The Monsters of Music

by Rebecca F. Kenney

  "Shut up."

  "Okay, slow down. First you're writing music, and now you're in love? Who are you in love with, exactly?"

  "My voice coach." He closed his eyes, groaning inwardly at how it probably sounded to her.

  "Whoa. Your voice coach? Is this like a cougar situation? Do I need to ask for leave so I can come save you from some wildcat woman with sharp, shiny nails?"

  "She's not much older than me. Couple years, maybe."

  "Wait, so they assigned you a voice coach who's barely older than you?"

  "Yeah. My original coach fell down the stairs."

  He waited for her reply, chewing on his thumbnail and then dropping his hand to the bed to play a keyboard trill across the covers.

  "Something about this isn't right," Masayo said slowly. "Kiyo, I want you to be very careful. Don't sign anything else until you talk to Mom and Dad. And maybe take a step back from this woman who's coaching you, whoever she is."

  "Her name is Erin," he said.

  "Last name?"

  His jaw dropped. "I—I don't remember."

  "You don't remember, or she never told you?"

  Anger flared in him. "She's not the problem. I told you, everything is great. I'm singing better than I ever have, I'm writing songs—and all you can do is interrogate me and look for danger when there isn't any. Whoever this woman is, she's making me better. I like how I feel around her. So just—mind your own business, okay? You don't understand."

  "Is that so?" Masayo clipped the phrase short.

  "Yeah, it is."

  "Well, I just remembered some training I need to do, so I'll talk to you later, Kiyo."

  "Masayo—"

  "No, you're right. I'm far away, and I'm out of the loop. I don't know what's going on. It's none of my business. God knows I've got enough to worry about over here."

  The call ended. Kiyo threw the phone down and scrunched the blankets in both hands.

  He'd wanted to ask Masayo more questions, to find out what body image issues or personal trauma might make a beautiful girl embarrassed of her own face. He'd thought maybe Masayo could tell him how to help Erin. But introducing the weirdness with the mirror would be the crazy icing on top of a cake of insanity. Masayo would call his parents and paint a much more frightening picture of the contest than the smooth, sanitized information he'd been giving them.

  No, he couldn't tell them. Couldn't tell anyone. He had friends from school, but they weren't tight enough for this info. Diwali was his closest friend here, but Kiyo didn't trust him to offer sensible advice—the guy's life motto was pretty much "sing and get laid." Ramon was cool enough, and had a semi-feminine perspective on life, but he had no knack for confidentiality. The other day at dinner he'd spilled a secret about Phoebe and one of the audio guys—apparently he caught them going at it in an unused room of the auditorium and promised not to tell.

  "Telling you guys doesn't count," Ramon had said, winking. "Now, if I told the chicks and chumps in charge, that would be very, very naughty."

  Kiyo scrolled idly through his contacts, on the off chance he could find someone to confide in. And then his heart stumbled over itself. Because there, right between "Marley from school" and "Mom" was an entry for "Mirror Girl."

  He definitely hadn't created this contact. Which meant that she had not only learned the unlock pattern for his phone, but she had snagged the phone and entered her number without him ever noticing. He had to admire that level of sneakiness.

  He chewed over a few possible greetings before finally texting her a line from the most bad-ass rom-com ever—Mr. and Mrs. Smith. "Hiya stranger."

  He held his breath, waiting. And then he had to exhale, because survival.

  Several interminable minutes later, she answered. "Hiya back."

  The perfect response. He grinned and sent her a GIF from the movie. But the second after he sent it, the smile faded from his face.

  "You're not real," he whispered aloud. "You're too perfect to be real."

  -16-

  Never Enough

  Mel loved having a line of communication to Kiyo even when she wasn't coaching him as Erin. She had to restrain herself from sending him too many messages and quirky GIFs. And she had to be careful how she used her phone. It must always be on her person and always locked—because on that phone were the texts she had sent to Eddie Carver. She had kept them purely for reference, so she didn't screw up and contradict herself somehow if she had to contact him or threaten him again.

