Sorry it's late, I'll try to do better next time! It's nice and long to make up for the absence, though, so enjoy!
One
Two weeks previously…
"Christine!"
Startled, I glance over my shoulder at the filled hallway, looking for the source of the voice. It's my first day back at the University of New Jersey for my senior year, and the halls are crowded with people rushing to lunch, to another class, or lingering.
Out of the crowd I barely pick out Meg crawling her way through the sea of students.
I smile — it's a rare sight seeing Meg here.
She is usually in New York these days, where she studies ballet at a super intense music and dance school, but she took off the semester to help her mother teach a class of high school students who won some competition to have private lessons at the college.
She's also here to help her mother with some unknown project.
Unknown, and also the source of the bubbles that are forming in my stomach.
I haven't been told what it is, but it must be important — Meg, who can't keep a secret to save her life, hasn't given me even a hint of what it is. I'm sure there is a reason why her and her mother are keeping it a secret from me, but I don't understand why.
As Meg's best friend and Ms. Giry as my unofficial legal guardian for so many years, they've never kept anything from me.
"Do I even want to know?" I bite back the anxiety threatening its way up my throat as she reaches me.
I have every reason to worry and suspect this is about the surprise — there is no reasonable reason why she should be in this department of the college, and she would never seek me out to tell me something she could text.
Either that, or she has something horrible to tell me.
And I'm not sure if there is a difference between that and whatever this surprise is at this point.
Her face lights up — so not horrible, then. "Yes, you do! My mother wants to see you!"
I frown. Not because I don't like Ms. Giry — but having her seek me out in the middle of the day?
Strange.
Despite my curiosity, my brain wildly searches for excuses. "Meggy, you know I want to, but I can't. I'm about to—"
"To what?" She rests her hands on her hips. "To go to some boring early childhood development class? Yeah. Right. You and I both know you don't even have classes left today, besides an option one for people who are failing… which you are not. Quite the opposite." Her lips pop with the sentence. "Why is this place so damn busy? It's like a highschool in here," she says as an afterthought.
"I'm meeting someone in the library to study." A blatant lie. "And I don't know, maybe because a ton of people go to this school?"
"The library is the other way," she deadpans, seeing right through me. "Besides, we both know that's bullshit, you don't have any friends besides me."
The jab hurts, but it's true. I give up. Fine.
"What does your mother want?"
She beams. "Well first, I want you to come with me, because we are going to her office. She is going to tell you herself and you are going to love it!"
"No—" I nearly drop the books I'm holding. "She can come here… or over for dinner. I'm not going… I can't go there."
"Why not? The Arts Department? Why not?" her voice is loud, and half the people in the hall turn and look out direction.
"Lower your voice, Meg." I tug her aside, lowering my own voice. "You know why I can't go there."
"Why, because you don't want to be a part of the choir or ever sing again?" She grabs my hand and drags me through the crowd, her short frame weaving easily through the people.
"First off," I whisper, "I don't sound like that. Second, this has nothing to do with the stupid choir. That was years ago and after everything had just happened I wasn't ready yet—"
She stops abruptly and I slam into her back. "And you're not ready now, nearly four years later?"
I avoid her eye as she turns around, looking at some spot on the wall above her head. "You wouldn't get it…"
She frowns, but doesn't respond. Grabbing my hand again, she maneuvers us through the last of the students and across the lawn.
"Look, Meg, I hate to be such a stick in the mud about it, and I know you mean well, but I can't do it."
Because yes, she is right — there is a part of me that isn't ready to go anywhere near the Arts Department. A part of me that, yes, has kept me from going anywhere near, besides last year when I absolutely had to. And even then when I was going on my own free will, it only taunted me with something that could never be.
She doesn't say anything.
"I'm studying to be a teacher, Meg, and I don't like whatever is going on."
You don't like it, my brain says, because it's going to ruin everything.
Nearly four years in to getting my degree, I'm afraid just seeing the place is going to ruin my headspace. All these years I've been able to focus on everything from teaching children with disabilities to cleaning up puke, and this is going to ruin it.
