by Rule, Adi
“Thanks, Professor.” Lori slings her brown leather messenger bag over her shoulder and turns to Sing. “Sorry to run into your lesson. With the Fire Lake—oh, but you know all about it, right? See you later.” She flashes a smile and swishes out.
There’s nothing colder than an insincere smile, Sing thinks. A scowl or a hiss is an admission, a way to begin, but there’s nothing to be done with a smile. Barbara da Navelli smiled a lot.
“So it’s the understudy run-through tomorrow,” Professor Needleman says. “How are you feeling?”
The understudy run-through. Sing has had butterflies in her stomach all week. She hesitates but decides on the truthful approach. “I’m not sure I can do it. I mean, I know all the music, but…”
The professor nods. “You know, that’s not an unhealthy feeling. You have a right to be nervous. You’ll be singing a major role for the first time in front of the Maestro and the whole orchestra and cast. It’s a big deal.”
“I’m not sure that made me feel better,” Sing says.
“Maybe not. But there it is. Now, let’s warm up.” Professor Needleman sits at the piano, her black robes creasing as neatly as paper. Sing rolls her shoulders.
They don’t pull out Angelique today. Instead, the professor gives Sing a Fauré song, gentle and lovely, and they read through it. It is one Sing knows but hasn’t looked at in over a year. They start again at the beginning, but Professor Needleman stops playing after a few measures.
“You know this one.”
“Yes, it was one of the first songs I did in recital.”
“It sounds like it.” The professor’s voice isn’t harsh, just businesslike.
Sing feels her shoulders droop. “I guess we should look at a different one, then.”
Professor Needleman looks up, mouth curved down in an appraising frown. “It is particularly difficult to relearn a song your muscles already know. But I think we should keep at this one.” Then, to Sing’s surprise, she smiles. “We need to take you out of yourself, I think. You carry a lot of weight in your voice. I don’t mean your tone, it’s … something else.”
Sing likes her teacher’s smile. “I think I’d like to be taken out of myself, actually.”
The professor nods. “Good. Now sing the beginning again, but this time do jumping jacks.”
Sing is far too seasoned to question. But she laughs when her voice jolts and bumps along with the jumping jacks.
“Creative pitches aside, that was actually much better,” the professor says as Sing catches her breath. “Now, singers do need to learn focus. You need to know what’s going on physically and emotionally. Lessons are important; study is important. You can really damage yourself if you don’t know what you’re doing, no matter how sincere you are. But sometimes, too, we need to be distracted.” She flips the music back to the beginning of the song. “Your body knows what to do, Sing. It wants to sing well. You have all the right instincts, but there’s something missing. Something … flat. Not pitchwise, of course, just something that doesn’t quite … sparkle.”
Sing leans on the piano. “I think I think too much.”
Professor Needleman looks at her. “We all think too much. Here, go grab that broom from the corner.”
For the rest of her lesson, Sing sings while balancing a broom, bristles up, on her palm. Following the subtle, capricious swaying of the broom, not letting it fall, takes all her focus and energy. She feels herself getting out of the way of her own voice, peeling away a layer of resistance. It isn’t perfect, but when she finally returns the broom to the corner, she feels energized rather than tired.
“Fauré would be proud,” says Professor Needleman. “Now go do something else. And don’t be late for your lesson again.”
Forty-five
SING FINDS A SEAT NEAR THE BACK of the theater and stretches her legs out under the seat in front of her, annoyed that there isn’t enough light to do her American lit homework. She’ll be up too late again, slogging through Moby-Dick, actually missing her sappy orphan novels. And she’ll be tired at the understudy run-through tomorrow.
She fingers the teardrop at her throat. It does nothing but rest against her skin, cool and lifeless, yet she can’t bring herself to take it off.
The warm wood of the Woolly’s polished stage glows under the lights where the singers are gathered. The Maestro perches in the orchestra pit, Daysmoor in a folding chair at his side.
Rehearsal begins with the villagers worrying about the approaching Felix. The chorus sounds fairly cohesive, although, as usual, there are one or two exuberant members whose exaggerated pronunciations make them look as though they’re mouthing a message to a distant friend with poor vision.
