Strange Sweet Song (23 page)

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.

“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

S
ING’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 right. 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.”