"I'm studying to be a teacher, and wherever you are taking me has nothing to do with teachers."
She turns around quickly, meeting my eyes this time. "Stop being a bitch about it, Christine, okay?" There is something of hurt in her eyes, a look of rare desperation.
The building behind her is colorful, a mural of colors students painted over the summer. Meeting her blue eyes, I shove the urge to run away and let her lead me into the Webber Building.
Down the hall, up four flights of stairs — not the elevator of course, students haven't been able to use it since it became a hook up spot. Down another hall, turn left. One, two, three doors. The one on the right, the one with the black and white picture of Anna Pavlova and one of Meg as a child, hair tight. First dance recital. Beaming.
The door is open, and as we turn into Antoinette Giry's room, her sharp laugh fills the room. Her rare laugh startles me, and the unfamiliar presence of a man in the room with her.
His back is to us, but he is… oddly familiar.
He's short, with dark hair that curls gently on the top of his head. Were it not for the sheen of pomade, it would look like he stepped out of bed without doing anything to it. His shave is close to his face, the line of his hair on his neck expertly manicured.
Money. He has money.
His shoulders are broad and square, his clothes of fine quality, but… worn.
Not rich?
He makes the whole office smell like cinnamon buns and cheroot.
He leans towards her behind the desk, saying something low. She laughs, running a hand down the lapel of his jacket.
Ms. Giry… flirting? What the actual hell?
He kisses her on the cheeks European style, whispering to her. I catch the French dialect this time, trying to translate it with the few words I've picked up from Meg in the past couple years.
I glance over at Meg. My love? I mouth, and she shrugs. She probably caught the entire conversation, but doesn't look like she is about to tell me what just happened.
As the man turns and leaves, our eyes meet for a split second, and he blinks, doing a double take.
But before I can register anything about him other than his deep green eyes, he's gone.
Ms. Giry giggles to herself again as she looks at us, smoothing her already smooth hair, a habit she has done for years whenever something flusters her.
Curious. Ms. Giry… flustered? What did that man have to say? Again I glance towards Meg, but she's playing with the tape dispenser.
Ms. Giry finally snags my eyes, and smiles. I smile back, unable to help myself, and the action soothes away a little of my doubt.
There can't be anything about this, I am sure. Ms. Giry has practically raised me since my father died, and she is part of the reason why I chose this college — I trust her. Everyone trusts her. She's strict as hell, but I've never met someone who didn't like her.
She's worked here for years, teaching classical ballet — a rare class for a state college. She also has overseen the entire theatre department at this campus and our sister school for almost twenty years.
There's no reason why I shouldn't trust her; she would never spring anything horrible on me. She's level headed.
She said she knew my father when they were younger, and my father had been looking for her when we first moved to America. The phrase, "If only we could find Giry" often came from his mouth, so when she came to the hospital the day my father died, with arms open wide, I trusted her without a question.
The older woman's face lights up, just like her daughter's does when she is about to do something mischievous.
So much for the comfort, I think, as my heart plunges to my knees.
"Here, make yourselves comfortable — have a seat." She clears off a worn leather chair in front of her desk, shoving aside sheet music and ribbons. "Just give me a second, I just realized I forgot to give this back to Mr. Khan." She waves a thick folder around. It's worn, but well taken care of. Loopy handwriting on the front, written in fountain pen. It looks old.
She rushes out of the office, calling his name. Meg rolls her eyes before taking a seat behind the desk, propping her feet up on the dark cherry wood. I cringe as a little flake of mud from her shoes hits the sheets on the desk.
Leaning forward, I glance at the sheets. The staffs are hand written, not printed like the paper they give you in class. The notes, though sloppy, are readable and are of the same hand of the writing on the folder.
A melody flits its way through my head, gentle. Trusting. A brush down my spine, claws on my neck—
I throw the sheet down.
Meg looks at me curiously, but I don't say anything as I try to steady my breathing and shove the notes aside.
