High Note

by Jeff Ross

  High

  Note

  Jeff Ross

  ORCA BOOK PUBLISHERS

  Copyright © 2016 Jeff Ross

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system now known or to be invented, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

  Ross, Jeff, 1973–, author

  High note / Jeff Ross.

  (Orca limelights)

  Issued in print and electronic formats.

  ISBN 978-1-4598-1111-9 (paperback).—ISBN 978-1-4598-1112-6 (pdf).—ISBN 978-1-4598-1113-3 (epub)

  I. Title. II. Series: Orca limelights

  PS8635.O6928H54 2016 jC813'.6 C2016-900473-2

  C2016-900474-0

  First published in the United States, 2016

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2016931888

  Summary: In this high-interest novel for teen readers, Hailey and her best friend compete for a part in an opera.

  Orca Book Publishers gratefully acknowledges the support for its publishing programs provided by the following agencies: the Government of Canada through the Canada Book Fund and the Canada Council for the Arts, and the Province of British Columbia through the BC Arts Council and the Book Publishing Tax Credit.

  Cover design by Rachel Page

  Cover photography by iStock.com

  ORCA BOOK PUBLISHERS

  www.orcabook.com

  19 18 17 16 • 4 3 2 1

  For Helmut Ragnitz, a connoisseur of the arts. And for Megan, who has brought so much music into my life.

  Contents

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  One

  Her voice was a thing of perfection. Like catching a snowflake on the back of your hand and seeing every little stem of it before it melted. I was frozen in my spot backstage at the Paterson Center for the Performing Arts. My best friend, Crissy, grabbed my hand and put her other hand over her mouth.

  “Oh my god,” she whispered. “Is that her?”

  “It is,” I said. “It’s Isabel Rossetti.” Isabel Rossetti is widely considered one of the greatest sopranos on earth. Some people disagree, of course, but at this moment I was ready to put her up there in the top ten of all time.

  And all she was doing was running scales.

  “Dammit!” she yelled. Then we heard something smash. “Never in my life…” Crissy and I backed up beside some chairs that were stacked against a wall.

  The dressing-room door was slightly open. I could see Isabel inside, her hands deep in the thick curls on her head.

  “It’s lemon!” she yelled. The air around us shook with the sound of her voice.

  Amanda Disenzo, the director of the current production, happened to be walking past. She stopped and leaned into the doorway.

  “Is something wrong, Isabel?” she asked. Amanda is slightly short, slightly pale, slightly mousy-looking and, at the same time, absolutely astounding. She’s what people call a firecracker. She became a director because she knows how to manage people. And in opera, a lot of people require a lot of managing.

  “This is lemon,” Isabel said. I could just see her inside the room. She was holding a bottle of water out before her, much like someone might hold a dead mouse that a cat has brought into their home. “If I wanted flavored water I’d drink a soda.” Her voice was clipped. As though she believed each word was stealing some glorious moment from her career. “And I never drink soda.”

  I tittered, and Crissy kicked me. “Hailey, stop,” she whispered. “Someone is going to see us here.”

  “I do apologize,” Amanda said. “I’ll get Catering right on it.”

  Isabel rose to her full height and held her breath before ever so delicately dropping the Perrier bottle to the floor.

  Which was when I laughed. Because, judging by the look on Isabel’s face, she had thought the bottle was glass and would make a great spectacle, smashing all over the floor. But it was one of the new plastic bottles, so it just bounced a little and then fizzed out on the carpet.

  Amanda turned but, luckily, didn’t spot us.

  It took only seconds for people to arrive—two cleaners, another singer and Isabel’s personal public-relations representative, who ran to comfort her.

  Isabel was having none of it. She brushed the public-relations guy aside and grabbed at her hair with both hands again. “I need order to perform, Charles.”

  Charles nodded to this. “Of course,” he said.

  “Without order, everything falls apart. I might well fall apart. And you do not want me to fall apart. Because if I fall apart, all of you will as well.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “I do not ask for much.”

  “You really don’t,” Charles said. Then, turning to Amanda: “She really doesn’t.”

  “And it is not as if I have kept my requests a secret.” Isabel held up a single-spaced sheet of paper, full of text to the bottom.

  “Isabel’s dressing-room requirements are right here,” Charles said, taking the sheet from Isabel and holding it out toward Amanda.

  “I am aware,” Amanda said. “As I said, I will have Catering bring the proper water over immediately.” She turned and walked away, muttering under her breath.

  “Let’s go,” I said when the coast was clear.

  As we moved down the hallway, I heard Isabel exclaim to Charles, “She thinks it’s just about water.”

  To which he replied, “I know. I know.”

  * * *

  Crissy and I took the long way around back to the rehearsal hall.

  “That was insane,” I said.

  “She’s very serious about her water,” Crissy replied.

  The Paterson Center for the Performing Arts is a massive complex with studios, rehearsal halls, practice rooms, a five-star restaurant and a huge concert hall, where a production of The Marriage of Figaro is set to open. The whole building fills me with a kind of awe. I usually don’t like to use the word awesome. First of all, it feels overused, and second, it is an ultimate word. Full of awe. Beyond what you would ever have imagined possible.

