He shrugs. “I’m taking AP Art. My mother’s idea. The rest is…coincidence.”
He sits on the bleacher next to me. First day of school means no dressing out. Just rules and lockers.
“Hey, Jule.” Rachel Manx slides down the bleacher. The girl hasn’t talked to me since the eighth grade. Talking about me doesn’t count. She either wants the scoop on my mom, or she’s just trying to get near Luke. I can stomach the second possibility, so I go with that.
“Rachel, Luke. Luke, Rachel.” I throw out the introduction like a bone and hope she’ll pant after it.
Rachel scoots around to sit next to Luke. She holds out her hand. “Hi. So, you’re new. Where are you from?”
“Boston,” he answers and shakes her princess-limp hand.
“That’s right,” she exclaims, her hyper-mascaraed eyes popping wide. “Your dad is Oscar Whitmore, the new assistant coach of the Blizzards!”
“You know hockey?” he asks. “I play.”
“I love hockey,” she gushes.
Yeah, right. Rachel knows enough to talk to the hot-bod hockey player.
I lean back against the bleacher and count the retired basketball jerseys and pennants hanging from the rafters. I wonder if they wash those jerseys before hanging them up. Maybe that’s why the gym always stinks.
Assistant Coach MacGuire passes forms and lists of rules down the line of students.
“Where do you play?” Rachel asks. “There isn’t a team at Cougar Creek.”
“There are some leagues over at the IcePlex.”
“Oh, I love the IcePlex. I took figure skating lessons there.”
Yeah, when she was, like, nine. I take a green form and hand the pile to Luke. His fingers brush mine and I jerk back, almost dropping the stack.
“I’ve got them,” he says as I flounder.
I catch Rachel’s pursed lips. “Jule, I’ve been meaning to stop by and see if there is anything I can do to help.”
Oh, here it comes. “Nope, we’re just fine.” I pick up one green paper that fluttered to the polished wood planks and give her a tight, close-lipped smile.
She tips her head down and looks up at me with big, innocent eyes. “Now, Jule, everyone knows that you all aren’t fine at home.” She shakes her highlighted head. “My mom wanted me to ask if she can bring a meal over.” Two months ago might have been nice. I hardly think her mom is offering now. More likely it has everything to do with embarrassing me in front of Luke. Well, I don’t really care what Luke or Rachel thinks, I tell myself, and straighten in my seat.
“Geez, that’s nice,” I say, playing along. “I prefer lasagna, lots of mushrooms.” I squeeze out a smile and stand up just as Carly’s dad, Coach Ashe, dismisses us to find our lockers. What are the chances I’ll ever see a noodle from Rachel’s mother? Nil.
After PE I stop by my locker to grab my French notebook.
“So, you like lasagna?” Luke’s voice makes me catch my breath, throwing my heart again into overdrive. Up and down. It’s like running sprints. He looks around my locker door. “Sorry. Did I scare you?”
“Startled,” I say and bend down to pick up the pouch of pens that had slapped against the linoleum. He studies me as I stand. I feel his scrutiny, like he’s trying to see inside me. I turn. “What?”
“What?” he repeats.
“You keep staring at me. Like you’re trying to see through me, into my skull or something. Like yesterday, except today you aren’t scowling.”
“I’m…trying to figure you out. I’ve never met anyone like you before.” His words start slow, but roll along into a smooth sentence, punctuated with narrowed eyes.
“Well, I’m just a normal girl. I’m not in the witness protection program or a fugitive. I’m boring old Jule Welsh.” I slam my locker a little harder than normal. That’s what an extra dose of adrenaline will do to a person. “So there’s nothing to figure out.”
“Je ne pense pas que tu sois spécial.” The French words flow like he’s the hero of a romantic movie. I swallow hard as my mind swirls around the translation.
“I’m not special,” I whisper. I feel my face flame and turn toward French. I slide into my seat, thankful for the familiar class without Mr. Dark and Hot making my heart race. As Madame Peele drones on in her perfect accent as she hands out review sheets, my mind whirls around the bizarre day. A little shiver tickles up my spine.
I decide to go straight from French to drama. I’ll just use my French notebook if I need to write anything down. This way, I won’t run into Luke, with his focused stares and unspoken questions. I just want to get through this day.
