Strange Sweet Song (20 page)

She has not felt good, or pleasant, or kind, since the night of the Noble Call. She can’t shake the memory of the exhilaration of beating Lori Pinkerton. It makes her feel powerful. But it also makes her sick to her stomach.

“Caaaw,”
the nearest crow says from its perch on a springy branch that still sports a few brilliantly red leaves.

“
Caaaw
yourself,” she answers, and the crow cocks its head suspiciously, which makes her laugh.

Suddenly, silently, the crows leave. A few leaves drifting down and some bobbing branches are all that indicate the presence of these big black birds only seconds before. Sing frowns and looks around. She listens but hears nothing. Still,
something
disturbed them.

Without the crows to occupy her, she begins to feel the sting of the damp air. What did they see, or hear, that threatened them?

There’s no reason to sit here all nerves.
She closes her notebook.

The slightest rustling from the unruly bushes next to the fence catches her ear.

She smiles. Then, mind empty except for a warm peace, she sings,
“Farfallina, bella e bianca…”

Was that the glint of a wide blue eye, half hidden by the dark leaves?

“Vola, vola, mai si stanca…”

Tamino emerges hesitantly, soft ears swiveled in Sing’s direction.

“So
you
scared my crows away,” she says. “You shouldn’t be out here during the day, my love.” The last three weeks have gushed by in a wash of wet gray skies and brown leaves. She has taken to getting up early to meet Tamino near the picnic tables at the edge of campus. He doesn’t always come, and their time together is cold and dark, but she gets to do her warm-up exercises early and he gets to listen.

“You are easy to please,” she says as he butts her shoulder with his big head. “I don’t think the Maestro would be moved by children’s songs.”

The large, ice-blue eyes watch her expectantly.

“Gira qua, gira là.” She turns here, she turns there.
Sing flutters her fingers, stretching her arm and moving her hand in a jerky, irregular figure eight.
“Poi si resta sopra un fiore.” Then she rests on a flower.
Sing swoops her hand down to gently grasp Tamino’s nose. He follows the motion with his eyes, and she laughs. “I can remember three more verses. Would you like to hear them?”

He would. She sings, and Tamino listens.

“If only it were that simple,” she says after all the verses are done, as she scratches the fuzzy orange fur between his ears. “If only we
could
just sing.”

If he has an opinion, he doesn’t voice it. After a few minutes, a subtle, humming change in the atmosphere quickly becomes a swelling, chattering, rattling cacophony that signals the change of classes. Tamino disappears into the bushes.

Sing gathers her things and rises, her mind returning to the conservatory, her classes, her music. As she leaves the shadow of the maple tree and joins the crowd of students, an arm snakes around her waist. “And how were your little crow friends today?”

“Just the same.”

Ryan pulls her close as they walk, and she enjoys the envious stares. As usual, though, she dreads meeting Lori. What will she say? Sing knows it’s too much to hope the three of them will never meet by chance on such a small campus. Lori has been as distant as ever at rehearsals, but she must
know,
right? She must know about Sing and Ryan and their … whatever it is they’re doing.

“How’s the Liszt going?” she asks.

“Funny you should ask.” He pulls an envelope out of his pocket. Sing reads the letter inside.

“Wow! Congratulations!”

“Yup,” he says, folding the letter again. “Passed the recorded audition. They’re only going to hear twenty-five in the Amateur Over Sixteen category, and one of those twenty-five is going to be me. And none of the other DC students, I might add. So, to answer your question, the Liszt is going well.”

Sing smiles, catching the eyes of two snobby-looking girls. “How’d the faculty do?”

“Very well. Both Hawkins and Dunlop made it to round two in the Professional category, and we’ve only got four piano faculty as it is. Oh, and Plays-poor? He was telling the truth, you know; he didn’t even submit a recording.”

“Figures.”

“So now I’ve got two weeks to practice my little fingies off.” He tickles the back of her neck and she laughs.

Then it dawns on her—
two weeks!
The Autumn Festival is only two weeks away! She had the date in her head, of course, but hadn’t really thought about it in terms of weeks. It seems so much closer now.

Two weeks until her father finds out about
Angelique.

“Hey, what’s the matter? You okay?” Ryan slows his pace.

“Yeah, it’s just … my dad. He doesn’t know we’re doing
Angelique
.” She knows she doesn’t need to explain, but part of her wants him to ask.

