"Good for you," muttered Kiyo, staring at his drab, dry bagel so he wouldn't have to look at them. "Anything romantic makes me want to puke right now."
"Oh, this ain't a romance, brah. This is about two people taking care of business and enjoying it while it lasts." Diwali studied him a minute. "You know what you need man? Porn."
Kiyo made a disgusted face. "What? Why?"
"Why?" Diwali sounded incredulous. "The 'why' is kind of obvious, dude. I'm not showing you how it works. And don't tell me you're one of those freaks who doesn't look at porn."
"Maybe I am, and maybe I'm not—but either way, I'm not one of those freaks who talks about it."
"Okay, okay. Well, the internet in this place is pretty well locked down in that respect, but I've got the old-school stuff. Playboys, man." Diwali waggled his thick brows at Kiyo.
Kiyo hesitated.
But when he went back to his room that night, he pulled a shiny Playboy out of the file folder Diwali had tucked it into. He lay down on the bed, and he poured all the alluring images and seductive words into the chasm Mel had cut through his heart.
For a while, it worked—a distraction, an enchanting release. But afterward he crashed again, his thoughts reverting, turning sad and sour. The room looked uglier than before, and the gaping trench in his heart was just as empty.
"Didn't work," he told Diwali the next day.
"Huh?"
"The Playboy. It didn't work."
"You mean you couldn't— okay, wow. Um, performance issues aren't my area of expertise, but—maybe you're gay?"
"No! That part worked. But I don't feel any better. I'm all torn up inside, and I can't stand it. I've got a competition to focus on. What's the best way to move past a breakup?"
A huge grin sprawled across Diwali's face. "Oh, I got you, man. You need beer. Ramon can hook us up. He's twenty-four."
That night, they gathered Kiyo's room, since it was the most remote, and they drank the beer Ramon had smuggled in.
"Old batty Boucher never noticed," he bragged. "Diwali distracted her with a little sweet talk."
Kiyo flinched inwardly. He liked Boucher. She seemed capable, kind, and intelligent—deserving of more respect. But he shook off his unease, set his mouth to a bottle, and drank deep. The three of them chugged bottle after bottle, until Kiyo could hardly see and collapsed onto the pillows, his head whirling. Ramon crawled across the bed and leaned over him, like he was about to kiss him, but Kiyo slithered away and staggered to the bathroom, where he was violently sick.
The next day his head throbbed and he sang terribly during practice. Apparently, Mel had sent notice as "Erin Crawford" that she was quitting, so Kiyo had another substitute voice coach—a bland chorus director from two towns over. When the man realized that his contestant was hung over, he gave Kiyo a long, awkward lecture about the dangers of underage drinking—a lecture that Kiyo didn't need. He had already decided that beer-guzzling wasn't for him. He couldn't understand why Ramon and Diwali seemed to think it was so much fun.
After the coaching session and the lecture, he wandered out to the courtyard and sat in the cold in a short-sleeved T-shirt, relishing the agonizing bite of the icy air on his skin.
Footsteps shuffled across the snowy paving stones behind him. Kiyo had seen Diwali in the hall a moment before—he must have followed him out here.
"What's your next prescription, Diwali?" Kiyo said. "Porn didn't work, beer didn't work—now what? Strip club? Drugs?" He laughed darkly. "Bring it on, man."
"Kiyo."
Not Diwali. He whirled, flushing. "Mrs. Boucher. Sorry. I—I'm—" He wanted to sink into the sheet of ice at his feet so he wouldn't have to deal with the embarrassment of saying "porn," "beer," and "strip club" in front of the middle-aged residence manager.
She settled herself on the concrete bench beside him. "You miss her."
"Who?"
She smirked. "Don't play dumb with me, mon enfant. You miss Mel. Erin. Your muse."
He stared. "How much do you know?"
"Most of it. I know what she is."
"She didn't tell me you knew about her." He scoffed, kicking a stray clump of snow. "One more thing to add to a very long list of stuff she should have said, and didn't."
