Love, Jacaranda Read online

  I hope you’re proud!

  Love, Eliza Doolittle

  To: [email protected]

  Date: September 22, 9:13 p.m. Eastern Standard Time

  Subject: Low of 50, high of 72 today!

  Dear Mr. Smith,

  Do you ever lie in bed in the morning, thinking, only to realize when you actually wake up that every single thought you had was part of a dream? That it wasn’t real at all?

  That’s how I feel every day here. It’s surreal that I was in Miami, leading a perfectly ordinary, somewhat-below-average life, and now, all of a sudden, I’m here!

  Today at dinner, some poor freshie girl dropped her entire tray full of stir-fry vegetables and brown rice and an open milk container onto the floor. She was in tears, and people were doing the thing where they applauded, which I guess is the same in all school cafeterias. But I decided to walk right up to her. I recognized her from music theory class. I told her she should get a new dinner, and I’d take care of it. Then I told Daisy we should get some cleaning supplies because other people (coughPhoebecough) were pretending not to notice.

  “Ugh, how are we going to get all this up?” she said. There were peas rolling all over the place and a river of milk heading for the cafeteria door.

  Fortunately, I’m an expert on cleaning spills. I bet you didn’t know that about me. I told Daisy we should get a couple of towels first, sop up the milk, and then we’d worry about the rice. Daisy looked at me like I was some kind of cleaning guru, but I said, “Oh, this is no big deal. At least there’s no broken glass.” Then I started to tell her about how, when I worked at Publix, this lady knocked into a display of red wine and broke three bottles.

  But halfway in, I remembered that I wasn’t Jacaranda, who worked at Publix. I was Jackie, who was leading a Witness Protection Program–like existence. I told everyone my parents are overseas (lots of people’s parents are) to explain why I’m not going home for breaks!

  Daisy looked shocked and said, “You worked at a supermarket?”

  Oops. I started to hem and haw, but Daisy gushed about how cool it was that I’d been “allowed” to work. I guess she assumed it was a summer job. She’s never done anything but babysit. She wanted to work over the summer, but her parents forced her to go to SAT prep camp, then on a family vacation to visit relatives in, like, five different states. This sounded great to me, having relatives who actually want you to stay with them! But, of course, I didn’t say that. I commiserated with Daisy about her sad, sad life.

  So now she’s convinced my parents are cool hippies who want me to spend time with the little people.

  While we cleaned, she started asking more questions about my family, but I was able to change the subject, quickly asking her how she got interested in playing the flute.

  “It sounds silly,” she said. “I had a lisp when I was little, and it made me shy. So my mom wanted me to do cheerleading to improve my confidence. But I’d rather have died.” She made a face, and I agreed that I’d rather have died too. “But my mother still insisted I had to do an activity, so the next week, when the music teacher spoke to our third-grade class, I declared I wanted to play the flute. I said it would help me make friends, and that playing a wind instrument might help with my tongue placement. I was totally lying, but it actually all happened.”

  She joined the band and went to the summer camp they have at MAA. She made first chair, and after a few years, she auditioned for the school, and they offered her a scholarship.

  So Daisy is one of the gifted middle class (okay, upper middle class), which is still a higher class than the working-at-a- supermarket class like me, but lower class than Phoebe. That’s nice to know. But, when Daisy asked me how I ended up here, I said it was similar, that I loved singing and auditioned and got a scholarship. Then I became intensely interested in picking up stray grains of rice.

  So the good news is, I’m making friends while being a drudge in the cafeteria. The bad news is, they don’t know who I really am.

  Do you think they’d like me if they did?

  Love, Jacaranda

  P.S. I realize Vanessa said I could write you a monthly update. But I’m just so excited to tell someone all my news! I don’t want to be a burden, though, so I won’t write until at least mid-October.

  To: [email protected]

  Date: October 15, 7:02 a.m. Eastern Standard Time

  Subject: Updates!

  Dear Mr. Smith,

  HELLO, STRANGER! LOTS to catch up on! But I know you’re most interested in hearing about my studies, so I’ll tell you the basics first.

