I grow silent, frustrated that his answers are always so cryptic. Why can’t he just give me details? I’m not ready to let him off that easy. “Why did you give me an invitation to the club? Will you be there? Can we finally see each other if I go?” If I can just be with him, face-to-face, I can get the answers to everything I’ve been dying to ask.
His breath seems labored. He’s torn . . . aching to be sitting beside me, too, wanting to be forthcoming, but something is holding him back. Instead of him answering me, his violin whispers through the vent—a hypnotic melody. And although I try to fight it, the song lulls me to sleep.
I want to be angry when I wake up and find him gone in the morning, but the mental intimacies we share, however unusual, always leave me stronger, always help me find my footing. Because of him, I no longer have to worry about bulldozing over anyone at the final auditions that are on the horizon.
So I choose to be grateful for whatever moments he can offer.
During our daily rehearsals, Madame Bouchard seems as annoyed by my newfound silence as she was by my unplanned outbursts. At times, she even tries to goad me into breaking down by cranking Renata’s arias full blast in the background. When I don’t react, it seems to unsettle her. Then, when she forces me to sing for a grade, and I manage the songs without fading or weakening, she’s just as upset. It’s as if no matter what I do, it’s not what she expects or wants.
I don’t let it get to me, because my control has given Audrey the confidence she was lacking. And with my own growing abilities, I’m able to offer her tips for reaching that final note with a more consistent flow of air and forward consonant delivery. Almost four weeks have passed since the chapel incident, and now Audrey’s nailing her part like a pro. All she lacks is the intensity and hysteria that the role demands, which Kat hasn’t quite mastered herself. This puts them on level ground, and Audrey has a real chance of claiming the lead at the upcoming final audition on Sunday.
Even though I’ve chosen not to try out for any roles, the fact that I’m helping Audrey with her technique lands me back in Kat and Roxie’s bad graces.
Thursday, during lunch break, they decide teasing me about my “homespun uniforms” isn’t enough for them anymore.
Kat steps into the bathroom as I’m washing my hands. She opens her purse on the counter, digging through her makeup.
I try to hurry, not because it’s her, but because I’m uncomfortable being alone with anyone now. Even on our day trips to Paris the previous three weekends, I was careful to always be with the group, or by myself—like when I left everyone long enough to purchase gray and black yarn and emoticon appliques for my newest knitting project.
I’m making toe socks for the Phantom, in honor of how he used to draw faces on his toes and play puppets when he was little to distract himself from holey stockings and lack of friends. Maybe it’s a silly gift for a guy, but I want his toes to never be cold again. I want him to never feel alone again. I’ll do whatever I can to thank him for giving me my power back. Because of his help, I’m in control of the music and can appear normal.
The downside, though, is now I know without a doubt that I’m the furthest thing from it. I’m different. Understanding I’m not the only one like me makes it easier to swallow, but I have to take precautions to keep others safe until I can make sense of who I am. What I am.
Kat clears her throat while applying strokes of silvery eye shadow that brighten her icy-blue irises. “So, rumor has it you and the Phantom are hooking up every night,” she says, her voice laced with innuendo.
I pause—soggy, apricot-scented soapsuds dripping from my hands onto the sink’s edge. The accusation levels me. Although it’s obviously a dig at the “supposed” sighting I had upon my arrival, and my virtue or lack thereof, she’s hitting too close to the truth for comfort. I tug a paper towel from the dispenser, buying myself a second to compose. Be ambiguous . . . ignore the paranormal crack; that’s what a normal person who isn’t singing duets every night with a phantom would do.
“As if there’s time for hooking up with anyone around here,” I manage. My voice comes out steadier than I feel—a side effect of the sarcasm I inject into the response.
“Methinks Rune doth protest too boisterously.” Roxie surprises me, stepping out of a stall behind us.
I glare at both of them in the mirror’s reflection, slightly relieved I’m not alone with Kat, but unwilling to let them see anything that could be construed as weakness. I toss the paper towel in the trash. Conquering my musical demons has given me a new perspective. If the diva duo is going to stop tormenting me and my friends, I can’t play victim anymore.
“Should’ve known this was a tag-team event,” I accuse.
“Aw, come on,” Roxie says, brushing past me to flip on a faucet. “We just figured you must’ve found a very special voice coach, considering . . .”