But it's too late.
The melody, those phantom hands are seared into my mind, my body.
Bile rises in my throat and I look for the nearest trash can, head—
Ms. Giry clicks her tongue at Meg as she walks in, motioning for her to. My butt is frozen to the chair I'm in, clenching my toes to try to get rid of the nausea. Meg moves from the chair, throwing herself onto the worn couch that is the match to the chair I'm in. She has a stupid grin on her face, and the sight of it makes me want to lunge for the trash can again.
Taking Meg's place behind the desk, Ms. Giry shuffles the few papers around. Looking at the sheet I tossed, creases form on her forehead. She mutters something, but shoves it into the stack of paper labeled as "deal with later." It must not be important then.
She once said this office is an in between space, a pit stop. And it doesn't surprise me; it looks like she dumps everything here when she goes between the campuses, classes, and between being a mom and a teacher.
My fingers urge to organize the hell out of this place, but I have a feeling that if I even touched something I would get screamed at.
Clapping her hands together, Ms. Giry looks at me with a smile. "How are things going back at home? You and Meg adjusting to life?"
"Really, Ms. Giry? Don't try to soften me up here, hit me with it." I glance at Meg who's now obnoxiously chewing a piece of pink bubble gum. "I know you and Meg would never pull me from my busy classes, and no one is dead, so hurry up and tell me before I do something irrational."
"I quite like irrational Christine." Her eyes twinkle. "She's done some very amusing things in the past—"
"Shut up." I color. I know the exact details of this story.
"Don't snap, it's unbecoming darling," she says seriously this time. "We both know you are done with classes for today."
"And that is exactly what your daughter said, but it doesn't mean I don't have homework or other things I need to do…"
She looks at me curiously. "All seriousness, anything new? You adjusting fine?"
"If you are referring to Meg moving in with me for the semester, after having her gone for three years, then yes, I'm doing fine." She knows all these details already, but I'll humor her if she wants. "In fact, on that note, I am doing great. It's nice… to have someone."
"You have Raoul," she says, her lips forming the words slowly.
I hesitate. "Yes."
"But?"
"But that's not the same."
"How?"
"You're trying to distract me, what is going on?"
She smiles coyly. "Of course, but would you expect anything less of me?"
"Get to the point."
She coughs, and I'm not sure if it's to hide her laugh. "Meg, my bag?"
Meg shoots up from the couch, grabbing the worn Coach bag and pea coat for her mother. Like the furnishings in this room, there is a worn quality about everything Ms. Giry owns. I've never asked about their financial situation, but I know Ms. Giry has been the sole provider for herself and Meg since Meg's father left.
Stupid bastard.
"Come ladies." She flicks the light off and locks her office. "We are going for a drive.
"A what?"
Both of them are silent.
Something is really wrong in this situation.
The cold breeze nips at me, despite it only being September. I didn't notice it when Meg was dragging me over, but I wish I had brought a coat.
Mental note to self: bring a coat tomorrow, so when unexpected interruption to schedule occurs, you do not find yourself unprepared.
As we reach the beat up Honda Civic, Meg and her mom take the front seats and I'm forced into the back. I buckle, thankful the breeze can't touch me in the car. Ms. Giry starts the car and I catch a fragment of Handel's Messiah before she turns the radio down.
Go away.
When we've been on the road for a couple minutes, I finally ask, "What's going on? I realize I've basically been kidnapped by you two, and I'm kicking myself for not realizing it sooner so I could finally use my pepper spray. If someone doesn't tell me where we are going now, I'm going to jump out of this car."
Ms. Giry catches my eyes in the rearview mirror, all traces of the former happiness gone, replaced only with seriousness.
She draws in a breath, before saying, "We're going to La Monnaie," the French is effortless on her tongue.
"We're what?" My stomach drops to my feet."No… no we are not. We are not going there. Stop this car. Stop it right now and take me back," the words barely form.
We can't go there.
We can't go to La Monnaie.
