Strange Sweet Song

by Rule, Adi

  She pushes open the heavy door to the theater, makes her way down the dark aisle, and slides in beside Zhin. They are silent for a few moments, watching the rehearsal, which seems significantly more relaxed now that Maestro da Navelli is gone.

  The teardrop is cold against Sing’s chest. She leans in to Zhin and whispers, “What would you wish for, if you had one wish?”

  Zhin laughs out loud, drawing attention. Sing slouches in her seat. Zhin whispers back, “Why wish for anything? There’s nothing you can’t have if you decide to go out and get it. Take advantage of every opportunity. You’ve got to learn that. There’s no better feeling than going for what you want and grabbing it.”

  Sing remembers the exhilaration she felt after the Noble Call. After Ryan kissed her. But she didn’t go out and grab either of those things—they just happened as she was pulled along through the life that seems to form around her.

  But maybe there is a way to get that feeling again. Maybe it’s as Zhin says—she must take advantage of every opportunity.

  Like the opportunity her father is presenting her with now?

  “You wanna go?” Zhin grabs her bag.

  It’s tempting. Another hour, at least, of Maestro Keppler’s disapproving glares, of Daysmoor’s scowl, of Lori’s protruding lips. Of sitting unnoticed in the dark house.

  “Look,” Zhin says, “you want to be a diva? Stop letting people walk all over you. This is pointless. They are making you sit here in the dark for three hours just to watch somebody else sing what should be your role. Stand up for yourself, Sing.”

  Sing watches Maestro Keppler’s back. He didn’t turn around once during the entire first half of rehearsal. He probably can’t even see into the house because of the stage lights. What is the point of her sitting here? Of all the understudies sitting here in the dark? It’s not fair.

  Could she go? Could she just … go?

  What would Barbara da Navelli do?

  “Okay,” she says. “Let’s go.”

  Zhin rises, and they make their way down the darkened aisle. “Seriously—where do our people hang out around here? I’m so done with this crowd. Did you check out hippie girl up there with the huge fairy necklace? Give me a break!”

  Forty-six

  “YEAH, THIS IS ABOUT IT,” Carrie Stewart says, rattling the ice in her drink with her straw. “I don’t know who’ll show up tonight. Could be okay, could be dead.”

  Sing taps her foot to the Mountain Grill’s live music—a circle of guitars, banjos, pennywhistles, drums, violins, and what look to her like weird little bagpipes. Quite a few customers are scattered, at the bar, snugged up to tables, pulling in extra chairs. Sing notices Laura and her friend from The Nature of Music sharing a plate of nachos in the corner and laughing. “I’m glad we didn’t have to walk,” she says. “Thanks for the ride.”

  “No problem,” Carrie says. “That’s what the Tomato is for.” The temperature outside was dropping rapidly, and Sing and Zhin were grateful for a lift in Carrie’s falling-apart red sedan.

  “This is the only place open?” Zhin frowns in the direction of the music circle.

  “It’s the only place, period,” Sing says. Zhin whistles quietly through her teeth.

  Carrie sits back, her orange hair glowing in the low light. “They always do live music, though. It’s all locals. Some of them have been coming every Saturday night for, like, forty years.” The circle is playing something fast and folksy, and she taps her fingers on the table along with them.

  Sing allows herself to sit back, too, despite Zhin’s obvious, fidgety discomfort. She watches the circle—old people, young people, and a few bright-eyed children. One girl, who looks about ten or eleven, sits next to an older man who could be her grandfather. They are both playing violins—fiddles, she tells herself—and she can see the girl watching the man’s fingers closely.

  “She’s cute and a half,” Carrie says, following Sing’s gaze. Sing nods.

  Zhin peers across the room. “Choppy runs, awkward bowing, uneven tone. Sloppy.”

  “Well, I was pretty sloppy at that age, too,” Carrie says, and Sing thinks her light tone seems a little more forced. “It’s tricky when you grow a foot and your violin stays the same size.”

  “Yes, it is,” Zhin says, sipping her drink. “You have to work twice as hard.”

  Carrie laughs. “I always work twice as hard. I’m just saying, it’s okay to spend some time with your grandpa and have some fun. She’s just a kid.”

  “That’s fine.” Zhin’s gaze rests lazily on the musicians across the room. “But not taking your practicing seriously causes backsliding.”