"She didn't tell me who she was, Kiyo—I guessed. I had met one of her kind before, you see. Long ago, when I was not much older than you."
"Did he leave you, too?"
"She. And yes, she did."
Kiyo bit his lip. "It hurts. And I can't tell my parents, or my sister—they won't get it. They'll be like 'I told you so' and 'we knew she was trouble.' I can't deal with that from them."
Boucher nodded. "Kiyo, why did she leave? Did you say something about her face?"
"Hell, no. That wasn't what freaked me out, it was the whole magic deal—the lies. The fact that she used me, put magic in me, without my permission. I have a right to be mad about that, don't I?"
"Of course."
"Yeah, I do." He nodded once, sharply. A validation for his own benefit.
"But do you understand why she lied? The rules and laws that govern her kind?"
Kiyo's confidence faltered. "Laws?"
Boucher sighed. "Come inside, mon enfant. You will freeze your bones out here. Come in, and I will tell you what I know of the Lianhan Sídhe."
-32-
Payphone
Mel didn't recognize the number glaring from her phone, and her stomach jolted with sudden hope. She stared for a few seconds, watching the screen. And then she touched the green button.
"Hello?"
"Melanie? It is Madame Boucher."
"Oh." Mel swallowed her sinking heart, collapsing onto the motel bed again. "How are you?"
"Not so good since you left. Too busy, without my Melanie's helping hands."
"Oh, stop it. I was barely ever around to help you."
"Ah, but you always seemed to appear when I needed you most."
"Well, I'm glad someone misses me."
"More than one person, I can tell you. But I didn't call only for that. I thought you might want to know something."
"If this is about Kiyo, I really don't want to talk about him. Seriously. I mean it."
"This is not about the boy. I have found something—perhaps I shouldn't mention it. What can you do, anyway? You're far away, oui? Pretend I said nothing."
Mel sat up, crossing her legs. "I'm listening."
"You know that I keep my ears, my eyes, and my mind open, yes?"
"Of course. You're a fellow spy and thief of secrets."
"So I have found out that the winner of Voices Rising is already chosen."
"What do you mean, already chosen?" Mel asked. "They haven't filmed the finale yet."
"The winner has been chosen from the beginning of the show. From the very first episode it was planned between Monsieur Archambeau, Monsieur Carver, and the show's primary donor. I don't know who the donor is, but there must be some connection between him and the intended winner."
"And who is the intended winner?" Mel spoke between gritted teeth, because she was fairly sure she already knew.
"Harley."
Mel slammed her fist onto the bed. "I knew it! So the spoiled little rich girl gets to win the entire show, because some shadowy benefactor is paying off the judges?"
"Just one judge, I think. Eddie Carver."
"Can you tell someone what's going on?"
"I have no proof—only pieces of conversations that I overheard. If I speak up I will be fired, and it will accomplish nothing."
"Tell Kiyo, then."
"He is a contestant," said Madame Boucher. "No one will believe him. They will simply think he is angling to win. Besides, Kiyo is different since you left. So sad, and so thin. He practices all the time and eats almost nothing."
"You're exaggerating because you want me to come back, for some reason. I'm sure he's fine."
"Believe me or not, as you like. But if you want the truth, watch tomorrow night's
episode. They filmed it today. The theme is 'Pain.' "
"Pain? What kind of a hellish theme is that?"
"Je ne sais pas. The producers and managers, they choose the themes. I manage the dormitory."
"I think we both know that you're capable of much more than that."
"But in this case I cannot do anything. I cannot prevent Harley from winning unfairly, nor can I give anyone else the edge he or she needs to take the top spot."
Mel pressed two fingers to her right temple, massaging the tension headache building there. "I'm not coming back, Madame Boucher."
"As you say. I have done my part. Are you well and safe?"
"I'm fine." Why did saying those words aloud start a fresh spring of tears in her eyes? Mel blinked them away. "I have to go. Bye."
"Au revoir."
The call ended. "No," Mel said to the phone. "Not 'au revoir.' I will not see you again. I am not going back."
