Frost

by Wendy Delsol

  “Group three’s up,” Mr. Higginbottom called out.

  I hightailed it onto stage with the four other dancers in my audition group: one of Matthew’s band buddies and three sophomore girls. The first dance move was a spin to a slide right followed by two high claps, a spin to a slide left followed by two low claps, three heel-toes to the right and a twisting shimmy to the floor. I hoped that was it, anyway. It’s what Penny and I had practiced, and once I got into it, I didn’t know what anyone around me was doing.

  Penny did well. She wasn’t a natural like Monique — who really did know how to pop her trunk — still, Penny didn’t stumble or falter in any way. Matthew was the one who surprised me. For someone so tall and with such a slump-shouldered gait, the boy had something. He wasn’t necessarily smooth, but somehow the moving parts — the way they snapped and jerked — were mesmerizing.

  It took a long time for all eight groups to complete the four dance sequences. Before we moved on to the voice auditions, Ms. Bryant informed us of a fifteen-minute break.

  Penny and I sat against a side wall of the auditorium gulping from water bottles.

  “Good work,” I said, wiping my mouth with my sleeve.

  “You were awesome,” Penny said. “Monique tapped her toe impatiently every time you were onstage.”

  “Singing’s next,” I said with a shake of my head. “This could get ugly.”

  Voices near the back of the large hall caught my attention. An angled shaft of light illuminated the arrival of an unexpected visitor: Brigid.

  What the hell? I couldn’t get away from the woman. I must have made some small squawk. I know my mouth flopped open like a hinged lid.

  “Who is that?” Penny asked.

  Before I could even reply, Mr. Higginbottom announced over the microphone, “If everyone will take a seat.” The house lights came on.

  “I’ll explain later,” I mumbled to Penny, sliding my back up the wall and pushing off with my right foot. We took the two closest seats and I watched as Brigid sauntered down the center aisle of the space. Her short, black, fur-trimmed leather coat showed off her impossibly long legs and tight jeans. Penny’s question of “Who is that?” echoed through the room.

  When Brigid reached the front row — where Mr. Higginbottom and Ms. Bryant had set up a small work-station complete with table, file boxes, and scattered papers — Mr. Higginbottom awaited her with a glad hand and a big smile on his face. They chatted for a moment, and then he leaned down to the judges’ table microphone.

  “I have some very exciting news.” The guy was panting more than speaking. “Doctor Brigid Fonnkona, a renowned scientist and celebrated vocalist, will participate as a guest judge for audition vocals. We are very, very honored to have her.”

  Hmmm. A double-very. The guy was squealing like a schoolgirl. I squeezed my eyes closed and cursed the fates.

  Brigid was directed to the open third seat at the table. Funny I hadn’t noticed the vacant chair earlier.

  Mr. Higginbottom took the middle seat, next to Brigid. “Doctor Fonnkona, would you like to tell the group a little about yourself?”

  “Please, everyone, call me Brigid.” It was clear she was no rookie with a microphone. Despite her accent, she both enunciated and projected every word. “I am indeed a scientist here on a research project, but, before that, I spent a few years on tour in Europe with several productions, most notably Cats.”

  Why was I not surprised? There was something decidedly feline about her. But wasn’t that musical ancient? Her age still had me baffled. That first meeting I’d pegged her as fortyish. Though next to Jack she’d seemed like she belonged in high school. Now here, she seemed as thirtysomething as Ms. Bryant. Makeup? The right light? Botox?

  “I hope I can be of some assistance, and good luck to you all,” Brigid finished.

  “Everyone backstage. Listen for your number to be called,” Mr. Higginbottom said to the screech of feedback.

  If I hadn’t been nervous enough, I now had Brigid’s inscrutable face among the judges. Perfect.

