by Rule, Adi
“Thanks.” Sing strides out of the room and down the stairs to the lobby. She sinks into an ugly maroon chair and tosses her Angelique score onto a battered coffee table. With sharp, jerky motions, she pulls a notebook and pencil from her backpack and begins writing.
Dear Papà,
How are rehearsals for the new season going? [Interest in what he’s doing, a good way to start.] School is fine. My classes are fairly decent so far, except trigonometry, which is hard, and Nature of Music, where we just listen to birds all day. I’m understudying the lead in the opera. [This revelation might elicit a curt note to the Maestro or President Martin, but she doesn’t hold out much hope it would change anything.] Rehearsals are fine, except for my coaching, which is useless. I don’t even have a real coach, just some Apprentice—Daysmoor—who sleeps all the time and doesn’t know anything about singing. [Offhand enough not to seem like whining.] Anyway, the scenery is very nice, and I can’t wait to visit the village. Say hi to Zhin for me. I hope she is making you proud!
Baci,
Sing
She frowns at the last two sentences, then erases them.
She can still hear Daysmoor’s horrible, raspy voice. Breathe. Support. No kidding. Did he think that was helpful advice, that she didn’t know singing requires air? Stuck-up little diva, he called her. Since when is “diva” a bad word? A diva is a queen, just like Barbara da Navelli was—queen of the stage, queen of the business.
Sing knows she struggles with her own diva-ness; her mother was always telling her to act the part more. If you play a thing strongly enough, she used to say, you make it true.
Yes. Yes. Make it true.
Writing the letter has helped her anger to subside. She lets her shoulders fall and sinks into the chair. Then she reads it over one more time. It’s very diva, she realizes. Her mother would be proud.
She tears it out of her notebook and rips it up, clutching the pieces in her fist.
Thirty-two
IN THE PARKING LOT, swirls of bodies huddle in groups, duck into cars, shake umbrellas. Gray clouds spit out masses of rain in bad-tempered torrents. Sing and Marta stand awkwardly in the main doorway to Hector Hall, rain pattering in a steady hum punctuated by short, blustery bursts.
Sing hasn’t worn her regulation raincoat before; it looks more like a black garbage bag tied in the middle. “We don’t have a car,” she says, making an indeterminate gesture at the weather. “You want to walk all the way in this?”
Marta peers through the rain. “Mr. Bernard said he could take a few people.” Her raincoat, though still garbage bag–esque, looks slightly better than Sing’s because she’s taller and thinner.
Hopping a ride with the teacher. Great. Sing pulls her regulation rain hat down over her eyes.
“Don’t you want to go?” Marta says. “It’s supposed to be a blast.”
Mr. Bernard’s famous getting-to-know-you excursions are supposedly one of the highlights of making Opera Workshop. But Sing doesn’t feel up to a rollicking night on the town.
Still, it is an opportunity to make connections. “Yeah,” she says, pushing her hands into her garbage bag pockets. “We should probably schmooze, right?”
“I’ve heard it’s the thing to do,” Marta says, laughing a little.
Sing can’t picture Marta schmoozing. She realizes with a pang of pity that Marta will never have a career without this essential skill. “It’s how the business works,” she says. “It’s how my mother got her career, really.”
Marta seems taken aback. “Your mother was wonderful, Sing. She was amazing.”
Sing feels her cheeks reddening. “Well, yeah, she was.” Was she? “But she wouldn’t have been anything without my father. He already had a name, you know. He was already world-famous. She used that.” Marta’s gaze snaps away. Sing doesn’t know why, but she continues, speaking softly to the back of Marta’s shiny, plastic shoulders. “She would have used anyone, I think, who could have helped her. I’m not sure she even loved him.”
Marta turns back but doesn’t acknowledge Sing’s words, which is just as well. “Thought I saw Mr. Bernard.”
Sing squints through the rain, half hoping their teacher has already gone. Her eyes are drawn to a cozy scene over by a little alcove, and after a moment she realizes she is staring.
You’re obsessing. She hears Jenny’s voice even though she’s not there. That’s not true, she tells herself, turning away. She isn’t even remotely interested in what Ryan and Lori Pinkerton are doing over there under that umbrella. Not even remotely.
