Strange Sweet Song

by Rule, Adi

  “Hey, Sing, right? Sorry to get you out of class.”

  “Not a problem. You saved me from Mr. Paul’s Moby-Dick enthusiasm.”

  The apprentice laughs, her voice chipper and slightly shrill, but not wholly unpleasant. “For a minute, at least. Anyway, here you go.” She holds out a folded piece of yellow paper. Sing hesitates but takes the paper; she draws her eyebrows in confusion. The apprentice says, “Oh, it’s a write-up. You haven’t gotten one of these before? Sorry, that didn’t come out very nice! I mean, they’re not that uncommon is all.”

  “A write-up? What did I do?” Sing unfolds the paper.

  The apprentice shrugs. “Dunno. We’re not supposed to read them, just deliver them.”

  WRITE-UP, the paper is severely headlined, though its hastily photocopied appearance isn’t as intimidating as the pristine formality of a censure. Sing reads the description of her offense—leaving rehearsal without permission last night. The bottom is signed by the president’s secretary and, unlike the censure, by the person reporting the offense.

  She could just scream. “I’ve got understudy run-through this afternoon—our first one—and Daysmoor’s giving me a write-up? Now? Like I don’t have enough to think about!”

  “Ugh, Plays-poor’s the worst. He never even speaks to the other apprentices. Too good for us, I guess!” the apprentice says. “Anyway, the president likes write-ups to go out as soon as the paperwork’s done, no matter what time it is. I think he tries to make it so people get pulled from class—that way everyone knows about it and it’s more embarrassing. Sorry, I didn’t mean to make it worse!”

  An itching at the back of Sing’s brain tells her she would probably like this girl some other time, some other place. But now, her mind is full of an imaginary conversation with her father, her voice high and bright. Yes, a write-up. No, it’s not the same as a censure. Yes, I’ve been misbehaving. I’m sorry. I haven’t been doing what you sent me here to do.

  * * *

  Sing doesn’t collect her things or go back to class, and she doesn’t stop marching until she has climbed up to senior floor of Hud, where Zhin’s room is. She couldn’t stand another minute of American lit, and Hud’s empty lobby made her shiver.

  Why am I freaking out about this write-up? she wonders, yeti boots thumping dully on the hard carpeting. And why am I skipping class, which is sure to get me another one?

  But her gut answers her brain. It doesn’t matter if she gets another one. One, two, ten, what does it matter?

  What does any of this matter?

  She needs Zhin now, the way Zhin puts everything in perspective.

  The hallway is bright with sunlight streaming in generously through the large window at the end. Zhin is set up all the way down the hall from the stairwell in an unused room hastily made up for her visit. Sing calms down as she approaches. Zhin will have a few things to say about Apprentice Daysmoor, she is certain. And maybe she’ll have more details about the New Artist vacancy, squirreled away from conversations with Sing’s father.

  Hardly anyone locks their doors when they’re in, at least in Hud, so Sing isn’t surprised when the handle turns. But, stepping into the dim room, she is surprised to find Zhin again tangled up in the heap of blankets on the floor, as she and Sing were last night.

  Only it isn’t nearly so innocent now, and it isn’t Sing who is with her.

  It is Ryan.

  Forty-eight

  SING’S HANDS ARE SHAKING, and it’s not with cold or the thudding of her steps. She feels unbalanced, precarious, grasping. She is running across the snowy quad toward Hector Hall, where her father is.

  Sì, she will tell him. Sì. Yes.

  She has been stupid and childish. Zhin gets everything she wants, and always has. So does Lori Pinkerton. So did Barbara da Navelli. Divas. It’s not a bad word or a good one. It’s reality.

  A winter breeze rushes down from the mountain. She has spent so much time wondering about the Felix and Tamino and the stupid teardrop around her neck, when she could have had her wishes granted anytime. The diva inside Sing is triumphing; pieces are falling into place to make a new picture of the world, even as part of the old Sing tugs at the corners, threatening to tear them back and reveal something ugly underneath. She doesn’t care. She reaches Hector Hall with one word in her mind: Sì.

  Ernesto da Navelli is in the lobby, reading a newspaper. He looks up, frowning, as the door slams, but his face softens as Sing rushes over. “Oh, mio Dio, farfallina! What is the matter?”

