by D. R. Perry
“Thanks.” I wave at her as I saunter down the aisle toward the table in front.
I print my name on the paper in the column for men right under Zack’s. He’s the only other guy here, too. That’s common with community theater since it’s not for pay, and acting still isn’t considered a manly man’s hobby. But I never cared about that. It’s fun and challenging and worth the effort.
My watch says it’s eight-thirty on the dot. I’m about to sit, ready to wait through all the ladies auditioning. And then, the director gets out of his chair and claps his hands. Practically right in my face.
“Okay, Guidos first!”
I don’t take this as some kind of crass insult aimed at Italians like yours truly. The lead role in Nine is a dude named Guido Cantini, a film director experiencing a professional and personal crisis. Which, if you’ve been following my stories, you’ll know I relate to in spades.
“Let’s hear you first.” The director points one fleshy finger at me then glances down at the clipboard. “Crispo. You’re up.”
I’ve got my song practiced and my music prepared. There’s no orchestra pit here, or even a piano because they only do one musical per year. It’s a file on my phone because Cranston Community pipes all of its backing tracks in digitally.
The director jerks his wobbly chin at a mini USB cable, so I plug my phone into it. He picks up a pencil and a legal pad to take notes on. After that, I turn my back, instantly second-guessing the act of taking the three steps up to the theater’s stage. And that one spark of doubt lights me up with an internal inferno of mental self-harm.
I close my eyes and stand there, waiting for the director or one of his peers to tap play on my phone, trying to act natural. But nothing’s natural about how I feel at that moment. My lizard-brain turns on, its voice hissing at me from the dark cavern of my self-doubt. Who are you to get up here like this when Zack Milano’s in the front of this house, waiting his turn? You were nothing compared to him back in high school. He’s a local celebrity, and you’re nothing now. He’ll get this role. Don’t embarrass yourself.
The worst thing about that sickening voice in my darkness is, I agree with all of it. I’m about to walk back down those steps, hustle my ass the hell out of Cranston Community Playhouse, and never return to this theater or any performance art ever again. But the only thing that could stop me from doing that happens.
The music starts.
I open my eyes, wanting to see who’s condemned me to perform up here like the hack I am, tormenting the eyes and ears of everyone present.
It’s Maya. Her finger hovers maybe an inch above my phone’s screen. And I can’t even be mad at her because the tiny smile she gives me banks down the flames of my shame until my flickering nervousness is a warmth I can work with. She makes a half-turn, then takes the nearest unoccupied seat.
The director and his assistants catch a glimpse of her face, and their expressions soften. Sure, I freaked out and forgot to press play. They almost all noticed. But Maya’s special. She makes every gesture, no matter how small, look like the most natural thing in the world. And she’s on my side.
They must all think I planned to have her do this. For all they might think, it looks like a demonstration of method acting. And perfectly in line with both the musical I’m auditioning for and the song from another show by the same composer I’m about to perform.
And that, my friends, is one way to stomp on the neck of impostor syndrome. With help.
Where In The World is a song from the other musical about the Phantom of the Opera. Not Weber’s version, Yeston’s. Who, as I said earlier, is the same guy who wrote Nine. It’s all about how Erik, the Phantom, seeks the one perfect voice in the world.
Vocally, it’s almost an exact match for my range. I always nail this song in that way, but I’ve never been able to capture the feeling, that desire for something as intangible as a voice that just might finally put an upswing on an otherwise dismal life. Until now.
My ears are better than a human’s, but nowhere near as discerning as the Phantom’s are described to be. A beautiful voice is nice, but there’s no way it counts as the epitome of anything in my book. Fortunately actors don’t need to be quite so specific with our inspiration as, say, illustrators or poets. The script or the lyrics aren’t ours to play with. The emotions are another story.
The words I sing from Erik’s perspective are next-door to desperate. Because he doesn’t want a pretty sound to soothe his ears. He’s had every iota of peace stripped away from him, and in the opera’s absence, Erik realizes he wants more than mere existence. This is the first time in all the years I’ve mouthed this piece that I’ve understood the truth about the Phantom of the Opera’s truest fundamental motivation.
