Great. I’ve offended her. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean anything . . .”
“Don’t give it no nevermind. I’m still your number one fan.”
“Huh?”
She pushes off the lounge and steps outside of the antechamber. Her hair is red, but the weird lighting shimmers violet along the shoulder-length ends.
“I never heard anyone sing like that,” she says, leaning against the stair rail. “It’s like you were trained by Christine Daaé herself.”
I try to manage a sarcastic snort, but it comes out as more of a sob. For her to mention the heroine from Gaston Leroux’s book, she must have been one of the students following us on the stairway.
“I’m betting Kat’s never heard anything like it, neither,” Sunny continues before I can come up with an excuse for my mom’s claim of a phantom sighting.
“Who . . . ?”
“Katarina. The soloist you threw under the tractor when you came plowing into tryouts.”
I cringe. Although I was wrapped within the music, I vaguely remember the gorgeous girl’s shocked expression when I stopped to sing beside the stage—her crystal-blue eyes widening, cheeks flushed from peaches-and-cream to a deep plum that almost matched the streak in her long, caramel-blond waves. She appeared simultaneously awed and furious.
I can’t believe this is how I made my first impression. Horning in on someone’s audition and pretending to be a fainting idiot. A sick shudder rolls through my stomach. Maybe I should take a sip of that chicken soup, after all.
The mug waits on the nightstand along with the lava lamp Mom and I bought. She’s already plugged it in, which explains the weird lighting. My bags are piled in a corner beside the closet, and I have the urge again to retrieve my bed curtains and shut myself in.
Instead, I change the subject to something safe. “Are all of the dorms this small?” An attempt to reach for the soup mug reminds me my limbs are still in shock mode. I’m aching all over, as if I were the one thrown under a tractor. I prop my shoulders against the wall behind me and stay burrowed in my cave.
“Yep. They used to be dressing rooms. They tucked the wardrobes and costume trunks in the nooks in the walls to take up less floor space. And that . . .” She points to the second-story demi-balcony. “Since the ceilings were so high, they came up with those teensy lofts. It’s a kooky layout. But you get used to it.”
I nod, though I’m battling a sense of gloom without the sunset streaming in. I always feel better when I’m basking in outdoor light. Another reason I love to garden.
“The boys and male teachers are on the second flight, and the girls are on the ground level. All except for Headmaster Fabre and his wife. They share a room down here. The third floor is where our classes and rehearsals take place.”
In light of this information, and considering the expansiveness of the opera house, the waiting list for the school seems unnecessary. “Why don’t they renovate and open up the fourth through sixth floors for more students?”
“Partly ’cause we don’t need them as yet. We have seven live-in instructors to the fifty students. Well, fifty-one, counting you. They want to keep the school small till they can hire more teachers.”
She moves closer, her barefoot steps silent across the marble tiles. She’s about my height but more toned and muscular. Where I look almost too thin, she looks hardy and fit. Faded jeans and a cap-sleeved T hug her frame.
So the students aren’t required to be in uniform on the weekends. Good to know.
“But the biggest reason no one’s been on the top three flights is ’cause the stairs are boarded up from the fourth level on. There’s a mystery benefactor. A rich architect or something. No one’s ever seen him, but he drew up the plans for renovation. Every new room was redesigned by him. He owns the land and the castle. So the investors need his permission and keys to open the sealed floors and renovate. And he’s refused to give either so far . . . says he wants to keep the rooms for storage.”
“But the brochure said there were once over three hundred keys. Do you honestly think all the top rooms are for storage?”
She shrugs. “The extra rooms I’ve seen down here are. Last year, some gals thought they heard noises. Chains jingling and a baby crying. So I lifted the keys off one of the teachers, and after lights-out at nine thirty, looked in all the empty rooms. I thought I’d never pick through that mess of old props and clothes. It was like I’d stepped into another time. Ya know?”
Her words make me think of the vanishing gardener and his outdated clothes. “You’ve heard the rumors, right? About the secret lair . . . the bones they found floating in the underground river?”