La Monnaie, about forty five minutes away, is an old opera and play house, named and styled after the real La Monnaie in Belgium. The last time I was there… the last time I was there, my father was still alive and I still had dreams.
Bloody hell.
I still had the false hope something good was going to happen, that I would be on that stage, at that school.
"You can't take me there." The words are a whisper coming from my mouth, but a scream in my heart. "You tricked me into getting into this car when you know I would have refused. You are going to turn us right around and take me the hell back."
"No, we're not," Ms. Giry says in her firm teacher voice, slamming on the brakes. My head hits the front of the chair, and I'm suddenly glad she's taking the back roads to get there, otherwise we would have all been dead from slamming into another car. "Yes, we didn't tell you where we were going, but we didn't trick you. There is no malice in our intentions."
I stare at her blue eyes, wrinkles creasing the edges.
"I know you have bad memories there, but we're about to do a production of Carmen. It's why Meg has been here, and I want you to audition" — I open my mouth to say something — "no, don't interrupt me. Hear me out for once. If you agreed, you wouldn't have to audition, not really. You'd just come, pretend to audition, and you'd have the spot. No questions."
"But that's totally unfair for everyone else and you know I can't!"
"When have you ever been concerned about fair?" She puts the care in park and turns around in her seat. "And yes, you can. It's not a matter of can it's a matter will. You won't audition, not you can't. You're the only person I ever seen as Carmen, and I want you in our production."
"No."
"There's going to be people there. I'm not supposed to say this, but there are going to be big people there. People from New York and Paris and Russia. Representing all sorts of theatres — Broadway, the Met, the Palais Garnier. And I just know if anyone heard you you could be big, you could finally follow your dreams—"
"What the hell do you know of my dreams?" I snap. "What the hell do you even know about any of this."
"I know what your dreams used to be." She won't let me let go of her stare. "And I know how you used to sound. I saw you in that horrid high school production of Carmen that wasn't even good, but you made it shine. You made it something else. Transformative. And if anyone of them saw your talent — you could have your choice of where you wanted to live, theatres you wanted to visit. They would be begging you."
"No."
When did you see me in Carmen?
"Christine—"
You weren't around when I was in high school, father was still looking for you.
"I said no. I'm not doing it."
What are you hiding?
"You're father would want you to—"
"Don't you dare bring my father into this."
I can't stand it when people do this. They say it about anything…your father would have wanted you to do this. To volunteer here. To take this class. To go out to an event with a bunch of friends. To even make friends besides Meg.
She doesn't know she is doing it, but it still stings.
"Please. Just come for now. We're not doing auditions today, but I want you to come and see the theatre. I want you to look at what we're starting to do. I'll turn us the hell around right now if that is what you really want, but if you have ever trusted me to do what is best for you, you'll at least come."
I don't say anything, don't look at anything.
"You can't let your past control you," she says softer this time. "Yes, it hurts. It's going to continue to hurt for the rest of your life, but you can't let it stop you from living now. You only get one chance to live, Christine, and I don't want you to throw it away. I don't want to see your happiness wasted because you're too scared to use it."
My mind is a void, and as much as I want to tune her out—
What she's saying is right.
"You don't even have to audition ever, if you don't want to. But you at least need to come today, need to reconnect with that… with that part of you I know isn't gone. That part of you that is being hidden in years of guilt and grief."
This time I meet Meg's eyes and they're begging me. Ms. Giry's eyes are begging me. They are begging me to do something that they don't know will only make it worse.
"Fine." I slump back against the seat. "But I'm not auditioning. Ever."
The car remains silent the rest of the drive to La Monnaie, and none of us say anything as Ms. Giry puts the car into park and turns off the ignition.
Eight creamy white columns hold up the building; arches crown the doors and crystal clear windows above them. The steps lead up to the building are dusted just lightly with snow that would have melted were it not for the stone that held the cool of the air and the shade from the towering building. Edges tipped in gold.
First hope. First dreams. First kiss.
The sight makes my stomach churn.