  But the Paterson Center hall is awesome.

  As we came back out into the main hallway, I spotted the rest of our choir. The Marriage of Figaro features a youth choir of peasant girls, and our choir was selected to perform in the opera. It was a huge honor. We’ll be on the stage with professional singers, performing for an actual audience.

  And that fact is also truly awesome.

  Two

  Crissy and I just managed to sneak to the back of the concert hall as Amanda and Isabel stepped onto the stage.

  “Thank you all for being here,” Amanda said.

  Crissy grabbed my hand, and we sat down together.

  “I am sorry to announce that one of our principal singers, Alexa Johnson, has been forced by illness to remove herself from the production. As many of you know, Alexa was to perform the role of Barbarina. I understand that many of you have been practicing Barbarina’s parts. Therefore, we will be selecting Alexa’s replacement from this choir.”

  There was no applause. A few gasps. I was a bit dumbstruck. No one had expected this kind of announcement. We were all in our late teens, and it was unheard of for someone so young to be cast in a major opera. Three of the girls turned to look at Crissy and me. I gave them a little wave, and they turned back around.

>   “This is crazy,” Crissy whispered, nudging me with her shoulder.

  “Seriously,” I whispered back.

  Amanda went on. “Though I know there are many wonderful singers here, we will only be able to select two of you for the role.”

  Heads turned again. I tried to keep my attention on the stage.

  “We will need the principal singer and an understudy,” Amanda said. “The understudy might never perform for an audience. Still, it’s a very important position. Many understudies have gone on to have incredible careers. Isabel would now like to say a few words.”

  Isabel stepped forward and gave us a smile that lasted about half a second. “Barbarina was one of my very first roles and remains dear to my heart. This is a very bold move for the opera program. To have a complete unknown playing a major role in one of Mozart’s finest operas is incredibly brave. In some ways, I envy whoever is selected as the principal.” She stopped for a moment. “I also hope that the winner of this competition does not allow such an early success to go to her head. This business is more of a marathon than a sprint. Miss Disenzo has asked me to assist in this selection. Though there will be other judges, I know the industry. I know what it takes to succeed. I won’t only be looking for a great singer. I will be looking for a singer, an actor, but, most of all, a presence. Someone who will take control of this role and make it her own. Someone who believes in herself and her abilities. Someone very much like I was when I first played Barbarina.” She bowed again, holding her hands before her, and stepped back.

  Amanda came forward again. “I wish all of you the greatest of luck. I have faith in this group and am certain we will find the perfect Barbarina.”

  There were more bows. More applause. And then shuffling as our choir director and voice instructor, Mrs. Sturgeon, motioned us out of the theater.

  Sean Christiansen stepped up beside Crissy and me as we were crossing the threshold of the theater. “I guess the only question is which one of you will be principal,” he said.

  Neither of us tried to deny it. We laughed it off and kept moving, but I knew we were both wondering the same thing.

  If you’ve never heard The Marriage of Figaro before, it’s a pretty strange opera. Honestly, all operas are kind of strange in their own way. They’re also seriously old-fashioned. Figaro (and you’ve likely heard this bit if nothing else—Fiiiiiiigaro, Fiiiigaro, Figaro, Figaro, Figaro, Fiiiiiiigaro) is a comedy. Here’s the story of The Marriage of Figaro in a nutshell. You’ve got this guy Figaro, who’s like a personal assistant to a count. He wants to marry this girl Susanna, who is like a personal assistant to the countess. The problem is that the count, Figaro’s boss, has been eyeing Susanna himself, even though he’s married. Then this guy shows up who Figaro owes money to. By some bizarre deal, if Figaro can’t pay up he has to marry this guy’s old housekeeper! Add to this the fact that the count has a page, which is like a messenger. The page happens to be one of those guys who falls deeply in love with every woman he sees. He can’t control himself.

  The weirdness doesn’t end there.

  The page has been messing around with the count’s gardener’s daughter, Barbarina, and therefore is trying his best to stay hidden. And to make things even more strange, Figaro can’t marry this guy’s old housekeeper because…she’s actually his mother!

  These complications all come to a head in the garden, when Susanna and the countess decide to trap the count by switching outfits. It was apparently pretty easy to trap people back then. I mean, your wife wearing someone else’s clothes is still your wife. Anyway, they catch him as he’s putting the moves on Susanna. Then the countess forgives him for being a cheating jerk, and all is well again.

  So yeah, not exactly a feminist show. But it was written ages ago. For that time, the fact that the women set out to catch the cheating husband was pretty amazing.

  In our production, Isabel was playing the countess. Denise Cambridge, another fantastic singer, was Susanna. Denise was a star on the rise. Isabel, obviously, was famous, and her name would bring in the crowds. So it totally made sense to have a young singer in the role of Barbarina. This giant star, Isabel, was on one end of the production, and on the other would be an absolute beginner.