“Hi, Jule,” Ms. Bishop says when I sit back in one of the theater seats in the auditorium. “Have you seen the audition dates for the fall performance?”
My smile is a tight line. “Actually, I sort of wanted to talk with you about that.”
“If the dates don’t work for you, you can stop by and sing a piece anytime.” She waves her hand as if to indicate the time doesn’t matter.
Ms. Bishop is in her late twenties. Theater school is still fresh in her mind. She’s always bitten off more than her students can chew. Her productions are huge, but somehow we pull them off. If things are going poorly in the dress rehearsal, she usually asks me to sing an additional song toward the end. She says my voice smooths over the rough spots.
She sits beside me. “What’s up?”
I take a deep breath and lower my voice. “I don’t know if you’ve heard about my mom.”
“It’s a small community, Jule. Are you okay?”
“Well, yeah, but…” How do I tell my teacher that my crazy mom has forbidden me to ever sing again? I don’t, that’s how. “My dad is worried about my grades, what with everything going on. He doesn’t think it’s a good idea for me to take on the fall production this year. Maybe the spring.”
Ms. Bishop straightens and throws on one of those smiles she uses when we’re all forgetting our lines. She pats my shoulder. “Phantom is a performance of a lifetime. We could go all the way to Nationals with it.” She stands up. “I’ll make certain to give you plenty of time for your studies.” Without another word, she smiles and walks off.
Derek takes Ms. Bishop’s vacant seat. “I think I’ll go for Raoul instead of the Phantom, because then I’d get to kiss you more.”
I groan. He just smiles back, a full spread of really white teeth. Derek. We went out for a couple of weeks last year, but he checked his hair more than I did. When his fashion advice bordered on insults, I’d had enough. He does have a fantastic voice, though, and his dramatic looks make him the thespian heartthrob of the school. “I don’t think I’m going to try out.”
“What? You have to.”
“My dad–”
He cuts me off, apparently not yet tired of hearing his own voice. “You are Juliette to my Romeo, Sandy to my Danny, Bella to my Edward.” I roll my eyes and decide it’s not worth my breath.
“Welcome to Advanced Performance Arts.” Ms. Bishop swoops her arms dramatically from center stage. “This is an elective, but,” she leans out, scanning all of us, “it is every bit as important as your core classes.” Her gaze lingers on me, but slides away before it becomes a stare. “Especially for those of you planning to major in performing arts in college. I want your best.”
“Always!” Derek calls out and several chuckles erupt around us.
She casts him a wry smile, but continues. “Mediocre effort equals a mediocre recommendation and a mediocre grade.” She turns in a circle. “You are young, energetic, full of life and drama.” Several giggles bubble out from the girls behind me. “Put it to good use, up here.” She sweeps her arms wide.
“We have a production this fall that will challenge us.” Her gaze searches for mine. “I need your voices, your hearts, your souls to pull off…Phantom of the Opera.” Ms. Bishop pulls a cord dangling from above, and down rolls a six-foot, silk-screened playbill for the opera.
Derek claps enthusiastically, and the rest o
f the auditorium joins in with a few whistles. I realize the pain in my chest is due to my lack of breathing. I force an inhale. So much for depending on my survival instincts.
Derek leans into me. “I think she’ll put me in the Phantom main role, even if I want Raoul,” he says. “She needs us.” He smirks. “Winston can take Raoul.”
“I told you,” I whisper, “I might not try out.”
He stares, aghast. “Then you can kiss your acceptance to Boston University goodbye.” He smiles. “If your dad is worried about your grades, I’m sure Ms. Bishop will tutor you herself to keep them up. Who else could carry the role of Christine? Madison? If this was a comedy, maybe, but Phantom? Come on, Jule, you know Christine is your role.”
Ms. Bishop hands out a brief intro to the story and runs down the characters as well as the intricate props that will be needed. “Not everyone has the voice to carry this performance,” she says, “but we need all of you working diligently and perfectly behind the scenes to create the Phantom illusion.”
I sigh and sink deeper into the threater seat. What the hell am I going to do?