She bit her nails one at a time, pondering, staring at the off-white popcorn ceiling, speckled here and there with tiny brown water stains. Sometimes, when she inhaled deeply, she could distinguish the faint aroma of mildew. She had to get out of here, and soon. The question was, should she go south or north?
I'm not going back. I'm not. I won't beg him to want me.
She threw herself off the bed and begin pacing the room, phone in hand. First, she needed to intervene, to stop Carver and Archambeau and their moneybags buddy from rigging the remaining episodes of the contest. The fact that she had been helping Kiyo cheat didn't escape her—but for the Lianhan Sídhe, the intervention of a muse wasn't considered an unfair advantage. It was a gift of Fate, like an overabundance of natural talent.
From this distance, the only way for her to intervene was through Eddie Carver. She had vowed to herself not to torment him again, but he was really the only option.
She considered the timing. The Voices Rising crew would have finished taping hours ago. The judges would be home, relaxing, having a late dinner, or preparing for bed.
She scrolled through her contacts and selected one. Poor Eddie. She was about to make his evening very uncomfortable.
She typed a text. "Eddie, oh Eddie. You've been a very bad boy. Did you think I wouldn't find out? —R. P."
She waited. Fiddled with the black landline phone and the logo-printed notepad on the bedside table.
Finally her phone buzzed, and she leaped for it.
He had texted back, "What are you talking about?"
"The arrangement, Eddie. The bribes. The plans to throw the contest and put Harley in the winner's spot. Very, very bad. I may have to punish you."
She waited a moment, then texted, "Look out the window, Eddie."
She had no idea where he was in relation to the nearest window, or what he would see when he got there. But it was all in the power of suggestion, of superstition.
"It's not about what you see, Eddie," she texted. "It's about what you don't see. Rethink your arrangement with the donor and Archambeau. If you don't, I may be forced to take drastic action. —R. P."
He replied, "Who are you?"
"Wrong question, Eddie."
A pause, and then, "What are you?"
"I am not human. I am something more, and I think you know what that is."
He replied, "You've been backing a contestant yourself. You were coaching Kiyo Darcy."
Mel froze. How did he know that? How had he made the connection? Frantically she ran through scenarios in her mind, trying to figure out what he had learned, and from whom.
But before she could respond, he texted, "No one has ever seen Kiyo's voice coach. It's because you're a spirit, isn't it? The spirit of a dead relative? Some Asian ancestral juju?" Another text flew in right after that one. "I've served you well. You have no reason to hurt me."
She stared quizzically at the phone. He was talking nonsense. Asian ancestral juju? That was sort of racist. But at least he sounded freaked, and he definitely believed she was something other than human, which was true enough. "Stop participating in Archambeau's plan, and I'll leave you in peace."
Eddie responded almost instantly. "I can't change the plan. It's not in my power."
"Power? Ask yourself, Eddie, who really has the power here? Think about it. And get some rest. You look tired."
She fell back against the pillows, smothering a giggle with her wrist. She could envision it—Eddie Carver, frantically checking the windows of his hotel, or wherever he happened to be, hunting for the dark, avenging ghost whose morals he had so deeply offended.
Either that, or he was laughing at her efforts to scare him.
The next night, she didn't wander the city streets like a phantom looking for trouble. She stayed in and watched the "Pain" episode of Voices Rising, in the delicious company of a huge takeout order of nachos with everything on them. She lounged on the bed, watching the preliminary interviews with the contestants and the judges. The clips focused mainly on painful events in their lives.
Diwali's rendition of CeeLo's "Forget You" set the audience dancing, but Eddie Carver shredded him for noticeably straining on the high notes. Ramon's rendition of Bebe Rexha's "I'm a Mess" was a little insipid and overacted, but well-executed. And Jalana's twist on Miley Cyrus's "Wrecking Ball" nearly made Mel cry again, for the third—or fourth or fifth—time in a week.
When Kiyo's face appeared on her screen, a chill ran over Mel's whole body. He looked handsome as ever, but after what Madame Boucher had told her, she imagined she could see shadows at the inner corners of his eyes, and deeper hollows under his cheekbones.