He wants salvation.
As I sing, my truest feelings spill out with the notes. Recent ones. Because I can’t get relief in that department, as a Catholic vampire. An old werewolf warned me about this eventual development, telling me that coping with the divide between faith and my new normal is a do-or-die proposition.
And now, this song brings a light into the catacombs where emotions surrounding our misadventures with the Deep Ones and a kid’s turn from mundane to monster lie buried. And they’re doozies. Because of course, they are. Guilt over preventing two suicides and a fall from grace isn’t something a good Catholic guy can find absolution for on his own.
But you don’t have to take my word for how profound an effect the matters of my undead heart have on my performance. Neither do I, because energy on stage is a two-way street. The audience reaction is all I need. Maya, who’s in the know, puts one hand to her cheek, eyes widening. Something changes in the air between us as our eyes meet. I’m not sure what that means yet, but it’s clear she’s touched.
The director is nodding, having dropped his pencil in order to just sit and listen. His assistants have followed suit. Most of the ladies waiting their turn grin, and a couple begin to give me the eye. I don’t care, because I saved the best reaction for last.
Zack’s jaw looks practically unhinged. He’s heard me sing probably hundreds of times and this specific song at least a dozen. I must have really kicked it up a notch. Or maybe plural notches. Before he starts catching flies in his open mouth, my old rival shuts his trap. He’s grinding his teeth hard enough for me to hear them over the music, too.
Not that most of the other folks in the room have that problem. Vampire ears for the win.
The director stops me after thirty-two bars. Which is good because usually they only let you do sixteen. I descend from the stage in better shape than I stepped up to it. My feet barely feel like they touch the ground. Unplugging and picking my phone up off the table feels natural and easy. I think I have this role in the bag.
Zack side-eyes me as he heads along the aisle to take my place up there. There’s a look on his face that I don’t like one bit. But I get to sit next to Maya, so I don’t care. She’s clasped my hand in both of hers, something that lets her share thoughts, feelings, and experiences with me. She doesn’t do any of that vampire woojie power stuff this time. Instead, we just sit there together, almost like a regular mundane couple.
Zack’s music starts, and I can hardly believe my ears. He’s doing the big audition no-no, singing a piece straight out of the musical itself. Yeah, it’s Only With You, which the show’s main character sings at all the women he’s known. Biblically.
And he’s nailing the shit out of that motherfucker. Excuse my Esther-inspired language here, but there’s really no other way to describe Zack’s performance. Yeah, okay. I improved a lot due to time, experience, and perspective. But over the seven-odd years since I competed against him, Zack’s moved light-years beyond even that. Rediscovering his vocally-based magic powers means he’ll never lose a role he wants again.
Was I feeling cocky because the director let me squeak out double the amount of usual audition time? That feeling dies on the vine. He lets Zack finish the entire song. And af
terward, the guy gives my old rival a standing ovation and asks him to stay and give feedback while the ladies try out for their roles. After that, he calls a break and approaches the seat where I’m frozen in a mortified state of shock.
“Nice job, Mr. Crispo.” The director extends one hand. “I’d like you to come back next year. I think the show we’re considering then will have a more suitable role for a fellow with your particular talents.”
“Um, thanks?” I reach out and make a grab at his hand with my free one. I almost miss.
He shakes while I just go along with it. The grip and motion are firm, reassuring. I think he’s being honest. Maybe. But all the same, I’m being dismissed, and it stings like a nest of wasps. He lets go and heads back down to his little coterie of assistants. Politics in the theatre world for the lose.
Chapter Three
I don’t remember getting up under my own power, but I am fully aware that Maya’s the one escorting me up one aisle, along the side of the seating, and back out through the stage door. Because of the connection between our clasped hands, I feel her match my exasperation, but something in the flow of her emotions peels away all of my embarrassment at losing to Zack. Again. Once we’re in the parking lot, she lets go of my hand and speaks.