  I always rode with Crissy, whether it was to a practice or a concert. My parents both work at a hospital. My mom is a surgeon. My dad is an anesthesiologist (the guy who gives you the gas to make you go to sleep). They are always late for everything I do. Crissy’s mother, on the other hand, has dedicated herself to her daughter’s singing career. She quit her job years ago so she can always be there for her.

  On the ride home after the announcement, we sat quietly as Mrs. Derrick asked a million questions we either ignored or gave brief answers to. Finally, Crissy told her mother about the competition. I happened to be looking at Crissy as she spoke, and it was obvious that she was doing her best to not look at me. When she was done, her mother said, “Well, you’ll absolutely be Barbarina.”

  To which Crissy replied, “Or Hailey might.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry, Hailey. I haven’t heard you sing lately. Have you improved a lot?”

  Mrs. Derrick is like that. It kind of bothered me at first, but I’ve become used to it. She believes in her kid, which is pretty cool if you think about it the right way. If you think about it another way, though, she’s not the nicest lady in the world.

  “I’ve been doing fine,” I said.

  We were almost to my house by this time. I could see Mrs. Derrick wanted to say something else, but I guessed she decided to hold it in.

  “You want to hang out for a bit?” I asked Crissy. “It’s been forever.”

  “Do you mind, Mom?”

  Mrs. Derrick looked at us in the backseat. She seemed to be deep in thought.

  “She can stay for dinner,” I said. “It’s taco night.”

  “Taco night, Mom,” Crissy said.

  “Fine,” Mrs. Derrick replied.

  When we got inside, the house was filled with the smell of ground beef cooking.

  “How was your day?” Mom asked.

  I’m always being told I get my looks from my mom. She’s tall and thin and elegant. My father, on the other hand, is slightly shorter, slightly thicker and the opposite of elegant. I sometimes wonder how they ever got together. I know, I know—looks aren’t everything. But they are something.

  I told my mom about the Barbarina role. Crissy added details along the way. Just the two of us, talking about our day. It felt totally normal. Like something we’d done a million times before.

  Because we had.

  We had a great night. We talked about boys. Watched a bunch of bad television. We even listened to some Katy Perry, which we seriously hadn’t done in years. And when I fell asleep that night, I felt that everything was falling into place. That we both were going to find success one way or another.

  Whoever got the role would be the winner, sure, but we were best friends, so whoever was the understudy would be happy as well. I was certain of it.

  Absolutely positive.

  Three

  The ride to Paterson Center the following morning was mostly silent. Mrs. Derrick granted me her quick smile, the one she normally saves for cashiers and wait staff. She’d bought a recording of The Marriage of Figaro and was looping “L’ho perduta,” Barbarina’s only aria. (An aria is a solo piece for one singer. A lot of opera is about two characters singing to one another, but an aria is different altogether. It’s the time that stars show their true abilities.) Each time the piece ended, there was a brief pause before it began again. In that moment Mrs. Derrick held her hand up and then dropped it like a conductor. As she drove, we listened to that aria five times in a row.

  It was a brilliantly sunny day. The sky was a perfect blue. It was the kind of day that makes you want to run around outside for hours. Then we stopped in the parking lot, opened the doors and essentially melted. Sweat started to roll across my skin.

  “I’ve cleared my sc
hedule to come in with you girls today,” Mrs. Derrick said enthusiastically.

  “You don’t have to do that, Mom,” Crissy said.

  It did seem a bit strange. Parents weren’t banned from practices, but it was seldom that one actually stuck around.

  “I want to see what you girls have been up to. This is all so very exciting.” She flashed that smile again. It made me shiver.

  “Whatever,” Crissy said. Her mother bristled at that word but managed to keep her fake smile stapled on.

  As we walked into the building, I thought back to my field-hockey days. I wondered if I’d been too quick to give up on that sport. Sure, I hadn’t been the best at it, but at least it was played outside. Plus, you got to bump into people with force. The joy of clipping someone in the shins or stealing the ball away from them should not be underestimated. Generally speaking, physical contact of any description is frowned upon in opera. And opera takes place indoors. I’m a sunshine girl. Even on a hot day, I want to be outside moving around.

  Sean Christiansen was waiting inside the front doors. I gave him my customary hip jam when he didn’t move out of the way.

  “Ladies,” Sean said, looking at Crissy and her mom. “And Hailey.”

  I jammed him again. He deserved it. Mrs. Derrick ignored Sean—or didn’t even notice him. This had been happening more and more lately. Some people were simply beneath Mrs. Derrick.

  The inside of the grand hall was hot and gross. Mrs. Derrick spotted Mrs. Sturgeon and waved to her. “I’m going to go talk to your teacher,” she said.

  Crissy came to a stop a few feet away from us.

  “What’s up her butt?” Sean whispered. He flicked at his hair. He has a brownish-blond mop that he refuses to style at all. He spends an absurd amount of time flicking his bangs to one side. He also has really bright blue eyes. He’s cute, something I am loathe to admit but he loves to hear.

  “Mrs. Derrick?”

  “No. Whatever is up her butt has been permanently lodged there,” Sean said. “I meant Crissy. I don’t warrant a hello any longer?”