by Rule, Adi
The golden leaves on the carpet seem to swirl. She has a strange, overpowering desire to scoop them up in her hands and clutch them safe. “I think I meant the leaves,” she says. “On the pattern, there.” Is that what I meant? The shape of it is right. But something tickles her brain.
“Well,” Ryan says lightly, extracting a glass of something from her hand, “I don’t think you’ll be needing any more of these.” His green eyes are as alert as ever, but slightly shadowed by the late hour. He puts Sing’s glass down on the tray of a passing server and takes her arm. “Here, it’s getting boring. I’m going to play some waltzes to celebrate my impending victory.” He steers her toward the shining grand piano in the corner.
She watches the golden leaves in the sea of red carpet float by as they walk.
Sixty-one
MORNING SUN DIGS ITS FINGERS into Sing’s closed eyes, causing her to groan and pull a pillow over her head. Her head aches. Why does her head ache? What time is it?
She peers blearily at the clock on her bedside table: 9:24. She’d better get up if she’s going to be in good voice for Angelique this afternoon. Harland Griss will be there. The New Artist vacancy is at stake, perhaps more than she would like to admit. Her father’s influence is important, but she knows he doesn’t wield it the same way her mother did. If Griss chooses to look elsewhere for his new butterfly, Ernesto da Navelli will leave it at that.
No one is using the bathroom at this hour on a Sunday. Students with something going on today were up long ago, and those who had something going on last night won’t be up for a while. The tile floor is cold on Sing’s bare feet. She takes her time brushing her teeth, trying not to think about what she will do with the hours before the performance. She squints at her reflection, face tilted so close that the mirror traps clouds of breath on its cool surface.
Her eyes are shadowed, her skin pale. She steps back, studying.
Something pricks at her mind. Something isn’t right.
She shuffles back down the hallway in her bathrobe. Voices emanate from behind the closed door across the hall—Jenny and Marta, still in their room. They have nothing to worry about today. The performance of Angelique will come and go, they will do their parts, onstage and in the orchestra, and then school will continue. School, homework, practice, performance, boys, drama, self. Sing, trying to bring her own future into focus, is surprised to find herself longing for their company.
Who are they? Barbara da Navelli would say. You’ll be leaving this school soon. Why do you need them?
Sing puts a hand to her door but doesn’t go in. She stands for a long moment in the empty hallway, listening to the muffled voices behind her. It’s not often she feels the girl inside her—not a child, not an adult, but the part of her psyche that longs for validation from her own kind. Ryan feeds this part of her—Ryan, that’s why her head aches, the semifinals reception that ran far too late into the night—but she needs friends, too.
Barbara da Navelli wouldn’t understand. She fed only two parts of herself, the professional and the strategist. Never the girl. “I need them because I’m not you,” Sing says aloud.
* * *
“That’s it?” Jenny says. “‘Sorry’?”
Sing shrugs. “That’s all I’ve got.” She strokes the yarn mane of a glittery stuffed Pegasus.
“Her name is Belinda,” Marta says.
“I shouldn’t have taken you guys for granted the way I did,” Sing says. “And I shouldn’t have played the celebrity card on you. It’s … embarrassing. I don’t really have an excuse, I guess. New schools are hard.”
Jenny eyes her. “Yes, well, some of us manage it.”
“I know,” Sing says. “I’m sorry. Please … don’t do a tawdry exposé on me for The Trumpeter.”
Jenny snort-laughs. “Oh, it’s tempting. But the thing is, Sing, we do love you, really, even though you can be kind of an entitled bitch, there I said it. And it’s hard to stay mad at you for screwing Lori Pinkerton since she’s just about the most irritating person there is. I secretly love that she’s finally getting what she deserves. Just don’t make a habit of it, okay?”
“My mother made a habit of it,” Sing says. She and Marta are seated on Marta’s bed, while Jenny sits nearby in a rolling desk chair, the lazy light of the free Sunday morning drifting in through the ancient beige curtains. Jenny is still in pajamas, while Marta wears flowing, embroidered garments that are possibly also pajamas. “It’s easy to get caught up in the superficiality of it,” Sing says. “How a thing looks.”