It looks regal, a small piece of architecture that has been around forever and yet not long enough. The real La Monnaie opened a few decades before ours did, ours somehow surviving all these years through old wealthy snobs.
Not that I had anything against old wealthy snobs — this theatre would not be here without it.
The soft click of Ms. Giry's buckle wakes me from my dream and with an unsteady hand I reach for my own buckle.
"There is a meeting Meg and I have to attend," Ms. Giry says slowly. "It should only be a half an hour. I figured you could use the time to look around… on your own."
I swallow, not saying anything.
She is right — I need to do this alone first. And she knew that… was the meeting even real?
"We'll meet you by the backstage entrance?" Meg shifts on her feet.
She doesn't have to say where specifically — this theatre is a second home to me. Was a second home, once upon a different life.
Auditions. Makeup and costumes and singing and dancing.
They walk towards the front doors and I follow them slowly, taking it in. Each step fills me with nostalgia, and I don't like it.
Once upon a time, there was a young and naive little girl who thought she could sing.
Once upon a time, there had been an open audition at this opera house, to go to a highly selective school only a few hours away in New York.
And once upon a time, I thought I had it in me to get to this school.
Four years ago, I was a hopeful young girl who thought she could get into one of the most prestigious music and arts schools in the country because of her voice, which she didn't think was great because everyone told her to go.
She wouldn't have done it, but she wanted to make her daddy proud.
It only takes a little compare and contrast of my life now to what that little girl thought her life would be to imagine how it went, without going into the bloody details.
It was along the lines of — Carlotta Gucci's daddy (yes that Gucci) paid a pretty penny to get her one spot ahead of that little girl.
Gucci landed just above the cut off mark, and myself just below. I'm proud to say I only attempted one assassination and cried for only two weeks, before my father was stabbed to death and died in the hospital.
Yep, life has been golden.
By the time I have the courage to open those front doors, the Girys are nowhere in site.
But by god, it hits me.
The smell alone hits me in the gut, bringing me back to the first time. Bringing me back to the chorus, the dancing. Those late nights with the other ballet girls and bubble-gum pink dreams.
Like hell this is ever going to happen again.
The entry hall hasn't changed: the same smooth black and white marble floors, architectural details along the top of the high ceiling and carved into the walls. Naked Grecian busts, renaissance paintings on the ceiling, adorned with stone crowns. Flowers, now half-dried and in need of replacement before the weekend performances in priceless vases.
Nerves. A father who couldn't keep his head straight, but a kind boy with blue eyes.
Stepping in here is like being transported to an ancient European infrastructure, yet this place is only just over a century old. It was built in 1880, a rare piece for America. It's the one thing I miss about my home country, those old churches and theatres and royal buildings.
The hall is silent, and there is a faint layer of dust everywhere. It looks like the upkeep has changed in the years I've been gone.
A flare of anger coils in my stomach, but I push it aside. I have no feelings about this place.
I'll send you the angel of music, darling. He'll help you sing, and they'll want you here.
I make my way quietly through the big room and off to the hall that leads into the ballroom. I'm not ready to go up the stairs to the big doors leading to the velvet seats and soft lights. To the smell of freshly designed sets, paint and wood — or elements of old one, oil and hard work.
The ballroom is of a similar state as the main room, a small layer of dust over the stones and paintings. The room is like a burst of color, and in the evenings when they would hold fancy dances after the shows, some of the girls and I would sneak here to watch them.
I turn out of the ballroom, up the stairs case and through twisting halls towards the backstage entrance, even though it has only been a few minutes. The meeting — if there even is a meeting — won't be over for at least twenty minutes, and I want to look at the dressing rooms and costumes before they arrived.
Walking into the backstage area is like walking right back into the twenty-first century. LED lights and fresh carpet. Framed pictures of celebrities who have visited or performed here over the years. The door opens to a long, wide, hall, with many rooms off of it, leading to storage closets and dressing rooms.
I hurry past the one the ballet girls and I used to share.
