The petite blond flips her curly hair over her shoulder and then narrows her eyes as she looks up—way up—at me. “So whom have you trained with? Borelli in LA? Caldwell in San Diego? Iris had to do two years with Rimaldi before they’d give her a scholarship here. It’s a good thing he does pro bono work, isn’t it, Iris? Oh, by the way, how was the bus ride from Compton?”
Iris purses her lips. A sharp, angular tone comes off her and I can tell she wants to say something rude back, but is biting her tongue.
“I’m from Utah, actually,” I say, to draw the attention from Iris.
“Oh, then, Risedale in Salt Lake City?” the blond says, a tiny note of envy coming off her.
“Actually, Jonathan in the back room of Paradise Plants and Floral. Sometimes with an iPod out in the yard, too.”
“You haven’t had formal training?” she asks, the notes of envy growing stronger. “I had assumed you’d be good, considering Mr. Morgan is allowing you to audition for the vacancy that Cari Wilson’s left in the program.”
“You play the guitar?” Tobin asks, pointing at Gibby. “That’s a sweet Gibson. Where did you—?”
“So what do you sing?” the girl asks, cutting him off.
“I like indie music mostly, but I have a soft spot for more classic—”
“Not what songs you like to sing. What do you sing?” she says, like I’m a simpleton. “Like, what part?”
“Oh. I don’t really know. Contralto, maybe. Or possibly mezzo-soprano.” I’d never been able to figure that out in my self-taught lessons. My normal voice isn’t high-pitched, like most of the female singers’ on the radio. I have a lower, slightly gravelly quality. Like Adele’s. But I can also sing higher if I want. Jonathan was always throwing new pieces of music at me, trying to stump me, but nothing ever seemed out of my range.
“You don’t know your range and they let you step foot on this campus?”
I shrug, but inside, I start to worry that I am in over my head.
“Well, this is one audition I can’t wait to see,” she says with a wicked smile. “Come on, Bridgette. I doubt this newbie is Sopranos material. We’re wasting our time.” She turns on her heel and heads back into the auditorium, with the brunette trailing behind her.
“Okaaay,” I say under my breath.
“Don’t mind Lexie,” Tobin says. “She’s not always quite so … abrasive. She’s up for the lead in the play this year and that’s got her on edge. With Cari gone, it’s most likely between Lexie and Pear Perkins. She’s just worried you’ll be new competition.”
“She’s been a total pain since she took over leadership of the Sopranos,” Iris says. “All that power is going to her head.”
“The Sopranos?” I ask. “What is she, like, the godfather of the school mafia or something?”
“Pretty much,” Tobin says. “But I have it on good authority that they do more shopping than killing these days.”
“On the bright side,” Iris says, sounding more relaxed now that Lexie is gone, “if you suck at singing, she might actually be friends with you.”
“Well, that’s a relief,” I say, and make a grand gesture of wiping pretend sweat off my forehead.
Tobin laughs. He takes my hand and bows, pretending to plant a kiss on my knuckles. “I think I might be falling in love with you, Daphne Raines.”
I laugh.
Iris gives me a not-so-enthused look. “All joking aside. You don’t want to cross Lexie. The Sopranos can make your life miserable if they want.”
“I’m not really worried about them.”
What I am worried about is my audition. I check my watch. It’s 3:20. I haven’t realized how long I’ve been talking to Tobin and the others. The next audition should have started by now, and then I am up after that.
The door swings open, and Bridgette, the brunette, pokes her head out. “Have either of you seen Pear? It’s her turn, and Mr. Morgan is calling for her.”
“Pear Perkins, second call for Pear Perkins,” I hear Mr. Morgan yell from inside the auditorium.
“Pear likes to make an entrance,” Tobin says.
“I know, but she’s really pushing it this time,” the brunette says.
“Maybe Lexie offed her,” Iris whispers dramatically behind her hand. “I wouldn’t put it past her.”
“Be nice,” Tobin says.
“I’m just making sure New Girl knows what she’s getting herself into. Last year, this freshman was up for the part Lexie wanted, so she put ipecac in the girl’s apple juice. The girl puked all over the stage right in the middle of her audition.”
“That’s just a rumor. She probably had the flu or was nervous or something.”
“Well, whatever the cause, Lexie posted a video of it on the school’s Facebook page and it got, like, five thousand hits before the admins took it down.”
“Nobody ever proved it was Lexie that posted it,” Tobin says.
“Yeah, because she posted it under a dummy account. She’s not stupid. And proof doesn’t matter. Everybody knows it. I’m telling you, Daphne. You don’t want to cross her.”
“Last call for Pear Perkins,” rings out Mr. Morgan’s perturbed voice. “Somebody tell that diva she has fifteen seconds to get out here or I’m cancelling her audition.”