RoseBlood

by Howard, A. G.

  I expected the spacious cafeteria—made of three lecture halls with the walls knocked out from between them—to be well lit, with windows at every turn to let in the outdoor light. That’s what atriums are, right? Big, bright, and sun-filled, burgeoning with plants and flowers like a rain forest?

  Not this one. I’m not even sure why they call it an atrium. There’s not a plant in sight and it’s as dreary as our dorm rooms. Round mirrors were substituted for the windows when the layout was redesigned. The reflective surfaces—splotchy and black in places where the silver-backing was rubbed off to appear fashionably distressed—resemble the portholes on a ghostly, sunken ship.

  Driven by that unshakeable feeling of something on the other side of the reflections, I pick up my pace. The glossy floor, a deep red-and-black-striped design, glides soundlessly under my Mary Jane loafers. Square red-and-black tiles continue the color scheme up to the ceiling. The long room is divided lengthwise. Shiny red chairs and matching candlelit tables, most of them filled with students draped in shadows, hug the far walls.

  This half—the entry side—is open and provides a path to the buffet located around the corner at the far right end of the room. A gothic-style chandelier dangles from the low, red ceiling above us, like twelve-inch-long black and gold taper candles turned upside down. Multiple glowing tips, the size and shape of tiny flames, light the walkway with a subtle yellow haze.

  As we follow the illuminated path, staying close to the wall, I tense my shoulders . . . waiting for the whispers to begin. After a few steps, I gaze sidelong at the diners and find everyone preoccupied by eating, deep in their own conversations, or writing notes in spirals or journals, apparently about the opera taking place on the two big-screen TVs suspended at the ends of the room to offer a clear view from all directions.

  Now I get why the cafeteria is so dimly lit. The songs streaming from the speakers are synchronized with the picture in movie theater style. The student handbook stressed that we would be immersed in the world of opera, especially pertaining to the end-of-the-year program. Not only were we to learn the music, we were to master the theatrics behind each performance: embrace both the visual and aural aspects. And what better way than to play each act over and over on TV as opposed to popular or classic movies, reality shows, or other teenage programming?

  It’s obvious by the number of students concentrating and jotting notes that some sort of assignment was given over the operatic performance taking place. On the giant screens, a blue-lit stage lined with a crowd of young nuns in different poses comes into view. A Catholic cardinal seduces one of the sisters who’s half-dressed. Her expression can only be described as impassioned terror, as if the unlawful desire they share will combust and end the world in a holocaust of pain and rapture. An audience of strange men leer at the duo and cheer them on, their faces painted like grotesque clowns. The spectacle is equal parts sensual and disturbing.

  Mom and I step around the corner into the well-lit alcove where the slick floor surrenders to black-and-gold-checked carpet surrounding a buffet counter. A digital menu board juts down from overhead, filled with both American and Parisian cuisine, along with a list of prices. Mom hands me my student meal ticket—prepaid by Aunt Charlotte—and readies her credit card, waiting for the two girls in front of us to decide on their choices.

  Five students—decked out in uniforms under khaki aprons—keep busy behind the long, black marble surface, taking orders and replenishing the fare: cinnamon rolls, assorted baguettes, croissants, and muffins inside glass cases, then eggs, pancakes, and bacon in steaming stainless steel tubs on the other end.

  One student polishes silverware, straightens the mugs, and keeps the coffee pots running. There’s also a fruit-and-cheese station. There, a guy with twinkling blue eyes and pale blond hair—almost glimmering white in the fluorescent lighting—dishes some watermelon from a stainless-steel bowl half buried in ice. A pretty Hispanic girl reaches up for the serving. She can’t be more than five foot one.

  Towering over her at six foot two or so, he draws back the bowl so she can’t quite reach it, then finally hands it off with a teasing grin. She shakes her long, dark ponytail, gives him a playful scowl, and says something in Spanish. He smirks as she walks away. Apparently, he knows the language and thinks he scored some points. He catches me looking and flashes a flirty grin. I put up the necessary barricades and avert my eyes to a chalkboard on an easel that blocks part of the wall beside the cash register.

