in advance that I’d have to sing, and I’d never sung alone in public. Still, I decided to go for it. It seemed like a good idea, initially, but when I actually had to go up there, I was petrified. So, like Caitlin, I closed my eyes. I sang a song called “Little Lamb” from the musical, Gypsy. Halfway through, I felt the audience’s energy and opened my eyes. Everyone clapped at the end, and I got one of the leads in the show, Once Upon a Mattress. From then on, I knew I had talent, and I was always singing.

  Not Real: While my mom is very beautiful and young-looking for her age, she’s nothing like Valerie. In particular, she never dated someone else’s husband and certainly wouldn’t go to the opera showing butt cleavage! She was also very encouraging about my singing. The character of Valerie appeared in Breathing Underwater, and was actually inspired by a woman I’d seen picking up her daughter at the high school. She was dressed like a teen in butt shorts and had a crazy hairstyle, and as she pulled away, one of her daughter’s friends exclaimed, “Who does she think she is—one of the Spice Girls?”

  For Real: I had a close male friend in high school. His name was Kevin, and he was incredibly talented. Like Sean, he did come to auditions wearing a purple unitard and Burger King crown, and we once sang the “Brindisi” from La Traviata in class, and like Sean, he was just a fabulous, mature-beyond-his-years person. I had a huge, unrequited crush on him. Like Sean, he wasn’t interested in me, or any girl. We stayed good friends through college, and I still see him sometimes. I dedicated this book to him.

  Not Real: I never had a boyfriend like Nick—or any boyfriend in high school.

  For Real: Like Caitlin, I was a train wreck at dance. I am just biologically incapable of learning dance steps unless I practice a hundred times more than normal people (and, even then, I’m not what you’d call good. I always tried to smile real big, so people wouldn’t notice how bad I was). My high school dance teacher was less than sensitive about this. In our first show, she had some people sing by the side of the stage. Like Caitlin, I didn’t want to, so I worked very hard to learn the steps.

  Not Real: I was much better at acting than Caitlin. In fact, I wanted to act long before I discovered I could sing. In high school, I played the lead role of Emily in a community college production of Our Town, and I beat out the theater majors at my school for the one female role in a one-act play we performed at a theater conference in Washington, D.C. Even now, I believe acting inspires my writing because I get to play all the characters in my books, only on paper.

  For Real: The people I met in performing arts school were some of the most fun, interesting people I ever met. Unlike me, who as a writer agonizes over every word, they could make up songs and improvisations on the spot. I’m not sure most of them “got” me, but it was fun to watch them in action. And yes, we definitely sang and danced in public places. When I take the train downtown sometimes, I still see performing arts high school kids doing this, and I remember how much fun it was.

  EXCERPT FROM BEWITCHING

  1

  My mother, in her sweet way, always reminded me that Daddy wasn’t my real father. “Be on your best behavior, Emma,” she’d said since I was old enough to remember. “He could ditch us anytime.” Sooo comforting. I don’t know why she said those things. Maybe she was jealous. True, Daddy and I looked nothing alike. He was tall and slim, blond and hazel-eyed, while I was short and clumsy with frizzy hair the color of rats. Yet on days like this one, as we sat across from each other at Swenson’s Ice Cream, it seemed impossible that I wasn’t Daddy’s and Daddy wasn’t mine. We had been together since I was three, after all; ten years since he and Mother had married. If I’d known my other father, the father that had left, I didn’t remember him. This was the only dad I had.

  It had been his idea to spend the day together, “Daddy-Emma time,” without even Mother. I’d found out just the night before. He’d come home from work and told me he’d gotten tickets to the national tour of Wicked. It had been sold out except for nosebleed top balcony seats. At least, that’s what Mother had said when I’d begged to go. But Daddy told me one of his clients had given him second-row seats and he was taking me as a special surprise.

  I’d breathed a secret sigh of relief. He and Mother had been arguing all week behind closed doors, alternately whispering and yelling, the sound muffled by television shows I knew neither of them watched. I’d sat in the family room, worrying in front of endless Full House reruns. Maybe Mother was right and they were getting a divorce. Maybe I’d end up like Kathleen, this girl in my class who’d had to be a flower girl in her own mother’s wedding. Maybe I’d lose Daddy. Occasionally, I’d hear my own name. Mother would say something like, “What about Emma?” and Daddy would reply, “What about Emma? I’m thinking of Emma.” Thursday night, Daddy had said, “I won’t discuss this anymore, Andrea!” and t
he house had gone silent.