“I like your necklace,” Marta says, studying the strange crystal Sing now wears every day.
Sing says, “Thanks,” but tucks the necklace into her shirt, where it chills her skin.
Marta shouts, “Hey! Mr. Bernard! You have room for us?”
Please, no, Sing thinks. But Marta grabs her elbow and leads her across the lot to where Mr. Bernard is standing next to a decrepit old coupe. “But of course!” he says. “There’s always room for a couple of sophisticated ladies!”
Sing insists Marta take the front and clambers into the cramped, muggy backseat. Her knees press into the back of Marta’s seat as the coupe wheezes itself to life.
“I can’t wait to start blocking Angelique,” Mr. Bernard says, the car still in park. “We’re going ultratrad on this one—none of that ‘setting it in an office building with everyone in business suits’ crap. We are talking wigs! Period costumes! Backdrops with trees, not triangles and splotches or whatever the hell else is arteestic lately.” Marta laughs, and Sing can’t help but join her. Mr. Bernard taps the steering wheel. “Sorry, girls, we’re waiting for one more. Sheesh, I’m going to be late to my own party. Oh, here’s Cinderella now!” He waves. The rain on the window obscures the figure crossing the lot toward them.
“Is that Apprentice Daysmoor?” Marta asks. “Is he coming?”
“Sure.” Mr. Bernard creaks the car into gear as the figure approaches. “Wouldn’t miss it!”
Sing says, “The Apprentice Daysmoor? The one who looks like a corpse?”
“Only less charismatic?” Mr. Bernard adds, then says, “Sorry! Sorry, forget I said that.”
Marta giggles. “Oh, he’s not that bad.”
The door creaks open and Daysmoor folds himself up in the seat next to Sing, knees up to his chest. She turns to the window as the car lurches into gear.
“Glad to have you with us, Nathan,” Mr. Bernard says as they rattle along in the rain.
“One of us has to make an appearance, and George sure as hell wasn’t going to come,” Daysmoor says.
“Delightful. Well, I hope you’ll grace us with a performance later. There’s a first time for everything, right?”
Sing frowns. Performance? What kind of dinner is this?
Daysmoor doesn’t answer, and Sing glances at him. He is staring out the window. Thinking about his last “performance”?
Marta’s hair bobs. “I’ve been thinking, Mr. Bernard, about my character. You know, in Greek mythology…”
And she’s off. Sing likes Marta, but it just seems like her ears turn off when Marta starts in about mythology.
Daysmoor is absorbed in the misty trees ambling past. Sing asks, “So what’s this performance?”
He doesn’t turn to her. “You’ll see.” He doesn’t say it in a way that invites her to investigate further.
Sing huffs, not caring if he hears. Fine.
The car crackles through some sizable puddles as the raindrops rattle the windows. Mr. Bernard and Marta chatter away in the front seat.
“It’s just a stupid party game,” Daysmoor says after a moment.
“Fine,” Sing says, more rudely than she meant to.
Now Daysmoor turns to her, fixing his shadowed eyes on her face, and she gets a strange sensation in her stomach. Quietly, almost as though he doesn’t want the front seat to hear, he says, “That—that song you were singing in front of the Woolly, the night of the Welcome Gatherin
g. Just sing that.”
She feels her mouth open. “The farfallina song? It’s just a kids’ song. It’s silly.”
He turns away again. “Or don’t,” he snaps. “I don’t really care.”
Thirty-three
IT IS THE DAY THE FELIX’S CHILD goes missing.
No longer content with the songs of birds and streams, he has been tempted by other sounds: the pining of violins, the airy babble of flutes, and above all, the enchanting, mysterious wails and growls of human voices. And the girl, who made the sounds he prefers over all others.
The clouds have been gathering worriedly for days, finding and clinging to one another; some ripple and billow, some drift quietly in a morose calm. The Felix’s child pads hesitantly away from the dark softness of the den and into the gray afternoon light.
He must find the sounds again.