“Oh, right.” Jenny swings her legs and spins slowly in the desk chair. “Makeup and eyebrows and hair. Like you need to worry about that. Ryan may be a jerk, no offense, but he is definitely the cutest guy on campus. And, and, you stole him from the resident diva. So it’s not like you’re going to curl your hair and put on lipstick and he’ll be like, ‘Oh, my God, Sing, how could I not have seen how amazingly hot you are? Let me dump my popular cheerleader girlfriend for you.’ Because that’s already happened.”
“She’s not talking about that,” Marta says. “She means wanting the lead just because it’s the lead, not because it’s right.”
“It is right. It’s what I’ve always wanted.” Sing winds the Pegasus’s yarn tail around her fingers. “I just … I think I need to feel normal today. I don’t know why.”
“Of course you know why,” Jenny says. “Everything is riding on this performance. You’re wondering if you’re good enough. Honestly, you’re pretty damn good.”
Sing pulls her hair into a ponytail with one hand. Zhin would tell me I’m the best, she thinks. Then, surprising herself, she says it aloud.
“Psh,” Jenny says. “I’ll tell you one thing—you do not need her.”
“I know,” Sing says. “She’s just … she’s like…”
“Like what? Underhanded? Egotistical? Betray … erous?”
“She’s a lot like my mother.”
Jenny arches a brow. “Vell, zen,” she says with a thick accent that is possibly trying to be German, “I sink ve’re getting shome-vhere! Zat vill be vun hundred dollars. Next veek ve disguss your boy-froind.”
Sing laughs. “Oh, God, let’s not.”
“I don’t know how you forgave him, by the way.” Jenny flops back in her chair.
Forgave him. There’s something fuzzy there, in Sing’s mind. Ryan cheated on her with Zhin. And probably with Lori. Heck, he probably cheated on Lori with Sing. But she forgave him, right? At the reception last night, after the Gloria Stewart semifinals. Something about it feels so unreal.
The door opens and Carrie Stewart pokes her pixie face in. “Hey, guys, I just saw Mr. Bernard!”
Jenny’s expression is flat. “Oh, my God.”
“No!” Carrie breathes. “Maestro Keppler died last night!”
* * *
During its busy Sunday lunch hour, the Mountain Grill smells like beef stew, onions, cinnamon, charcoal, woodsmoke, and ladies’ perfume. The window is cheerful but cold, and Sing snuggles into her sweatshirt, grateful to be out of uniform. Midday sunlight illuminates the details of the wood grain on the tables and floor, as well as the smooth, silver lines of Marta’s mermaid pendant as she leans forward, mouth open slightly.
“What did he say?”
Sing found her father in Hector Hall surrounded by faculty, apprentices, and a couple of quick-out-of-the-gate reporters. He managed to speak to her briefly, with Jenny and Marta waiting for the details. “Heart failure,” she says. “Around midnight. Discovered in his bed early this morning by Apprentice Garcia. The ambulance or whatever, the hearse, I don’t know, has been and gone. That’s it.”
Jenny frowns, crossing her arms. “And the performance is going on? The man is dead.”
“Well, they could just tell everyone to go home, I guess,” Sing says. “But there’s been so much put into the Autumn Festival, it would be a shame.” Maestro Keppler is dead. Heart failure. Why does that seem … wrong?
; “Will your father conduct?” Marta asks.
Sing’s stomach squirms. “Yes.”
“Wow!” Marta says. Jenny raises an eyebrow at her, but she goes on. “I know, I’m sorry the Maestro died. But it was his time.” Sing resists the urge to roll her eyes; Jenny doesn’t. “But I may never get the chance to sing under Maestro da Navelli again. It’s kind of incredible.”
“It will be interesting.” Sing keeps her voice low, even though their booth is fairly insulated from the Grill’s other patrons. “My father’s never conducted Angelique.”
“Really?” Marta is aghast. “But he must know it!”
“Yeah,” Sing says. “He knows it.”
Despite Jenny’s efforts to hide it, Sing catches the movement in her shoulder as she elbows Marta under the table.
“No, it’s okay.” Sing smiles and actually feels it inside as well as outside. “It will be good for him. And a treat for the audience. Well, I guess ‘treat’ is kind of a horrible way to put it.”