  Mel had noticed Eddie carefully inspecting everything he ate or drank. He was twitchy since the mineral water incident. She'd managed it easily, adding the laxative, and then sealing the bottles with glue and clear nail polish so they would make that delightful cracking sound when opened. Mel was rather proud of that prank, almost as proud as she was of the video and audio feeds from the judges' dressing rooms. Last week, before she kissed Kiyo, she'd captured, clipped, and saved a choice selection of embarrassing footage for each judge. An insurance policy, just in case.

  Eddie Carver's file included snippets of him checking and re-checking his suite for imaginary intruders, kissing his protection amulet repeatedly, talking to himself in the mirror, and scratching his butt deeply and enthusiastically.

  Amarynth's file wasn't any worse than a bit of nose-picking, boob-squishing, and a snarky phone conversation about her fellow judges.

  Ferris Manson's file was the worst. Mel had hours of embarrassing footage to choose from if she ever needed to blackmail him. She had cringed repeatedly while reviewing it, deleting and deleting until she all had left was the least embarrassing and offensive material. The man had problems.

  But with Kiyo's Flow song approved and his choreography perfected—and her magic still rippling through his body—she shouldn't have to blackmail any judges for this round. Kiyo had a new confidence, too. She wasn't sure if that was a magical thing or a personal growth thing. Either way, it was sexy as hell.

  Their text communications mostly involved GIFs, emojis, and movie references. Having no friends had freed up Mel's evenings and weekends throughout high school, so her movie knowledge was fairly extensive, in spite of days spent in class and late afternoons sacrificed to music, voice, dance, and gymnastics. She matched wits with Kiyo in quote battles, they took turns expressing shock over which "classics" the other hadn't seen—and must see, as soon as possible.

  Right before filming started for the next episode, she texted him from her perch on the beam above the stage. "Nervous?"

  He replied, "I think I've got this, thanks to you."

  Sure enough, when it was his turn he strode onstage confidently, bowing briefly to the judges.

  "Oh, it's you," said Eddie Carver sulkily. "You're still here."

  "I am." Kiyo nodded.

  Amarynth leaned forward, smiling at him. "You seem different, Kiyo. You're not as nervous today. What has changed for you?" She drew a circle in the air with the tip of her pen.

  "I'm not sure." Mel could tell by Kiyo's voice that he was smiling.

  "I know what it is." Ferris Manson sat up, shaping binoculars with his fingers and aiming them at Kiyo. "He's in love."

  "Is that it?" Amarynth sounded delighted, but Eddie groaned. "Did you find a special girl—or guy—here on the show?"

  Mel realized that she was grinning so broadly her cheeks hurt, her scars tugging and twisting. She forced the smile away by sinking her nails into the flesh of her palms.

  "We're not allowed to have romantic connections with other contestants, or anyone else involved with the show," Kiyo answered.

  "The boy's right," Eddie said. "Now let's drop all this nonsense and get to the song. What are you singing for us today?"

  "Well, I'm half Japanese," Kiyo said. "And in honor of my mother's people and my heritage, I chose a song by one of my favorite Japanese bands. Some of you may have heard it. If not, please enjoy. It's in Japanese, but the English words will be projected on the screens to the left and right of the stage."<
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  With another little bow, he backed up to the center of the platform and bowed his head, waiting. The stage went dark, and then a burst of colored lights erupted around him, and the intro music for "Colors" rolled out of the speakers, quick drumbeats and bright strings. Kiyo tossed his head up and began to sing.

  Mel clutched her hands to her chest, bobbing her head with every string of perfect notes from his throat. He was transformed—confident, his tall, lean figure moving easily through the side-steps, turns, and light dance moves they had planned. His voice didn't falter once, and he rippled through the complex strings of Japanese consonants with smiling ease. The live guitarist behind him seemed inspired as well—he broke out with a breathtaking solo at the midpoint of the song. Kiyo finished with a run of his own and a brilliant, strong note that soared above the instruments until the very last bit of the music.

  A pause.

  And the crowd erupted.

  Kiyo bowed, nodded, and swept a hand toward the guitarist. More cheers, a roar so deafening that Mel could feel it vibrating the beam. Tears trickled hot down her face. This was the Kiyo she had known was in there all along, the Kiyo she wanted the world to see.