  In algebra and American history, we’re working on . . . well, I won’t bore you.

  In French, we are learning about French-speaking countries and writing reports on them in French. Right now, I’m learning about Belgium. They’re known for their waffles. I’m attaching my report in case you’re interested. And speak French.

  In language arts, we’re reading Death of a Salesman, because we’re not already reading enough plays. It’s very sad. Have you read it? Willy Loman commits suicide so his son, Biff, can have opportunities. I wish I had a dad like that. I mean, not one who committed suicide, but one who loves me. Or one at all.

  We’re learning about intervals in music theory. An interval is the distance between two musical notes. So, C to E is a major third because there are one, two, three notes (CDE). They taught us different songs for each interval, to help us remember. Like a major third up is the first two notes of “Kumbaya,” and a major third down is the first notes of “Summertime” (by Gershwin). I don’t think I’ll ever remember all this!

  In drama class, we do a lot of improvisation, which I’ve never done before. Everyone else has done it since preschool.

  Freeze and Justify is a game where two people start a scene and, once they get into a funny position, someone yells, “Freeze!” and takes someone’s place to start a different scene. Lots of bathroom humor. I’ve been shy, but last week, when David pretended to do a karate kick, I yelled, “Freeze!” and took his place with Nina. I stuck my leg way up in the air.

  I said, “Doctor, I can’t get out of this position. I start a new job Monday!”

  “What’s your new job?” Nina said.

  “I’m a . . .” I hopped around a few times, trying to think of a funny job. Finally I said, “I’m a phlebotomist—I take blood!” I stabbed at the air, like a doctor with a needle.

  Nina started yanking on my leg. I shrieked and pretended to kick her in the head. Everyone laughed, and the drama teacher, Mr. Adams, a sweet, chubby-faced man, said, “Very good, Ms. Abbott. You’re getting the hang of it!”

  In musical theater, I’m learning the tango for “The Rain in Spain.” Our scene is adorable. Everyone says so. Well, everyone but you-know-who, who came up to me last week and said, “Harry says he gave me Bandstand because he wanted to challenge me.”

  So, clearly, she’d complained to him about me getting Eliza.

  She kept going. “Yeah, he knows I can sing Eliza. But ‘Welcome Home’ has a bigger range, plus it’s more dramatic. It’s really a stretch for me.”

  I told her it sounded like we both got the perfect thing for us. I didn’t get salty and say what I really thought—that maybe Harry didn’t think Phoebe would be realistic as a lovable underdog.

  In ballet, we’re learning grand jetés. It’s a kind of leap where you do a split in the air. My room is not big enough to practice. I learned that the hard way.

  The leaves have turned a glorious shade of orange. It’s so beautiful I want to sit in a tree.

  There, now you’re all caught up.

  Oh, and I wrote to my mother. Just yesterday.

  Love, Jacaranda

  To: [email protected]

  Date: October 15, 8:17 p.m. Eastern Standard Time

  Subject: What I wrote my mother

  Dear Mr. Smith,

  You probably wonder why I waited so long to write to her. Maybe you think I have no heart.


  But I do. Which makes it hard for me to write about something wonderful happening to me when I know nothing good is happening to her. All the things I write to you about, school and friends and chicken divan and even getting in trouble, probably sound like heaven compared to her life. They definitely sound like heaven compared to my old life.

  When my mother was first arrested, she was in a correctional facility (fancy name for jail) in Miami. I’d seen this place on TV when some rock star was arrested for DUI on South Beach. My aunt took me to visit.

  I remember staring at the massive, gray, windowless building that looked like the Death Star in the Star Wars movies, with barbed-wire fences all around. I remember wanting yet not wanting to go in. I brought my school ID, to prove who I was. And there were all these requirements for what we could wear, like certain colors so we wouldn’t look like prisoners or guards, and I had to have shoes with straps, not flip-flops. My aunt complained ’cause she had to buy me sneakers, which I needed anyway. I’d just started wearing a bra then, and I remember they said it couldn’t have underwire.

