Kiyo frowned. "Those two have amazing voices."
"Sure, honey." Harley stroked his arm. "I wasn't dissing their vocal skills, just their dietary choices. A good body is a must in this business. Thank goodness you and I have a natural advantage there, yeah?"
He swallowed, toying with an impulse that snaked up from the primal part of him—the urge to push Harley against the wall, press his mouth to hers, and run his hands over her shape—but in his mind, Erin's face overlaid Harley's.
Diwali pushed his way between them. "Okay, well, see ya, Harley. Me and my boy got some cleanup to do."
Kiyo let himself be shouldered along to the men's locker room.
"You're welcome," said Diwali, grinning as the door swung closed behind them. "That girl's got it bad for you, huh?"
"You think so?"
"Man, it's obvious. But you can't hit that, you know. It's in the contract. No boning the other contestants, or anyone else who's part of the show."
"Does that apply to the teachers and coaches too?" Kiyo asked—and immediately wished he could rip the words from the air, because Diwali's bushy dark brows jumped an inch higher than normal.
"You got a lil crush on a teacher, Kiyo? Which one?"
"None of them. I was just curious, man. Shut up." Kiyo whipped his sweat-damp towel at Diwali.
"Well, show your stuff out there tomorrow and you'll get to stick around and drool over whoever it is. But I'm pretty sure that's all you'll be able to do. The contract said anyone connected with the show—which probably includes the coaches and instructors."
Show your stuff tomorrow. Diwali's words echoed in Kiyo's head late into the night, long after his awkward dinner not-date with Harley, during which she chattered while he listened politely.
He lay in bed, shivering until he finally got up and checked the thermostat. He tried adjusting the settings, but the unit didn't seem to be working.
He wandered out into the drafty hallway, half-hoping to hear the lovely voice from the other night. But the whole floor was silent as death, and dark as a tomb. The thin carpet deadened his steps as he paced to the end of the passage. The hinges of the stairway door whined as he pushed it open and stepped through, and the resounding metallic clunk of it closing behind him sent hollow echoes up the stairs.
He hugged his arms, staring up the shadowed flight of steps. Should he go up to the attic and check on Mel? She might not want him to, but maybe it was the right thing to do. She didn't seem to have any friends here, and someone had to be sure she was alive, and okay.
As he climbed the steps, the muscles in his calves tugged painfully, reminding him of his exertions in dance class. But he persisted until he reached the top floor. He knocked softly at the attic door.
No answer.
What if she really had overdosed, and was lying unconscious or dead in there?
Was it any of his business?
He bounced on his bare heels in an agony of indecision. If she was fine, and he went into her room uninvited, she'd probably kick him in the nuts. But if she needed help—
Screw it.
The handle yielded to his fingers, and the door swung open.
A sharp yowl somewhere near his knees sent him bounding a few feet forward, swearing in shock. A fluffy white cat slunk past him, dragging its body against his legs and meowing again, loudly. He recognized the behavior. His sister's cat acted the same way whenever he wanted food.
"You hungry?" Kiyo crouched, rubbing the cat's head with his knuckles. "Just a sec, okay?" He rose, peering around the half-lit room. Warm circles of amber light shone from a few scattered lamps—they looked like poorly-preserved antiques, or salvage. One of them shone on a bed piled thick with different cushions and fabrics, and nestled in the blankets was Mel, wearing only her bra and jeans. She must have collapsed there right after he left, not even bothering to change.
Her face was turned to the side, the right half of it concealed by the pillows and her arm. She didn't seem to be breathing.
Closer he stepped, until he could lean right over her, and then he saw it—the faint rise and fall of her chest. Alive, but breathing shallow. He wasn't sure how to tell if she were unconscious or in distress from an overdose, and without his phone along, he couldn't look it up.
He glanced around, noting her laptop and phone on the desk—but touching those would be going too far, even if his only intent was to research her symptoms.
Her lips were faintly pink, not blue, and she was her normal pale self—not drastically white or feverishly flushed. Satisfied that she wasn't dying, he stepped back. The cat smushed itself against him again, mewling pitifully. Mel probably hadn't fed it before passing out.