  But now, I understood. The whispered conversations had been about this. Mother was obviously angry because she’d wanted to go to the play herself, but Daddy was taking me. Me!

  Our seats had been so close I could see the actors spit when they sang, and the play had been perfect, perfect for me because the ugly girl, the weird girl, the girl no one understood was the heroine. I identified with Elphaba, the outcast, except for the part about magic powers. Perfect, also, because Daddy had taken me, which meant he got it. He understood me as my mother never could.

  After the matinee, we went for dinner, and even though I’d ordered an adult cheeseburger instead of the kids’ meal Mother would have pressured me to get in the name of “portion control,” Daddy let me get a Gold Rush Sundae too. “Not much of a meal without ice cream,” he’d said, and I agreed. I tried to eat slowly, like a lady, and also to make the day last longer. Plus, I had on a new dress, BCBG, and I didn’t want to stain it. Dad said, “What do you want to do now?”

  “Now?” A bit of fudge dribbled onto my lip, and I caught it quick with my napkin. Mother would have said it was piggish, but Daddy didn’t wince.

  “Sure. I told your mom we’d be late. Gameworks, maybe?”

  Most people I knew would rather go there than anywhere, but the sounds of Wicked still filled my head, and I didn’t want to drown it out with pulsing game music. So I said, “Oh, I don’t know. Maybe the bookstore instead?” I loved going to the big bookstore, selecting a pile of novels, then spending an hour or more examining them over tea. “Would you be bored?”

  Daddy grinned. “No, I can read. They prob’ly even have some of them there magazines with pitures in.”

  “I didn’t mean that.” The kids at school all thought I was a nerd too.

  “I know you didn’t, Pumpkin.” He glanced to the side. “Hey, don’t look now, but you’ve got yourself an admirer.”

  “Yeah, right.”

  “Right. Nine o’clock. Redhead’s been looking at you since dessert arrived.”

  “Guys don’t look at me.”

  “See for yourself.”

  I shook my head. Parents lived in some happy place where everyone my age dated or had guys in love with them when, in truth, only popular girls like Courtney and Midori did. I looked around. To one side was a crowd of stick-thin girls in Greek letter shirts, pigging out on Earthquake Sundaes. But when I got to Daddy’s “nine o’clock,” I was surprised to see he was right. Someone was looking at me. It was Warner Glassman, a boy from school, a smart boy who’d won a playwriting contest. As soon as I saw him, I wondered if my face was clean, if I had whipped cream on my lips. It wasn’t like I could lick them now, though, not in front of Warner. I’d look like a perv. I fumbled with my napkin. Warner looked away.

  “He’s a boy from school, Daddy. He’s looking at me because he knows me, that’s all. He’s probably trying to figure out where he’s seen me before.”

  Daddy took a sip of his coffee. “You are a beautiful girl, Emma.”

  “Mother says I’d be pretty—pretty, not beautiful—if I lost ten pounds and did something about my hair.”

  “Mothers are too picky. You look great. Boys are going to be swarming.”

  “Right.” Still, I straightened my shoulders and resolved to eat extra neatly until Warner and his family left. Maybe, if they passed close enough, I’d say hi. I took a minuscule bite of ice cream and glanced at Warner again. He was looking. This was the coolest day ever!

  I knew I wasn’t ugly or fat either, just plain, like the heroines in books I loved, like Jane Eyre or Little Women. Of course, those girls usually ended up getting the guy.

  “There’s something I have to tell you, Emma,” Daddy said.

  “Sure.” I took another nibble, trying not to look at Warner. Still, I could sort of see him out of the corner of my right eye.

  “… and her name is Lisette,” Dad was saying.

  “What?”

  “I said her name is Lisette.”

  “Whose name? Start at the beginning.” I slurped up the ice cream that had melted to soup on my spoon. “I’m sorry.”

  “It’s okay. I said I wasn’t sure if you remembered that, before I married your mom, I had another wife, and we had a daughter named Lisette.”

  Remembered? I was three. But, yes, I knew he’d had a wife before Mother, in some foggy part of my mind. The daughter was news, though. I’d have remembered a daughter. “Where?” I choked out.

  “She’s been living in Lantana with her mom.”

  Lantana. Lantana wasn’t far. We passed it all the time when we drove up to visit my aunt. My aunt was two hours away, and Lantana was closer. How weird was it, that I’d never met her? Had my father had a secret life all these years, like one of those guys on talk shows who turns out to have two families? What else was there, what else I didn’t know?