  The school has four live-in chefs, but students are in charge of helping in the kitchen and at the counter, along with cleaning up. It’s partly to save money, but more to teach them responsibility. That’s why they’re also charged with mopping the floors, cleaning the bathrooms and showers, keeping the dorm rooms straightened, and dusting the many banisters, along with any other manual upkeep for the opera house.

  Students are charged with these things, meaning me, too. As part of our grade, we’re each required to take a weekly assignment. The chalkboard serves as the duty roster, where everyone writes in their work schedule for the week. The teachers lead the volunteers and take turns helping out. Which is why, when I first met Aunt Charlotte, she was wielding a dust cloth and wearing an apron.

  I scan the chalkboard, trying to find Sunny’s name. She suggested I piggyback on her assignment—insisting that most incoming students follow that protocol with their peer advisors, to help with the adjustment period. But I’ve decided I’m going to find a task of my own—and look for the mystery gardener in the process. I discussed my idea with Aunt Charlotte last night . . . that I’d like to volunteer for a job that no one else has done in years. She gave me the okay, although it took some persuasion.

  Lifting the chalk from the easel’s tray, I scribble the number 51 to start a final row in the second column of names. Then I write: Gardening duty—Rune Germain, while trying not to think about the forest or the cemetery on the other side of the garden.

  I’ve barely had time to rub the chalk dust from my fingers when Mom and I are called up to the cash register. I request a bowl of fruit, a pumpernickel muffin, and an almond cappuccino. The woman taking orders introduces herself as Headmistress Fabre, the very teacher I’ve been hoping to meet.

  My heart dances a beat—nervous and excited.

  She’s in her upper forties and is thin and leggy like a model, with flawless skin one shade lighter than the rich, brown bread she retrieves from the glass case and wraps in a paper liner. She relays my fruit order to the boy with the white-blond hair, her perfectly arched eyebrows framing fawn-soft brown eyes. Her hair—spirals of ebony glossed with streaks of bluish gray—fringes her shoulders as she reaches out to take my meal ticket over the counter. From what I can tell of her clothes under the apron, they’re every bit as stylish and chic as the lady wearing them.

  I search for some way to bring up the costumes for the opera, and am just about to find my tongue when she speaks.

  “My husband told me about your performance yesterday.” Her voice is silky, like her palm brushing mine as she hands me back my ticket. She delivers each word in perfect English with no French accent. I’m curious as to her personal story—how she met her foreign husband and ended up here. “He’s not one for being at a loss for words, but he said I’d have to hear you to believe it. He said there was nothing to compare it to. How long have you been practicing?”

  Practice? I’ve never had to. My face flares to the pitch of a bonfire. Mom clears her throat nervously. Before I can concoct a believable lie to save us both, a familiar Southern accent bursts over my shoulder.

  “There you are!” Sunny steps up to the counter beside me, her welcoming grin so wide I can see two crooked teeth on her lower jaw that I didn’t notice yesterday. Her freckles clump together with the strain of her facial muscles, heightening that harlequin mask effect. She’s plaited her hair into a messy side braid. A spray of fake velour flowers weave in and out, the same red as our matching clip-on ties.

 
; “Madame Fabre, you gals have something in common.” Sunny takes the muffin the teacher holds, crinkling the paper lining as she hands it to me after pinching off a piece to stuff in her mouth. “She’s a fashionista. I saw patterns and such in her baggage.”

  I smirk. Last night, I mentioned to Sunny how much I’d like to be a part of costume design. And now she’s provided the perfect introduction. I’m bursting with a thank-you that has no chance to slip out before Headmistress Fabre takes over again.

  “Is that so? Well, I could use the opinion of another seamstress. Did you see the scene that was playing on the TVs? The nuns?”

  “I saw most of it,” I answer, eager to finally showcase a talent I actually had to work at to master.

  “I need to decide on a fabric that’s inexpensive but versatile and durable. There’s a comic relief scene in act four that takes place at a tavern. We use the same actresses for both settings, so that means two times the costumes—nun habits and tavern wench uniforms. If I’m not careful, we won’t have enough money left over in our budget for the lead roles’ costumes.”