"Okay, okay," he said. "Let's get you something to eat."
He found a bag of dry food near a pair of plastic bowls and dumped a scoop of kibbles into one dish. From a jug of water nearby, he refilled the second bowl. The cat settled in to eat, losing interest in him entirely.
Kiyo walked through the room again, examining the paintings. Most of them were abstract—swaths of violent color, roils of purple darkness, or spattered canvases like rainbow snowstorms. Deeper in the gloom, on the other side of the bed, stood an easel with another canvas atop it, depicting a girl's pale, haunted face, torn through by a million crisscrossing scratches.
Kiyo suddenly realized wasn't cold anymore. The portable heaters Mel had plugged in up here worked well, apparently.
It couldn't hurt to enjoy the delicious heat a little longer. He sat down on a padded chair by the wall and relaxed, letting the tension of the day drain out of him.
A sharp pain exploded through his cheek, and his eyes popped open. Mel stood over him, wrapped in a gray blanket, her face in such deep shadow that he could barely make out her blazing eyes.
"What the hell are you doing here, pervert?" she growled.
Kiyo recoiled as her hand lifted again. "I'm sorry," he said. "I didn't mean to fall asleep. My room was freezing and I couldn't sleep, so I came up here to check on you. You were fine, and I fed your cat, but then it was so warm I didn't want to leave—"
"So you thought you'd sleep here. Uninvited. In my safe space." Her low voice was coarser than usual, and quivering with rage.
"I didn't mean to. Oh gosh, what time is it?" He moved to get out of the chair, but her hand darted under the blanket and whipped back out, holding a wicked little knife this time. He cursed. "Easy, girl! Seriously, what time is it?"
"Six a.m. Relax, you're not late for anything. Not yet. Though if I decide to kill you, you might be just a tad late." Her eyes glittered in a way that told him she was not entirely joking.
"I didn't touch you, I swear. I made sure you were breathing, and I fed the cat." He stared at the shadows where her face should be, fear constricting his lungs. "Please. I swear."
For a moment she stood, a gray-draped statue, the knife poised near his throat. Then she stepped back. "Coward."
"What the—"
"You're a coward."
"You threatened me with a knife. A knife. Are you insane?"
"Maybe." She retreated another step. "Get out."
"My pleasure." He rose, giving her a deep bow, and stormed out of the room, slamming the door behind him. His legs trembled as he descended the stairs, and his heart beat like a metronome set to peak speed. No one had ever slapped him like that, or threatened him like that. He couldn't decide if he was more terrified or excited.
No time to sort out the emotions, though—this was performance day. Not first or second-round auditions, but a real, televised performance, where he would be pitted against the other nineteen singers, critiqued in front of everyone, and either pushed through or kicked off.
-11-
Kryptonite
Kiyo's neck felt out-of-joint and his back ached from sleeping in that stupid chair. Even a hot shower couldn't release the tension, and the terrifying interlude with Mel clung to his brain like dark, metallic dust to a magnet. He wondered how he could have handled
it differently. Not falling asleep in her room might have been a good start.
The unrest only worsened when they called him to hair and makeup, then ushered him into the Green Room to wait for his turn on stage. He did some warm-ups quietly while the others performed theirs loudly, boisterously. Uninhibited.
Two of the other contestants approached him—a guy with stringy blond hair and a freckled woman with eyes as green as poison. He'd seen them in classes, but he couldn't remember any of their performances.
"What are you singing?" the woman asked with an odd little simper.
" 'Swing, Swing,' by the All-American Rejects."
"I didn't know you had a rock voice."
"No, I'm actually doing it a lot slower—gentle, like a ballad," Kiyo explained. "I used to sing it that way at home, for my sister."
"Oh. Okay." She glanced at the blond man. "That's a big risk. The judges might not be huge fans of the slow thing. I'm just sayin'. But you do you, boo. Go for it. Go big or go home, right? Or I guess—go big or go slow, huh?"
"I guess..."