“Oh. He’ll still judge Gloria Stewart, right?” he asks. “You don’t think he’ll have a fit or something?”

“No. He’ll be there.” She wonders again why her father told her about Harland Griss coming to the competition. She has met Griss several times; another schmoozing opportunity isn’t really that noteworthy. So what was her father getting at?

“Well. Aren’t you sweet.” The cold voice catches Sing off guard. She stops abruptly. Lori Pinkerton takes a sip of coffee from a cardboard cup while two other girls—Hayley and someone Sing doesn’t recognize—stand behind her, watching, shoulders and hips skewed fashionably.

“Thanks,” Ryan says. He smiles as easily as if he were talking to a cute stranger instead of a clearly hostile ex-girlfriend.

Sing is frozen with the heightened awareness of the other students swirling around them, and the vast gray sky overhead.

“Haven’t seen much of you lately, Ryan.” Lori says his name confidently, with ownership. “Too busy with your famous girlfriend, huh? Too bad. She was an innocent little thing, wasn’t she? You must have had to teach her a lot.” The other girls giggle.

“Jealousy doesn’t become you, Princess Pinkerton,” Ryan says, winking at Lori’s friends, who giggle more. Sing feels her face reddening.

“And lying doesn’t become you,” Lori says, smiling at Ryan. Then she fixes Sing with her dazzling eyes. “Aw, don’t mind me, Miss da Navelli. I’m just looking out for you. He isn’t what he seems.”

“Gorgeous and charming?” Ryan says, eliciting more giggles.

Lori steps closer, her pink lips close to Sing’s ear. “I’m not worried. I’ll have him back as soon as Gloria Stewart is over with. Don’t you know? If your father wasn’t judging, Ryan would still be with me.” She shrugs. “Hey, I’m not mad. I’d do the same thing.”

The shine of Lori’s blond hair, so close to Sing’s face, and the maddening smell of roses, make something in Sing’s mind snap. She steps between Lori and Ryan, her face smoothing into the most perfect, porcelain party mask she has ever worn. “Ryan doesn’t need anyone’s help to win Gloria Stewart,” she says. “But thanks for the confession. I guess some people have to use people to get ahead, instead of having talent. I don’t really know what that’s like.”

The girls behind Lori suck in their breath simultaneously. Lori juts her jaw. “Your talent wasn’t enough to get you the lead, was it?” And she swishes off, hair and messenger bag swinging, followed by her two not-quite-as-beautiful friends.

Ryan smiles at her, but she pulls away from him a little. They reach the door to Durand, and he kisses her on the cheek as the other students flow by. She senses their glances, and the pride that has churned her stomach since the night of the Noble Call gives a lurch. But she feels it suppressing something else. Is it the uncertainty, the half arrogance, half terror that used to be there? That is there still, chipping away at this new pride?

There is still something missing from your voice,
she tells herself.
You will never be great without it.
She almost drowns out the words with the noise of her own confidence. But not quite.

She has heard her name in the crowd again and again these last few weeks. Her mother’s name. Being with Ryan has done nothing to stave off the whispers; he is not protecting her, only bringing her into greater prominence. She feels like she is being dragged headfirst up a hill.

Forty-four

I
T HAS BEEN A DELICATE OPERATION
these last few weeks, arriving
just
as her voice lesson is set to begin. Sing knows she is being cowardly, but she doesn’t want to risk meeting Lori, whose lesson ends fifteen minutes before hers starts. Today, however, Lori has apparently lingered to talk to Professor Needleman. Sing sees her long hair through the narrow window in the door.

She leans against the wall and looks at her watch. Five minutes pass. Ten. Sing knocks tentatively on the door.

Lori’s eyes meet Sing’s. Professor Needleman calls, “Come in,” and looks at the clock on the wall.

“Sorry, Professor,” Lori says. “I’ll get going.”

“That’s quite all right, Lori.” Professor Needleman takes a book from her piano and shelves it. “Sing knows she should just come in when it’s her lesson time. Work on the two Wolf songs for next time. I think those are good to keep in mind for your senior jury.”

“Thanks, Professor.” Lori slings her brown leather messenger bag over her shoulder and turns to Sing. “Sorry to run into your lesson. With the Fire Lake—oh, but you know all about it, right? See you later.” She flashes a smile and swishes out.