  “Nothing, Papà—I just want to tell you yes—”

  “You’re crying! What has happened?”

  “Nothing. Nothing! I just want to tell you yes!”

  She feels the weight of his hands on her shoulders. “Calm yourself, carina,” he says. “Why are you telling me yes? What yes?”

  She inhales; Hector’s lobby smells musty and comfortable. “Yes about Angelique. I want to sing Angelique. I want to go to Fire Lake. I want—” She realizes she is speaking Italian and breaks off.

  Her father smooths her hair and smiles. “I knew you would take this opportunity. Very well. Let me take care of it. Ah, and here is Maestro Keppler now. George!”

  Maestro Keppler approaches from the staircase on the other side of the room. Sing sees his eyes dart to her, but he addresses her father. “Are you ready to leave already, Maestro? I thought—”

  “No, no. I was just reading the newspaper, eh? And my little girl comes in to say hello.” He puts an arm around her shoulders. “She has a run-through of Angelique today, yes? I couldn’t be more proud. And I hear the production is coming along quite well.”

  Maestro Keppler’s shoulders stiffen. “Yes, certainly it is. I’m very pleased.”

  “I am looking forward to it! A wonderful choice for the first production in the conservatory’s new theater. Although perhaps the Autumn Festival should be called the Winter Festival with all this snow?” Sing’s father laughs, and she ventures a look at Maestro Keppler, whose smile seems rather strained. “We have some fine pianisti coming for the competition,” Maestro da Navelli goes on. “And the opera will be magnifico, yes? My esteemed colleague Signor Griss will be most interested. He would love to fill the New Artist vacancy at Fire Lake with a talented amateur. Someone who has performed a major role.”

  Sing senses the negotiation beginning. The first sign, though she doesn’t know why, is always her father sprinkling the conversation with Italian words for which he well knows the English counterparts.

  Maestro da Navelli gazes out the window. “You must be very proud of the academy, Maestro. It is a beautiful campus. I’m suddenly tempted to take a walk. Do we have time before lunch?”

  My cue to leave, Sing thinks, exhilarated.

  It is done.

  * * *

  Sing grabs a box lunch and heads back to Hud.

  “I did it, Woolly,” she says, but isn’t sure how to explain further. Woolly’s smooth button eyes are friendly.

  A knock. Sing covers Woolly with a pillow and says, “Come in.”

  “There you are.” Jenny plops down next to her on the bed. Marta follows, lowering herself gracefully to the floor.

  Sing takes a bite of fried rice. “Hey.”

  “Hey?” Jenny’s stare pierces. “How about, Hey, where were you last night? You totally skipped out on rehearsal.”

  “Oh, sorry. My … friend is in town.”

  “Yeah.” Jenny shoots Marta a glance. “We heard about your friend.”

  Sing puts her fork down. “Oh, yeah? What did you hear?” She notices an edge to her own voice.

  “Nothing,” Marta says quickly. “Have you been crying?”

  “No,” Sing says. “Look, I have to go to rehearsal.”

  Jenny scootches back and pulls her legs up onto the bed. “Not for a few minutes. Eat your lunch. Today’s the big day, huh?”

  Sing takes another bite of rice.

  “Oh, I forgot about today!” Marta says. “That’s righ
t. Oh, you’re going to be awesome!”

  Sing looks at her. “Of course you forgot. Everyone forgets about the understudy run-through; or if they remember, they’re just happy to have an easy rehearsal. We don’t matter. Well, I’m going to show Maestro Keppler that I do matter.”

  “Fierce,” Jenny says.

  “Jeez, Sing,” Marta says. “I’d be honored to understudy the lead. There’s nothing wrong with that.”

  Sing pushes the rest of her lunch onto her bedside table. “That’s easy for you to say. You got a role.”

  “Well…” Marta doesn’t seem to know how to finish.

  “Look,” Sing says, “if I’m going to get anywhere, I have to start acting the part. It’s what my—it’s advice I’ve been given. Make an entrance. I’m going to show the Maestro he made a mistake.”

  Marta inhales, her wide eyes shining. “Wow! You’re going to try to show up Lori?”

  “Gutsy,” Jenny says with approval.

  “I don’t think she’ll like that,” Marta says.