  Sing has gone the occasional day without serious practice. Maybe it’s different for voice students—after only a couple hours in the practice room, she is tired. But she studies Zhin’s face—serious and flawless, just like her music. Zhin never gets tired.

  Carrie mashes her ice with her straw. “There’s nothing wrong with playing for fun. All playing should be fun. That’s why we do this. I love to play, even if it’s just scales. And a day off once in a while is good for you, too. I think it lets everything sink in.”

  Zhin winces as the musicians run off course a little. She turns back to Carrie. “For me, music is a career, not a hobby. I’ve fought to get where I am. I’m just saying, as a piece of friendly advice, it’s never a good idea to lose your focus. If you want to get anywhere, that is.”

  Sing’s stomach twists just a little as Carrie’s expression grows noticeably frostier. “You know,” Carrie says, “I am first chair at one of the most prestigious conservatories in the country.”

  Zhin smiles in a way Sing doesn’t like. “Well, I’m glad all that commitment has worked out for you, then.”

  Carrie leans forward, her pixie face hard and pointed. “Don’t talk to me about commitment.”

  The circle of musicians ends its song. Laughter bubbles over the scrape of chairs on the wooden floor and the thunk of sturdy glasses being set down on tables.

  Sing says, “Carrie is Gloria Stewart’s great-granddaughter. Isn’t that cool?” Maybe Zhin will be won over by celebrity.

  “You may be first chair among your teenage peers at this school,” Zhin says, ignoring Sing, “but I’m contracted by one of the best orchestras in the world.”

  Sing feels her mouth open slightly.

  Silently, Carrie gets up, throws a few dollars on the table, and walks out.

  But Zhin is right, Sing tells herself, although she can’t quite bring herself to look at her face. She knows the rigid expression she’ll find there. Instead, she watches the young girl and her grandfather pick up their fiddles and start an easy jig. You do have to fight for what you want, she thinks. You can’t let your guard down. And that girl has sloppy articulation.

  “Great,” Zhin says. “There goes our ride. What’s her problem? It’s not like I said anything that wasn’t true.”

  “I don’t know.” Sing’s stomach still feels weird. Maybe Carrie will come back once she realizes Zhin was only trying to be helpful. After all, there is no denying that as accomplished as Carrie is, she’s not playing for Fire Lake. She should be grateful for Zhin’s advice.

  The door opens, but it isn’t Carrie who steps in from the dark chill.

  “Ooh, who’s the fox?” Zhin says. “Is he from DC?”

  Sing blushes. “Yeah. That’s Ryan Larkin.” Tell her he’s your boyfriend.

  But she doesn’t. Suddenly she is afraid to say it out loud, as if he will disappear the moment she looks away toward the real world. Suddenly it seems too ridiculous to be true.

  She watches Ryan, Aaron, and Teddy Lund scan the room, notice Zhin and her, and head toward their table. Aaron and Teddy might not be striking on their own, but Ryan makes them look important. Aaron seems lithe like a movie star, not skinny, and Teddy looks rugged instead of lumbering. Their entrance is clearly noticed by the Grill’s other patrons—particularly the girls.

  “Introduce me!” Zhin w
hispers as she and Sing slide their chairs to make room.

  “Hey, girls,” Ryan says. “Aren’t you supposed to be at rehearsal, Miss da Navelli?” He sounds so much like Apprentice Daysmoor as he says her name that she laughs.

  “Who’s your friend?” Teddy asks, his cologne wafting over them. Zhin smiles.

  “Oh, um, this is Zhin Fan,” Sing says. “Zhin, this is Teddy, Aaron, and Ryan. From DC.” Aaron leans forward, studying Zhin intently. Sing watches Ryan’s face, but he displays only polite interest.

  “Hi.” Zhin’s teeth are perfect.

  “Nice to see you girls,” Aaron says. “Now tell me—are you good divas or bad divas?”

  Sing smirks. “We are queens of the land! Pay homage, and you may keep your heads!”

  Everyone laughs except Zhin, who raises a thin eyebrow. “Sing, you are Italian. ‘Divas’ aren’t queens. They’re goddesses. You ought to know that.” Sing forces a chuckle. “So,” Zhin says to the guys, “what are your horns?”

