The Sound of Us

by Julie Hammerle

  When I finally get close enough to see the list, I brace myself for the inevitable. I check the paper six times before I believe it. There’s my name under Greg Bertrand. Our first voice class is tomorrow morning in room Y106.

  I tap on my name and let out a breath I’d been holding since the practice rooms.

  Hands shaking, I pull out my phone and text Tina. “I DID IT. I’M IN BERTRAND’S CLASS!!!”

  She writes me back immediately, “!!” And then, “Dad says he’s proud of you. Mom says she knew you could do it.”

  Tears fill my eyes, and I feel like maybe my mom’s right. Maybe I can actually do this.

  chapter five

  Kiki Nichols @kikeronis: Those alternate #ProjectEarth endings can, to quote Liz Lemon, eat my poo. (Unrelated: I made it into the top voice class. #humblebrag)

  “Good morning, voice students,” Mr. Bertrand says as he barrels into room Y106 and our first voice class of the summer.

  There are seven of us in the group—me, Seth, and Brie, of course; plus Norman, Mary, the spritely dude (whose name is Andy), and earrings girl (whose name I now know is Kendra). We’re in a semicircle of desks surrounding a baby grand piano at the front of the room. I’m in the middle next to Mary. Brie and Seth are huddled together on one side of the room, whispering about who knows what. Norman, Andy, and Kendra are on the other side of us, and they’ve been laughing and joking since they got here. They appear to be great friends already and it’s only the third day of camp.

  Norman raises his hand as Mr. Bertrand puts his things down on a music stand. “Greg, I want to let you know what an honor it is to be in your class.”

  Not dignifying Norman with a glance, the voice teacher replies, “Sucking up to me will get you nowhere, Mr. Rhodes.”

  “Sorry,” Norman mutters, slumping farther into his seat.

  Mr. Bertrand ignores him. “Students, I am not here to be your friend. I’m not here to wipe away your tears when things get too hard and you miss your mommy. I am here to teach you how to sing; that is all. I want to make your singing akin to breathing. I want you to wake up in the morning, every morning, ready to take on the world with a—” He draws in a deep breath through his nose, narrowing his nostrils in the process, and then he sings, “Mi-me-ma-mo-mu. Everyone try it.” He holds up his hands for us to join in, and we do.

  “Mi-me-ma-mo-mu,” we sing, looking anywhere but at one another.

  “Passible,” he says. “And how, voice students, will you get to the point where you can jump out of bed singing me-me-ma-mo-mu or ‘Fin ch’an dal vino’? Miss Karver?”

  Kendra looks around at the rest of us, almost laughing at herself for not having the answer. “Uh…practice?” She winces at Norman and giggles, hoop earrings flapping against her neck.

  Mr. Bertrand walks over to the chalkboard and, with a flourish, erases a symphony that someone else had been composing earlier. He writes “PRACTICE” in giant blue block letters. “Practice,” he repeats. Mr. Bertrand spins around and points the blue chalk at each of our faces in turn. His voice softens, but it takes on a more serious tone. “If you do not practice, you will not improve and you will not learn your music. You are all good singers now, but you will not become great singers if you do not work at it. Of this I can assure you.” He looks right at me. I swear it. I pretend to find the faux wood grain of my desk positively enchanting.

  “Today I want to talk about vocal health. I know in high school you are probably in choir and pep club and a million other activities that use your voices in various ways. You are now in opera training, and I am your coach. And just like an athletic coach, I have certain expectations.”

  I sit up, ready to take notes. Mr. Bertrand chose me for his class. I will do everything in my power to make sure he doesn’t regret that decision.

  “One of those expectations,” he says, “is that you take care of your instrument. I do not endorse smoking, drinking, yelling at football games, yelling at basketball games, or singing backup for the hot guy down the hall who plays guitar and understands your soul. These activities will ruin your voice and if you engage in any of them, we will have to reevaluate your place in this program.”

  Okay. I don’t smoke or drink. I hate football. There are no basketball games to speak of this summer. The singing backup for the hot guy thing, however—he can’t mean…?

  Norman raises his hand. “Some guys in my unit want me to sing in their band.”

