Iz started off the period with a quick run-through of the number which the chorus was to perform for the parents at the following week’s Spring Concert, a song taken from a Broadway musical in which the singers looked forward to those better times which would surely come tomorrow. Considering the limitations of the talent pool before him, and the failure of his most recent mission, Iz felt that his own tomorrows were running out. He did not see how the group could possibly be ready by then.
As he moved his hands through the air, trying to knit the discordant collection of children together into a voice that spoke as one, Iz glanced from one round, open mouth to the next, feeling a bit like a mother bird about to feed its chicks. But at the same time, he acknowledged that he lacked the true rearing instinct, for he did not see the need to save them all. He was always judging, constantly winnowing, looking to separate those with potential from those who could never, even with his tutelage, be more than merely adequate. And no matter how closely he examined his flock, the pick of the litter was always Juliet, poor Juliet, whose sweets and sours flavoured his otherwise dull days.
His heart broke for her as he picked out her tone from the rest, her voice a crystal. However, it was a little bit too clear, not yet purified by the life experiences which seasoned one’s soul. She was supposed to have been changed the night before, her spirit transformed by mortal inevitabilities, but instead, here she was, the same as always, good but not yet great, a sterling example of promise unfulfilled.
As Juliet stretched for each note, projecting them one by one to the back of the room with a tone and control with which the average music teacher would have been satisfied, Iz was constantly aware of the potential there, and of how it could be wasted, always cognizant of the gap between what she could yet become on her own, and how far short that destination would fall of what he could make of her. He managed to hold those fates in his head simultaneously, both how much she had achieved on her own and what she might never achieve. Not without his guidance, a guidance which had given so much to so many.
As his fingers continued to dance, leading the choir along, he was able to hear not just the ones who that day performed bodily in front of him, but all the others who had come before, a long, unbroken string of everyone whose instruments he had tuned. In his mind, they were arrayed about him in a holy ring, interspersed with the contemporary chorus.
There was Ruth, whose voice had been merely pleasant, until the time she woke to find her favourite horse gutted beneath her bedroom window, and then it became magnificent. Michael’s airiness grated, but after his house mysteriously burned to a husk, taking with it all the child held dear, his nature was properly-grounded. Alyx, whose soul had appeared forever stunted, was one of those who required more extreme measures; an offering of her younger brother was required before she could break free of the bounds of the mediocre. And nearby was Rose, with a sweetness that could be treacly, until her father’s death endowed her with a maturity well beyond her years, which encouraged her timbre to follow.
He had nudged them all, and countless others like them, to the fullness of their talents, and in his mind’s eye they joined the serenade. They did not judge him for what he had done, and he believed that was not just because they did not know that the characters each accredited to chance had instead blossomed because of his more directed intent. Even if they’d known, Iz felt they would have forgiven him. Anything could be forgiven in the service to art, if one loved that art enough. After all, the world had tolerated castrati for centuries (no, more than tolerated -embraced) as a necessary sacrifice to music, as a gift offered up to the Lord, and what Iz had done, what Iz still did, was more or less the same, kinder even, as no one was left physically unmanned. Not that there might not yet be someone out there who might someday have to be.
The music, both that in the room and that only in his head, wafted him away to a place more like Heaven, but the slamming of a door clipped his wings and brought him harshly back down to earth. His hands froze, and without his direction the singers came to a ragged stop. He spun from the podium, prepared to snap at the intruder, but then held his tongue. It was Principal Trottle, whose status shielded him from the abusive outburst Iz had been prepared to give. A shadow of a girl stood beside the man, her head down, straight hair obscuring her face, her spirit so withdrawn that it took Iz an extra beat before he registered that she was even there.
“Good morning, class,” said Trottle, and then gestured for Iz to approach.
“Excuse me, class,” said Iz. He turned his back on his first-period choir and joined the visitors in a corner near the classroom door.
“This is Cecelia,” said Trottle. “Cecelia, this is Mr I.”
Cecelia did not look toward Iz, but instead studied the rest of the class with an expression that resembled fear bordering on terror. Iz wished the girl would instead look at him directly, so he could gauge her prospects, make his first guess as to whether she would give the choir lift, or only weigh it down, but she would not meet his gaze.
“She’s just moved to the area,” continued Trottle, “and she’ll be attending our school from now on. She’s supposed to be quite a singer.”
From anyone else, Iz might have accepted that evaluation, but Trottle was a moron, who wouldn’t recognize good singing if entertained by the starry choir itself. Iz would have to be the judge. The girl didn’t seem like much, and at first glance, didn’t appear to have the self-confidence necessary to be a decent singer. Oh, perhaps Iz could whip her into passing shape for the upcoming mandatory performance before the parents, but he doubted that she’d be worth any more of his attention than that. He could likely tweak her to fool an untrained ear - he could do that with anyone - but he probably couldn’t make her of interest to the only one who truly mattered.