The makeup and costume room is massive, with mirror and lights everywhere. The place gives me the same rush of adrenaline I felt before each show, breathlessness; watching people move around here and there and everywhere.
Where is everyone now?
I should have asked Ms. Giry what had happened all these years, because if it was anything like it used to be, there should have been people here, rehearsing. We used to do shows two or three times a week; new shows every couple months.
I frown when I catch myself in one of the mirrors. Twenty-four and I look thirty. My eyes are hollow, my hair wild. I try to tame some of the waves but it's as fruitless as it's ever been.
My feet carry me out of the room and down a staircase, through another big room and to another staircase. Down, down, down, I go, not knowing or caring where I end up at.
It's colder here in these levels.
You know, there are cellars beneath the theatre. Beneath the storage rooms. They were going to use them for other things, but they never got around to it. The entrance is hidden—
The rumors… Could the rumors of the cellars be true? I was always too busy to care, too focused on other things.
My footsteps are silenced by the thin carpet. I'm below the ground.
This is the old storage room… the room where they keep the props.
Hands. Lips. The thrill of being caught. Pretending like nothing happened later.
Shrugging aside the old memories, I grope for a light switch.
As soon as I step into the room, the lights flicker on automatically. Blinking against the light, I glance around the vast storage room. There's props from old sets I remember being in, a big elephant we named Harold. I smile as I walk over to him, patting him on the behind.
Surprisingly, my hand comes away clean.
It strikes me as odd, but I don't know why.
The storage room is clean, without a layer of dust like the rest of the place. Someone has been down here to clean recently.
Odd.
And organized — it was never this clean when I was down here. Someone put new shelving units in, plastic boxes expertly labeled by show or type. Costumes by show and by color. Wigs by size and shape. I can faintly make out pieces of sets along the back wall.
Fresh paint… someone painted recently.
I shiver but it has nothing to do with my lack of coat.
The dim lights flicker as I make my way deeper into the massive room. It must be the size of the entire house, just not divided into rooms like the upper levels. The room has always been vast, but is now even more so with the rows upon rows of shelves.
Instead of walking through the middle of it, I make quick work around the perimeter, dragging my hand along the wall in some places, looking for a hidden door, maybe a staircase.
Anything that could lead to a lower level.
By the time I make a full circle of the room, there's nothing.
I'm on the lowest level that I know of, and there is only this one room down here. Where could the cellar entrance be hiding?
My phone buzzes in my pocket.
were the hell r u?
Without responding, I turn and leave the room, lights automatically flickering off behind me. That's new too… they didn't have those when I was last here. Why didn't they just instal they everywhere, since people had such a problem with turning lights off behind them?
Making my way back up without getting lost is a challenge, but I somehow know where to go.
Back at the doors I first came through, I open them to Meg and her mother standing, worried whispers between them. They both smile, and I ignore the relief on their faces.
"Where were you?" Meg asks. "We passed through the backstage area, but didn't see you."
"Looking around…." I bite my lip. "Downstairs. I probably passed you."
"Downstairs?"
"Do you remember anything about an old cellar? I went all the way to the big storage room, but didn't find anything."
Ms. Giry's face pales. "There is a… cellar," she says slowly. "But they blocked it off all the way to the old storage room a couple years ago. Only the curator has a key to the old storage room, though I don't think he's been there any time recently — if you ask me he's nothing but a scared old bat. People were going down there, screwing around, getting lost. When part of the cellar caved in they decided it would be best to just close both rooms off entirely."
That's not what it looked like to me. My stomach churns. It wasn't locked, nor did it look like it hadn't seen another person in awhile. In fact, it looked like I wasn't the only person who had been there recently.
"You ready to go in?" Meg says before I can voice my thoughts.
I nod, though both of them look at me hesitantly. We walk back into the backstage hall, turning a few more corners, until I see the innocent black door that leads to the real backstage.
As we walk through it, the lights are shining on the stage just like they always did. You can only see a little sliver of the side of the stage from here, but I break into a sweat. I desperately try to bury all of those feelings from these past four years, but seeing the stage alone makes me want to run.