  Mr. Bertrand shakes his head. “This is a classical program, Mr. Rhodes. We sing classical music here. If you choose to spend your evenings with these gentlemen, wasting your time and undoing the progress we make in your voice lessons, all that does is show me that you don’t really want to be here. You don’t really want that scholarship.”

  “Oh,” says Norman. He frowns at Kendra.

  I think back to my concert with the Nutty Bar guy a few nights ago. That has to be the kind of thing Mr. Bertrand is talking about. My heart thumps as I remember what it was like to perform in the basement of the residence hall, just the Nutty Bar guy and me.

  I have to forget about it. It can never happen again.

  Mr. Bertrand isn’t finished. “I hate that we have to police this, but it is a necessity that was not born out of frivolity or fascism. You have made a huge investment to be here, at this institution which values classical music above all else. You have entrusted me with your education and your vocal future. I take that very seriously. And if there’s a quick way to ruin your talent, it’s to drink, to smoke, to sing improperly, to sing music not suited for your voice, to belt out a Whitney Houston song during Wednesday night karaoke at TGI Friday’s. When you do these things, your technique regresses. I’ve seen it happen a million times. Don’t think you’ll be the one who can do both and survive. Don’t think you can hide it from me. This is not our first rodeo here. The other voice teachers and I have kicked students out before, and we will do it again if we have to. Do not test us.”

  Norman raises his hand again, but Mr. Bertrand waves him off.

  “There are seven scholarships available this summer. Seven. I know some of you believe that by virtue of making it into my class, you’re on easy street. That’s not the case. There are plenty of good students in the other voice classes, plenty of hungry students who would like nothing more than to steal the scholarships right out from under your noses.”

  He snaps his fingers right in front of Andy’s face. “You’re in my class, therefore you’re the de facto front runners. You’ve all got targets on your backs. You’re in competition with all of them”—he points to the door—“and you’re in competition with one another. Look around you. The people in this room are not your friends. These people are your enemies, your rivals, your saboteurs. Learn your music. Do your work. Follow the rules. Be in bed when you’re supposed to be in bed, and that means ten o’clock on weekdays and midnight on the weekends. That way you’ll have nothing to worry about.”

  The other students and I all stare at him in shock. This is a lot to take in. I thought I was coming here for a six-week summer camp. Turns out, it’s more like boot camp.

  Fake buoyancy takes over Mr. Bertrand’s voice. “All that said, let’s get on with the singing.” He plucks a clipboard from the music stand. Looking around the room he says, “Ms. McMahon? Mary McMahon.”

  Mary looks about to die. “Yes?” she squeaks.

  He points to a spot in front of the piano. “We don’t have all day. Let’s see what you’ve got.”

  “What am I supposed…?” she asks. Now I want to die for her. I’m so glad I’m not the one on the spot.

  Mr. Bertrand takes in a deep breath and lets it out with an awful lot of noise. He sounds like a bull about to charge. “‘Vergebliches Ständchen,’ my dear. The song you were all asked to prepare for the beginning of camp.” He looks at his paper again. “But if you can’t do it, if you’re not prepared…” He scans the room. “Mr. Nelson. Andy.”

  Mary stands up. “No. I can d
o it. I’m ready.” She rushes up to the front of the room and stands in the crook of the piano.

  Grinning, Mr. Bertrand sits down at the piano and plays the opening bars to ‘Vergebliches Ständchen.’ I pull out my copy of the music to read along, to quiz myself on the lyrics as Mary sings. This is my last-ditch cram session.

  Mary comes in when she’s supposed to. She keeps Mr. Bertrand’s tempo; she hits the German lyrics. I’m finding that I don’t need to look at the words. I know them. At least I do while Mary’s singing them. Like I said, it’s a whole different ballgame when you’re expected to perform something from memory for the first time. Then Mr. Bertrand stops the piano abruptly, hitting the damper pedal hard.

  “What was that, Ms. McMahon?”

  “I’m sorry?” she says.

  “What words did you just sing?”

  Mary looks out at us in the audience. “I—” she says, catching my eye. Hers say, “Help me,” but they’re barking up the wrong tree. I’m the girl who thought she was doing fine. “I,” she says again, “I don’t know.”