  The smell was like old sweat and hopelessness. My mother looked happy to see me but also unhappy because she knew I’d be leaving and she’d be staying. She said we’d be together soon. That was five years ago.

  I miss her.

  After she got sentenced, she got moved to a prison upstate, and my aunt stopped being my guardian, so I never got to see her again. I’ve seen TV shows about prisons, like Orange Is the New Black, and I wonder if it’s like that. I’m guessing it’s not a comedy.

  And I know for sure she isn’t having chicken divan.

  So the reason it took me so long to write was because it took a while to actually compose the letter. I had to make the most wonderful thing that’s ever happened to me sound not-so-good.

  Also, it’s easier not to think about where she is. Otherwise, I feel guilty about being happy.

  Love, Jacaranda

  To: [email protected]

  Date: October 18, 11:08 p.m. Eastern Standard Time

  Subject: I’ve been out with a guy!

  Dear Mr. Smith,

  Maybe you’re not interested in hearing this kind of thing. I mean, I know you sent me to school, so probably you’re just concerned with my education. Or maybe you’re some old guy who doesn’t want to hear about my love life. If so, delete this.

  But I have to tell you for the simple reason that I can’t tell anyone else. You see, it’s a secret. I’ll explain later. Also, you probably don’t even read my letters, so you’re safe.

  The guy is Phoebe’s cousin, John Jarvis Pendleton III! What a mouthful! Maybe you’ve heard of him? I hadn’t, but apparently he is quite well known as a 17-year-old “eligible bachelor,” a philanthropist, and computer genius. He laughed at all this, saying people only say that because of who his father is, but I’m getting ahead of myself.

  Let me start at the beginning.

  I was in my room, studying for my music theory test, using the keyboard you were nice enough to send after I whined about my inadequacies in piano. (Thank you!) I was playing intervals over and over. A perfect fourth sounds like the opening notes of the “Wedding March,” so I was playing, “Here comes . . . here comes . . . here comes . . .” over and over. I was moving on to the tritone, which sounds like the opening notes of The Simpsons theme (where they sing “The Simp-sons”) when I became aware of some fairly loud pounding on the bathroom door (this is how we communicate now—one of us goes into the bathroom and knocks on the bedroom door on the other side), and someone else beating equally loudly on my front door.

  I opened the bathroom. Daisy was there, looking annoyed.

  I gestured to the keyboard. She’s been helping me with theory. Walking through my room to the other door, she told me Phoebe had a cousin visiting, and he wanted to take us to tea. Not coffee. Tea! Can you imagine? He insisted he wanted to take all Phoebe’s suitemates, possibly as a buffer between him and Phoebe. Believe me, I sympathized. I started to ask why I’d want to have tea with Phoebe’s cousin when Phoebe herself barely speaks to me. But then Daisy threw open the door, and I stopped talking.

  I looked up, way up, and met the nicest eyes I’ve ever seen.

  I didn’t know that he was an eligible-bachelor-multimillionaire-genius-philanthropist yet. Phoebe mentioned that in the first 5 minutes, though. And to his credit, Jarvis tried to stop her. But, based on that and his looks, this guy should definitely have his own reality show. I respect that he doesn’t. I suppose not everyone would think he’s handsome. He’s very tall, slim, and long-legged, with sandy hair and eyes the color of the sky after it rains, when the blue struggles to come through the gray. His eyes are a bit closer together than is considered ideal, but that flaw adds to his charm. Also charming was the way he held out his hand like it was a business meeting and said, “Jarvis Pendleton. Pleased to meet you.”

  “She knows who you are, Jarvis,” Phoebe protested.

  “How would she when we’ve never met?” Jarvis said. I took his hand. His fingers were slender but strong.

  It was very. Very. Nice to meet him. He smiled, and I could tell he was sweet and modest, nothing like Phoebe. I assumed he didn’t know how awful she was.

  During the elevator ride, Phoebe recapped his stats and accomplishments. She called him “Kardashian-rich” right to his face even though he shushed her. When we hit the ground floor she said, “And he’s never wanted to visit me in the two years I’ve been here, even when my parents invited him to the freshman showcase.”