“Tino, I’m glad you didn’t get that role.”
“Huh?” I lean against my car. She joins me.
“From where I sit, that Guido character is a nasty piece of work. Let the other guy have it. The role fits him, not you.”
“Hmm.” I cross my arms. “But it’s acting. I could have pretended to be more of a jerk than I already am.”
“Yeah, but you’re one of the best people I know. For someone like Zack, playing a part like that isn’t much of a stretch.”
“You barely know the guy.”
“Right. But you do.”
“Oh.” Right. That psychic touch stuff Maya does works both ways. She must have gleaned some of my old memories while we watched Zack’s audition. “Well, thanks, Maya.”
“Any time, for you Tino.” Her smile’s brighter than the stars but pales in comparison to the light in her eyes.
I let my arms down and lean in slowly, putting one hand on the car between us as I turn toward her. I raise my eyebrows, about to speak. She reaches out and takes my free hand, letting me know in no uncertain terms that the answer to all of my unspoken questions about us is yes. Her chin tilts up, and we kiss for the second time since we first met. And this time, it’s real, not a sham to put Whitby off both our cases.
Tonight, there’s no imminent disaster looming over us, no vampire court waiting for us to be formal and stiff and proper, no obligations for at least another hour. We get in the car, drive the five minutes back to the Belfry so we can spend that time together.
I put a bag of blood on because when we get to my apartment, we realize we’re both hungry. Maya’s sitting sideways in the comfy chair, barefoot, with her denim-clad legs draped over the arm she’s not leaning on. I hand her a mug of blood, which she holds in one hand while flipping through Stephanie’s little homework assignment with the other.
Yeah. We’re vampires, and one of the drawbacks is getting distracted by anything puzzling. But that’s okay. We’ve potentially got eternity to explore romance, after all.
“Interesting.”
“Oh, no.” I grin as I pour myself a cup. “You said the i-word.”
“I’m going out on a limb here and assuming your sire told you to read this.”
“Yeah.” I shrug. “No point, though.”
“Really?” Maya blinks.
“Really. Not gonna do it.”
“Why?”
“No point, like I said.” I shrug, taking a seat at the breakfast table. “I know both of the musicals backward and forward.”
“I’m not a theatre geek like you, but this is one of my favorite works of fiction.” Maya takes three long gulps of blood. “There’s a difference between Leroux and Weber, Tino.” She shakes her head. “Even Yeston didn’t get everything right. Erik and Raul aren’t the same men in either musical that they are in the book.”
“That’s what they tell me.” I gulp some blood. “But I want to save my time for more important things. Like you.”
Maya leans one hand against her cheek, flipping pages with the other as though looking for something. After a moment, she finds it and runs one fingernail along the lines of text as she reads.
“But you would have lots of fun with me. For instance, I am the greatest ventriloquist that ever lived. I am the first ventriloquist in the world!” Maya rolls her eyes. “What a catch.” She snorts. “But seriously. Does Erik sound stable and logical to you?”
“Well, no.”
“Not exactly the tortured but calculated genius from Weber, or the sensitive savant from Yeston.”
“Okay.” I shrug. “So what is this about Raul?”
“In Weber, he’s a hopeless romantic. In Yeston, he’s a clueless but harmless dude-bro. But on the page, he’s just another judgmental little toe-rag.”
“Read me something about that?” My eyebrows go up as I take a smaller sip from my mug.
“Okay. Here.” She clears her throat.
“Alas, madame, alas,” Maya puts the back of one hand on her forehead and rolls her eyes. “I believe that Christine really does love him! But it is not only that which drives me to despair; for what I am not certain of, madame, is that the man whom Christine loves is worthy of her love!”
“That’s just a little melodrama.”
“Oh, but then Christine says,” Maya recites, “It is for me to be the judge of that, monsieur!” She sighs. “Poor liberated woman. I say this because Raul goes into full mansplaining mode.”
“Can I see that?”