  “… here on Friday,” Dad was saying.

  “Wait? What, again?”

  “She’s coming here on Friday.”

  “Coming? To visit?” No wonder Mother had been freaking out. She wasn’t big on things that weren’t all about her.

  “No. To live. Aren’t you listening, Emma? Her mother passed away, and Lisette is coming here. You should get along great. She’s exactly your age.”

  The chocolate ice cream fell from my open mouth and onto the front of the BCGB dress. I glanced down at the huge splotch, then at Dad, then at Warner.

  Of course, everyone was looking right at me.

  2

  The first time I saw my stepsister, Lisette, she was crying. A battered white economy car with patches of rust so big it looked like a calico cat pulled into our driveway. The door opened and it disgorged its contents: a girl who was, as Daddy had said, my own age but taller; a carry-on, which I later found out held all her clothes; and a black plastic garbage bag, which I later learned held everything else. All her stuff in one suitcase and one garbage bag? We gave more than that to the Salvation Army. We threw more than that away.

  It was Friday afternoon. I was in the tree house Daddy had built me when I was five, reading Vanity Fair (not the magazine, the novel by Thackeray, which Daddy had bought me after I got my jaw undropped from our talk), waiting for Lisette, but not waiting. Mother said I was too old for tree houses, that it ruined her landscaping. It was Daddy who said we could keep it and was always too busy to take it down when Mother complained. I liked to go there to read. And hide.

  I was doing both that day, plus spying on Lisette. Mother was out, even though she’d told Daddy she’d be home. She’d wanted me to go too, but I said I had homework. I wanted to see Lisette. Since my conversation with Daddy, I’d been wondering what Lisette would look like. Would she be pretty? Prettier than me? Taller? Thinner? I hoped she’d be plain too, so we could be friends. Would she look like my father? Would he like her better? Would she think I was a geek? Would we be like sisters?

  I peeked out from between the branches. Lisette tugged the black bag across the bright green lawn. Whoever had driven her didn’t offer to help. The engine started and the car was gone before Lisette was even halfway to the door.

  Her head was down, so I couldn’t see her face. What I could see was her hair, gold-blond like Princess Aurora’s at the Disney character breakfasts we went to on vacation and spiraling to her waist. My fingers stole to my own frizz. She wore a black dress a size too small and black sneakers that were too large, but even in that, I could see that she was skinny, skinny and graceful, like a ballerina. She stopped to check a hole in the bag, which had something sticking out of it, a bit of sapphire-colored fabric. Her hand reached to stuff it back in but, instead, lingered on it, and that was when she began to sob.

  Something black soared into my peripheral vision. I turned my head and saw it was a turkey buzzard. Two of them, actually, diving and bouncing at some dead thing in the street.

  I should have welcomed Lisette, or at least introduced myself. That would be the normal thing to
do. But I wanted to put off the time in my life when I became Lisette’s stepsister.

  As long as I didn’t meet Lisette, everything could be the same. Everything could be possible. My father would still like me best, even though Lisette was his real daughter. I could still imagine that Lisette and I would be best friends. As long as I stayed in the tree house, there was still the possibility that Lisette might love me. But as soon as I approached her, that would all end. She’d take one look at me, with my curly hair and freckles, and realize I wasn’t worth knowing, just like girls at school did.

  I ducked my head lower and went back to reading about Amelia Sedley and Becky Sharp, BFFs even though Becky was evil, and about Dobbin, the grocer’s son, who was in love with the wimpy, goody-goody Amelia and stood by her for years, even when she married his unworthy friend George. I had a secret crush on Dobbin and pictured him looking like Warner Glassman. The book was eight hundred pages long, and it was the second time I’d read it since Sunday.

  Which I knew Lisette would think was completely weird.

  Everyone did. Most of the kids at school, even in the smart classes, which I was in, didn’t read books that weren’t assigned, certainly not classics. Sometimes, I’d try to act like them, force myself to slip a Seventeen or an Elle into my binder or spend the time before class texting. But always, by lunchtime, I’d be at the media center, begging for my Brontë or Austen fix. It was pathetic.

  I pressed my face hard against the slippery slats of the tree house floor, looking down at her crying.

  Mother and Daddy’s arguing had continued all week, and I’d read and read to drown out the yelling, but it didn’t always work.

  “There must be someplace else,” Mother had said.

  “We’ve been through this. There are no relatives on Nicole’s side.”