Authors: Jeff Ross
“Because this isn’t only her story. It’s yours as well.”
* * *
When lunch was over, Sean and I were the last to arrive back in the concert hall. At first everything seemed very much the same. But then I noticed that there had been some changes. Crissy and Isabel were back. They’d rooted themselves in the first row of seats, about ten feet from the conductor. Denise was on the other side of the room, talking with a cellist. The choir seemed divided right down the middle. So much so, there was a visible line in the center of the room where no one was sitting.
“What is going on in here?” Sean whispered.
“I have no idea,” I said.
“Parting of the Red Sea.”
“Hailey!” Amanda called. “We need you up here, please. We’re doing a run-through of the parts.” I noticed that the full orchestra was here for the first time. Plus, along the sides of the hall and up in the balcony, there were people with cameras.
“Who are all these people?” I said.
“Get on up there, girl,” Sean replied.
I walked along the right side of the room, because there seemed to be more smiling faces on that side. I tried not to look around too much, because the whole thing was really strange.
“We’re going to get you and Crissy to sing alternating sections for Barbarina, if that’s okay,” Amanda said.
“Sure,” I replied. I took my place at the front of the room opposite Crissy. It wasn’t okay, I thought. It was a horrible idea.
“I’ve marked your sections,” Amanda said. “It will give us a clear idea of what you are both capable of.”
“Sounds perfect,” I said. You get into a groove with singing. Starting and stopping is ridiculously difficult—but it is an essential part of opera.
I looked at my group of people. My camp, I suppose. I had most of the quieter girls.
Amanda was standing beside Denise. I saw that as a good sign—and then immediately felt bad for thinking that way. Crissy seemed to have roped in two of the costume designers and a choreographer.
And, of course, her mother.
The orchestra began, and Crissy turned to face the choir. She sang the first few lines perfectly and then for some reason had some serious pitch problems in the third phrase. She shook her head and stopped singing midphrase. The orchestra ground to a halt. She breathed for a moment. Everyone was watching her.
“Okay,” she said. “Again.”
The conductor, Evelyn Linley, started the orchestra again. This time Crissy shot through her section without stopping. It flowed perfectly, but I didn’t think she meshed with the orchestra. It seemed as though she was using them as backup. Singing
over
the musicians rather than
with
them. It felt a little like listening to two separate tracks on a stereo, where each speaker is giving you something slightly different.
When it was my turn, I let myself sink into the music. I’ve always seen my voice—any voice—
as an instrument. The same as the violin or flute. It was my place as a singer to be a part of the music, not something on top of it.
When my short section came to an end, I let my voice drift into the orchestra’s sound. Crissy stomped on her first note, almost screeching it. Sure, that is part of the opera. Barbarina is in turmoil in this scene. But it felt way over the top.
As Crissy sang, I started remembering, for some reason, all the sleepovers, the ice creams by the river, the secret crushes we’d had that we told no one but each other about.
The breadth and depth of our friendship.
I wondered what it would be like if we could swap nights. Take turns. Why couldn’t we? We could flip a coin for opening night. Alternate every night after that.
But it didn’t work that way. It couldn’t. The cast needed consistency. I completely understood this. Still, I wished Crissy and I could share the role and the spotlight.
Cameras began to flash, and I realized the people lining the sides of the hall were from the media. Journalists, bloggers, opera geeks. Everything suddenly felt larger than it had a moment before.
Then it was my part again, and Crissy
accidentally
knocked over a music stand. I sang through that as though it never happened. Inside, I was steaming. I knew she’d done it on purpose. She apologized loudly, and Amanda shushed her.
The final phrase begins on a high F. It’s a tricky spot. A singer can either float the entrance or hit it hard. The orchestra part is pretty sparse leading up to the final two measures and holds its chord right as Barbarina reenters. The voice is completely exposed. But Mozart also allowed room for the singer to add flair—to riff on a high note. When it came time to hit the high note, I nailed it and added a little vocal flourish on my way to the end of the aria.
I looked over at Crissy. She refused to look back, but it didn’t matter. I had nailed that final phrase perfectly. I knew it would continue to ring in her head for the remainder of the day and deep into the night.
