He’s wrong again. They don’t.
While having dinner with Aunt Charlotte and Mom that night, I find out Mom won’t return to Ned or her job until she’s sure I’m safe. The missing uniforms are eating away at her more than she originally let on. It would be so easy to admit that I suspect Kat took them, considering the macabre hanging in science class. But that would screw up every extracurricular escape the students look forward to, including my new friends. So I fake a confession: that I hid them myself in the beginning because I was so scared to face my stage fright, but now they’ve gone missing for real. I apologize profusely, and promise to get my act together. Mom pats my hand, saying she’s proud of me for being honest, and is relieved. Aunt Charlotte watches us quietly while chewing her veal cutlet. I get the distinct impression she sees right through me, yet she doesn’t say a word.
On Friday at breakfast, I tell Sunny, Jax, Quan, and Audrey the truth: that I’ve no idea what happened to my uniforms, but that lying is the only way to send Mom back to Texas so she can live the life she’s worked so hard for. Quan tells everyone the other reason I’m doing it—to save us all from losing privileges.
However, pretending to have a severe case of stage-fright-turned-neurosis doesn’t earn me any points with Kat. She croons soprano in full vibrato when I pass her in the hall then drops to the floor, flailing as if she’s having convulsions. I decide not to hold it against her; she doesn’t know how seeing a person in a convulsive state affects me. She isn’t aware of my experience at the frat party.
All I can do is turn and walk away, wishing quietly that I could sever and discard the musical entity that lives inside me, and finally be normal. But even then, I still wouldn’t be. Because although this academy is full of interesting and quirky personalities, I’m pretty sure I’m the only one who’s left a guy comatose in a hospital across the ocean.
My loyalty to my friends pays off in other ways. During fourth-period historical musicology, Audrey passes me a note that explains the meaning behind her tattoo, and why her future career is so important she can’t let herself get distracted by a romantic relationship. Her ballerina sister was the victim of a hit-and-run in New Mexico, and was left a paraplegic. Her name is Ravyn, and since she “can never fly again,” as Ravyn herself puts it, she wants to ride vicariously on Audrey’s operatic wings. So Audrey got the tattoo in honor of that sentiment. Their beautiful bond echoes my memories of Dad, and from that moment on I, too, want to see her reach all of her goals, not only for her, but for her sister.
Unfortunately, Bouchard catches us whispering and makes me stay ten minutes after class, carving time out of my lunch period. Audrey argues that she is to blame, too, but I shut her down. I’ve come to realize Bouchard’s a fangirl of Katarina, and since I tromped over her star pupil during tryouts and various rehearsals, the vocal instructions and musical studies on my schedule have been even more painful than I already anticipated. There’s no reason Audrey should suffer for that.
As soon as I’m released, I find Sunny in the hall waiting for me. She says I deserve vindication and sneaks me in to see Bouchard’s room of deceased pets on the second floor—complete with the mounted heads of a beloved parakeet, a pampered chinchilla, and a plaque showcasing three field mice with real butterfly wings stitched meticulously to their backs. The scent of something medicinal blends with animal dander and stale bones, creating a sinister and clinical combination that knots my stomach.
“I’ve heard her talk to them,” Sunny murmurs.
“To the dead things?” I ask as we both stare up in petrified wonder.
“Yeah, sometimes when she’s in here with the door closed. Or maybe she’s talking for them. Maybe she’s one of those . . . what do they call that again?”
“Ventriloquists?”
She nods. “Yeah. And they’re her marionettes.”
“Or maybe she’s theirs,” I half joke, eyeing a white rabbit head still attached to its front torso and forelegs. Bouchard has carved a window in the rabbit’s chest where it’s hung flat against the wall, embedded an oval wooden frame within, and inserted an image of her holding the prized bunny years earlier, when it was still alive. She’s younger with no wrinkles, without that trademark layer of French powder and rouge. A white lab jacket covers a casual button-up shirt. It’s unsettling how happy she looked back then. Not even a trace of the stern bitterness I’ve come to dread each time I’m in her class.
“She flunked out of veterinarian school,” Sunny whispers. “That picture was taken before. She obviously didn’t ever get over having a scalpel in her hand or her love for the scent of blood.”
I cringe. Neither one of us notices that the Bride of Frankenstein herself has stepped up behind until she shouts: “Get out!”