  I stood in the wings with Penny and Matthew watching kids called by some crazy random numerical system. What good were numbers out of order? Currently up was number twenty-three. The way it worked was we each trudged out to a lone microphone in the center of the stage. Once there, to the accompaniment of Mrs. Winkle, the front office secretary, we performed two song snippets: the first stanza of “Killing Me Softly,”— Mr. Higginbottom’s proclaimed favorite — and the first stanza of the “Happy Village” song from our own production. And this was just to try out for the chorus. If you were going out for a lead, you had to stay for a third portion of the auditions: speaking lines and a full song from the musical. Thankfully, I had spared myself that humiliation, as I was not going out for a lead. Penny, on the other hand, was, and bounced nervously at my side.

  “Number seventeen,” Mr. Higginbottom called out.

  Monique danced to the awaiting microphone, actually danced with fluttery hand movements and a kicky little skip. Born to perform. Mrs. Winkle began the short lead in to the “Killing” song — and that’s what Monique did, killed it. Nailed it. Whatever you want to call it. Though the Snow Queen’s “Winter Palace” song wouldn’t be performed until later, during the third round of the auditions process, if this were any indication, she was head of the pack for the icy lead. I noticed Brigid had nodded approvingly at the conclusion of Monique’s solo.

  “Next up, number five,” Mr. Higginbottom said.

  “Wish me luck,” Penny said.

  I squeezed her hand. “Good luck. But you don’t need it.”

  And she didn’t. She did great. Her voice didn’t have the maturity of Monique’s, but it was clear and pure.

  I was the one without luck as the kids were called onstage one by one. I kept checking the number twelve pinned to the front of me. I was the very last of the choral auditions. Because I wasn’t nervous enough. I walked out on shaky legs. I could hear them quiver like a bowstring. Excellent. Who needs piano accompaniment when your own legs can play banjo?

  “Whenever you’re ready,” Mr. Higginbottom said.

  I got through the first song segment all right, nothing great, but at least I didn’t spaz out or anything. Then I made the mistake of looking at Brigid. Something lurched in my throat; I tried to mask it with a small coughing fit.

  “Are you OK?” Ms. Bryant asked. “Do you need water?”

  “I’m fine,” I said without conviction.

  My voice cracked on the second song. Big-time. The kind of fissures a geologist would chart and measure. It helped a little to focus on Ms. Bryant. She smiled and nodded as I rushed through the last few lines. I was back in the wings next to Penny before I knew it.

  “I blew it,” I said to her.

  “The first one was good,” Penny said.

  Which only confirmed that the second one sucked.

  Mr. Higginbottom thanked those of us who weren’t trying out for leads and announced another short break.

  Penny and I walked together toward the seats where we had left our things.

  “I could stay and watch the solo auditions if you want,” I said.

  “Are you kidding?” Penny said. “Get out while you can. We’re going to be here for a while.”

  I wrapped a scarf around my neck. “You sure you don’t mind?” I lifted my book bag, demonstrating its bulk and heft with a small groan. “I do have two tests tomorrow.”

  “Not to mention a drawing assignment.” Ms. Bryant approached us with arms crossed in mock sternness. It didn’t work. The upturned corners of her mouth gave her away.

  “It’s in here,” I said.

  “Nice job on the tryouts, girls,” she said.

  “Penny did great,” I started, “but I —”

  “For the chorus, you’ll probably be all right,” Brigid interrupted, coming from behind so suddenly I jumped out of my skin. It felt prickly upon return.

  Probably? It was hardly an endorse
ment.

  She turned to Ms. Bryant. “I wanted to introduce myself personally — we didn’t have a chance before things started.” Brigid extended the long fingers of her right hand, her nails polished in an opalescent swirl of pastels. “Brigid Fonnkona.”

  “Sage Bryant,” Ms. Bryant said, holding out hers.

  Their hands clasped briefly and then released.

  “Oh.” Ms. Bryant’s left hand fluttered to her throat. The color drained momentarily from her face before she recovered, tapping a finger to her lips. “I wonder if I saw you in the London production of Cats? It was years ago . . .”

  Light glinted off the sheen of Brigid’s gloss as she broke into a coy smile. “I may deny it if your memory stretches too far back.”

  “I couldn’t even be sure it was Cats I saw in London. It might have been Phantom. Or Lion King. I’ve seen so many shows in my travels. But I’m rambling. If you’ll excuse me, I have to get something from my room before we start back up.”

