“Tonight?” I don’t follow his lead. “Now?”
“Yes.” He nods.
I’m glued to the couch. “No.”
“I already told them you would. Kind of an informal tryout.”
“Great.” I lean back on the couch and stare up at him, finally starting to get steamed. “No pressure there.”
“Pressure is a good thing. It makes you stretch.”
“I’m tall enough already, thank you.”
“Three more inches and you’d really be sexy.”
Three more inches? I’d be a skyscraper. “Let’s stay around here tonight. Go to a movie. Watch TV. I cleaned my room.”
He shakes his head. “I have to go to practice. And I promised you’d be there.”
“I wish you would have discussed this with me first.”
“I didn’t think it would be an issue. I thought you’d be falling all over me with gratitude.” He comes over and sits beside me on the couch. “Please, Beth.” He cups my face in his hands and kisses me long, slow. “I want to be with you.” He kisses me again. “This is the best way.” He pulls me close against his chest. “Come sing with me.”
“This kind of persuasion isn’t fair.”
He keeps kissing me, presses me down on the couch with his body. My womanly senses go berserk. He kisses me once like that and gets up. “You coming?” He gives me his hand.
Of course, I take it.
I hate that he’s so confident.
I hate that he takes for granted I’ll agree to whatever he comes up with.
I hate not knowing his secrets.
“If I come tonight, you have to tell me—”
His eyes get pained. “Don’t go there, Beth.”
Then I hate myself for prying, probing the tender spot, hurting him, but I do it anyway. “What are you on?”
“We don’t have that kind of time.”
“I do.”
“Stop this, Beth. It’s not going to work if you keep asking me.”
That scares me. I’ll put up with anything to make this work. Even drugs. Even not knowing. Even going along with this crazy plan.
We get sandwiches, I call Mom, and we launch into the night, Derek on his bike, me in my car. I follow Derek over the Rainbow Bridge that crosses the Saint Clair River before it dumps itself into Lake Huron. We only have to wait at the border for about ten minutes. Once we get into Canada, we’re on that new freeway Derek bragged about. It is well maintained. This is Ontario. Nothing like the broken-up mess we drive on around Detroit. Not much traffic. Perfect for Derek to kill himself on. I can’t keep up with him. I don’t try. I’m not going to encourage him with even a hint of a race. He keeps circling back to find me and racing off again. Jeannette has a hard time over seventy. He’s going a lot faster than that. I couldn’t race if I wanted to.
The buzz of his bike turns into the drone of an organ, and I’m back in that dream. This time it is a nightmare.
I’m in my lacey white Christine dress again, kneeling by the side of the freeway, cradling Derek’s broken body in my arms, headlights beating against us. The organ gets loud and screechy, the orchestra comes in, cymbals crashing, violins on hyperdrive. I look up at the sky and sing, but I don’t sing like Christine this time. My voice is tortured madness.
No, God, you can’t have him.
You gave him to me.
He’s mine.
He’s all I ask for.
This boy I can adore.
I imagine ambulances arriving and paramedics rushing toward us. I put out my hand and screech—
No one else come near him.
He sees only me.
My love
Can never harm him.
My touch will ever warm him.
Derek’s eyes flutter open. They fill with terror. I’m not Christine anymore. I’m the Phantom, and all those Amabile girls—especially his prissy ex—better get this straight. I won’t ever let him go, no matter how many chandeliers I have to take out.
Derek’s headlight cuts into the night. He flips a U-turn, catches me, passes me. I sigh in defeat and turn on Jeannette’s crackling old radio to keep the ghosts at bay, getting more and more uptight about this whole situation. What am I doing? Amabile? Who am I kidding? I’m not even Canadian. I need to run back to my own kind with my head down and my tail between my legs. Crap. He’s gone again.
It’s getting darker. What if he’s nowhere around when I get to the turn. What if I don’t see any signs that say London? What if I slam on the brakes and flip my poor, rattling, ugly old car around. Head for home. Now. Jeannette stutters. I agree and ease up the gas to give her a break.
Shoot. He’s back. No escape. That lone headlight bearing down on me has to be him. Mind reader. The guy’s got some sort of powers. He’s certainly got control of me. Yes, Derek. Whatever you want, Derek. Please, Derek. Keep me in the dark—that’s fine with me. I’ll just sigh and let you kiss me again. He’s too perfect to withstand. It’s so not fair.
And now he’s Evel Knievel on his motorbike. I’ve got to sabotage that thing. What if he got high and went out on it?
Self-destructs
. Scott saw it as soon as he laid eyes on Derek. Stupid Scott. If Derek dares to self-destruct on me, Scott won’t have to carry through with his dumb macho caveman threats. I
will
kill Derek myself.
chapter 22
CHAMBERS
Derek slows down when we get near London. He puts on his flashers and rides smack in front of me like a police escort for a pop star. I so don’t miss the exit. And he’s right there as we wind through the city to the church where they practice.
He parks his bike beside me. I get out. “I’m never following you again.”
“What?”
“Every time you disappeared, I was sure I’d find your crumpled body in the middle of the road. Don’t do that to me.” I stalk away, push through the door into the church before he can make excuses.
He introduces me to all the directors. There’s two from his choir and two from the AYS. I smile and shake their hands, thank them for letting me sing with them tonight.
She’s here. His ex. I recognize her from Derek’s profile. He took her pictures with him down, but she’s still all over his wall. Great. She’s even tinier than she looks in her picture. She’s standing in a spot in the center of the choir next to an empty space that’s obviously Derek’s. She moves—quietly finds a new spot. Our eyes meet, and she smiles.
Crap. She is a nice girl.