As I walk out of the auditorium alone, I think about Derek’s words. The worst part is that he’s right. This is the role of a lifetime. And if this were last year, my mother would have been ecstatic, cheering for and working with me through the whole thing. But not now. Now I am alone. The whole thing makes me miss her even more.
I put one foot in front of the other. The halls have cleared out. I must be walking slowly, but Carly will wait for me in the parking lot. I just want to go home and crawl into my sweats with a cup of hot cocoa.
I step around the corner and jerk back to press against the wall. Taylin is talking to Luke at his locker. I can hear them easily.
“It’s her, isn’t it?” she hisses like a viper.
“I don’t know,” he answers evenly. “Something’s there. I feel…different.” He hesitates. “Happy.”
“Crazy,” Taylin says and I hear her flop back against the metal doors.
Who are they talking about? I remain still, my eyes scanning the now-empty hallway. I stare at my notebook to eavesdrop without looking quite so obvious.
“Shit, Lucas…Mathias and I just found you again. We don’t want to lose you.”
“You’re not going to lose me.”
“How do you know that? If you kill–”
“I’m not going to kill anyone,” he whispers.
Kill? I can’t swallow. My mouth is the Sahara. I lean back against the cool locker doors and hope they haven’t seen me. Who could Taylin think he’s tempted to kill? The harsh brutality in his dark eyes yesterday flashes in the back of my closed eyelids.
“Hey!” A deep voice chops through me with precision, blasting my shallow breathing to smithereens.
3
“He who sings frightens away his ills.”
~Miguel de Cervantes, Don Quixote
“Brother!”
I realize the voice is coming from the other hall, where Luke and Taylin are whispering. I barely hear the thump of sneakers against the linoleum over my pounding heart. My mind is still reeling over the word “kill.”
“Lucas! It’s about time you showed up.” I don’t have to look to know that bellowing voice. It’s usually yelling numbers on the football field. Matt Kenzie, Varsity quarterback, big, untouchable, Mr. Football. He goes through girls like they’re a favorite drink of the week and yet they keep falling for his strength and good looks. Stupid. Even Carly crushed on him last year.
“He goes by Luke this time,” Taylin says. This time?
“We should talk somewhere else,” Luke says softly. I can hear thumping like he’s patting Matt’s back, or vice versa. “But yeah, it’s good to see you, too.”
“I think Lucas has found his—”
“Not here,” Luke overrides Taylin. “Let’s go.”
I wait until they disappear down the corridor and count to ten before I stumble to my locker. I can’t seem to stop shaking long enough to turn the combination. Kill? Did they say kill? Who has Luke found? The hairs on my arms stand at full alert as I remember the brutal stare Luke gave me yesterday. Brother? Is that just slang? Is Luke a gang member? Questions whiz around my head like a swarm of killer bees until my temples throb. I shove several books into my book bag.
“There you are.”
I swivel, my hand against my chest.
Carly stands with her hands out like I’m an armed lunatic. “Jule? I was wondering what happened to you.”
I’m breathing so hard it could be panting.
“Hell, Jule. You okay?”
“Not really.” I focus on my breathing, slowing it down.
“Are you hyperventilating?’
“I don’t know. You’re the doctor.”
“You are.” Carly rushes over. “Sit down and put your head on your knees.”
I’m too tingly to tell her not to worry. So I sit and inhale and exhale while she roots around my locker, looking for something for me to breathe into. It’s the first day of school and I’m going to have a nervous breakdown. Maybe that would get me out of the musical. Maybe Dad will have to ship me off to be with Mom at the psychiatric hospital. Kill? I couldn’t have heard that.
Carly squats down next to me. “Let’s get you home.” I just love Carly. She slings my pack on my back and loops an arm through mine. We walk outside arm in arm. The cheer squad is sitting on one of the picnic tables, flipping their hair and whispering about whatever tidbit is making the gossip rounds. I probably qualify.
I inhale deeply as Carly opens the passenger door. “Thanks,” I murmur and she smiles.
“No problemo, sista.”
As she pulls out of her spot, I see Taylin, Matt, and Luke near Taylin’s beat up four-door. Luke’s eyes lock with mine through the windshield. My breath feels paralyzed.
“Well, at least he’s not scowling this time,” Carly says.
