Her gruesome reputation precedes her, judging by how the other three teachers scattered as Bouchard started to grill me about my training: who my instructor was in the States, how many times I’ve performed in public, and how long I’ve “been such a little songbird because you must have practiced Renata’s aria from The Fiery Angel for months on end to master it so well.” Aunt Charlotte adjusted her glasses and insisted I’d had a stressful enough day and wasn’t to be interviewed.
The two ladies began arguing. My mom and I sat, dumbfounded, until Headmaster Fabre arrived and told Bouchard to save her questions for another time. He had a kind, handsome face and a French accent; but his thick white hair and burly beard were more reminiscent of a distinguished seafaring captain than a Frenchman. Bouchard didn’t dare back talk to the man who hired and fired the staff. She glared at Aunt Charlotte, then left in a fluster of stutters and snarls. After rescuing me like he did, the headmaster would’ve been my choice for teacher of the year, if not for his subjects being world geography and social studies, my least favorites. He complimented my singing at the audition, then apologized that his wife, the costume designer and health teacher, was away in Paris at a fashion show.
She is the teacher I’ve most wanted to meet, and I’ve already decided to look for her today. I’m hoping to offer assistance with costumes. If I’m going to be stuck here, sewing and designing are the best shots I have at staying sane.
“Where are those uniforms we borrowed?” Mom interrupts my thoughts, digging through my closet where we shoved my things last night before we settled in to sleep—me in my comfortable curtained-in cave and she on the chaise lounge. I’ll offer her the bed tonight. It’s unfair for her to have to curl up on a couch that’s four inches too short just because of my dishonesty. Besides, I’m curious to know whether she’ll hear the same things I heard coming from the vent above my bed . . . rustling and breathing. Maybe those are the kinds of sounds a hundred-year-old building makes. But I’ll feel better knowing it wasn’t all in my head, like everything else seems to be.
Mom drags some clothes from the closet. The pink bag that held my uniforms went missing yesterday between my unplanned operatic performance and our attempt to unpack and pretend everything was normal. Aunt Charlotte had to sift through old uniforms donated by last year’s seniors to give me temporary substitutes.
I wrinkle my nose, remembering how awkward and big they looked last night when I tried them on. “Why can’t I just wear street clothes until they show up? These are extenuating circumstances, right?”
Mom chews her lip. “Rules are rules. Lottie’s already bent enough for you. She has to draw the line at academics. It affects your grade if you go to class out of uniform. These will have to do until we find the ones we bought. I’m sure they’ll turn up by the end of the day.”
I nod, not mentioning how violating it feels, having your clothes stolen, wondering why anyone would take something so personal in the first place.
Unless it was for revenge because I interrupted the tryouts . . .
My unruly hair cascades around my shoulders, several strands sticking to my suddenly overwarm cheeks. I use the brush Mom hands me to rake the waves from my face until they pop with static. Snuggling a knitted headband into place, I swing my feet over the bed’s edge and yawn.
As I’m pouring my sleepy limbs into the gray jacket, long skirt, and white ruffled shirt that make up the riding habit wannabe, the scent of bacon and something cinnamon blends with rich notes of coffee and wafts under my door. My stomach rumbles. Last night, after I showered to clean the sticky soup from my skin, I refused to eat anything else. I said I wasn’t hungry; but the truth was, I was too freaked out.
How is it possible that I saw a guy in Victorian clothing who no one else knows about, who can vanish and drain the life from roses with just a touch? Whose eyes have been in my dreams for years, alongside violin music I thought belonged to my father?
I force the unsettling thoughts deep down inside. I have enough to worry about today in the real world. Cinching the borrowed skirt’s waist with a belt only causes the excess fabric to pleat and bulge in weird places. At least the red necktie fits. After applying light strokes of blush and peach-tinted lip balm without risking a peek in the cheval mirror, I follow Mom toward the door, resigned to my fate.
I won’t be able to get out of this until I prove myself capable of performing without breaking down. Yesterday’s fiasco brought this truth to light, and it’s been confirmed by Mom’s determination to stay at my side until she feels I’m strong enough to be here without her. For years, Mom has put her life on hold to deal with my lack of one.
It’s time to figure out why this overpowering ability to sing—that once brought me so much satisfaction—is gnawing away at me like a sickness. I need to know why I’m broken, so I can fix myself. One way or another. Maybe this place can help me do that, and then I can finally look forward to my future. Because I’m starting to realize there’s something worse than stepping up and facing your fears—and that’s living as if you’re already dead.
6
PERFORMANCE ART
“Thinking will not overcome fear, but action will.”