The duet is next. Sing tries not to listen, but Lori and Prince Elbert have resonant voices. Without homework to distract her, there is only so much concentration she can devote to her fingernails, the chair back in front of her, and the shadowy, vaulted ceiling. Onstage, Prince Elbert takes Lori’s hands and she smiles a sad, saintly smile. Sing rolls her eyes. A bit much for a simple orchestra rehearsal.
They skip the Silvain and Felix battle, which is too bad since it’s the most exciting part. Sing has only seen it once. The second time she saw Angelique, of course, they never got to the end.
“Silvain, we’ll go from your aria,” the Maestro says. Charles takes center stage for his big moment. Lori takes a swig of water, a little flushed.
Charles, singing the aria in which Silvain wishes for Elbert’s life over his own, is posing like an enthusiastic Hamlet and making sweeping gestures. Sing scrunches her eyebrows. At the end of his aria, Charles actually slumps over. Seriously? And Lori poignantly touches a hand to her lips. What is with everyone tonight?
The chorus sings their rousing final number. “House lights up,” Mr. Bernard chirps from the front row. “Good job, everyone. Character is coming through!”
“Chorus, you can go.” Apprentice Daysmoor’s raspy voice is the antithesis of Mr. Bernard’s chipper tenor. “We’ll take ten minutes.”
“Off book next week—lose those scores, people!” Mr. Bernard calls as the singers file off. “Where are the house lights?”
The lights come up. Sing unscrews the heavy plastic cap of her top-of-the-line water bottle, slides out of her seat, and means to head for the fountain in the lobby. But she is stopped by the sight of the back of a head in the third row: wavy dark hair more than peppered with gray; a crisp, excellent suit over round shoulders. She puts a hand on the seat in front of her.
Her father.
For once, she doesn’t feel any eyes on her. Her famous father commands the attention in a room like a bomb going off. What is he doing here?
What will he say about Angelique?
Then, next to him, she sees the familiar shape of an expensive, bobbed haircut.
Zhin?
They have risen, and turn to make their way up the aisle toward Sing. Zhin sees her and rushes forward, squealing, to draw her into a bony hug.
“What are you doing here?” Sing says, unable to suppress a squeal of excitement herself. Their summer at Stone Hill seems so far away. Zhin looks different. Her clothes are a little more tailored, her makeup a little more refined. But her expression is the same—intelligent and alert.
“I asked your dad if I could come with him. Man, this place is remote.” Zhin lets go of Sing and leans against one of the seats, already looking around with an air of authority. Warmth spreads through Sing’s body at the sight of her, tension she didn’t know she had being released.
“A surprise, eh?” Sing’s father says, reaching them. “How are you feeling, carina?”
“Bene, Papà.”
He smiles, sweeping her hair out of her face and tapping her nose. “You are looking beautiful, my dear. I think the conservatory is good for you, yes? Lots of opportunities.”
She nods but has noticed a hardness in his eyes, a forced quality to the wide smile. Her muscles tense. If Zhin weren’t here, what would
he be saying right now?
His eyes don’t stay with her for long, however. “Maestro!” he exclaims, voice jovial. Across the theater, Maestro Keppler turns, and Sing’s father is off to greet him, rippling the crowd as he goes, glances turning to stares turning to whispers. Ernesto da Navelli. The celebrity. In a few moments, everyone in the Woolly will be watching him.
Everyone but Sing and Zhin, who settle into seats and grin at each other.
“So how is it?” Zhin asks, leaning forward and arching her smooth eyebrows. “Is it as rustic as it seems?”
Sing drapes an arm over the back of the seat next to her. “It’s fine. The groups are good. Not Fire Lake, though, you know.” She laughs.
Zhin smiles and rolls her eyes. “Oh, my God, it doesn’t seem real, does it? You would not believe the money, and it’s a lean year. But how are you doing? Your uniform is so cute. Don’t you love those knee-high socks?”
Sing groans. “Oh, yes. I get to wear them every day.”