“Thank you,” said Iz. “I’ll make sure she feels at home.”
Once Principal Trottle was gone, Iz led the girl to the front of the class and placed her to stand with her back to the other students. Maybe the illusion that the two of them were alone together would assuage her fear and lend her an unconstricted voice.
“So the principal tells me you can sing,” he said.
“Yes,” she whispered, barely projecting far enough that he could make out her answer.
Iz sighed, and rapped his baton sharply.
“Then let’s see what you can do.”
Before he could steel himself against the stillborn tone he was sure she would utter, with a volume that would barely register and a pitch that would wound his ears, Cecelia tilted her head, the curtain of hair parting but slightly, revealing her mouth, if little else. She threw open that mouth and sent forth a pure and perfect note, and as it washed over him, its beauty was such that he almost sang a perfect note himself, that note which he dreamed about, and which he thought he could never utter, but only struggle to prod into existence in others.
Startled, he dropped his baton and gripped the podium tightly, offering up a prayer of thanks for its support, for without it he might have toppled backward. The silence once her note had been completed was staggering, the void that followed it too blank for him to dare to fill with his own voice. All eyes were on him, waiting for him to speak, but he could not, for language had fled.
He slowly raised one hand, urging the class back to the song which Cecelia’s arrival had interrupted. Cecelia did not move from where he had placed her, just stood there, the veil of her hair hiding her face once more. Iz wished that she would join in with the rest - didn’t any teenager already know at least part of that song? - but she remained silent as the class continued at the same level of competence at which they had begun.
This time, however, he did not care about the uneven tempo or occasional forgotten word, nor that their tone had become, by sudden contrast, hollow. Iz had grander things in mind.
He had them repeat the tune endlessly until the bell rang to dismiss them. As the other students started to shuffle out of the cl
assroom, returning to their electronic distractions, he asked Cecelia to remain. He needed to provide her with the sheet music and other paperwork she’d need to catch up with the rest of the class, though even if there had been no reason to speak to her privately, he would have manufactured one. But before he could begin speaking to Cecelia, Juliet stepped up beside them.
Juliet. He had to think for a moment before he could remember her name. Cecelia’s arrival had caused him to forget that she was even there.
“How did I do today, Mr I?” she asked eagerly. Her words returned to him memories of her rich voice, but suddenly, today, that voice was no longer sufficient to excite him.
“Fine, fine,” he said absentmindedly, waving her off.
“But, Mr I, don’t you have any more tips for me? Don’t I need to—”
“Hurry along, Juliet,” Iz snapped, interrupting her. “You mustn’t be late for your next class.”
Juliet glared at them both before heading out to join the throng in the hallway, not quite sure what had just happened, ignorant of how much happier her life would end up being in the future from the accidental gift of being ignored.
Once Iz was sure that they were alone together, he pulled a chair over to where Cecelia stood, and sat beside her so that their heads would be level. He handed her a quickly assembled packet while attempting to pierce the veil she had created and look into her eyes. But it was useless. She had built a shell around herself, whether intentionally or unconsciously he could not tell, but either way, he could not get inside. He would though. In time, he would.
“Your voice is remarkable,” he said. “Let’s talk about how you’ll best fit in.”
“But don’t I need to get to my next class, too?” said Cecelia. “I don’t want to be late either. Especially not on my first day. I want to make a good first impression.”
“You’re right,” he said, returning to the professional persona which had served him so well for so long. It wouldn’t do for his true self to show through yet. Not now, with such a prize at hand. “You run along. We’ll talk later. Very nice to meet you, Cecelia.”
Iz sat where she left him, quiet, thinking of nothing but her, and a first impression which had almost stripped him down to his soul, until the students for his next period exploded into the room and tried to flush her from his mind.
But they could not.
~ * ~
At day’s end, Iz rushed from the school to the employee parking lot in back. He pulled out ahead of the other teachers, who, though equally motivated to put the school behind them, had merely mortal reasons for their desire to escape, and thus did not have quite his speed. Driving slowly to the side of the red-brick building, he parked alongside the string of school buses and watched the children as they boarded for home.
He knew them all, as the district forced each child to take a music class of some kind, even those for whom the experience was obviously pointless. He’d heard them all sing - or at least, attempt to sing - at the beginning of the school year as part of the sorting process to determine whether each would struggle with a tuba or limp along with him, though he rarely noted their names. He tended to remember them only by their flaws. There stumbled the boy whose low notes reminded him of a hyena with something stuck in its throat, here ran a girl who could only hit the proper key after first sampling all the other ones. They were defined by their shortcomings, and once Iz knew those, he was free to forget all else.