The waitress brings their lunches in thick ceramic dishes that clatter against the wooden table. “Not really,” Marta says. “We can’t help it the Maestro died.” She dips a spoon into her tomato soup.
“He was like a hundred,” Jenny says. “Honestly, what was holding that man together? I think we were his last stop, honestly.”
Sing scrunches her eyebrows. “His last stop?”
“Well, he’s been haunting the Orchestre de Paris for so long, I didn’t think anyone could peel him off the walls and shoot him stateside again. This ‘homecoming performance’ always felt less like a publicity stunt and more like a grand finale.”
“That’s awfully cynical,” Marta says.
Sing studies her hamburger. Again, that strange prickly feeling starts at the back of her mind. She saw Maestro Keppler only last night, at the Gloria Stewart semifinals. He was there with his assistant, Apprentice Garcia, the doughy-faced young man who turns Ryan’s pages at rehearsal. Did the Maestro seem sick? She doesn’t think so. But then, you can’t always tell with hearts.
“I still think we should be allowed a crazy, campuswide snowball fight instead of the performance.” Jenny pokes at her potatoes with a short fork. “We could use the woods! It would be epic! And, you know, healing.”
“Not very mournful,” Sing says. The woods. She pictures their ashy smell, their sharp chill. The night she escaped there, after Carrie Stewart’s party. She can remember the woods with pristine clarity. Or can she? In some of her memories, there is a strange vagueness. A dark cloud.
“I don’t think a snowball fight in the woods would be very safe.” Marta’s eyes are wide and her mouth curls into a slight frown. “You could get attacked by a bear.”
Jenny chews a potato. “Don’t bears, like, hibernate? Or something? When do they do that?”
“They stop hibernating if you hit them with snowballs.” Marta’s tone is so serious that Jenny and Sing laugh.
“Or if you call them!” Jenny says. “I’ve been working on my bear call with Professor Needleman—what do you think? Figaro! Figarofigarofigaro, feee-gah-roh!”
They laugh at Jenny’s poorly executed opera reference, even Jenny herself, who snorts.
A blond head pokes around the side of the booth. Pretty eyes glint charmingly, and pink-glossed lips coo, “You girls are having a good time over here.”
Sing freezes.
“Hey, Lori,” Marta says, sipping her water. “What’s up?”
“Just enjoying the day, looking forward to the Gloria Stewart finals tonight.” Lori looks pointedly at Sing. “I’ve got an easy afternoon.”
Lori’s party gets up to leave as Sing and Jenny sit in silence. Aaron slides out of the booth, followed by Carrie Stewart and—
“Ryan?” Sing doesn’t mean to say it. He turns around and for the briefest of moments looks more than a little uncomfortable. But it passes in a flash, and he smiles broadly.
“Hey, Sing. Hey, girls. Looking lovely today, I see.”
Marta blushes. Sing doesn’t know what to say. Ryan, here with Lori? Were they eavesdropping? Did I say anything embarrassing?
“Oh, hi, guys!” Carrie says.
“We won’t keep you from your lunches.” Lori pulls on a cream-colored knitted hat. “I know you’ve got a big day. Especially you, Sing. Good luck with Angelique.”
Don’t take the bait. Sing smiles as artificially as she can. “Thanks.”
Lori returns the fake smile. “Special father-daughter performance, I hear! Won’t that be fun.”
Ignore it.
“Even though, you know, it’s this role.” Lori pulls on a beige leather glove. “I’m sure no one will mind.”
Sing feels her jaw stiffen. She can’t ignore it. Not now. Not if it’s what everyone is thinking. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Lori’s gaze hardens. Ryan pulls his jacket on. “We’d better go,” he says brightly. “You girls—”
Sing stands. “Do you have a problem with me, Lori?”
Lori raises her eyebrows, and for a second, it seems like she is going to feign innocence. But her pink smile disappears with a derisive huff, and she cocks her head. “It’s not me you need to worry about, da Navelli. I’m going to enjoy watching you crash and burn out there today in front of Harland Griss and everyone else.”