  Sing crosses her arms. “I didn’t like Lori telling President Martin I went into the woods. I didn’t like getting a censure because of it.”

  “What?” Marta’s jaw drops. “You got a censure?”

  “So it’s payback,” Jenny says, still approving.

  “It’s not exactly payback,” Sing says. “I just want to take what’s mine. Angelique.”

  A brief but heavy silence dampens the room. “Well, technically, the role isn’t yours,” Jenny says.

  Sing meets Jenny’s gaze. “Like hell it isn’t.”

  Jenny seems puzzled for a minute, then shrugs. “I mean, it’s not like the Maestro is going to recast based on one rehearsal. You’ll be great, don’t get me wrong—you’ll be better than Lori, I’m sure—but that kind of thing doesn’t happen. As irritating as she is, Lori’s paid her dues. She’s a senior.”

  “Her mom and dad are coming to the performance,” Marta says.

  “You’ll totally be in line for the lead next year,” Jenny says. “Maybe even in the spring—Lori will be focusing on her senior recital, and—”

  “I’m not talking about next year, or the spring.” Sing stands. “I’m talking about now. This role. This New Artist vacancy. I don’t care what the Maestro thinks. My father will tell him what he thinks, and I’ll be damned if he or Lori Pinkerton or anyone else is going to get in my way.”

  Jenny crosses her arms. “Jesus, Sing, you’re really doing this? You’re using your dad to take someone else’s part? Seriously?”

  She’s jealous. They’re all jealous. Sing doesn’t know where the thoughts come from. “It’s not fair that I should be understudying Lori Pinkerton. I mean, do you know who my mother was?”

  “Well.” Jenny stands, and Marta follows suit. “Don’t let us get in your way.”

  Sing hears Marta’s “See ya” as the door clicks shut, but Jenny doesn’t say another word.

  Forty-nine

  ONSTAGE, THE BELEAGUERED CHORUS sings the uncharacteristically sappy number that precedes Angelique’s most famous aria. The orchestra is present and in tune, but Sing can’t give them credit for anything more than that. Just an understudy rehearsal.

  Normally, she would be mortified by walking in late to a rehearsal, particularly a full run-through. But today she strides up the center aisle. She took her time getting here. Let them wait.

  She sees Daysmoor turn his head as he conducts, watching her out of the corner of his eye. Will he dare admonish her publicly, knowing it will just give her an opportunity to say where she has been? What she has been doing? Securing her role.

  Or will he remain silent, aware that the Maestro da Navelli is here on campus? That would be just as much a victory, and everyone would notice. I walk into rehearsal late and you have nothing to say about it. Diva.

  She sits in the front row and crosses her legs. She doesn’t have her score with her.

  The number ends and the chorus members shuffle off the stage and into the house. Daysmoor turns around.

  “Are you warmed up?” he croaks at her.

  This? This is what he has to say? She hates his gravelly voice. “Yes,” she says, meeting his gaze with defiance. It isn’t true, exactly, but under normal circumstances of course she would have come warmed up!

  “Good,” he says, turning back to the orchestra. “We started with act three. I’m sure you won’t mind beginning with ‘Quand il se trouvera.’ Remember your phrasing, please.”

  As Sing climbs the stairs to the stage, feeling Daysmoor’s detached stare on her back, she begins to seethe. How dare he treat her like some novice? Sure, maybe she has gotten nervous a few times at rehearsal, which is natural, but that doesn’t mean she doesn’t know how to phrase. Anger obliterating any self-doubt, she throws her shoulders back and breathes.

  The five-chord introduction swells. She watches Daysmoor conduct; his style is utilitarian, clunky, but authoritative. It doesn’t matter what he thinks, anyway.

  “Quand il se trouvera…”

  The orchestra marches along, more responsive than her father’s record player, which gives her a captivating feeling of dominance. She plays with a couple of phrases, stretching or hurrying the line when the notion strikes her. Daysmoor frowns but follows. She feels the rush of power.

  Again she pictures the white dress, she imagines the blond ringlets. She finds herself moving her head and arms delicately, smiling a coy little smile. She understands, now, the dangerous, intoxicating quality of a leading role. It is as though she is the worst sort of dictator—callous and terrible and omnipotent. She wears the orchestra—Daysmoor—like a silk train, delighted by how he follows her own strong steps, perfectly attached. Her voice fills the theater.