Scattered randomly through the sea of mediocrity that pulsed before him were those few who mattered, rare children who had potential. He watched them board, too, such as Sarah, who had surely swallowed bells, Travis, whose voice had just that year begun to change from broken glass to stained glass, surprising them both, and Juliet, poor Juliet, with tones of honey and spice, who until the start of the day he had thought his finest.
He watched them vanish into their buses with no sense of loss, because now he cared only for one remarkable voice, hoped to spot just one special face. It had only taken a single note to tell him that. He had played this waiting game before with others, and now it had become her turn. His anticipation had never been so high, but then, neither had been the reward.
When Iz finally spotted her, Cecelia was walking slowly down the front steps of the school, her eyes on her feet as the other students swirled around her. Instead of boarding one of the buses, she ignored them each in turn, and walked past the line to exit the school grounds and take to the streets.
Iz waited impatiently for her to proceed a few blocks ahead before he pulled out to follow her slowly. Did she understand how lucky she was to carry such a gift, to have been chosen like that to fly so high, to have come so close to touching the sky? He doubted anyone her age could, which was why the gifted always needed him. This one had come the furthest on her own of any he had seen before save one, but that only meant that she also had the furthest still to go.
Cecelia paused every few blocks, as if she had forgotten something, at which point she would then kneel to paw through her knapsack. She apparently would find nothing, or so it seemed to Iz, no matter how often she looked. Each time she stopped, he would tap his brakes as well, trying to blend in among the parked cars of the suburban streets. He knew what he would have looked like to anyone who could have seen and connected the two of them, but no matter. He needed to track that voice back to its source, perhaps to hear the sound of it once again so he could better envision the advance that would surely come after he had exercised his craft.
After one more stop to rummage Cecelia turned suddenly, and started walking back in the direction of the school, which also meant that she was walking toward him. He turned the steering wheel, but before he could pull out, make a U-turn and avoid any confrontation, she caught a glimpse of him and began heading his way. He surveyed the street. They were alone. He tried to calm down. Perhaps he could use this accidental encounter to his advantage.
Cecelia came up to his car and tapped on the glass. He lowered the window, and hoped that he was not blushing with love.
“Hello, Mr I,” she said, as if she saw nothing extraordinary in finding him there, parked in a car along her path home. She let her book bag drop solidly to the pavement, and grunted.
“Hello, Cecelia,” he said. “What a surprise.”
Cecelia shrugged, nearly imperceptibly.
“My backpack is heavy, Mr I,” she said. “Teachers load you up with so much stuff the first day.”
“Then you should probably have taken the bus, Cecelia,” he said. “Why didn’t you? Isn’t that what your parents were expecting?”
“I don’t ... I don’t like buses,” she said. Even with their faces close together as they were, he could not make out her expression. “Do you think you could drive me home, Mr I? It would just be this once. I’ll figure something else out for tomorrow.”
“Will your parents mind?” he asked, feigning concern for anyone’s desires save his own. And God’s.
Cecelia looked down for a moment, which he could barely make out through her curtain of hair.
“There’s only my father,” Cecelia said, in a whisper that belied the voice he knew was there. “My mother died, Mr I. That’s ... that’s why I don’t like buses. Besides, why would he mind?”
Iz surveyed the street, and finding them unwatched, decided... why not? When God provides you with an opportunity, you should take it. He quickly cleared the passenger seat of the stacks of private records he was never supposed to have removed from school property in the first place, and she climbed in next to him.
“Make sure to fasten your seatbelt, Cecelia,” he said, out of sincere concern. If anything were to happen to her ... it would be like trampling a Stradivarius. “Now, which way do we go?”
Cecelia directed him, and as they zigged and zagged, he tried to fill the small space that enclosed them with small talk, but none of his usual patter seemed to work with this girl. Could it be because whatever had caused the
soulfulness of her voice had already lifted her beyond the usual childish concerns? Whatever the reason, their talk as he drove was elevated far beyond his usual chatter.
“So what is it that you don’t like about buses, Cecelia?” he asked. Because she was looking out the passenger window, her head tilted away from him, and did not answer at first, he wasn’t sure that she had heard him. “Cecelia?”
“My mother,” she finally answered. “My mother was killed by a bus. She was crossing the street and didn’t see it coming. That’s why I don’t like buses.”
“I’m sorry, Cecelia,” he said.
But he was not. He was glad that Fate had pushed Cecelia so far before he’d arrived to intervene. The special qualities in her voice were there for a reason. She only needed one final push, but what should it be? Iz could not take from her her other parent, because if he did, she might then be taken from him, sent away to a relative or a foster home, and he’d never get to personally experience the fruits of his labours. But he wasn’t worried. Once she led him to her house, he would surely find the special something he was meant to remove from her young life, a taking which she would someday come to realize was really a form of giving.
Psychomania: Killer Stories Page 12