“That’s right, it will be me out there.” Sing can’t believe the words coming out of her mouth. Everyone around them is quiet. “Do you think you could sing it better?”
Lori pauses. When she speaks, all the coo in her voice has dried up. “It doesn’t matter. It was my role.”
She turns, and Sing lets her have the last word. The whole party is gone in a few short moments.
Jenny and Marta watch her as she sits down.
“Stop,” Jenny says, raising a hand. “We can analyze the last thirty seconds for the next two hours, I promise, but please can I order another soda before we begin? I have a feeling I’m going to need my strength.”
“I’m not analyzing anything,” Sing says. “Whatever.”
“Lori’s trying to undermine your confidence,” Marta says.
Jenny scrunches her napkin and puts it on her plate. “I don’t blame her. No offense.”
“Ryan was just having lunch with friends,” Marta says. She raises her ceramic bowl and tips the last drops of tomato soup into her mouth.
“Ryan can do what he wants,” Sing says. “It’s no big deal. Sheesh. I—” She can’t make herself finish the sentence: I trust him.
Jenny smiles slyly. “What Ryan wants is you, Sing da Navelli. Much to the chagrin of the female population of DC. They’ll have to see if another Prince Charming appears out of the ether next year, I guess.”
“Not Prince Charming—Prince Elbert!” Marta says, and giggles.
“I prefer Prince Charming.” Sing swirls a French fry in the remains of the ketchup lake on her plate. Then she voices what seems to just have occurred to her, but as she speaks, she realizes it is what she has always known: “Prince Elbert doesn’t love Angelique for who she is. She’s a trophy to him. That’s the only thing wrong with the opera.”
Jenny just shrugs and says, “Men. Man opera. Written by men. Whatcha gonna do.”
Marta is staring at Sing, who can almost see the gears in her mind turning. “Maybe it’s not wrong,” she says, absently stroking the heavy silver pendant around her neck. “Maybe it’s just a tragedy. Only it doesn’t feel like a tragedy at first, because you forget about him.”
Sing frowns. “Forget about who?”
Marta blushes. “Angelique’s true love, of course. Silvain.”
Sixty-two
THE NIGHT ZHIN STAYED AT DC, she and Sing laughed and ate microwave popcorn until two in the morning. And even though Zhin would betray her the next day, Sing can’t remember that night with anything but fondness.
She sat here. Sing places her folded blanket at the end of her bed. Only it wasn’t here; it was in Zhin’s identical room on senior
floor. Sing remembers her in her sea-green pajamas, cross-legged, a pillow wedged between her torso and the wall, both of them giggling as though they were ten instead of seventeen. Sing liked that Zhin.
She sits on her bed, reaches for one of the novels on her nightstand, and, instead of taking it, lets herself be drawn downward by the weight of her outstretched arm. Another hour before she has to be at the Woolly to sing Angelique. She closes her eyes.
“It was my role,” Lori said. Zhin would have something to say about that. Something about a mistake that never should have been made, about Sing’s talent, about all those dime-a-dozen sopranos not worth her time. Maybe that was why Ryan had been drawn to Zhin. She made you feel you were worth great things.
Zhin wasn’t afraid to talk about things, either. “Sometimes I hate my name,” Sing told her that night as they sat with their popcorn bowls. “It’s too heavy to drag around.”
“You shouldn’t be dragging it,” Zhin said. “You should be waving it like a flag. That’s what your mother did. She knew how to get ahead.” Then, surprisingly, Zhin leaned over and rubbed Sing’s shoulder. “And she wanted the best for you.”
“I’m not sure we have the same definition of ‘the best,’” Sing said, but she felt a little better.
“Music is the best,” Zhin said. “And she named you Sing.”
Sing stirred the kernels in the bottom of her bowl with her finger. “Yeah, but what if your parents had named you Play Violin? Even though you love playing violin, it’s a lot of pressure.”
Zhin snorted at this. “My parents would never have named me anything so interesting. We have rules, you know. We actually have our family tree written in a book that goes back a gazillion years, and there’s this poem in there about flowers or something, and every generation has its own character from the poem that has to go in everyone’s name. I’m going to name my kids Potato and Chip just to watch Grandma’s head explode.”