Chapter Thirty-One
I hate to admit it, but Ara motivated me.
Since our brief conversation at Sip Gist, I’ve stepped up my game at rehearsals. I suppose I can credit that to her and the Broadway show Davi and I saw a week ago.
Since then, I’ve become fully immersed in the musical. I perform without reservation. I stay an extra thirty minutes to practice after rehearsals end. I ask Mr. Roland for feedback, even when he says he has none. The other day, after I ran through the ball scene, he told me I was exceptional. I still get a high from that compliment.
The truth is, I’m the happiest when I’m performing. When I’m onstage, there’s this insuppressible thrill that makes me certain I’m doing exactly what I’m meant to. Nothing I’ve accomplished academically—excellent grades, honor awards—has given me that feeling. The idea of pursuing a career in medicine doesn’t give me that feeling.
After seeing that Broadway show, I realized I can’t possibly be a doctor. I haven’t told my mom this yet. Earlier this week, she watched me apply to four universities. Each of my chosen majors fell under science. She doesn’t know there’s another school I want to attend. She doesn’t know that today, only hours ago, I applied to Juilliard.
Davi stayed on the phone the whole time, supporting me until the moment I hit the Submit button.
Now we wait. Anxiously.
“Hey,” Esosa says. She struts into my room and props a hand on her hip. “Guess who I am.”
She’s wearing a strapless pink gown with matching elbow-length gloves. She runs a finger along her faux diamond necklace and winks. “Figured it out yet?”
Her platinum blond wig really brings the look together and gives me a clear answer. “Marilyn Monroe.”
“Correct!” She claps. “Do you like it?”
“I love it.”
“Thank God.” She exhales. “Because it was very last minute. Halloween night, and there was basically nothing left at the custom shop. But Zane helped me put this together—a pink dress there, a blond wig here, some jewelry, and we have Ms. Monroe.”
At the mention of Zane’s name, I squint and study Esosa’s face for any signs of the crush Bethany mentioned weeks ago. Unfortunately, her face gives nothing away.
“What exactly are you supposed to be?” she asks.
I spin around, and my blue dress flares around my knees. “Isn’t it obvious?” I touch the blue bow on my hair. “I’m Wendy. From Peter Pan.”
Esosa’s face is blank. She isn’t impressed. Neither were Tolu, Abby, and Osas when I showed them my costume over video call minutes ago.
“I am painfully underwhelmed,” Tolu said. “At this point, you should just stay in your house and play ludo.”
Abby and Osas voiced their agreement, which motivated me to cut the call short. For some reason, I thought Esosa would understand why I had to wear such a boring costume. I was wrong.
“Seriously?” she says, annoyed. “Are you joking right now? Our first Halloween ever, and you couldn’t choose a better costume? Wendy? From Peter Pan? Couldn’t you at least find a sexy Tinker Bell costume? Gosh! Have those movies you’ve been watching taught you nothing?”
Actually, while watching Mean Girls, I learned Halloween is the one night a year when a girl can dress like a total slut, and no other girls can say anything about it. The hardcore girls just wear lingerie and some form of animal ears.
As it stands, I can’t leave my house wearing lingerie and bunny ears. I can’t even leave dressed like a witch or any other demonic entity. God knows it took a miracle and a lot of convincing from Auntie Sara before Mom let us attend Blake’s Halloween party.
Halloween is a western tradition, one most Nigerians consider demonic. There’s no Halloween in Nigeria, not when many of the people there are already highly superstitious, and as a result, extremely religious and rigorous with their prayer regimen.
“So you want to dress like a witch just for fun and celebrate a holiday that’s dedicated to witchcraft, shebi?” Mom said while watching me and Esosa with a mixture of confusion and annoyance. “Dressing like a witch is now considered fun for you both, abi?”
“Well, they don’t have to dress like witches,” Auntie Sara, our advocate, interjected gently. “They could dress up as anything they like. Even a doctor.” That, I had to admit, was a good touch. “Besides, it’s not like they’ll be sitting around a fire, chanting and calling on spirits and all that stuff.” She laughed, but Mom’s face remained straight. “Adrian will be going too. He’ll drive them to the party and bring them home. It’ll be fun.”
“I still don’t understand why fun is such an essential part of a child’s development in this country. They have no responsibilities. The one thing they are required to do is go to school and get good marks. So why the constant need for respite? You are acting as if they labor at a farm from dawn to dusk. Ah-ah.”
“Well, the kids do work hard at school to get good grades. And you know what they say, all work and no play…” It was a basic point, but I sensed it was Auntie Sara’s last attempt.
“Okay.” My mom spat out the word. “As long as Adrian is there, they can go.”
Because our mom’s permission was subject to change, I knew we couldn’t make the wrong costume choice. We couldn’t dress like a witch, a zombie, a vampire, or a sexy bunny. With this in mind, I gave myself two costume options—Wendy or a hot dog. With Davi deciding to dress like Peter Pan, the choice was simple.
“So let me understand,” I say to Esosa. “You want me to dress up like a sexy Tinker Bell, while you look like an elegant beauty-pageant contestant? Do you want Mommy to say I can’t go to the party?”
“Look, all I’m saying is that you could have put a little more effort and creativity into your costume.”
“This costume is a necessary precaution.”
“More like unnecessary caution,” she mutters.
“Whatever.” I roll my eyes and walk through my bedroom door. “Let’s just go.”
“Hey,” Esosa whispers as she shuffles behind me. “From this angle, your ass looks really good.”
I pause and turn to look at her. “Really?”
She shoots two thumbs up. “Really.”
Well, at least there’s that.