Zhin laughs. “You look fantastic, by the way. Boys falling all over you, I bet!” The shadows of the house, even with the lights up, hide Sing’s blush. Zhin goes on. “That’s one thing about Fire Lake—the men are old. There’s like one guy in his twenties—a trumpet—and he’s married.”
Near the stage, Maestro da Navelli is in conversation with Maestro Keppler, polite smiles on both sides. Daysmoor stands to one side, the only disinterested face in the theater. “So how’s my father?” Sing asks.
Zhin shrugs. “Fine, as far as I know. I only see him in rehearsals, really. Hey, you know there’s a New Artist vacancy? You going to go for it?”
“I don’t have a shot,” Sing says, hoping Zhin will argue with her.
Zhin never disappoints. “Of course you do!” She lowers her voice and leans in. “Look, why do you think your dad is here? Griss has him scouting it out. The board is going to be here for Gloria Stewart International, which means they’ll be here for your performance, too. Word is, they’re seriously considering infusing some fresh young blood into the opera. Fire Lake is hurting for cash, you know, and the crowd loves a prodigy.”
“That’s true,” Sing concedes. “If they could have a ten-year-old wearing the Viking horns and riding in on the winged horse, I’m sure they would—the CDs would sell like crazy. But that’s novelty. Fire Lake hires talent. Class.”
“Yeah, of course. I’m a case in point, right?” Zhin says, and they laugh. “But all I’m saying is they’re, you know, trying to think differently. And an exceptional conservatory student would be a big hit with the masses. I mean, you gotta have the pipes, of course, but you do, Sing. I’ve heard you.”
Diva-ness pulses in Sing’s chest. “Still,” she says, “they don’t just hand New Artist spots out.”
“Your mom got one, right? Sing Angelique. Bang, you’re in.”
It would never be as simple as Bang, you’re in. But Sing allows herself to entertain the thought, with a mix of shame and glee. Why not? Why shouldn’t I capitalize on my mother’s success? Energized by Zhin’s optimism, she tries out another doubt, just to see what Zhin does with it. “I’m not even the best singer at DC. You know I didn’t get the lead, right? That I’m understudying Lori Pinkerton?”
“Who’s Lori Pinkerton?” Zhin narrows her eyes and scans the room. “Never mind,” she says. “Got her. Blondie over there, am I right? Yeah, she was the one hooting out Angelique, wasn’t she?”
Sing looks. Lori is leaning against the stage, talking to friends. But she is not just part of a group. The friends are unmistakably with her.
“Typical,” Zhin says. “Glitz and attitude. Loves the lifestyle, hates the work. Music is work, Sing. You know that.”
“Sure.” It is certainly work for Zhin, who practices five hours a day.
Zhin puts a hand on her hip. “Blondie’s a big fish here, but she won’t last five years out of conservatory. White teeth and a hot body may set her apart now, but girls like her aren’t dedicated. Dime-a-dozen soprano. For every one onstage there are eleven more in the wings waiting for her to die. Forget her—Tori? Lori? Forget her.”
“Yes, but she was cast,” Sing says. “She’s the one onstage. That makes me one of the eleven waiting in the wings, doesn’t it?”
“You are not one of the eleven. You are a da Navelli. Lori?” Zhin leans back. “Politics.”
Politics. Can it be that simple? Politics?
Everything is simpler with Zhin around. “You know,” Sing says as the thought occurs to her, “maybe they didn’t want me singing Angelique. Because of my mom and everything.”
“Exactly.” Zhin pulls a comb from her purse and runs it through her glossy hair.
“Maybe my dad even talked to them.” Even as she says it, she isn’t sure who they are—the Maestro? the president?—but her brain keeps churning. “Maybe he knew we were doing Angelique after all, and he told them not to cast me.” It is ridiculous. Zhin makes her think ridiculous things sometimes, she knows, but she likes thinking them.
The lights flicker, heralding the end of the break. Zhin pauses midcomb. “You didn’t tell him you were doing Angelique?” She whistles. “How’d he react?”
Sing grimaces. “I don’t know. He must have found out tonight, I think, if he didn’t know before.”