"Don't sweat it," she smirked. "You're probably safe—you're the token Asian on the show."
Kiyo's jaw dropped.
He'd been lucky not to experience idiotic racism as often as some kids at his school did—so when it showed up, bald and ugly, right in front of him, he had no idea what to say.
Wordless, he turned away, their titters ricocheting like bullets off his back.
Maybe he was the token Asian, chosen to satisfy a textbook diversity quota rather than for his talent. Maybe he'd be kept for a few rounds on that basis alone, whether he deserved to be there or not.
Or maybe the woman was right, and he'd wrecked a good rock song by making it soft and sweet. What did he know about song choice and pleasing the judges? Come to think of it, what the hell did Erin know about it, either? She didn't look more than couple years older than him. How could he have trusted her with something this important? She hadn't suggested another song, or a different style.
And this was the first performance round. No elimination lineup here—if the judges didn't like the song, they would vote him off immediately.
He wiped his hands again and again, cursing his moist palms. He adjusted the guitar strap, trying to stretch the knotted kink out of his neck. His mouth felt dry as the desert.
Mel was passing by and he snagged the shoulder of her hoodie. "Mel, could I get some water, please?"
She kept walking, ignoring him, and his heart sank. She was still mad at him. Or maybe embarrassed that he'd seen her like that—sick, vulnerable, and afraid. Either way, she was icing him out, and for some odd reason, it hurt.
But two minutes later she popped up in front of him again, holding a water bottle. "Feeling nervous?"
"I—yes." He chugged the water and took a deep breath. His head felt oddly light. "I don't think I can do this."
She lowered her voice. "If you can face a knife at your throat, I think you can handle a few pompous judges and an excitable crowd. Get out there and rock the house, man."
"Rock the house," he said. "That's the problem. I think I went the wrong direction with this song. Too soft, maybe."
She cocked her head, giving him an odd look. "Don't second-guess yourself. I'm sure it will be awesome."
"Okay." He swallowed, refreshing his grip on the guitar. Wiping his right hand again.
A man with a headset hurried toward him. "Kiyo Darcy? We're ready for you. Walk on out there, nice and slow, and we'll get your lighting going. Are you using the sound board?"
"Uh, no. It's just me, playing and singing."
"Oh. Interesting choice. Okay then. Come on."
Panic twisted Kiyo's gut. He'd created this song arrangement in his bedroom at home, played it for his parents and Masayo. Why had he thought it was a good choice for an audience that probably wanted to be blown away by a rock god?
"Kiyo." The man whispered urgently to him. "Go. Go!" He motioned toward the stage.
Kiyo's heart pounded in his ears. He walked onto the stage, and the lights surged blue, as he and Erin had agreed upon and requested. There was his stool, ready for him. He sat on it, hooking one foot on a crosspiece, and hitched the guitar into place.
Silence. So much silence.
So much darkness in the auditorium, except for the uplit dais where the judges sat expectant, waiting.
Eddie Carver cleared his throat.
Kiyo tried to remember everything Erin had taught him. Breathe from the diaphragm, open your throat, relax your shoulders—
He couldn't.
He had to start somewhere, so he took a firmer grip on the guitar and strummed.
The first chord was wrong.
He started over, sweaty fingers slipping on the strings. This time he got into the rhythm—but the high notes at the beginning were slightly flat—he wasn't nailing them like he had in practice. His heartbeat was too damn loud.
The song had been shortened for his limited time slot. He messed up the words. Leapfrogged over an entire line to catch up. Hit the falsetto section perfectly, sank into the lower notes, finding safety there. Climbed up again to the soft, pure falsetto he had practiced with Erin, and finished out the last line with caressing finesse.
But the moment it was over, Kiyo knew.
He stood stiffly while Eddie Carver fussed on and on about the pitch problems, the mistakes with the guitar, the botched lyrics.
Amarynth smiled pityingly at him. "Were you nervous, sweetie?"
Kiyo nodded. He couldn't speak.
"Nerves don't belong in this business," said Ferris in an exaggerated Southern drawl, examining his blue-polished nails. "You know what I do with nervous energy? I convert it to power. P-o-w-e-r. Power. You learn to do that, you can go anywhere. Do anything."