Thirty-four
THE VILLAGE OF DUNHAMMOND huddles quietly at the base of the mountain whose snowcapped summit watches over the conservatory. Main Street is home to most of the local businesses, while a few small farms nestle along the smaller dirt roads. Low stone walls trail out from the center of town in all directions like a spiderweb.
The Mountain Grill is not entirely equipped to handle the bubbly, wriggly, forte group of students who follow Mr. Bernard through the low, dark front door into the low, dark dining room. Tables are hurriedly pushed together in a row; the lone waitress scurries back to the kitchen and appears again a moment later, looking frazzled.
Sing and Marta sit next to each other at the end of the row of tables. Mr. Bernard is in his element, patting students on the back and remembering everyone’s names even though it’s still the first week of school and all the students are wearing identical clothing. Daysmoor acquires some kind of beverage nearly instantly and slouches into a chair at the corner of the table, not speaking to anyone. The empty chairs gradually fill with bodies until there are only two remaining seats, the ones directly across from Sing and Marta. And it appears they will remain empty until the low door creaks open once more and Lori and Ryan stumble in, laughing.
Sing stiffens. Lori and Ryan sit down, Lori greeting Marta like an old friend while retaining one hundred percent of Ryan’s focus.
“I don’t think we’ve really met,” Sing says as Lori is turning back to Ryan. “I’m Sing.”
“Oh,” Lori says. “Hi, Sing. Nice to meet you.”
She hasn’t told me her name, Sing thinks. She assumes I know it.
Lori snakes her left arm around Ryan’s right. “And you know Ryan Larkin, of course.”
“Yes,” Sing says, not meeting Ryan’s gaze, which she thinks is probably on Lori in any case.
“Sing is a singer, too,” Marta says.
“Lucky, with that name!” Lori laughs. “Anyway, of course I know all about Sing. She’s my understudy.” She leans in, and rose fragrance prickles Sing’s nose. “You must be very talented!”
Sing shrugs. “It’s just an understudy.”
“She is talented,” Ryan says. “She sang a Janice Bailey vocalise for her placement.” Sing’s heart gives a hopeful flutter.
Lori raises her eyebrows. “Wow! How did George like that?”
She means the Maestro, Sing realizes, and wonders if she calls him George to his face. “Not very much.”
Lori frowns, jutting her lip out in a mock pout. “He is so old-fashioned sometimes. Don’t worry. I’m sure you sounded great.”
* * *
Sing stares, glassy-eyed, at the remains of her cheeseburger. Lori is telling a story about losing the heel of one of her designer shoes just before she had to go onstage for a recital.
“So I just kicked off the other one! I mean, the dress was right to the floor, right? Who was going to know? But when I did my bows, one of my naked feet poked out. Oh, my God, I thought Benny was going to die.”
“Benny” would be legendary composer Benjamin Stanhope, who gives master classes at Fire Lake during the summers, and Lori clearly enjoys the admiring gasps her clumsy name-drop prompts. Sing purses her lips. None of these people know that “Benny” is famously outgoing and is on a first-name basis with legions of students.
Lori barrels on. “It’s so lucky Hayley had convinced me to get a pedi the day before! At least my toes were presentable!”
Everyone laughs except Sing. Even Marta, whose smile hasn’t faded all evening, chuckles a little.
“Hayley can always be counted on to peer pressure you into a spa,” says Ryan, and Lori punches his arm playfully.
“You know you love the spa!” she says. “Let’s see your pedi! Come on, I know your tootsies are all pretty!”
Sing wonders if she could possibly fake food poisoning to get out of the rest of dinner. It wouldn’t be that hard to make herself vomit.
At least Apprentice Daysmoor, when he glances their way, seems even more nauseated with Lori than Sing is. He has spent most of the evening blearily contemplating his salad, as though it’s trying to communicate with him and he isn’t impressed with what it has to say.
Mr. Bernard rises and taps his water glass with his fork. “Ladies and gentlemen!” The chatter dies down. Even Lori composes herself and turns politely toward the head of the table. “It is time for the Noble Call!”
Sing looks at Marta, who shrugs. Some of the students look confused, but others laugh or cover their faces. An older boy conspicuously makes to leave, but Mr. Bernard pushes him down, laughing, and says, “Just for that, Derek, you’re first!”