  Finally, Eddie Carver held up an impatient hand, and the audience quieted.

  "All right, all right," he said. "That was obviously a crowd-pleaser, but this isn't a J-pop concert, folks."

  Mel growled under her breath. It might be time to curb Eddie's attitude a bit with a visit from his old friend the poltergeist.

  "I thought that song was rather simple, again. What we're seeing from you is a tendency to stick with the safe choices, a reluctance to push yourself to new heights—"

  "Eddie," Amarynth interrupted.

  "Yes, my dear?"

  "Shut up."

  Several people in the crowd gasped, and Mel rocked on the beam, thrilled.

  "This was a great song for you, Kiyo," Amarynth continued. "Not just because it paid respect to your heritage, but because you owned it. You owned this stage, you owned your voice like the instrument it is, and for those few minutes, you owned me, honey. Straight up." She threw both hands in the air, and more cheers burst from the crowd.

  Ferris Manson rose from his chair. "I freaking loved it," he said. "You're on to the next round. Let's see more of that fun, peppy stuff up in here. It's been like a damn funeral today."

  "A 'yes' from two of our judges, then!" exclaimed the host. "And you, Eddie?"

  Eddie ground out a reluctant "yes," and the audience cheered Kiyo as he waved and walked offstage.

  Mel ran lightly across beams and swung from rafters, scrambling down into the dark back passage and darting along it. She could see the lighted main hallway up ahead, and Kiyo's tall form crossing the bright gap.

  And she stopped, heart constricting, because she couldn't run to him and congratulate him as his coach, or as the girl who had kissed him. She belonged in the dark, in the narrow abandoned passages, with the castoffs of past glory days.

  This victory wasn't hers, not really. It was his. And though she was happy for him, and proud of him, a craving hollow inside her screamed that it wasn't enough, would never be enough until she was onstage herself, showing an audience what she could do. She wanted a moment like the one he just experienced. A moment of spotlights and glory, of applause and praise.

  She knew he would want to meet with her, to celebrate with her. And the only place they could do that was the practice room with the magic mirror.

  But he wouldn't be able to get away until later. They would be interviewing him about his family right now, maybe doing a video call to interview his parents, all for the TV episode. He would be busy until late tonight.

  Hitching her bag higher on her shoulder, she trudged out into the bright hallway and wandered along it, not caring whose elbows she jostled along the way. She snagged her leather jacket from the staff coatroom and jogged outside to her motorcycle. Shoving on the helmet and kicking off, she rumbled away from the Leroux campus, through the patchwork maze of the town streets and beyond, down a long, long road that sliced between dead farms and snow-capped silos. She rode until she reached a tiny, abandoned school, whose rusted gate yielded easy access to the frozen playground. The desolate spot suited her, and she tucked herself into a creaky swing and pulled out her phone.

  There was a text from Kiyo. "How did I do?"

  She smiled and replied. "You were EVERYTHING. See you tomorrow."

  She hesitated, then sent him a GIF of a lip imprint. She wanted to kiss him, and her magic was welling up again—soon it would be time.

  He didn't respond. Either he didn't want to kiss her, or he didn't know what to say in response. Probably the latter.

  Sighing, she opened her contacts and selected her aunt's number. Time to ask a few important questions and get some clear answers.

  "Melpomene, angel!" Her aunt's voice blasted through the speaker, and Mel held the phone a little further away.

  "Hey, Aunt Lotta."

  "I haven't heard from you in two weeks, child! What is happening over there?"

  Mel's lips tightened. Lotta could have called if she were genuinely worried. But pointing that out would start the conversation on the wrong note, and Mel needed to keep her aunt in a good mood.

  "I kissed the boy," she said. "Last week."

  "Oh, praise the goddess!" Lotta exclaimed. "Was it thrilling?"

  "Yes." Mel grinned. "But mostly it's just a relief not to have all that magic pent up inside me."

  "And how are you feeling right now?"

  "Still good, though I can feel it coming back. I'll need to release it again soon, one way or another. And that's what I'd like to talk to you about, sort of."

  "I'm listening."

  "Please don't get mad." Mel chewed her lip.