"You okay?" Ms. Giry glances at me questioningly, but I give her a smile. A grimace. "Good."
And then we do it.
I don't think my feet can, but we step right onto that stage, worn with years of pointe shoes and props. My head swirls, vision blurring. Bile rises in the back of my throat.
You're not committing to anything, I try to assure myself. You're only here to help Ms. Giry. And then you will go home. And everything will be fine. You have a test tomorrow, remember? You'll go home and you'll study, and then maybe you'll go for a run and run it all away. And then you'll be too tired, and you won't even dream when your head hits the pillow.
I blink against the harsh light, suddenly thankful its on and I don't have to see those empty red velvet seat, mocking me.
I give a shaky smile to Meg before the sound of voices and shadows of people catch my attention.
So the meeting was real.
"Christine, if you will come here," Ms. Giry beckons me.
Walking over, the two men who stand by her are vaguely familiar. When they both turn and look at me, beaming, I remember where I've seen them before: old albums and picture frames around the Giry's small house.
"These are my managers, André and Richard Firmin. They've come all the way from France, where I'm from." She beams at them.
I glance between them. "Brothers?"
The older looking one — Richard — laughs. "No, partners."
Sure enough, both of them have golden rings on their ring finger. They didn't have them in any of the pictures I've seen, so I say, "How long?"
The other one, André laughs. "Oh, must be ten years now — how things have changed!" he says to Ms. Giry, who smiles.
"And," she continues. "Carlotta Gucci, but you already know her, I am sure. She sung here for, how many seasons? Three?"
My head whips from the two elderly men to…
"What the hell are you doing here?" I blurt before I can think.
"It seems some things never change." She saunters over, all hips and curves. Her beautiful dark skin is only complimented by the lights, her dark eyes mesmerizing. "And it was four. I sung here four seasons."
She sticks out her hand and there is nothing I can do but shake it.
Carlotta freaking Gucci is here and no one told me?
How in the world is her skin so soft?
She lets go of my hand and I can't get rid of that familiar feeling of jealousy that snakes its way through me.
Carlotta has always been so beautiful. A dark, exotic, beautiful Vogue magazines drool over. She's tall, but curvy. Her tight shirt compliments her breasts without making her look like a whore. She wears those heels like nobody's damn business, like she could take down the freaking devil.
I've never been jealous of her beauty, no.
It's her confidence.
It ripples off of her, but not in a conceited way. Yes, she can be a downright rich bitch at times, but she's never been conceited.
Just so confident in an untouchable way.
And I'm such a piece of shit for hating her the way I do, but I can't help it. I can't help but be envious of her talent, her beauty.
A look at Meg answers the one question I have left — Meg shows no signs of being surprised my old rival is here. She only looks slightly in awe.
"Look alive, will you?" Carlotta snaps, and I turn back to her.
Why is she so intimidating?
"We could never get the mute to talk, could we?" she laughs. "She's still as silent and as boring as a stone!"
Okay, maybe I have a reason to hate her.
"I have a name," my voice comes out shaky. "It's Christine. And there's no reason to worry about me, I'm only here today and not ever again."
Her nose wrinkles in disgust. "You think I'm worried about you? It's always been clear who the superior has been, I'm not about to start worrying now."
I grit my teeth, looking at Ms. Giry, willing her to say something.
She's quiet.
How much is she paying them this time? Ms. Giry, silent? Never.
"Could I talk to you, Ms. Giry?" I ask, ignoring Carlotta's last comment.
"Sure thing."
"No… alone."
She frowns, but pulls us off the stage.
"I'm not a singer," the words leave my mouth faster than I can think. "I am not humiliating myself only to get embarrassed and go down a hole of false hopes and dreams. I've done it once before and I'm never doing it again."