  Mr. Bertrand closes his eyes for a few seconds. “That’s what I thought,” he says. “When did you receive this song, Ms. McMahon?”

  “With my letter of acceptance.”

  “When did you start working on it?”

  “Right when I got it.”

  Mr. Bertrand shakes his head slowly. “That’s worse than if you’d said you only looked at it for the first time last night. You’ve been working on a song—a two-page song, mind you—for the better part of six months and this is what you have to show for it?”

  I see Mary’s lip tremble. Don’t cry, I think. Don’t cry. Crying will make this so much worse, for you, for everyone, for me, the girl who actually did only look at this song for the first time a few days ago. If someone who’s been working on it for months can’t even get it right, what hope do I have?

  The tears flood Mary’s eyes and pour down her cheeks.

  Mr. Bertrand sighs and points to the door. “Take your things, go up to the practice rooms, and work on this piece until you know it cold.” He sits there in silence with his finger pointed toward the door until Mary has left the room. Without missing a beat, Mr. Bertrand says, “Mr. Rhodes, your turn.”

  Norman, shaking, stands up and takes Mary’s place at the piano. This time, I follow along in the music the entire time, wishing my mind were a camera so it could photograph these pages and pull them up when I really need them. Right now, the words keep blurring together.

  Norman makes it through the entire first page before Mr. Bertrand kicks him out for dragging down the tempo. Then it’s Andy’s turn. He misses his first entrance and is sent away as well.

  I scan the lyrics again. They don’t look like words anymore. They look like gibberish. It’s like if you say the word “cookie” too many times and it becomes meaningless. That is “Vergebliches Ständchen” to me right now, utter gobbledygook.

  I pull my hands up into my sleeves as Mr. Bertrand stares at his remaining students—Seth, Brie, Kendra, and me. I take down my ponytail and hide my cheeks behind my hair. Maybe Mr. Bertrand won’t notice me.

  “I’m disgusted,” he says. “Disgusted and disappointed. What I’ve seen here today is junior varsity level.” He stands up and picks up his things. “I don’t want to hear any more today. I’ll see you for your individual lessons starting on Monday, and I trust you will know this song cold.”

  He leaves the room and the four of us look at each other for a few beats. Then we grab our stuff and book it up to the top floor of the building. Seth takes the first available practice room. Kendra pushes her way into the next. Brie and I race through the halls and come screeching to a stop as a door opens and some violinist vacates her room. Brie and I stare at each other for a second before leaping toward the door. She gets there a split second before I do and slams the door in my face.

  I slide down the wall and pop a squat on the hallway floor. I pull out “Vergebliches Ständchen” and settle in. I guess this will have to do.

  In the dog-eats-dog world of opera camp, I’m a freaking shih tzu.

  chapter six

  Kiki Nichols @kikeronis: Salvete omnes! I’m alive! Being an opera singer requires a lot of effort, who’da thunk it? #notimetotweet

  On Friday, after our final class (music theory), I’m about to head straight up to the practice rooms for still more “Vergebliches Ständchen” when Kendra grabs my arm on my way out the door. “Where are you going?”

  “Um, practice rooms,” I say, flushing, still not sure why this cool person is talking to me, even though we’ve been hanging out all week during school hours. Kendra told a joke about an Indiana porn studio called Hoosier Daddy at lunch yesterday, and looked at me like I would totally know what she was talking about. I think somehow she’s been fooled into thinking I’m at or near her level. She’s been given faulty information.

  She shakes her head, her silver icicle earrings tickling her neck. “No practice rooms. It’s Friday.”

  “I really need to learn the song.” Though, honestly, I’m not sure how much more I can do. I can sing it backward as well as forward. I’ve studied up on the history of the song and its English translation. In my dreams, people no longer have regular conversations. Instead, they recite the German lyrics from “Vergebliches Ständchen” to each other. I may have reached the point of diminishing returns.

  “Yeah, so does everyone,” Kendra says. “We’re all about to lose it, aren’t you?”

  I nod.

  “Right? So come hang out with us in Seth and Andy’s room. You deserve it.”