  “Oboe,” Aaron says.

  “Violin,” Teddy says, which surprises Sing, who didn’t wonder what his instrument was during their one unpleasant encounter at Carrie’s party. As proof, he pulls a worn case from its bag under the table.

  “And you brought it with you.” Zhin’s sweet tone covers just a hint of mockery, which Sing wonders if anyone else can detect.

  “Teddy’s going to play us a tune,” Ryan says. “What, is there like one waitress? Don’t worry, I’ve got this round.” He rises. “You girls all set?”

  Sing watches him head to the bar. Her tablemates are uncomfortably silent, but this barely registers as she studies the back of Ryan’s head.

  Finally, she hears Zhin say, “So?”

  “So what?” Teddy says, and Sing turns back to the table.

  “So are you going to play? Or are you all talk?”

  Teddy’s face flushes slightly as Aaron elbows him. “Okay,” he says. “I’ve got a new tune this week, so don’t make fun of me if it’s not perfect.” He clicks open his case and crosses the floor with the darkest, dullest violin Sing has ever seen; it looks as if he dug it up out of a bog somewhere. The local musicians, midjig, greet him with cheerful familiarity, and chairs squeak aside to make room.

  The music ends as Ryan returns with the drinks, choosing the chair next to Sing’s. Everyone at the table turns their attention to Teddy, lifting his violin to his chin amid scattered claps and shouts of, “Give us a tune!”

  He closes his eyes and sets in on a tune, which to Sing’s ears is virtually indistinguishable from the others she’s heard tonight. But the tone of the dark violin is sweet and deep, the quick notes pattering pleasantly over the guitars and banjos like fat raindrops. The young girl watches Teddy intently—not his fingers this time, as with her grandfather, but his round face. Sing smiles. Ryan and Aaron tap the table in rhythm.

  When the tune is over, the musicians bark words of praise and encouragement as Teddy’s bashfulness adds color to his already florid cheeks. “A bird never flew on one wing,” says the old man. “Give us another!”

  Teddy is swayed and starts a strange, jerky melody. The others watch for a few moments, silently fingering the chords, then join in. The young girl apparently knows this one—she raises her violin and plays along, timidly at first, but becoming braver when Teddy notices her and flashes an encouraging smile.

  Sing applauds along with the rest of the patrons as the musicians finish; Ryan whistles and Aaron pounds the table. Only Zhin seems too preoccupied with sipping her seltzer to notice the tune is over.

  “Never heard that one,” Aaron says as Teddy sits, carefully placing the dark violin on the table.

  “It’s just an old hornpipe my mum used to play on the pennywhistle.”

  “Really,” Zhin says. “I liked the first one better.”

  “Oh, that.” Teddy loosens his bow as the musicians begin another tune. “That’s ‘Saint Anne’s Reel.’ It’s popular as hell, so I figured I’d better learn it.”

  “Yeah. I learned a few reels a while back as an exercise. My old teacher thought I should be familiar with folk ornaments.” Zhin’s tone is nonchalant, but Sing recognizes the underlying intent. She keeps her mouth shut.

  Teddy says, “You know some reels? Go join in. They’d love it. You can borrow my violin.”

  “Yeah, let’s see what you’ve got,” Ryan says.

  “Oh, no.” Zhin leans back. “I wouldn’t want to show off or anything.”

  At first, Sing thinks it is a joke and nearly snorts. But Zhin’s expression is nothing but modesty.

  By the time the tune is over, Zhin has been convinced to insinuate herself into the center of the circle. Young, beautiful, rich, and confident—clearly not a local—she drops the modest act as soon as she has the floor.

  Sing has heard Zhin play many times and is not taken in by the reel, which is irrationally fast, extravagantly ornamented, and needlessly complex. But she watches the faces of the Grill’s patrons and musicians. They are enthralled. If Teddy’s notes were raindrops, Zhin’s are ice shards—utterly uniform, cutting, glossy, cold, and hard. They are sharp, smooth perfection. And Sing realizes that nothing she has heard tonight can compare. It’s as though each shining note Zhin plays illuminates a flaw in someone else. After a while, the guitars and banjos and strange little bagpipes are silent, and the room is filled only with the dazzling brightness emanating from the dark violin.