  "When am I ever mad at you?"

  Mel rolled her eyes but didn't argue the point. "I need to know, once and for all, why we aren't allowed to perform for humans, or for anyone besides ourselves. And don't just tell me it's the law—I want to know why it's the law. There must be some reasoning behind it."

  "Well, first of all, if we let our creative energy overflow, combined with our race's inborn charm and beauty, who knows what could happen? It would be too much supernatural juice, darling. And you know we can't reveal ourselves to the humans."

  "There are plenty of dazzling, talented human performers. Surely a Lianhan Sídhe could manage to pass as one of them."

  Aunt Lotta sighed. "Most of the top actors, artists, or singers you can think of right now have been bonded to a male or a female Lianhan Sídhe at one time or another."

  "But aren't the males really rare?"

  "Absolutely. Doesn't mean that they don't exist."

  "That still doesn't explain why I can't perform, if I'm super careful." Mel fought down a surge of panic at the thought of hiding her scars onstage. She brushed the thought aside, to deal with it later.

  "Melpomene, baby, let me tell you a story that my mother and grandmother told me," said Aunt Lotta. "Maybe it will clarify things for you."

  "All right." Mel shifted on the squeaky swing. "But hurry. I'm outside right now, and it's cold."

  "The Fae were conceived by the god Gesacus, in the Otherworld, and we came through a gateway into this world." As Aunt Lotta spoke, she fell into an old rhythm of speaking, a cadence that Mel had only heard her use a few times, always when speaking of Fae history. "When the Fae came through the gate, they were greeted by Aima, the goddess who formed this world. She demanded that we not interfere with her people, the humans, beyond what was necessary to our life and happiness. The Tuatha De Danann, powerful and proud as they were, would make no such agreement. But our race, the Lianhan Sídhe, vowed not to use our creative magic for selfish gain, but to devote it as a gift to the humans. And so Aima was pacified, and allowed the Fae to remain on Earth.

  "We are the last of the faithful, Mel. Our cousins have drifted from our passion and purpose in this world. I'll admit that even I have
done more out of my own self-interest than any benevolence toward the human race. Most of them are dull, coarse creatures. But we can't let this way of life die, Mel. If we use our magic only for ourselves, how are we any better than our cursed sisters?"

  "Not only for myself," Mel insisted. "I would still share it with Kiyo. But I have ideas, too. I have words and pictures and music in my mind. Why should I give all the magic away? Why should I ignore my own talents because of some ancient religion that I don't even believe?"

  "It's not an ancient religion," said her aunt. "It's fact. Our very existence testifies to its truth."

  "Maybe, or maybe not. Who's to say how we actually got here? The Tuatha De Danann are the oldest Fae race, but the ones who are left are second or third-generation. They don't know first-hand where we came from—it's all word of mouth. Fireside stories from millennia ago."

  "Melpomene." Her aunt's voice took on an edge as cold and metallic as the rusted swing-set. "Are we going to have a problem? Because you know I can remove my financial support at anytime."

  "I have a job," Mel retorted. "I'm getting paid as Kiyo's coach, and as a part-time assistant, so I'm doing fine. Pretty soon I won't need your money at all."

  "If you break our laws, you will no longer be one of our clan," said Lotta. "You will be an outcast. Is that what you want? Is this urge of yours, this need for recognition—is it worth losing your family? Your race?"

  "I've already lost one whole family. I'm used to it by now," Mel said viciously.

  "Stop it," said her aunt. "You're acting like the stupid human teenagers, with their rebellion and foolish defiance."

  "I am a teenager, Aunt Lotta. I deserve the chance to make my own decisions, and my own mistakes."

  "But consider the consequences. Think about what I'll have to tell the others if you go rogue and start breaking our rules."

  "That's what you're really concerned about, isn't it?" Mel scoffed. "What you'll have to tell your precious friends at the Lianhan Sídhe ladies' luncheon."

  "We don't do 'luncheon.' "

  "Sure you do. You have lunch, by the pool, and you swim, and you congratulate yourselves on the successes of your protégés. But none of you have anything to celebrate for yourselves. You pass all your creative energy to the humans."