A
t the end of the day I went outside. I stood near the entrance and watched as everyone hopped into cars and drove away. A couple of people asked if I needed a ride, and I said no. Everyone knew that Crissy and I always rode together, and for some reason I didn’t want people to think there was anything going on between us. I was angry at her and frustrated by the entire situation, but I would stand around and wait for everyone to leave, then take a bus, if that was what it came to. I wasn’t going to lay our problems out before anyone.
It was nobody’s business but ours.
“I have to run,” Sean said as he came stumbling out the doors. He was fumbling, trying to get papers and binders into his backpack. Sean rode
the bus to his part-time job at a laser-tag place downtown. He was always rushing to catch it, though it came at the exact time every day.
“Need some help?” I asked.
“No. I’m fine,” he said. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah, sure. I’ll take a bus or get a cab,” I said.
He looked like he was going to hug me, but instead he bumped me on the arm. “You have to talk to her,” he said.
“I’ve tried.”
He held his phone up. “We have these awesome little things in our pockets. We can look at pictures of cats. We can argue with strangers. We can even call one another.”
“I know,” I said.
“I have to go.” He finally stepped forward and gave me a hug. It was extremely brief and weird.
“Okay,” he said. “That’ll do.” He backed away from me. “See you tomorrow.”
“See you tomorrow,” I said.
I was trying to decide what to do when Denise came out the front doors.
“We survived,” she said. She stuck her tongue out like an overheated dog.
“That wasn’t as hot as it sometimes is,” I said.
Denise put her sunglasses on and stood beside me, looking out over the lawns. “Are you stuck for a ride again?”
“I guess I am,” I said. “I was trying to decide whether to call a cab or take the bus.”
Denise put her hand on my shoulder. “Don’t ride the bus, Hailey. It’s too much of a strain. Where do you live?”
“In Maclean.”
“That’s where I am staying too. Come on. We’ll ride together.” She hooked her arm through mine. We walked down the path together.
“Buses are a killer on the voice,” she said. “The dryness, and all the people on there who may or may not be sick. I’m not being elitist, mind you.”
“Oh, no, of course not,” I said.
“Well, maybe a little. But you can’t afford to get ill. You need to watch your health.”
There was a cab waiting. We slipped into the backseat, and Denise gave the driver an address about three blocks from my house. Then she sat back and pulled a bottle of water from her purse. She took a long drink. Then she said, “So you and Crissy are good friends.”
It wasn’t a question.
“She’s the reason I’m here,” I said.
“How so?”
The air conditioning felt amazing. I leaned between the front seats to get a blast on my face. “She wanted to hang out more, so she got me to join the choir with her. I liked it right away and started taking lessons with Mrs. Sturgeon,” I explained. “Crissy had been a member for a while. Back when we were kids, we’d always sing together. Mostly stupid pop songs, but I guess she thought I could sing.”
“Well, you can,” Denise said. She shook her head as she slid the water bottle back into her purse. “I don’t like this competition idea at all, by the way. Not one little bit.”
“But isn’t that the way it goes in opera?”
“Not when you’re seventeen years old, it shouldn’t. You have to try out for roles. That’s certainly a part of it. At times you know who the other applicants are. But there’s never this direct competition. The back and forth. It’s unfair to both of you.”
“It is not a great time, I agree.”
“And that act Crissy pulled today…” Denise stopped talking. “I probably shouldn’t be saying anything.”
“What act?” I asked.
Denise removed her sunglasses. “Her pitch problems.”
I didn’t say anything and must have looked confused.
“She did that on purpose.”
“Why would she do that?” I said.
“To show resiliency. To show control. To prove she’s the best person for the role. She made a mistake in an early practice, then came out even better than before. I’ve seen it done before. It’s not only your voice that counts, Hailey. It’s how you hold yourself. How you deal with the pressure. How you are able to recover from a mistake or anything outside your control. Isabel knows this. She’s used that trick herself.” Denise turned back to the window. “You need to try and stay away from this gamesmanship. It’s beneath you. Beneath all of us.”
