“That’s her ego trip, and her issue,” I say.
Roxie grinds her teeth. “You know what your problem is? You’re from Podunk Texas and you’ve never lived in the entertainment world. Kat has grown up saturated in opera and is expected to be the next”—her fingers form air quotes for emphasis—“‘Christina: world-renowned prodigy.’ That’s a lot of pressure from her family. A talent scout is coming to our performance at the end of the year . . . they’re planning to offer two scholarships for la Schola Cantorum Conservatory in Paris. One girl and one boy recipient. This is something she’s been working for since she was in grade school. Then you come in without any training . . . all freaky savant who wants to upstage everyone. Yeah, as Kat’s bestie, I’m gonna get in your face. Unlike my brother, who claims to be crazy about Audrey but doesn’t care if you crash her hopes and dreams, I’m loyal to the ones I lo—” She stops herself short, her delicate features flashing bright red.
Clamping her mouth shut, she slams her paper towel into the trash and walks out.
The five-minute bell rings, but I don’t move. Finally, their animosity makes sense. Kat thinks I’m going to steal her shot at a scholarship. Whereas Audrey needs it more than any of us. And Roxie . . . she’s crushing on her best friend, who keeps her on the side as a plaything, but is ultimately in lust with her twin brother.
This place isn’t just an opera house, it’s an opera: unrequited love, jealous rivals, eccentric personalities, stalkers, sabotage, and vandalism.
And last but not least: mortals pitted against monsters.
Taking one last look at myself in the mirror—black, wild hair that ties me to Dad like my possessed musical performances once did; eyes the same color as Mom’s but that see things no one else can; cursed, gypsy blood like Grandma’s—I have to wonder: on which side do I belong?
There’s only one way to know for sure.
To earn this week’s Saturday trip to Paris with my classmates, I’ve been diligent with my gardening duties during the two-hour span between helping Madame Fabre with the costumes for the lesser roles and dinner. I haven’t missed a single day, despite that the weather has decided to be fickle again.
Friday after classes, I talk to Mom on the landline for a few minutes and finish reading a letter I received from Trig and Janine. Then I make my way out to do some weeding, trying not to think about Ben. He’s fully conscious now, but has amnesia. I chide myself for finding peace in that.
It rained most of the morning, and soggy leaves drip water softly around me. The wet scent of foliage tastes refreshing on the back of my tongue. Invigorating, in spite of the clouds. My dark mood lifts as I weave my way across the parking lot and find the dead roses left in the Phantom’s wake staring back at me.
Ever since I first saw them drained of life, I’ve been tempted to touch them, as if the ailing blooms and shrinking stems were calling to me, but my insecurities always stopped me. Today, I notice halos of blackish-gray light surrounding them.
Dad used to say all organic things have auras . . . even plants and animals. But I thought these roses were dead. Somehow, they’re still giving off life energy. So, maybe they’re only dormant.
I glance over my shoulder, assuring I’m out of view of the academy . . . hidden behind brambles and vines. I take off my gardening gloves and wrap my fingers around a rose’s crinkled, soggy head. At first, the bud feels cold and empty. A lifeless hull. Then, a thrumming sensation shakes through the petals, originating from the roots in the ground and trembling under my boot soles.
Instinctually, I start to hum, drawing off an ability I’ve suppressed for years, ever since Dad died and music became a parasite. I hum like I used to when we gardened together. I hum like I do each night now, when it’s just my maestro and me alone in my room, calming and hypnotic. My song coaxes the earth’s heartbeat into the rosebush; my vocal cords become tributaries, channeling the life beneath the soil into the roots, stems, and leaves.
By the time the final note leaves my vocal cords, a deep red, edged with burgundy so velvety it’s almost black, bleeds into the petals as they soften inside my hand. The spiky leaves unfurl from their coiled and withered stasis, plumping to a vivid green, as if a rush of chlorophyll races through them. The stems stand tall, and the scent shifts in one breath, from musty and decayed to a fresh perfume.
I step back, staring in disbelief as every rose lifts its head and displays a halo of crimson light, the entire bush in full bloom. A memory comes back to me, quiet and soft: Dad bringing me outside when I was six, showing me how to use my music to revive the wilted places in our garden.