  My hands start to shrink up into my sleeves, but then I realize that I’m not wearing a sweater. There’s nowhere to hide.

  Kendra holds open the front door of Yunker Hall. She squints as I pass by. “Are you secretly hooking up with someone?” she asks.

  I shake my head.

  “You sure? You never hang out with us at night. Where do you go? Who are you with?” She grins. “I hope it’s something juicy.”

  “Nothing juicy, sorry. I have been hooking up with no one, unless Johannes Brahams counts.” I hold up my copy of “Vergebliches Ständchen.” I’m a little chuffed that Kendra would assume I’d been carrying on a torrid affair. Back home, no one ever assumes I’ve been hooking up with anyone, because everyone knows I haven’t been. I have Beth to thank for that.

  “Boo.” Kendra flicks a bug off her shoulder. She’s wearing a bright yellow tank top that really pops against her dark skin. I could never pull off that color. I’d look like I was dying from consumption. “We need some scandal around here, right?”

  I offer up the only bit of salacious gossip I have. “When my sister went here, some famous baritone touched her boobs.”

  “Who was it?”

  “Jean…George La-something?”

  Kendra stops in her tracks. Her eyes are about to burst out of her skull. “Jean-Georges La Mer?”

  “Sounds right.”

  “Jean-Georges La Mer touched your sister’s boobs. That is the most amazing thing I’ve ever heard in my life.” She starts walking again.

  I run to catch up. “She also had sex in the practice rooms. A lot.” Thank you, Tina, for telling me about all your sexcapades so that I might have something to talk about with this cool girl who is way out of my friend league.

  “See, this is the kind of juiciness I’m looking for. But all the guys here are kind of…” She sticks her tongue out.

  “They’re not all bad,” I say, thinking of the Nutty Bar guy.

  She appraises me. “You got your eye on somebody?”

  “Not really,” I say, which is certainly not true. My mind’s eye has been all over the Nutty Bar guy since the night we met, but I’m not ready to open up like that to someone I just met. Yet another battle scar from my relationship with Beth. Whenever I told her I liked a guy, she’d become like a dog with a bone—calling him, dropping hints about me, finding ways to get us in the same r
oom. I’m not sure if she was trying to be helpful or trying to sabotage any potential romance.

  Kendra points to the rest of the singers ahead of us. “Seth’s not bad,” Kendra says, “but he’s hot in an obvious way, right? And word is he’s already hooking up with, like, six girls.”

  “Really?” Now it’s my turn to look stunned. “That doesn’t count as juicy?”

  She shrugs. “There are some cute guys in the other classes, I guess.” She takes a few beats to appraise me. “You want to know the truth?”

  “I love the truth.”

  “I just broke up with my boyfriend. Or he broke up with me. I was hoping I’d come here and—poof—he’d be out of my head.”

  “An opera camp lobotomy.”

  She grins. “Something like that.”

  “That’s kind of why I’m here, too,” I say, to forget about a guy and a girl and the girl I used to be.

  She puts her arm around my shoulders. “We’ll find guys to occupy our time. I’m sure of it.” She stops walking, and so do I. “Speaking of, have you heard Brie’s dating rules?”

  I shake my head.

  “Oh my God, you have to. It’s great. Genius-level stuff.” She removes her arm from my shoulders and cups her hands around her mouth. “Hey, Brie!” she shouts.

  Brie turns around.

  “We need to talk to you.”

  Brie waits for us to catch up.

  “I need a refresher on your dating rules,” Kendra says. “I’ve been thinking about hooking up with Tromboner Dave. Is that okay?”

  Brie stands directly in front of us, shaking her head. “Kendra, there’s a hierarchy. We’ve talked about this.” She holds her hand over her head, indicating said hierarchy. “You are a singer. You’re here. At the top of the food chain. You can date other singers, but only baritones, maybe a tenor if he’s taller than you and weighs more. Orchestra-wise,” she drops her hand below her knees and shakes her head, “brass is, like, way down here. As far as instrumentalists go, only strings. Definitely cello, maybe a violin. A bass player if you’re feeling really adventurous. Stay far, far away from percussion.”