  Brigid turned to Penny. “You show much promise. Are you going for a lead?”

  “Yes,” Penny said, pinking with the attention.

  “Good. Very good,” Brigid said, walking off.

  “That’s Brigid,” Penny said.

  “Yes,” I groaned.

  “Jack’s Brigid?”

  I didn’t like the sound of that. Not one bit. Not even from Penny, who I knew meant nothing by it. “She’s hardly Jack’s.”

  “I didn’t mean that. It’s more that . . . You described her . . . but I didn’t believe . . . I mean, she’s . . .”

  It wasn’t like Penny to gum up like that, not with me, anyway. But she didn’t like to come right out and trash people, either.

  “Amazing,” Penny finished.

  It was my turn to be dumbstruck. All I could think was, Et tu, Brute? Instead, I swallowed that and about three other wisecracks and wished Penny one last good luck. I exited the back-of-the-house doors, barreling into Jack.

  “What are you doing?” I dropped my book bag onto the floor of the auditorium lobby and gave him a small shove to the chest. “You scared me to death.”

  “Sorry. I wanted to surprise you.”

  “You did.”

  He picked up my bag with one hand and took my hand with the other. “You did good.”

  “You were watching?” I groaned.

  “Through a crack in the door. I didn’t want to make you nervous.”

  “I blew the singing.”

  “But you nailed the dancing.”

  “How long have you had your nose in that crack?”

  “A while.”

  Excellent. Because humiliation’s better when shared.

  “What’s up with Brigid judging?” I asked.

  “Can you believe she’s a stage star, too?”

  “Not really.”

  “Talk about multitalented.”

  I’d rather not talk about her, period. And I’d rather you didn’t, either.

  “And willing to mentor others,” he continued.

  I sighed, letting him finish his little fanboy outburst.

  “I mean, what doesn’t she do?” he asked.

  That very same question had my tongue curled tight. There were other puzzlers I swished back and forth, too. Who had time for all the studies and travels Brigid boasted of — plus a stage career? And there was another niggling uncertainty that wondered who Jack had come here to see.

  He took me by the hand into the charcoal of falling darkness. Detecting my shiver, he pulled me close. I turned back toward the building briefly, sending Penny warm thoughts.

  Friday after school, Penny and I stood in front of a large corkboard propped up in the auditorium lobby.

  “You made Gerda, the little girl.” I clutched Penny’s arm and jumped up and down in celebration with her. “That’s the second-biggest role.”

  “And you got the ice fairy dance solo,” Penny squealed.

  A role I hadn’t known existed, never mind auditioned for, but now that I saw my name singled out — I was excited. Monique, no surprise, was the lead: the Snow Queen. Matthew, in an unexpected turn of events, was cast as Kay, the lead male, or boy, in this case.

  “This is going to be so much fun,” Penny said.

  “And work,” I said, stretching my mouth with a grimace. “How will you handle this, plus homework, plus editor in chief?”

  Penny clasped a hand to her mouth. “Shoot. Mr. Parks is interviewing us.”

  “When?”

  “Now,” she said, running off with the briefest of waves.

  I took two steps toward the exit when it hit me — the cap. Dang. I was not in the mood for scabies or a meeting. I set my book bag on the ground and began rummaging through it for an emergency head cover. As I stood back up —

  “Boo.” Jack grabbed my waist from behind.

  I swung at him with the fur-lined trapper hat — hard. “Are you stalking me?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “I thought you’d be at Walden.”

  “Stanley gave us the night off.”

  I wondered who the “us” was, but didn’t ask. “About time.”

  “Mostly because we’re working tomorrow.”

  I shrugged the hat over my head and exhaled my dissatisfaction.

  “At least I can go to the game tonight,” he continued.

  The varsity basketball game. Darn it. I reached a hand up into my scalp and scratched, one long, dramatic rake.

  “Super Stork flies again?” Jack asked.

  I nodded.

  “Game’s at seven. Your meeting isn’t until nine, right?”