  And if it weren’t for her anger, she might never have discovered this feeling!

  When she has finished the aria, she looks haughtily over at Daysmoor, upright yet still managing to appear draped. His expression is inscrutable.

  “Attitude isn’t everything,” he says after a moment. “In fact, it gets in the way of most things. I hope you will figure that out.” Then he adds quietly, “But why should you, when your mother never did?”

  Sing can’t find words to respond. What does he know about her mother?

  “All right,” Daysmoor says. “Do it again.” A murmur ripples through the orchestra, audible sighs from the singers in the audience.

  “What?” Sing gapes at him.

  The corners of his mouth are turned down slightly. “And this time, be a servant of the music, not your ego.”

  Scattered muttering from the house. Sing pulls her head back in surprise. “Excuse me?”

  “Apprentice,” the first chair viola says, a hand on his score, “we have a limited amount of time.”

  “You heard me.” Daysmoor’s voice is quiet but commanding, and Sing knows he is speaking only to her. “Do it again.”

  “This is ridiculous,” the new diva inside Sing says. “What was wrong with it?”

  Apprentice Daysmoor closes his eyes. “That wasn’t singing. If I wanted people yelling at me, I’d burst unexpectedly into the girls’ locker room. That aria had no shape and no support. It was angry shouting. It was garbage.”

  Sing gasps. A prickling feeling begins in her chest and spreads outward.

  The first chair viola stands up. “Listen, man, don’t call her singing garbage. Can we just move on?” He turns to Sing. “That was great, Sing. Night and day from a couple weeks ago.”

  Apprentice Daysmoor looks at Sing. “She knows I’m right.”

  Sing’s face is hot. Garbage.

  The ripple of murmuring throughout the theater has become a wave of nervous titters and expressions of shock. “That’s cold,” someone in the wind section says.

  Apprentice Daysmoor straightens up, and Sing notices for the first time how tall he is. “I’m her coach,” he says to the first chair viola. “It’s my job to get the best performance possible out of her, not coddle her
and tell her she’s wonderful. Do you disagree?”

  The viola sits down and flips the pages of his score. “Not at all, Apprentice Plays—ah, Daysmoor.” He smirks. A few orchestra members laugh outright.

  Daysmoor’s face offers no hints about whatever emotion might be happening inside. He simply raises his baton, still as stone until the orchestra is focused, then gives the downbeat for the introduction to Angelique’s aria.

  Her face burning, Sing begins again. She will not be taken down. She will not be held back by an arrogant apprentice or ripped apart by the whispers of a jealous house. It is her role now. The aria is louder now, vainer, more energetic. She sings to the balcony. She sings like her mother.

  Halfway through, Daysmoor cuts the orchestra off. “Miss da Navelli,” he says, “if you’re not going to take this seriously, then get out.”

  Fifty

  BARBARA DA NAVELLI HAS TAKEN to visiting Sing during the night.

  Sometimes the dream is a memory—the front door whooshing shut, the thuds of baggage hitting the hardwood floor, a loud coo, a present being thrust into Sing’s small hands, the click of expensive shoes carrying her mother away again to recharge in some hidden place.

  Sometimes the dream is Dunhammond, with Lori and Ryan and Apprentice Daysmoor and the Maestro scorched by Barbara da Navelli’s radiance. In these dreams, Sing stands at her mother’s side on the Woolly stage, afraid to move her feet lest she crack the shiny floor. “If you play a thing, you make it true,” Barbara da Navelli says. She is dressed as Angelique, holding a magnificent golden crook.

  “I’m only the understudy,” Sing says, squinting at Lori’s smug face in the shadows. Or is it Zhin’s?

  Her mother turns to her. Her eyes are catlike, her teeth elongated. Sing wonders if her mother can see the despair in her eyes, if she will shed a tear and grant her one wish. But her mother only says, “Impossible. You are a da Navelli. Take what is yours.” She swings her crook, which crackles and hums so loudly, Sing covers her ears. The stage explodes with electricity. Zhin and Ryan clasp each other and shrink back into the darkness; the Maestro clutches his heart and turns his eyes skyward. Only Apprentice Daysmoor remains impassive, his black eyes fixed on Sing as though he is sitting in judgment of her.