"Do you believe life informs music?" asked the interviewer.
"Of course," said Kiyo. "Art reflects life, right? The stuff you go through as a person changes the way you communicate through your art."
"This week's theme is 'pain'—tell us about something painful that has happened in your life."
Kiyo didn't hesitate. "It's painful being away from my family. Especially my sister, since she's deployed and I worry about her. And I recently lost someone very special to me."
"I'm sorry to hear that. A death in the family? A friend?"
"No, it was my—" Kiyo bit his lip and looked away from the camera. "I loved someone, and she lied to me."
Another shock, thrumming through Mel's veins.
Loved?
Maybe he wasn't talking about her. Maybe—
"We hurt each other," Kiyo said. "But it was beautiful, even when it was hard. What's worse right now is not knowing where she is, or if she's okay."
The interviewer pressed him on the topic, but Kiyo refused to say anything else. "You'll hear the story in my song tonight," he said.
The show cut to Kiyo walking onstage, mournful blue lights glowing on his dark hair and the crisp planes of his face. He wore slim black pants and a deep purple shirt, in a hue and material similar to the dress Mel had worn as Erin. Was it some kind of message to her? Was he mourning the loss of the angelic girl in the mirror?
You're reading too much into it, Mel told herself, scooping up melted cheese with a tortilla chip and crunching it so loudly she almost didn't hear the intro to Kiyo's song.
He sang Maroon 5's "Payphone," adjusted down to fit his range. She wouldn't have chosen it for him—the opening phrases were too short and abrupt to do justice to the flowing beauty of his voice. But he sang it well, pacing the stage with a palpable urgency, clearly desperate to communicate the depth of his feelings. He practically spat the lines about fairytales being "full of it"—and Mel had to agree. Fairytales were much darker, deeper, and more complex than the cutesy movies with pretty princesses. Maybe that's why people needed the happy-ending stories—because they offered a gleam of hope. Without them, life was just wading through the crap thrown at you until you collapsed on hands and knees and sank in it, and drowned.
After Kiyo finished, Amarynth said, "Kiyo, that may not have been your best performance technically, but it was your most emotionally raw song so far in this competition.
I applaud you for breaking down those walls and showing us some real emotion. Good job."
Mel waited for Eddie Carver to snort in derision and slice Kiyo up with a few well-chosen comments. But when the camera panned to him, he was white-faced, tight-lipped, and red-eyed. "What she said," was all he added.
Mel leaned toward the screen, peering at him for the brief seconds his face stayed in the camera's focus. The man was stressed to the max, frightened, ill, and emotional in way she hadn't seen from him—and this was filmed before her prank texting session with him last night. Maybe she shouldn't have tried to frighten him. He looked like a little pressure might crack that tough, sardonic facade and reveal a hemorrhaging heart inside.
Ferris Manson was sobbing too hard to provide any commentary. He mopped his eyes with tissues, pressed a hand to his lips, and then held it toward Kiyo in a kind of salute.
One more to go. Harley. Mel dug her nails into her palms and waited.
First, the interview. Harley's idea of pain was some drivel about her health, not having enough time, and not getting what she deserved. She looked pale, too, despite a makeup artist's obvious efforts to redden her cheeks. The competition was taking a toll on everyone, apparently.
Harley stumbled walking onstage. She forgot a handful of words and looked generally unfocused during the middle section of her rocked-up version of "If I Die Young," by The Band Perry. Her performance was undoubtedly the least polished. But when the contestants lined up for elimination, Ramon and Jalana were kicked off instead.
Mel bounded off the bed, sending a handful of chips scattering over the blanket. "It is being fixed! What a farce."
One episode left—the finale next week. One more chance to set things straight.
There was no logical reason for her to intervene. She was free and clear, out of the whole mess. Moving on to a new life, a life of beaches and bands, music and the ocean, warmth and sunshine. Going back would mean dirty snow and farmland, harsh wind and rivalries, lies and gray skies. Ugly, raw, and real.
The Monsters of Music Page 21