  I shot him a brow-stretcher of a look. “I am not sitting in the bleachers with this thing.” I pointed at my head.

  “But I finally have a night off.”

  “And I don’t.”

  “Can’t we ever just have a normal night?”

  Honestly. He, of all people, wanted to have that conversation? “I’m going to Afi’s to hide for a while.”

  “You want some company?”

  “Love some.”

  Walking down Main hand in hand, it occurred to me that it didn’t matter where Jack and I were — a basketball game or behind Afi’s cash register — I was happy just being with him. We passed by the bookstore; Paulina, Ofelia’s sister, came to the door.

  “I have that book you were looking for, Kat.”

  I pulled Jack into the warmth of the store. The floor-to-ceiling books had a slightly musty smell to them, but Paulina, as a counterattack, sold soaps and candles. Today I detected a lemon verbena aroma holding at bay something Twain or possibly Poe. I scratched under my hat. As promised, the condition was finally becoming more tolerable — but, still, a ridiculous way to communicate.

  “Here it is,” Paulina said, handing me a spine-cracked copy of The Snow Queen from a shelf in the kids’ section.

  “A little young for you, isn’t it?” Jack asked.

  I’d already read the story off the Internet, but somehow my designs were coming up flat. I was hoping the picture book would inspire me.

  “I guess I’m a kid at heart,” I said, running my hand along a display of beautiful children’s books. My palm came to a halt atop a blue train with a smiling face — Thomas the Tank Engine. I lifted it and quickly flipped through the pages. The scenes were of a quaint countryside, a busy train yard, and a round-eyed happy engine named Thomas.

  On impulse, I placed it on top of my other book and headed for the register.

  “I kinda get the first one, but what’s up with the trains?” Jack asked.

  “It’s for a friend,” I said, confusing even me.

  “No one I need to be jealous of?”

  “What? You think I’m two-timing you with a younger man?”

  His eyes narrowed.

  “And buying my boy toy gifts in your presence?” I continued.

  Jack looked away. He seemed genuinely uncomfortable with the conversation. Seriously though “boy toy” was funny. Ligh
ten up already.

  Paulina rang up my purchases.

  “I’m enjoying getting to know your sister,” I said as I pulled money from my wallet.

  “She likes the work,” Paulina said.

  I raked at a bothersome patch near the nape of my neck. “It’s been a big help while Afi’s recovering. We were lucky she showed up the very day Afi had decided to hire someone.” I stowed the two books in my satchel and pulled it over my head in an across-the-shoulder fashion.

  “Craziest thing,” Paulina said. “I’d just spoken to her a few days before, and she was talking about changes she wanted to make to her garden. Next thing I knew, she was on my doorstep with all her earthly possessions claiming she’d been called home. Called by whom, I’d like to know. It wasn’t me; and there’s only me.” Paulina shook her head. “She always was a free spirit.”

  Back out into the cold and bleak afternoon chill, I kept my hands buried deep into my pockets and my head down, fighting more than just a headwind. Words like “earthly” and “spirit” gave me the willies.

  Only Afi was at the register when we stamped our snowy boots at the front mat.

  “Can you work?” he asked me after I’d untwisted the scarf from my cold cheeks.

  “Yeah. Sure. Why don’t you go?” I said, carefully omitting use of the word “home” this time.

  “I think I will,” Afi said. “There’s a can of fish chowder and a bottle of beer calling me.”

  Again with the “calling” reference.

  Afi started toward the coatrack and then stopped, scratching his whiskers. “Of course, the only place to get real chowder is Café Riis.”

  “Where’s that?” Jack asked. I knew better.

  “Holmavik, of course,” Afi said.

  Jack looked at me, confused.

  “In Iceland,” I mouthed.

  Afi shrugged his coat over his spare shoulders and left, muttering something about Viking beer.

  “Are you going to take your hat off?” Jack asked.

  “No.”

  He took a swipe at my head, but I was too fast for him. “I want to see it.”

  “No way.” I clamped a hand on my hat.

  Jack’s cell phone rang, distracting him. I listened to his brief replies: “Hello. Good. Now? I can be there in a half hour.”