  “Seriously, Phoebe, would you come to rural Michigan to see me in a play?” he said.

  She laughed. “I would, particularly because I couldn’t imagine you in a play. Would you sing?” It was the funniest I’ve ever heard Phoebe.

  “You couldn’t stop me,” he joked.

  We’re now finally allowed to leave campus on weekends again, so we headed to the parking lot, where Jarvis had a sharp-looking white Infiniti, which Phoebe immediately dissed. (“A sedan, Jarvis! How uncool of you.”) He said it was a company car from his dad’s Detroit office, and he wanted to get something big enough to take out her friends, if she had any. I’m afraid I cackled. Phoebe was still grumbling about Daisy and me being there, so he gestured to me to take shotgun and stuck Phoebe in back to make her even madder. Ha!

  Jarvis asked how I enjoyed being a new student and what I was taking. I still had intervals on the brain, so I told him about that. He said he loved theater but couldn’t sing if his life depended on it, but now he’d think of me and tritones every time he heard the Simpsons song. We hummed it until Phoebe and Daisy both yelled at us to stop.

  “‘Maria’ from West Side Story also starts with a tritone,” I told him, and hummed it.

  “My cousin doesn’t care about intervals, Jackie!” Phoebe said from the backseat.

  “Actually, I find the arts fascinating,” Jarvis said. We’d stopped at a red light, and he looked at me. I could’ve stared into those eyes forever, tbh.

  He took us to a tea place, which was Phoebe’s idea, and has 54 different kinds of tea (I counted). He asked me what type I wanted to get, but I had no idea, so Phoebe chose a pot of chai. Cousin Jarvis ordered several plates of sandwiches and cookies and mini quiches because he said he couldn’t decide. So my lavender mini fridge is now stuffed full of leftover wasabi eggs, caprese, and something called a “fig delight.” Phoebe and Daisy plan to get together tomorrow for a picnic.

  We spent lunch (or, I guess it was tea) talking about theater. I mentioned I’d never been to New York City, and Jarvis said I should come spend Thanksgiving with Phoebe, and he would take us all to a play.

  That perked Phoebe up. She said Jarvis’s family could always get tickets to the best shows. I didn’t know if that was an invitation to stay with her, which would be sort of horrifying, considering Phoebe doesn’t like me. The school gives an entire week off for Thanksgiving, so spending a week with her in stony silence would be a lot.r />
  Fortunately, Daisy piped up that she’d been wondering if I had plans, since my parents are abroad, and if maybe I could spend it with her. She lives someplace called Syosset, which is close to the city, so we could still visit with Phoebe and Jarvis. I said I’d ask.

  So . . . can I go to Syosset for Thanksgiving? Otherwise, I’ll have to spend it in my dorm, which wouldn’t be bad, because there would be foreign students staying too. But I’d rather go with Daisy. I could probably also hang out with Vanessa a few days while I’m there, so Daisy wouldn’t have to entertain me the entire time.

  Once Daisy said that, Jarvis doubled down, talking about all we could do in the city. So I’m begging, can I pleasepleasepleasepleasepleaseplease go?

  I’ll email Vanessa separately in case you aren’t reading this.

  I have another reason for wanting to go, besides the glamour and the hot guy and the theater date and not wanting to be alone in the dorm, except for people who can’t go home because home is Tanzania. And, because I really REALLY want you to say yes, I’ll tell you:

  I’ve never lived in a happy home with a happy family. My last foster home was fine. I was there almost two years. But I wasn’t up for adoption, so there was never a sense it could be permanent. And it wasn’t. I moved four times in five years, which isn’t a terrible record but isn’t great either. One foster mom said I was “destructive” because I accidentally carved something into her table with a pen while doing homework. And before my mom went to prison, she still wasn’t a very good mom. She had her drugs and her boyfriends, and I was, at best, third place. Daisy is so normal and well-adjusted with two parents, a brother, and a dog. I want to see what it’s like, even if only for a week.

  Anyway, think about it.