All three of them look our way. Luke has a lazy grin on his face. “Although,” Carly whispers and hits the up button on her window, “Matt and Taylin seem pissed about something.” Carly glances at me but doesn’t ask. “Let’s get you home.”
The trees flash by as I stare out the passenger window. Carly turns G106 on the radio and sings along with a new song that just hit the charts. I don’t. Out of habit, so as not to cause Carly to wreck.
Two little tones sound from my book bag. A text. I fish around in the nylon side pocket and read the two simple sentences. I sigh and rub at my forehead. Could today get any worse?
Please see Mom today. She’s asking about you a lot.
Love, Dad
“Crap,” I murmur.
“What?” Carly asks and tries to peer at my phone.
“It’s my dad. Mom’s asking for me. I really need to go see her.” My words are low, heavy, like they weigh a hundred pounds.
“You haven’t been for a while.”
“I know. It’s just…hard to see her like that. I guess I’ll go now.”
“Uh, you can’t drive,” Carly says. “You were just hyperventilating in a heap on the floor.”
“You’re overdramatizing.”
“No, I’m not,” Carly insists. She turns down the road past my house but doesn’t turn in.
“Where are you taking me?”
“To see your mom,” Carly says with a smug smile.
“I’m sure your mom is expecting you home. Doesn’t she make a big deal out of the first day of school? Cake and stuff?” Just like my mom used to.
Carly shrugs. “I’ll call her. She’ll understand. And it’s still early.” She taps the digital clock on the dash that reads 2:30. “I’ll take you over and do homework in the lobby while you visit. Then I’ll bring you home. Easy.” She smiles at me and turns up the radio so I can’t argue.
The ride to the hospital takes about thirty minutes. As Carly follows the cobblestone driveway through manicured flowerbeds, I try not to think. But the vision of my mom’s face, pinched wi
th hysterical fear, keeps popping up as we park in the shade of a big oak.
I glance at the hospital name: Renaissance Center Psychiatric Institute. Shouldn’t it say something that indicates perpetual bathrobes and slippers, like Peaceful Acres or Restful Haven? There’s a check-in desk in front of us as we walk into the air-conditioned foyer. Linoleum glimmers with a sterile sheen. A few rugs are scattered among small clusters of comfortable, modern-looking chairs.
“May I help you?” the receptionist smiles at us.
Carly hooks her thumb over her shoulder toward a green couch by a fake fireplace. “I’ll just get comfy.”
The receptionist’s bright red lips smile at me.
“Uh, yeah. I’m here to see my mom, Isabella Welsh.”
She clicks away on the keyboard, then hands me a badge. “Yellow one.” I see a basket of red badges with buttons on them. Panic buttons? I wonder how bad off Mom would have to be for me to get one of those.
The smell of antiseptic is stronger inside the locked double doors that the receptionist buzzes open for me. That alone would drive me nuts.
“Hey,” I say as Dad steps outside Mom’s room, followed by a man in a white coat.
“Julietta.” Dad pulls me into a hug, even though my body is much too stiff to respond naturally. “I’m glad you came.”
“Mom?”
“She’s okay,” Dad answers. He glances at the doctor. “Just, she’s losing weight, more than she should.”
The doctor turns to me. “Your mother’s initial panic has faded, but her overall mental stability is weak. Her paranoia persists and now she has stopped eating. We thought it would be good for her to see that you are well. Her paranoia centers around you.”
“Is…she singing?” I ask, even though I’m not sure why.
“Uh.” The doctor looks at me critically for a brief second, like he’s wondering if I’m nuts, too. “No, I haven’t heard her sing, although your father says she was an opera star at one time.”
“Can I go in?”
Dad pushes in through the door. “Isabella? Julietta is here.”
“Carissima!” Mom’s voice sounds strained, like she’s been crying.
“Hey, Mom,” I say as casually as I can. She’s sitting up in a hospital bed with my parents’ comforter on top. Bright, flowery pillows from home prop her up. The room is full of pictures, of me, Mica, Dad. Only our family. Not one of the Ashes, even though they’ve been intertwined with my family forever. Fresh flowers sit beside her bed with a big piece of untouched chocolate cake. Her favorite.
Siren's Song Page 3