"You can't just say that Christine! I have heard your talent—"
"What the hell do you keep meaning by saying that?" I want to yell, but our heated voices have already gained the attention of the men and Carlotta. "You've never heard me sing before. You were not here these years, you were not even at my high school play? Why do you keep saying that?"
She's silent, lips drawn into a tight line. She's said something she wasn't supposed to say, and I can tell.
"You only found me that night my father died, and you are suggesting you've heard me before? Don't you think you need to explain what is going on?" My words are frantic.
"I have watched you grow up, Christine, from a distance," she whispers. "It does not matter how or when or what has happened in the past, but all I know is I've never heard a more perfect Carmen. Everything about you is perfect—"
"If everything about me is perfect, then why is she here?" I need to stop being such a bitch about it, but I don't understand anything.
"She's here, because I owe her father a favor." She glances over at them for a second, eyes flashing. "I don't want her here any more than you do, all right? But it's a perfect example of what is going on."
"A perfect example of what?"
"Of you letting one small setback hold you back!"
"Is that what you think this is?" I say stubbornly. "A setback? You think me not wanting to sing has to do with her? Has it ever dawned own you that perhaps I don't want to sing? That maybe it hurts too damn much?"
"We both know you should have gotten into that school, but—"
"But what, Ms. Giry? Whether I got into that school or not, everything would be the same. My father still would have gone to New York instead of being there for my audition. He still would have gotten stabbed to death by a stranger. No, none of this was a setback." My nails bite into my palms. "That school, my father's death was not a setback. It was real life knocking at my door saying, 'Get your shit together, Christine, because guess what? You have to pay bills. And provide for yourself. And eat. Ever heard of that, Christine?' Life isn't a fairytale, Ms. Giry. Your life may be, Meg's might, but mine isn't."
Ms. Giry is silent, lips pursed. I can't tell if it's the lighting or if I actually was that pathetic, but it looks like there are tears shining in the corners of her eyes. I mentally wince, knowing I've offended her, but I can't take it back now that it's out.
I don't have the heart to, not when it is so damn true and I've been needing to say it for four years now.
Everything I've said to her is everything I've been feeling these past months: hurt.
It fucking hurts.
It hurts, my heart throbs with a freshness so raw, so real. It has hurt like this since my father's death.
The rejection. The castle of dreams tumbling down around me.
Every bit of love and life I ever felt, gone.
She thinks I am being stubborn.
I'm not being stubborn. I'm being realistic.
And thirty years from now when I'm retiring I'll be happy I can at least retire. That I didn't waste my youth slaving away after some dream that never came true.
"Well, if that is how you see it," she finally says. "If that is how you see it, that's fine. Absolutely fine. I can tell you are being completely serious and rational, like the grown up you are, so I'll stop pushing it."
It's my turn to be hurt, to have nothing to say.
"But if you chose differently, you can still come to me. You can come to me opening for all I care and I will make sure whoever Carmen is that night steps down and you are restored to the part that is rightfully yours."
I swallow, taking a step past her, but she holds onto my arm, nails digging through my thin sweater.
"Despite what you believe," she whispers, "I want you to succeed. And more than that, I want you to be happy. Are you happy right now, Christine? Do you enjoy teaching? Do you like the thought of spending the rest of your life like that — slaved to little kids and their parents. I don't think so. That's just not you Christine."
"It's not about me being happy." I yank my arm away from her grip. "It's about survival."
I storm my way out, nausea filling me.
I'm being horrible and I know it, but—
It's this feeling inside of me.
It's the only way I can deal with it. It's the only way I've ever known how to make my bruised heart stop throbbing: to sooth it with reality.
With convincing myself I've made the right choices.
I have made the right choices.
Have I?
"Yes," I whisper, pulling out my phone.
But I could say it a thousand times and it could never feel more false. I've said it for four years and it had felt right, but now—
Tell your mom I'm calling an Uber, I write to Meg. I'm going home. You're still leaving tonight?
Seconds later, she writes back: Is this because of Carlotta? she's not that bad. yes i still am.
The cold air bites me as I step outside, and for the first time in months, I cry.