  I furrow my brow. The last look I got at the TV, the nuns were hopping around the stage, their eyes huge and wild, as if possessed. “It needs to be comfortable enough they can move around . . . lightweight so they won’t get overheated under the stage lights. But it should look sturdy and heavy—like authentic nun habits. Right?”

  Madame Fabre nods. “Exactly . . .”

  Blocking out the clang of silverware being dumped into a divider, I track a glance over Sunny’s hair again and the tiny velveteen flowers—how the fluorescent light gilds certain petals, making them shinier than others, depending on the direction they lay. “You need a fabric that has a nap. Like velour. Cut it on the bias, then finish all the seams with a serger so the robes are reversible. When the light shines on the front for the nuns’ robes, it will be matted and dark. On the reverse side, it will be a different shade and texture—shinier and brighter. Convert the wimples the nuns wear on their necks and heads to bonnets and aprons that can cinch the waists on the wenches’ uniforms, holding up the robes’ hems after they’ve been folded at the knees for short, poufy dresses. Same pattern, same accessories, totally different look. And you’ll only have to buy enough fabric for one set.”

  Headmistress Fabre smiles—a spread of white teeth behind plump lips. “That’s brilliant.” She offers me an extra muffin. “On the house, for your help.”

  I nod a thank-you but the muffin on her palm stalls across the counter as she rethinks.

  “Say, how would you feel about helping me out after classes? I’m going to start taking measurements tomorrow so that once the elimination and final auditions are over, we can jump right into cutting out the patterns. And we can start on the costumes for the supporting roles immediately, since they’ve already been chosen. We’ll be sewing from four until dinnertime at least two or three nights a week. It’ll earn you extra credit.”

  Sunny elbows me. I glance at her, then at Mom who’s taking a cup of coffee from one of the students behind the counter. “That sounds great,” I answer. Grinning, I pass Sunny the muffin she’s already sampled, and take the other.

  “Perfect.” Madame Fabre gives me a cappuccino for my free hand. “It’s about time we get a student who knows a thing or two about a needle and thread.”

  Smiling, Mom pats my arm. “Look at that. Behind the scenes, just like you wanted. But keep your grades up in all your classes.”

  “I personally guarantee no health homework,” Madame Fabre says. “And I have some influence with the social studies professor, so we’ll see that you get time in class to finish work in there.” She winks.

  “Mrs. Fabre is a gal of many hats.” Sunny slips in the remark, smirking as she stuffs another bit of muffin into her cheek.

  The teacher laughs. “And that’s Sunny’s not-so-subtle plea to borrow one of my hats for the outing this coming weekend.” She purses her mouth in thought. “I’m thinking my floppy fedora . . . with the daisy on the side.”

  Sunny beams. “The one that just so happens to match my daisy tights?”

  “Pure coincidence, right?”

  “I’ll drop by your room on Saturday morning, before we head out.” With a nod of her head, Sunny tugs me toward the guy at the fruit bar, who’s now dishing up the apples and cherries I ordered.

  Mom motions me on so she can stay and chat with Madame Fabre.

  “So, what outing are you going on this Saturday?” I ask Sunny as we head to the fruit bar.

  “Shhh. We’ll discuss that shortly. But first, you meet the man of Katarina’s dreams.”

  I put the brakes on behind her, the carpet popping with static under my soles as she tries to drag me. “You mean the guy who—”

  “Carted you down two flights of stairs? Yep. In the fine flesh.” Sunny plants me in front of the twinkling blue eyes that caught me watching earlier.

  That smirk has returned to his face. Not exactly a snide expression, just perceptive, as if he knows more about me than he should. It’s the same way he looked at the ponytail girl. He has a surplus of self-confidence—suave, playful, and a little arrogant. The typical rich boy one would expect to meet at an elite academy like this one. His attractiveness makes him dangerous . . . someone I should avoid.

  “Rune, this is Jackson Reynolds,” Sunny says. “Your knight in shining armor from yesterday.”

  He places my fruit on the edge of the counter within reach. The scent of his spiced cologne lingers—taunting me with the memory of his heartbeat next to my jawline, teasing out the flutter of nausea I’ve been fighting.

