“Chut!” Bouchard claps her hands, silencing the laughter so effectively that the jingle of Diable’s collar at my feet draws the attention of several students from the two rows surrounding ours.
Bouchard aims one of her infamous snarls at the juniors. “You can rest assured I’ve taken note from whence the laughter originated, and you will each be in detention tomorrow. A full hour after classes, reorganizing and cleaning my art studio and supplies.”
A collective moan arises but fades just as quickly, as if the students fear an even worse fate should they offend her again. I don’t blame them, considering the “art studio and supplies” are in fact the tools of her trade: bloodied and gut-gooped taxidermist equipment and the stuffed heads of animals waiting to be mounted on plaques.
I nudge Diable affectionately with the toe of my cowboy boot. He wraps his front claws around the worn leather, gnawing it with sharp little teeth. He sits up with a start. His large ears perk tall. Paired with his flicking whiskers and tail, it’s a sure sign he either hears Etalon in the walls, or a mouse or rat somewhere. I really hope it’s Etalon. I haven’t heard from him since I left the club last night. Even my dreams were devoid of his songs.
Not giving me a second glance, Diable’s off, disappearing into the shadows. I wish I could escape as easily. The final dancing auditions took longer than expected. We started at two o’clock, and now it’s four. But the most important singing audition still remains. Only Kat and Audrey made it to the finals, since I bowed out. After today, one will become Renata, and the other will be understudy. Or, if Kat ends up with the lesser role, we’ll have no understudy at all.
“Now, Miss Nilsson, if you please.”
Kat resumes her walk down the aisle and ascends the steps to the stage. Sunny grunts, keeping the volume low enough that the teachers seated at the back of the theater can’t hear her. It’s all for Audrey’s benefit.
Her turn will be after Kat’s, and I’ve never seen her this nervous before singing. She was back early enough from Paris yesterday to practice five more times without a single mistake, and she was already nailing the aria days before that. Yet something’s shaken her up, to the point she won’t even look at me when I try to help.
Maybe it’s because several of the juniors stopped my group after lunch this afternoon and asked if I planned to try out. Apparently, since Kat and Roxie are no longer giving me hell over my stage fright, some of our peers have decided I’m worth a second thought.
But a role in an opera is the last thing on my mind. For one, I would never step all over Audrey and her hard work, not to mention betray our friendship. I won’t do it. And two, the stage is a reminder of the performance and ensuing events at the club last night, and that I’m a dangerous liability. I’m a ticking time bomb of energy-sucking savagery. Just look what I almost did to Jax and Ben. What I’m hoping I didn’t do to my dad.
I’m lucky Jax, Quan, and Sunny remember very little about our weird outing, but that doesn’t make me any less guilty.
As incredible as it felt a little over a month ago, singing in this theater when it was just me and my fantasy partner, that kind of temporal joy seems so far out of reach now. Everything is tinged by what happened almost twenty hours earlier—and the questions that were answered only to birth a thousand more.
Why was Etalon pretending to be the Phantom? What does his face look like under the mask—is he damaged, too? And who is the real Phantom? What am I to him . . . how does my family fit into all of this?
My stomach bunches tight as I burrow deeper in the velvety seat, sandwiched between Sunny and Quan on one side and Audrey and Jax on the other. Audrey’s upset with Jax, Sunny’s upset with Quan. And they’re all acting weird toward me. It must be nerves getting the best of everyone. Maybe it’s some side effect of the stuff Etalon injected into their veins, another thing no one remembers but me.
The musicians in the orchestra pit begin to play and Kat joins in on cue, her voice powerful, her Russian flawless. Attempting not to listen, I focus on the knitting project I brought—my one chance for sanity. I left my hair down earlier so it hangs around my face on either side like thick, wavy curtains, offering privacy. I’m weary of catching glimpses of people’s auras in my periphery. They seem brighter and more noticeable today than ever before. Either that, or I’m hyperaware because I’m curious about the flavor each different emotion might contain.