Mama folded his arms. “I like clean surfaces!”
The boy at the sofa’s other end, the boy with the turban, cleared his throat. He had patchy facial hair growing in on his chin and jawline, but puberty didn’t seem to have mustered up the energy to give him a mustache. “I’m Nihal Singh Sehrawat,” he introduced, in the driest deadpan I’d ever heard. “Your fellow Tenor 1. Welcome to the falsetto club.”
I nodded, trying not to look at his turban. I’d seen this kid around campus once or twice—it was hard to forget the number of people staring at his head. I didn’t want to be the next in a long line of turban-gawkers.
“Before you ask,” he said, still in that flat tone, “I’m a Sikh, not Muslim; and I’m Indian, but I’m actually from New Jersey. So. Do with that information what you will.”
“Cool,” I said. “Good to meet you.” I straightened in my armchair, trying to keep their names from slipping away. “I’m Julian. I’m a junior from San Francisco.”
“Juniors, represent,” Mama said. “Why didn’t you audition our freshman year?”
I shrugged, faking unconcern. “Trying to focus on theater stuff.”
Mama scoffed and scrubbed a hand through his dark hair. “Theater.”
“Um, sorry, what?” I said, defensive.
Nihal Singh Sehrawat intervened. “Theodore is convinced that everything that isn’t music is an inferior discipline, which is why I was mercilessly hazed all of last year.”
Mama gave a luxuriant roll of his blue eyes. “I didn’t haze you, you asshat,” he said. “I just said that it’s a national embarrassment that you don’t know what parallel fifths are.”
“See what I have to deal with?” Nihal said to me. “Asshat. I will never recover.”
I decided not to admit that I also didn’t know what parallel fifths were. “You’re not School of Music?” I asked, relieved.
“No,” Nihal said. “Visual Arts.”
“Nihal actually doesn’t even sing,” Isaac said, his eyes sparkling with enjoyment. “We just hired him to Photoshop our posters so they look like Beatles album covers.” Sprawled in his seat, his legs spread obscenely and his hands tracing circles over the chair’s leather arms, Isaac looked like an emperor surveying his kingdom.
Nihal raised one eyebrow. “If you want to look like a Beatle, Isaac, you may have to get your first haircut since you exited the womb.”
“Yeah, over my dead body,” Isaac said, one hand flying defensively to his man bun.
Trav cleared his throat. Everyone fell silent.
“To business.” Trav turned his eyes on me. They glinted brighter and harder than the stud in his ear. “For rehearsal tomorrow, arrive at least five minutes to eight. Lateness is not acceptable.” Trav fished a thick spiral-bound journal from his backpack. “Don’t schedule anything over the eight to nine o’clock hour. Ever. And yes, we do rehearse Friday and Saturday night. If you need an exemption for any reason, talk to me well in advance—two to three weeks.” He tapped the journal. “I keep everyone’s schedules here, but Sharps should always be your priority.”
“Got it,” I said, wondering about the air of obsession that hung around this guy like a strong cologne. Was he getting paid for this?
“Other things,” Trav said, stowing the journal. “Firstly, our faculty sponsor is Dr. Graves, but don’t bother asking him anything. To put it generously, he’s very hands-off. Secondly, we take a three-day retreat at the beginning of Thanksgiving Break. Talk to your parents; factor it into your flight plans.”
I nodded. It wouldn’t be an issue. With the obscene cost of flights around Thanksgiving, I stayed at Kensington for break every year, so my parents never had to know if I left campus.
“Thirdly,” he continued, pointing at a scrap of paper nailed above the piano, “don’t discuss our competition set with anyone. You’re bound to secrecy. And fourthly . . .” Trav tugged a black pouch from his pocket and tossed it to me. I caught it, pulled the drawstrings loose, and tugged out a silver key.
“That’s a key to this room,” Trav said. “Prince automatically locks at midnight, but one of the practice rooms has a broken window lock. Easy to sneak in. So, this place is always open for you, 24/7, 365.” His voice grew stiff and uncomfortable. “The Nest is like a second home for most of us. That’s how it is.”
“Aw, Trav,” Isaac said, with a lopsided grin. “I’m getting all warm and fuzzy.”
“Fifthly,” Trav added loudly, “ignore everything Isaac ever says. President isn’t a real job.”
Laughs bounced off the high ceiling like the sound of pealing bells. With my sound lost in the mix, I let my voice rise high.
The moon was a bright disk outside my dorm, and I sat across from my mirror with a pair of scissors. The empty swirl of a new wig sat on the desk. I’d swapped out the first for a copy of my hair as it looked now, waist-long and simple, straight locks stitched tightly into the cap.
I’d been sitting here for minutes, waiting for the urge to hit. I couldn’t trust my hair to stay put, so the solution was obvious: cut my long hair short, swap out a short wig for long, and use the wig to look like a girl instead. But cutting my hair felt so irreversible, a symbolic sign of total commitment. There’d be no rewinding, no panicking, no second thoughts. I’d be halfway through college before this regrew.
I narrowed my eyes at myself in the mirror. I was already committed. I was initiated. I’d conquered auditions, solved the puzzle, weathered Traveler Atwood’s icy stare for a truly inhumane amount of time. It wasn’t going to be for nothing.
My hair swung around my shoulders and face, crumpled by the grip of the pins. I let myself touch it for a minute. Then I lifted the scissors, took a steady breath, and cut. The metal brushed my jaw, a little sting.
Tinny shearing sounds tinted the air. I accelerated, snipping ends at angles, scything it all away. Years’ worth of hair fell into the trash can between my knees, forearm lengths of it. I was weightless. My mother loved the thickness of my hair—“you’ll never go bald”—but in the San Francisco summers it always glistened, oily, a heavy beacon for the sun.
Cut by cut, my new reality settled around my head. Every kiss of the scissors was a goodbye to what I used to be. The only thing left was December.