There’s nothing colder than an insincere smile,
Sing thinks. A scowl or a hiss is an admission, a way to begin, but there’s nothing to be done with a smile. Barbara da Navelli smiled a lot.

“So it’s the understudy run-through tomorrow,” Professor Needleman says. “How are you feeling?”

The understudy run-through. Sing has had butterflies in her stomach all week. She hesitates but decides on the truthful approach. “I’m not sure I can do it. I mean, I know all the music, but…”

The professor nods. “You know, that’s not an unhealthy feeling. You have a right to be nervous. You’ll be singing a major role for the first time in front of the Maestro and the whole orchestra and cast. It’s a big deal.”

“I’m not sure that made me feel better,” Sing says.

“Maybe not. But there it is. Now, let’s warm up.” Professor Needleman sits at the piano, her black robes creasing as neatly as paper. Sing rolls her shoulders.

They don’t pull out
Angelique
today. Instead, the professor gives Sing a Fauré song, gentle and lovely, and they read through it. It is one Sing knows but hasn’t looked at in over a year. They start again at the beginning, but Professor Needleman stops playing after a few measures.

“You know this one.”

“Yes, it was one of the first songs I did in recital.”

“It sounds like it.” The professor’s voice isn’t harsh, just businesslike.

Sing feels her shoulders droop. “I guess we should look at a different one, then.”

Professor Needleman looks up, mouth curved down in an appraising frown. “It is particularly difficult to relearn a song your muscles already know. But I think we should keep at this one.” Then, to Sing’s surprise, she smiles. “We need to take you out of yourself, I think. You carry a lot of weight in your voice. I don’t mean your tone, it’s … something else.”

Sing likes her teacher’s smile. “I think I’d like to be taken out of myself, actually.”

The professor nods. “Good. Now sing the beginning again, but this time do jumping jacks.”

Sing is far too seasoned to question. But she laughs when her voice jolts and bumps along with the jumping jacks.

“Creative pitches aside, that was actually much better,” the professor says as Sing catches her breath. “Now, singers do need to learn focus. You need to know what’s going on physically and emotionally. Lessons are important; study is important. You can really damage yourself if you don’t know what you’re doing, no matter how sincere you are. But sometimes, too, we need to be distracted.” She flips the music back to the beginning of the song. “
Your
body knows what to do, Sing. It
wants
to sing well. You have all the right instincts, but there’s something missing. Something … flat. Not pitchwise, of course, just something that doesn’t quite … sparkle.”

Sing leans on the piano. “I think I think too much.”

Professor Needleman looks at her. “We all think too much. Here, go grab that broom from the corner.”

For the rest of her lesson, Sing sings while balancing a broom, bristles up, on her palm. Following the subtle, capricious swaying of the broom, not letting it fall, takes all her focus and energy. She feels herself getting out of the way of her own voice, peeling away a layer of resistance. It isn’t perfect, but when she finally returns the broom to the corner, she feels energized rather than tired.

“Fauré would be proud,” says Professor Needleman. “Now go do something else. And don’t be late for your lesson again.”

Forty-five

S
ING FINDS A SEAT NEAR THE BACK
of the theater and stretches her legs out under the seat in front of her, annoyed that there isn’t enough light to do her American lit homework. She’ll be up too late again, slogging through
Moby-Dick,
actually missing her sappy orphan novels. And she’ll be tired at the understudy run-through tomorrow.

She fingers the teardrop at her throat. It does nothing but rest against her skin, cool and lifeless, yet she can’t bring herself to take it off.

The warm wood of the Woolly’s polished stage glows under the lights where the singers are gathered. The Maestro perches in the orchestra pit, Daysmoor in a folding chair at his side.

Rehearsal begins with the villagers worrying about the approaching Felix. The chorus sounds fairly cohesive, although, as usual, there are one or two exuberant members whose exaggerated pronunciations make them look as though they’re mouthing a message to a distant friend with poor vision.

The duet is next. Sing tries not to listen, but Lori and Prince Elbert have resonant voices. Without homework to distract her, there is only so much concentration she can devote to her fingernails, the chair back in front of her, and the shadowy, vaulted ceiling. Onstage, Prince Elbert takes Lori’s hands and she smiles a sad, saintly smile. Sing rolls her eyes. A bit much for a simple orchestra rehearsal.