Ms Heller moves into my line of sight. She grimaces. ‘Okay … sure. How about we slow down a bit, and maybe try it a tad less … murdery?’
There is a snigger in the auditorium, followed by a chorus of shushes. I think the laughter might have come from Michelle Pham, though I’m not sure what she’s finding so funny. I mean, this is the girl who cried when she couldn’t figure out binomial expansion in year-ten maths – far more justifiable grounds for eye-watering mirth, if I were prone to that sort of thing.
Ms Heller clears her throat. ‘Come on, Sophia. You’re doing … great.’
I close my eyes. I know the words I am supposed to say. It took me all of three minutes to memorise them. I am not shy. But I can’t do this. I can’t.
I shuffle onto my feet again, imagining that the heat of the spotlight is causing my molecules and atoms to vibrate faster and faster, the space between them expanding –
‘That he is loved of me –’ I toss one hand skyward, having seen the gesture in a YouTube clip of this monologue, though I have no idea what it is supposed to signify. ‘I follow him not … not …’
I can’t fail at something so simple. Something that Damien Pagono, who is now cleaning his shoes with his teeth-protractor, can excel at with apparently no effort. What does it say about me if I can’t take one tiny step outside my comfort zone without falling in a heap? What does it say about my potential if I’m incapable of mastering something new?
I can’t breathe. The next line of this goddamned ridiculous monologue is stuck somewhere in my vocal cords. My feet feel like they have adhered to the stage, that one hand still pointing incomprehensibly to the sky. I’m so busy sinking into a tangle that I almost miss the officious-looking junior who has walked into the room. He strides up to the stage and thrusts something at Ms Heller. ‘From the office,’ the kid barks, before marching out again.
Ms Heller frowns at the oversized red envelope in her hand. It’s shiny and fancy-looking – I’m close enough to see the small, elaborate writing on the front, ornate curlicues drawn with a thin black marker, like a wedding invite from a fairytale giant.
‘Maybe Finkler’s finally gonna ask you out,’ Damien says from the edge of the orchestra pit. ‘Check if he’s sent a photo of his dong.’
Ms Heller shoots him a glare. Someone in the orchestra pit plays the first few bars of ‘Don’t Stand So Close to Me’ on the viola, and a few people giggle.
Ms Heller blushes. Whatever mysterious aura of authority that surrounds her wavers as she looks at the envelope. Her indecisiveness prompts all activity to come to a slow halt.
She places her monologue book on the stage steps, then digs her car keys from her pocket, sliding the tip of one beneath the flap of the envelope.
‘What on earth,’ she mutters as she withdraws her hand. In it she holds a small, irregularly shaped piece of red paper, only slightly larger than her palm.
I’m distantly aware that my feet have regained some feeling, and that I have drifted down the stairs. On closer inspection it’s not a single piece of paper at all; rather, it’s what looks like some kind of flat, elaborate origami, the edges razor straight and pressed into a complex series of folds and creases.
A small white tag is attached to the bottom of one of the folds.
I peer over Ms Heller’s forearm. The tag bears an inscription in minuscule writing, a pretty script that matches the lettering on the envelope. The writing reads, simply: here.
Ms Heller’s fingers flutter over the instruction. I’ve seen her face adopt that same glazed expression before, usually when she’s quoting chunks of Chekhov. She holds the red shape delicately in her fingers. Then, almost impulsively, she gives the tag a swift, precise tug.
The sharp-edged creases of the origami become softer before my eyes. Segments of crimson move and unfold in the direction of the tag. It’s too convoluted for my eyes to follow. However it has been created, the mechanism is impressive.
The paper shape rearranges itself, pieces blossoming outwards and upwards as Ms Heller tugs at the tag, her other hand clinging tightly to the bottom. Between the thumb and forefinger of her stationary hand, red segments coil around on themselves, a slow-moving paper vine, forming seemingly of its own volition.
Remaining in her fingers is the stem of a small, but perfectly shaped crimson paper rose.
‘Oh,’ Ms Heller breathes. She glances around, a dusky blush staining her cheeks.
Someone whistles. Someone else awwws. Romy’s eyes well with unshed tears; a reaction that I find almost as perplexing as the paper rose itself, until I remember that I’ve seen her sob at a picture of an orphaned baby sloth on someone’s Instagram. Romy Hopwood is probably not the most reliable barometer of conventional human emotion.
Ms Heller twirls the rose slowly in her hand. Several people yelp and point excitedly as they spot the thing that I have just seen. Another tiny white tag has unfolded partway along the stem.
My nose twitches. The faintest hint of an almost-familiar smell tickles the edge of my senses.
I give up all pretence of being surreptitious. I grab Ms Heller’s sleeve, pulling it, and the flower, towards me. The tiny script on the second tag, in urgent caps, reads: HOLD AWAY.
‘Ms Heller,’ I begin, ‘um, maybe, I think you should –’
There is a sound – a faintly effervescent hiss. It’s followed by a soft fizz, and a barely audible pop, like the crack of kindling in a very tiny fireplace.
For a moment the entire class, and the people in the orchestra pit, and even Damien Pagono, freeze.
A dot of blue appears at the base of the rose bulb. It’s sparked by nothing I can see, like someone has touched the paper with the tip of an invisible match. The smudge of light seems to hang suspended, so faint that for a moment I can’t be sure it’s really there.
Ms Heller recoils. She thrusts the rose away from her body, the stem still pinched between the tips of her fingers.
The paper rose ignites. Fingers of fire creep leisurely, steadily upwards, enveloping the petals in a bright mini-inferno. The flame has the strangest glow, blue, almost green, clearly some kind of chemical fire.
It’s mesmerising; a too-bright torch in the dim, dusty room. There are a few alarmed gasps alongside a smattering of applause, which turns to animated exclamations as the entire bulb of the flower is engulfed in cobalt flame. The colour of the fire seems to be changing now, emerald with a halo of purple. Curiously, it also seems much smokier than a fire of that size should be.
The pretty flame dances in Ms Heller’s extended hand. And then two things happen at once.
As quickly as it ignited, the fire extinguishes, leaving Ms Heller staring open-mouthed at the charred remains of a red paper stem. Tendrils of thick blue-grey smoke curl towards the ceiling, followed by a chorus of affected coughing from a few of the more melodramatic members of the class.