Derek, whom Sing recognizes as one of the chorus members, protests, but Mr. Bernard shakes his head. “I am lord of these lands, and I decree that you shall be first! Noble Call!”
“What’s a Noble Call?” Marta whispers.
“Some kind of tradition,” Ryan says. “Irish or English or something. The Noble—that’s the person throwing the party—has the right to make everyone else perform.”
Sing groans. So this is what Mr. Bernard was talking about in the car. Why is her life nothing but performances?
Ryan laughs, reaches across the table to pat her hand—thank goodness she had her hand resting there!—and says, “It’s not bad, really. You don’t have to do anything if you don’t want to. You could just say, ‘My cheeseburger was really good,’ or something. He won’t pick you early, since you’re new, so just watch everyone else and decide.”
Derek has chosen to recite a poem, something about a man who gets drunk and wakes up in a ditch next to a pig. Mr. Bernard looks scandalized, in a theatrical sort of way, and hoots along with everyone else at the punch line.
Several students recite poems, a few sing, and one girl even does an Irish step dance in honor of the tradition’s heritage. Marta, surprisingly, does a magic trick involving a napkin and a disappearing butter knife and earns hearty applause. Ryan regales them all with a dreadful yet enthusiastic version of the famous aria “Nessun dorma” and earns equally enthusiastic boos as well as two dinner rolls to the head.
“Princess Pinkerton,” Mr. Bernard booms, pointing, and Lori stands to scattered claps and whistles.
Sing expects her to play the insincerely modest “Oh, gosh, whatever shall I do?” card, but Lori is a true performer. There is no hesitation in her expression or her voice—her fierce gaze and confident body language instantly command attention. Sing notices with a sickening feeling that Ryan’s eyes seem to sparkle as he watches the resident diva.
Lori sings a musical theater song—bouncy, funny, animated, and with the obligatory money note at the end. Sing estimates it’s a high C and that it can be heard all the way to the conservatory. The Grill bursts into ecstatic applause, and Mr. Bernard makes a big show of cleaning out his ears with his fingers.
Lori nods and sits gracefully, and as the applause dies, Sing realizes with horror that Mr. Bernard is now pointing at her. “Duchess da Navelli!”
Follow Lori? Is he crazy? How can she out-diva the resident diva?
She stands, trying to keep the motion smooth
and confident, and looks out over the crowd of students. They are quiet, expectant. What can she do? It would be pointless to do an aria; even if she sang flawlessly, no one here would appreciate it—they’re all still under the spell of Princess Pinkerton. Going for another money note would just seem like copying, and frankly, she realizes with a sinking feeling, she’s not sure she could outdo Lori’s high C. It was good.
But she is standing, and everyone is looking at her. She scans the room, buying time, trying not to make eye contact.
She sees Daysmoor watching her. Of all the faces in that room, why has she found his? No smile of support, no thumbs-up. Nothing to indicate he gives a damn whether she triumphs or fails in front of all these people. Just that inscrutable stare from those eyes that unnerve her.
He wanted her to sing the farfallina song, a silly kids’ song! But somehow, frozen, she can’t think of anything else.
So she starts in, remembering how her father sang it when she was little. Her father, whose voice is as ratty as old burlap.
“Farfallina, bella e bianca; vola, vola, mai si stanca…”
She sings it the way he used to, letting his voice laugh a bit at the funny lines and cry a bit at the sad ones. Little butterfly, beautiful and white; fly, fly, never get tired …
It occurs to her as the swelling applause starts that it is probable no one else fully understood the words; maybe a few other singers, since they’ve studied Italian. The audience’s warm reaction, therefore, surprises her even more. Everyone applauds heartily—even, she notices, Lori.
But above her broad, fake smile, Lori’s pretty eyes convey nothing but a new dislike. Despite herself, Sing can’t help but stare back, fascinated and triumphant. She has seen Lori’s expression before, on the face of each city’s most popular soprano when Barbara da Navelli came to town. It is the look of a resident diva who fears for her throne.
As the applause increases, she notices Daysmoor isn’t clapping. But he gives a curt nod when she meets his eye, and it makes her stomach buzz.