“Wow.” Zhin glances across the rows of theater seats to where Maestros da Navelli and Keppler seem to be finishing up their conversation. The lights dim. She turns back to Sing. “I don’t think he wants you doing the understudy, but it’s not what you think. Here he comes.”
Ernesto da Navelli is making his way slowly across the house, stopping occasionally to murmur words of greeting and shake hands with excited students. He reaches Sing and Zhin, smiling warmly, and says, “Sing, my dear, come talk to your papà.”
The lobby is empty now as rehearsal starts up again. The padded doors close softly behind Sing and her father, muffling the sounds from the theater. Maestro da Navelli fits perfectly with the deep red carpeting and gold walls, as though he lives there. He is not easily overshadowed by opulence.
“I will not ask why you kept the conservatory’s choice of opera a secret from me,” he says, smile gone. “I understand, carina.”
She doesn’t dare allow herself to feel relieved yet. “I’m sorry, Pap—”
“You probably thought I wouldn’t allow you to participate. And I must tell you, Sing, it goes against my entire heart to think of you singing—this.”
She looks at the floor, squishing the carpeting with her shiny black shoes.
He clears his throat. “But there is nothing we can do now. It is too late to change the program. If I had known earlier—but never mind. It is done. And perhaps it can be to our advantage.”
To our advantage? Sing’s stomach twists. Politics, just as Zhin said. The puppets and the strings. And somehow it’s worse when your father has the strings.
“You may know already that Harland wants to stir things up a little at Fire Lake with this New Artist spot. There are any number of fine soprani who would be suitable for an audition, but he wants to try something new—a truly budding career. Someone we can really groom from day one, who will grow up right in front of our audience. A cocoon from which they can see a butterfly emerge! Wouldn’t that be exciting?”
Sing tries to smile. She has trouble processing what she is hearing. Does he want her to be this butterfly?
He puts a hand to her chin. “It will be like Barbara da Navelli.”
She doesn’t know what to say. She looks away.
“But there is a problem.” His voice is businesslike now. “Harland will only consider young singers who have performed at least one leading role. On this, he will not budge, and he is right, of course. Were you to show an interest in an audition for him, I’m afraid you would not qualify.” He sighs and mutters, “I knew you should have sung Isis at Stone Hill! But I held my tongue. Stupido!”
Sing studies a nearly invisible seam where two sheets of gold damask wall
paper meet. She can hear singing from behind the padded doors. “I have to get back to rehearsal, Papà.”
“Rehearsal? And what do you do there?” He throws his hands up. “Understudy for a run of one performance? You are useless. Oh, carina, don’t be upset. I didn’t mean it that way.” He puts an arm around her shoulders, and she leans into his crisp suit. “You are underappreciated.”
“There’s nothing wrong with being an understudy,” she says, remembering his own words.
He kisses her forehead. “Certainly there is nothing wrong with it! Never forget that! But for one performance, my dear. Surely that is a lot of work for nothing, eh? For one so talented as my girl?” Sing shrugs. Her father goes on. “This Lori Pinkerton. She is not so wonderful, eh? Sometimes directors make mistakes, do they not? But mistakes are easily corrected.”
Sing pulls away, heart beating forcefully just under the surface. “You would let me sing Angelique? After—after—?”
His face darkens. “We do not have much choice, do we?”
For just a moment, she sees everything laid out in front of her—the Autumn Festival, the conversation with Griss, the New Artist spot, Fire Lake, rehearsals with Zhin—
“No,” she says quietly. “No, I can’t.”
“You can, my dear. Of course you can! You know the role already. You have been rehearsing it.”
“It’s not fair,” she says. “It’s not fair to everyone else. I—I want to do it on my own.”
He pats her cheek. “You are a special girl, my little butterfly. Your voice is from heaven. I just want the world to hear it. Think about it, carina. I leave tomorrow afternoon. Think about it. Okay?”
And he is out the door and crossing the quad toward Hector Hall. Sing watches him go.
Angelique. This is what she has wanted her whole life. All it will take is one word to her father: Sì. Yet everything about it is wrong. What would Jenny and Marta say?