  “The name’s Jax,” he croons in a rich baritone as he tips his head to me. “And stop giving her hell, Sunny.”

  “I won’t never give her hell. She’s my hero. Did you hear her sing?”

  “Yeah, and so did you-know-who.” He gestures with his chin toward the other side of the counter. “So keep your voice down.”

  I turn to see Katarina beside the chalkboard, waiting for a chance to order at the cash register where Headmistress Fabre is still talking with my mom. The snarl twisting Kat’s flawless features is intimidating, but it’s her blue eyes that bore into me. Her stare could melt diamonds . . . or mirrors, like the one behind her on the wall, a few feet from the easel.

  I didn’t notice it earlier with the chalkboard in my way. From this angle, I can see movement on the other side—a filmy silhouette—similar to what I saw yesterday in the foyer. This time, two coppery gleams flash, like eyes blinking. A half-mask takes shape, white and ghastly. I yelp and clasp my hand over my mouth.

  Kat narrows her eyes, obviously misreading my body language to mean I’m faking being scared of her looks. I shake my head, but she turns away when a girl with chic, cropped hair the color of Jackson’s, grabs her elbow and points to the chalkboard. When I look again at the mirror, the silhouette is gone.

  Returning my attention to Sunny and Jax, I tell myself I imagined it. That there’s no one behind the mirror.

  No one but the phantom. I saw the mask this time.

  It’s not possible. Even if some poor disfigured soul had actually inhabited this opera house and inspired Leroux’s book, he wouldn’t still be alive today, over a hundred years later.

  “—a little compassion that I’m stuck in the middle . . . that’s all I’m asking,” Jax says to Sunny, pulling me out of my dark meditations. He turns to the Asian boy behind him. “Li, I’m going on break.” The boy nods.

  Coming around to our side of the counter, Jax unties his apron, revealing taut muscles beneath his long-sleeve polo shirt and gray dress pants. He must lift weights because RoseBlood doesn’t have a fitness program—other than dance and choreography classes.

  I scold myself for noticing, and follow his gaze as it flicks again to the platinum-blond girl over by the register. I force myself not to look at the mirror.

  “My sister hasn’t shut up about how unfair it is that Kat has to audition for first e
liminations a second time.” Jax shrugs into his uniform jacket.

  “Psssshhh.” Sunny rolls her eyes. “Roxie and Kat can hiss and holler all they want. You and me both know Audrey was born to play Renata. Her sister begged her not to visit in New Mexico last summer . . . to stay here and get tutoring, because she wants Audrey to nab that part. That’s a big deal. It ain’t fair that Kat always gets the leads just ’cause her great-great-grand-something was a member of the Royal Swedish Academy of Music.”

  “Isn’t fair,” Jax corrects, a comical glint in his eye.

  “Blah, blah.” Sunny scowls. “Now that first-tier eliminations have been postponed until Wednesday, Audrey has extra time to master that final note she’s so scared of. And with any luck, Kat’ll trip over the cadenza that was giving her fits a while ago. Can’t believe she managed to nail it earlier. Here’s hoping it was a one-time thing.”

  Sunny’s statement grounds me to the present. “Wait. They’re redoing the first-elimination tryouts because of what I did?”

  Sunny plucks another chunk from her muffin and pops it in her mouth. “Yep. The teachers voted . . . decided you should have a chance to try out for the part, too, since you obviously know the opera.”

  I shake my head. “No, I don’t want . . . I don’t know the part. It was all a—” I stop myself short of saying fluke. How would I explain that? “I can’t believe they’re making everyone have do-overs because of me.” No wonder I’m on Kat’s hit list. There were five other girls who were in those auditions. They might be frustrated, too, but at least—other than Audrey—they hadn’t sung yet. I interrupted Kat’s flawless rendition of the aria, and now she has to go through it again, and possibly mess up this time. My throat tightens in sympathy at how nervous she must be. “I should apologize.”

  Sunny looks mortified at the suggestion.

  “Not a good idea,” Jax adds, and flashes a pleading glance to his sister who’s now facing our direction.