Maya nods and hands over the book. I scan the page, reading about how Raul up and assumes Erik’s romantic gestures mean the Phantom’s a villain and Christine’s a fool. As though real men don’t do romance, and women aren’t allowed to make up their own damn minds about who they prefer to spend time with.
“Wow.” I blink.
Maya makes an ironic little cluck. I totally understand why.
“They cut that the hell out of both musicals.” I shake my head. “What a douchebag, Raul.”
“Right.” Maya grins. I’m not entirely sure why. My best guess is that she’s dealt with that sort of attitude from a man before. Men plural if she’s this sick of it, probably.
“Hey, I promise not to talk at you or make assumptions about your own feelings, okay?”
“Thanks.” She chuckles. “You’re a prince.”
“As long as I’m not that guy,” I point at the book. “Call me whatever you want.” I waggle my eyebrows like a total geek.
“It’s okay to say thanks, Tino.”
“Okay, then. Thank you, Maya. You’re amazing.”
“Thanks!” She chuckles. “See? It’s easy. Am I right?”
“Always.”
“Anyway, really.” She closes the book and taps the cover. “You should read this when you get the chance.”
“I’ll do that.” I check the clock. “But it’s time to start heading to the hospital.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah. I’m going over to see Maury. He wants to talk to me about something, says it’s important. Also, I want to have a chat with Doctor Maris.” I finish my tepid beverage and start filling the pockets of my coat with stuff I’ll want for the rest of the evening. That includes an extra bag of blood, my phone, and some plastic bags with gloves, because I don’t have my PI certificate for nothing.
“Couldn’t you leave that stuff in the car?” She eyes the bagged blood.
“No way. Scott’s picking me up from outside the auto shop in about twenty minutes. It’s about time I dropped it off for repairs.” I shrug. “Should take a few days to fix that, er, damage.”
“Yeah.” Maya doesn’t bring up the reason it needs work. I hit everybody’s favorite supernatural blogger with my car
.
“I’m glad he’s okay.” And that’s true. Sass seems like a stand-up cryptid, even if he occasionally spends time with my sire on the down-low. Alone. In dark rooms, for reasons I don’t understand. But that’s none of my business.
“Nothing much can harm Sasquatch, Tino.” She smiles.
“Right.” I’m not sure about that. But she’s right when it comes to physical harm.
“What’s up with Doctor Maris, anyway?” She drinks the rest of the blood in her mug. “You told me she’s a centaur, and that she’s got something to do with the goddess Mnemosyne.”
“That’s right. And also all I know.” I pause, not sure whether Stephanie’s kept Maya in the loop about whatever the blood supply problem is. “The plan is to go in and ask her for help.”
“With your memory?” She raises an eyebrow. On our last adventure, I got most of my memories back. There’s still a little damage, just enough to be annoying instead of downright debilitating.
“No, I’m not going to see her for myself. This is more like actual mundane doctor stuff. Because someone important to us has that problem.”
“Yes.” She sighs. “DeCampo. With the blood.”
“Stephanie says she can’t tell me what’s going on.”
“Neither can I.” She hangs her head. “I would if I could. I think you’ll be able to figure it out anyway, Tino, but I made a stupid vow to keep that secret.”
“Oh. I understand.” And I do. For a vampire, word is bond. I might be new at the fangish life, but I’d never ask Maya to break her word just because I’m a curious cat. I’ve got sleuthing skills, and I’m not afraid to use them.
“Do you want me to come with you guys?” Maya’s eyes tilt up, peering at me from beneath her lashes. “I’ve got all my usual business done.”
She’s talking about helping out around Pickering house. A building inhabited by a mix of vampires and magical teenagers tends to need more than a few small repairs and Maya’s handy.
“Nah, I’ll meet you back at Raven’s place.” I point out a duffel I packed full of costuming and supplies. “And bring this over there too. I’m staying through the day in the basement again to help Frankie and the kids with stuff. We can hang around too, watch the laundry dry. Maybe read more of this.” I wave the paperback.