Kiyo nodded again, but Ferris frowned. "I'm sensing an attitude from you, kid, like you're not really taking this in. This feedback is gold for you, you know. Pure gold."
"Yes, sir, I know."
"Sir?" Ferris laughed. "Cute. Callin' me 'sir.' Sorry to do this, kid, but I'm gonna have to say 'no.' "
"I'm a 'no' as well. Try again next time," said Eddie Carver.
Amarynth winced. "I agree. You're young, sweetie. Try playing for your friends and for small groups so you can get used to performing. You'll get there."
"And that means you're done, son!" Eddie slapped a hand on the table. "Roll on outta here."
Kiyo's hope plunged into his stomach. "I understand. Thank you for this opportunity."
He bowed stiffly and strode off the stage. Past the staring eyes of the other contestants, past the apologetic manager who reached out to him with a handful of papers and a "Right this way, please." Past everyone and everything, through the courtyard, past the little window of Madame Boucher's office. Up the stairs to the fourth floor. Into his practice room, Number 412.
And he picked up the stool and threw it at the wall.
It ricocheted, leaving behind a gray dent.
Kiyo grabbed the stool, jammed it in front of the mirror, and sat down to wait.
He knew she would come. Hoped she would come. If she cared about him at all, she would come.
He waited for an hour.
No texts or emails from the show's staff, asking him to get downstairs and pack up his stuff. At least they weren't rushing him, although they would probably hurry him out the door tomorrow morning.
He'd ruined everything. The gnawing anxiety in his gut had eaten him alive onstage, ripped through his chances of winning the show—or not even winning, but at least making it through a few rounds. He'd wrecked his shot at seeing Erin again, apparently, because she wasn't coming. He had failed her, and she was gone.
Leaning forward, he covered his face with his hands.
A touch on his shoulder startled him upright. There she was, in the mirror, more flushed than usual and more beautiful because of it. Her breath came in quick pants, as if she had run up the steps to the fourth floor.
"I'm sorry," he said to her reflection. "I messed up. I'm out."
"No." She bared her teeth in a predatory smile. "You're still in. I took care of it."
"You—took care of it? How?"
"One of your fellow contestants didn't show up to the performance, so she was eliminated. I convinced the director to keep you in her place. You'll be ranked at the bottom of the pack, but you get one more chance. You're one of the seventeen going through to the next round."
"I get another chance," he repeated mechanically, his legs and arms weakening with relief. He groaned and closed his eyes. "I thought I was finished."
He heard the soft rustle of the dress, felt her nearness like a tingle along his spine. "No. You're just beginning."
The breath shuddered in his lungs—half relief, half crazed excitement. How messed up was he, feeling like this about someone he met a week ago? He had transformed from calm, cool, online-gaming, shower-singing, honor-roll Kiyo to somebody who deeply understood the meaning of the lyrics to Maroon 5's "Animals." Too weird. Too scary.
"You know, before today, I thought I'd be okay with it if I got sent home," he said. "But when this happened, all I could think about was how much I want to stay. To see this through to the end, if I can."
"And thanks to me, you will."
Gratefulness welled up in him, submerging his relief. Suddenly he wanted nothing more than to touch her, to kiss those dark cherry lips of hers, to taste her. She might be furious at him for it, but he could always apologize afterward.
The blindfold. It lay on the table where she had dropped it on the first day she appeared. He lifted it and slowly, methodically placed it over his eyes, knotting it behind his head.
She didn't speak, and he didn't hear her move. But he heard her breathing, shallow and fast.
He turned, his hands at his sides. And he could feel her there, in the dark, as if she were surrounded by a cloud of rippling energy. Every square inch of his skin was painfully aware and alive, and he waited, barely breathing.
Waited for a sign.
Her thin fingers met his chest, splaying over his heart, and his breath quickened. Every conscious thought swept from his mind, leaving only the pressure of her palm and his vital need to be touching more of her.
The Monsters of Music Page 9