  Zhin doesn’t stop after one reel, or two. At one point, Sing realizes the young girl and her grandfather are no longer there, but she didn’t notice when they left.

  Forty-seven

  THE SNOW STARTED JUST AFTER MIDNIGHT. Now, as Sing blearily crosses the quad with Zhin, the whole campus sparkles with fresh white radiance in the harsh sunlight.

  “We should have gotten up earlier,” Sing says. “I’m going to sound like crap. But at least I read my chapters in Moby-Dick.”

  “If they didn’t stop serving breakfast so damn early, you’d be out here alone,” Zhin says. “I’m going back to bed after this.”

  “I wish I could.” Sing hopes the watery orange juice and watery eggs will wake her up. She and Zhin stayed up far too late talking and laughing before falling asleep in a heap of blankets on the floor.

  “These socks are so cute!” Zhin admires her woolen calves. “Too bad you didn’t have an extra skirt, too. I’ll have to look for one.”

  “You’re welcome.” Sing’s boots sound like yeti feet as they crunch along the newly shoveled walkway. She has to admit, Zhin’s patent leather flats do look cool with the conservatory’s regulation kneesocks, in what Jenny might call a sort of neo-retro-ironic way. But her feet must be freezing.

  However, if they are, Zhin doesn’t show it. Sing attempts to drag her own body into compliance, trying to emulate Zhin’s confident stride and straight spine. Today, she thinks. Today I sing Angelique for real. She has no idea how she’ll make it through American lit class. How can they schedule class before a run-through?

  She frowns. “Is my father coming to rehearsal?”

  “No,” Zhin says. “He’s having lunch with Maestro Keppler down in the village this afternoon. I told him I’d come along. Hope you don’t mind.”

  Sing stops walking. “What? Maestro Keppler’s not going to be at rehearsal?”

  Zhin shrugs. “It’s just a—” She shrugs again. “I don’t know. I guess he has a lot going on. We’re leaving today.”

  They start toward the dormitory again. “It’s just an understudy rehearsal,” Sing says. “That’s what you meant.”

  * * *

  It’s an hour into American lit, and Sing can’t stop doodling. But instead of her usual assortment of flowers, treble clefs, and cubes—and, lately, shepherdesses—she is drawing her own name. Over and over. Block letters, ornate script, tiny scratches, huge bubbles. Sing. Sing. Sing. Is it even her name anymore, or is it merely a word? An order? Given by whom?

  Her father will be leaving soon
to have lunch with Maestro Keppler and Zhin. Will she see him after the understudy run-through? Doubtful. He probably won’t even come back to campus. Why would he?

  Think about it, carina.

  She has done nothing but think about it. Now, the soothing drone of Mr. Paul’s weak baritone seems to create an insulated, timeless vacuum that contains nothing but herself, her thoughts, and the blond hair that glints as its owner takes notes from the chair-desk in front of her. It isn’t Lori’s hair, but it might as well be.

  “What will happen?” asks Mr. Paul, his usually ruddy face approaching its natural pale hue in the chilly, cement-walled classroom. “Anyone? Miss da Navelli?”

  “I don’t know,” Sing says. Some of her classmates chuckle, and the sound disrupts the vacuum. She looks up. Mr. Paul is frowning.

  “Well, what do you think? You have read up to page 250, yes?”

  She places a hand on the book on her desk. “Yes.”

  “So?” He extends his hands, palms up. He knows she wasn’t paying attention.

  Sing swallows, frustration pricking at her esophagus all the way down. She read the chapters. She did her homework. Why can’t she just get a break?

  Mr. Paul leans back against his desk at the front of the classroom, apparently deciding to take pity on her and repeat his question. “What do you think would happen if Ahab killed Moby Dick?”

  Sing taps the book cover. She doesn’t have the focus or brainpower right now to deal with this. “Um … the Pequod could go home.”

  “Yes, but what would happen to Ahab?”

  After a few moments of uncomfortable silence, Sing hopes Mr. Paul will set his sights on someone else. She is relieved when the door opens with a metallic squeak.

  An apprentice with long brown hair steps in discreetly. She surprises Sing by pointing in her direction, then curling her index finger into a Come here gesture. Sing mouths the word Me? although her silence is unnecessary; everyone is already looking at her. The apprentice nods, and Sing follows her into the hallway, closing the door behind her.