My face heats up, and I look back at the tall conductor with a wispy beard that I’m supposed to be talking to.
“Why don’t you try the solo on this first piece?” He hands me the sheet music.
Derek’s name is in the corner next to
Arranged by.
“Derek wrote the solo for one singer—”
“Back when I could still hit the high notes.”
“We split it alto/soprano—which line do you feel comfortable with?” The guy waits for me to answer.
I don’t. Derek butts in with, “She can sing it all.”
“Derek.” There he goes again. I flip through the music, sight-reading in my head and checking the lows and highs. He’s right. As usual. I can. “I’ll try it.”
Derek maneuvers me through the choir to our places. “Don’t be nervous.”
“You are the only thing that makes me nervous. Singing calms me.”
“Then we better get started before you bite my head off.”
One of the AYS directors leads the warm-ups. No back rubs—guess that’s a girl choir thing. Derek tries to stick with me on the high notes, gets screechy, and gives up. On the low scale, I can go way past the lowest note in this solo. Derek is impressed.
“I sing tenor at school.”
He laughs.
We both have to drop out when it drops to bass range. I notice Blake is a bass. Figures.
Now tall guy with the wispy beard takes the wand. “All right, ladies and gentlemen. Welcome. It’s good to be back with you. We’re going to get right to work on Derek’s arrangement. He’s found us a soloist who can sing the impossible range he wrote. Everyone say hello to Beth.” He pauses while people turn and nod to me. I half raise my hand and wave a couple fingers. “She’s joining us this season. Please make her feel welcome.”
Wow. Done deal. I look sideways at Derek. He’s so avoiding me. He’s supposed to keep his eyes glued to the director, so am I for that matter. Still. No excuse. He must know I’m fuming. I open my music, hold it so I can watch the director, too, and smash my foot down hard on Derek’s toes.
He winces.
Now I can sing.
I fall in with the altos. This is their first run-through of the piece, and already the sound is amazing. The basses are really good, mellow and rich. Their low vibrations ground it. Derek’s pure voice beside me leads the tenors. The altos are all getting the part—not just me and my perfect pitch. And the sopranos don’t balk at the harmonic descant Derek throws at them on the second page.
The first verse and chorus is SATB. Then an instrumental interlude with piano and strings, and I come in. It’s not perfect, my first shot at that solo, but it’s pretty good. At the end of the piece, several of the girls turn around, lightly clap. Not haughty. Friendly. And Derek’s ex is smiling at me again. It’s nice. These girls are nice. It’s all overwhelming, Canadian nice.
Derek’s hand on my back and brief, “Way to go,” is knee-melting nice.
Derek tries the tenor solo in the next piece. He muffs it a couple times but makes it through. Another girl sings the soprano on that one. It’s short but poignant, and she sings it well.
All of them, the girls especially, have a real beauty to the tone of their voices. Nobody is weak. And the blending is flawless. No one tries to stick out. I can’t say it isn’t a total rush to meld my voice with that group. It would be amazing to sing with them all the time. I can’t believe Derek talked them into me. He obviously has everyone here wrapped as tightly around his baby finger as I am.
How does he do it? Why do they let him? Maybe they know. Whatever it is that he won’t tell me. Everyone here could know every little nasty, sordid detail. Maybe I
should
get chummy with all these nice girls. Especially Derek’s ex-nice girl.
After practice, Derek introduces me to some of them. His ex included. She really is nice. “We’ll see you Tuesday, then.” No hint of anger at me in her voice whatsoever. “Practice starts at 6:30.”
“I’m not sure—”
“She’ll be there.” Derek decides for me again. “Save her a seat, okay?”
She gives him a dazzling, perky smile. “Sure, Derek. I’ll look after her.”
One of the AYS directors hands me a heavy binder of sheet music. “We’ll be doing the first ten on Tuesday.” Ten? Whoa. “Know your part, okay? Derek says you’re happy to sing alto.”
I nod.
“Great. We had to retire a couple of our best last year.” She makes it sound like her singers are racehorses not girls. You can compete in the youth choir category until you are twenty-two. Then retirement? I hope not.
I can’t make it Tuesday. I have to go to my choir.
The words are there, ready to escape my lips, but I just nod.
We leave Derek’s bike and drive Jeannette to a nearby Tim Hortons. I’m starving. I get soup and a big sandwich on a croissant. Derek polishes off four pink-frosted, candy-sprinkled donuts.
“That’s not a very manly choice.”
“You’re so sexist.” He picks up his last donut and bites into it. “Pink? I thought you’d get it. In honor of Meadow. She’ll get to be the soloist again.”
“Poor Terri.”
“She’ll get over it.”
“Poor Meadow—and her parents.” I put down my spoon and lean forward. “They invested a lot in me last spring.”
“And you delivered in Lausanne. You don’t owe them anything.”
“That’s easy for you to say.” They counted on me for radio spots and their Christmas party this year.
Derek nods at my choir bag. “Go home and take a look at that music, and if you can honestly tell me you’d rather sing the baby stuff Terri’s got for you instead of what the AYS are doing, plus my fantastic creations in chamber choir—fine.”
I lift a spoonful of soup and pour it back into the bowl. “You know it doesn’t compare.”
“Good. How about we meet back here—Tuesday at 5:30 for a quick dinner before your practice.”
I glance around and frown. “Is this the only place to eat in London?”
“That I can afford?”
“Now who’s being sexist? I can pay—especially for better food.”
Derek wipes his sticky fingers on a napkin. “You don’t like the ambiance?”
“I don’t like the soup.” It’s even worse than the Dunkin’ Donuts by my house.