She fell silent for a moment as we rumbled onto the beltway and hit a wall of late-afternoon traffic.
“If I could tell my younger self one thing, it would be that. Stay away from the ridiculous side of this business.” She removed her sunglasses and took me in fully. “Yes, who you know counts. But who you
are
counts more.” She patted my knee. “Remember that.”
The taxi dropped me off at home first. I thanked Denise for the ride. She gave me her cell number in case I needed a lift in the morning. I stood there and stared at her number as the cab drove away. I couldn’t believe everything that was happening. It was as if I’d been picked up and placed on a different level than I’d even known existed.
I went inside and sat on the couch for a moment. I had my phone in my hand. It would be simple enough to call Crissy and talk to her. We’d been friends so long that something like this shouldn’t get between us. I knew it in my heart and in my mind. But for some reason I didn’t want to hear her voice right then.
So I texted her.
Pick me up tomorrow?
I set my phone on our glass coffee table and looked out the window. It took a couple of minutes, but eventually she wrote back.
Going really early. Sorry.
I quickly wrote,
That’s okay. I can go in early.
There was a long delay.
Mom says no. Sorry, Hay. :(
And that was it.
I could have got angry.
I could have called her and yelled, or even texted hurtful things. But if she was going to be this way, I decided, then the competition was fully and truly on.
She’d made a choice.
I got out the sheet music for
The Marriage of Figaro
and found the
CD
I used to practice. Then I spent the next hour making sure I knew every note as if it were written on my tongue. I rolled the low notes, held tight to the midrange and destroyed the high notes.
Everyone loves the high notes. If you can hit those, you can turn people to mush.
I
practiced “L’ho perduta” again in the morning, and while my mother hurriedly drove me to practice I listened to it on my phone.
When the door to Paterson Center closed behind me, all the noise of the world disappeared. It felt strange to be in the concert hall alone. I walked the length of the room and, without thinking about it, hopped up onto the stage.
Then I sang a few bars. The sound in that space was beautiful. The quietest note filled the room with energy and power. I did it again, closing my eyes and singing a couple more bars. When I opened my eyes, Isabel, Crissy and Mrs. Derrick were standing at the rear of the room.
“Hailey, dear,” Mrs. Derrick called, “you’re not supposed to be on the stage right now.”
I stayed still, like a small woodland animal who believes that if she doesn’t move, no one will see her.
“Really, Hailey. Rehearsal hasn’t begun. There are rules, you know.” Mrs. Derrick moved toward the stage as a group of kids came through the door behind her. “Come along now, hop on down.”
“Okay,” I said.
Mrs. Derrick had already made it to the stage. She reached up toward me. More kids were coming through the doors as she grabbed my arm and pulled me forward. I stumbled a bit, falling first into a sitting position on the stage and then, very quickly, down onto the floor.
Mrs. Derrick was above me, still holding my arm. She looked flustered.
“The rules here are that no students are to be on the stage prior to rehearsal.” She pointed at the orchestra area. “There is too much that can be broken.”
I shook my arm until she let go and then stood. “Thanks so much for reminding me,” I said. I glanced past her to where Crissy stood, rooted like an old tree beside Isabel.
Mrs. Derrick turned and walked away. It would have been embarrassing had I simply fallen on my own—but Mrs. Derrick had actually yanked me from the stage. The kids who had seen what happened watched her walk back to Isabel and Crissy. No one said a word until the three of them had left, and then the room filled with the normal chatting and noise.
Sean rushed up to the stage. “Did I actually see what I think I saw?” he asked.
“Did you see Crissy’s mom yanking me off the stage?”
“I did.”
“Then you saw exactly what you thought you saw.”
“Seriously, what the hell?”
Amanda came out from backstage as the orchestra was setting up.
“What’s the orchestra doing here?” I asked. A few of the musicians looked tired. Almost all of them were carrying coffee cups. The double-bass player was nearly dragging his case across the room. They must have had a performance the night before. Normally, they arrived after lunch when they’d performed the night before.
Then a second wave of people came through the doors—the journalists. Two men came in carrying big, heavy-looking video cameras. The entire place had exploded in activity in the matter of fifteen minutes.