At the PAC
Don't cringe. Don't cringe. Do. Not. Cringe.
Matt sat in a stiff chair in his introduction to voice classroom, whose small size and high ceilings served as acoustic enhancements. Amy sat next to him, also watching the student singing near the piano, towards the front of the room. She tremulously sang Memory from Cats, brutally emphasizing the first word of each phrase, such that listening felt like being pummeled. Matt's lips curved up and back, attempting the forbidden cringe, but he pulled them valiantly into a neutral position. The singer kept sliding her eyes to his, coloring, and squeaking mid-breath, and he wasn't sure if it was because of his shifting expression or his good looks.
He hated this class. His time in a successful band should have earned him a pass out of this purgatory, but there was no way to place out of it. And so he sat, listening to an overenthusiastic woman telling him, over and over, to breathe from the diaphragm. Tai didn't understand Matt's complaints until he pointed out that this advice was like telling a soccer player to kick the ball towards the other team's goal. Repeatedly.
Matt fought down a sigh, placed his chin on his palm, and balanced his elbow on his desk. There was no 'auditioning' for participation in voice classes. True, if you wanted to major or minor in voice, you needed enough skill to be accepted into the performance choirs. But if you wanted to embarrass yourself by floundering through the introductory vocal classes before trying and failing a choir audition, then the college didn't stop you. God, he wished they would stop you.
Finally, mercifully, the last plaintive piano chords faded. Matt joined the polite applause, then cleared his throat a little nervously. Now the teacher would call on students to discuss the strengths and weaknesses of the horror they had just witnessed, and the only good point Matt noticed was that the girl had remembered the lyrics.
They floundered through the assessment, and Matt was relieved to be left out of it. Then the teacher picked up her notes, made a clicking noise with her mouth, and smiled at her students. Her eyes moved down the aisles of desks, selecting her next performance victim.
"Amy Donahue?"
Matt released a breath, relieved by a double reprieve of not having to sing himself and not having to listen to another awful performance. Amy stood, picked up her sheet music, and bounced to the front of the room. She handed the papers to the pianist.
Their teacher insisted that they introduce themselves and their song before their performance, so Amy went to the designated spot in front of the room. She shifted into a singing stance, straight and tall, but relaxed and slightly bent at the knees. Her shoulders moved back and down, lifting and opening her ribcage, freeing her lungs and diaphragm. It looked silly, but it was excellent form.
"Good afternoon," she chirped, and Matt grinned when he realized that she had established her form before the introduction, which was something of a silly mistake. "I'm Amy Donahue. Today I'll be singing If I Loved You from Carousel. Thank you for your kind attention."
What? Where had she learned to speak like- Wait, right. Izzy. Matt's attention sharpened. Amy had babbled cheerfully to him and Tai about her weekend activities with Izzy, her cheeks rosy with color. Tai didn't seem to think much of it, but, then, well… Tai wasn't good with subtle cues. But Matt was, and he was growing hopeful about what he was picking up from her. Provided, of course, that Izzy never withdrew from her again.
Amy tilted her head towards the pianist and smiled. Her enjoyment of performing transformed her, adding a liveliness to her eyes and expression that enhanced her appearance. As the first notes of the piano sounded, she sank into the mood of the song. Her eyes averted and softened, the perfect picture of wistfulness.
When I worked in the mill, weaving at the loom
I'd gaze, absentminded, at the roof.
And half the time the shuttle tangled in the thread,
And the warp got mixed with the woof…
If I loved you…
But somehow I can see
Just exactly how I'd be.
If I loved you,
Time and again I would try to say
All I'd want you to know
If I loved you,
Words wouldn't come in an easy way
Round in circles I'd go!
Longing to tell you, but afraid and shy
I'd let my golden chances pass me by.
And soon you'd leave me…
Off you would go in the mist of day
Never, never to know
How I loved you!
…If I loved you.
Matt glanced around the classroom as she began the next verse. Most of the students were wide-eyed, and Matt could hardly blame them. Amy possessed both technical skill, hitting the right note at the right time, and a sweet, enchanting voice. Better yet, every aspect of her performance was expressive. The timbre of her voice shifted to suit the mood, now matter-of-fact and light as she set the scene, now yearning and anxious as she described the not-so-hypothetical situation of being in love, but not knowing what to do about it.
Matt had seen her acting before. When there was no music, she was mediocre. But when she sang, she plucked the emotions from the piece and magnified them, transforming sound to human feeling, a living conduit.
Matt grinned when he noticed the teacher's pale face. She was probably wondering what she was supposed to do with a student who outpaced her.
The song ended, and there was a pause before the applause started, much more enthusiastic than the last time. The performance assessment was cut short by the end of class, and Amy slipped her sheet music back into her backpack, stood, and threw it onto her shoulders, smacking Matt mid-toss.
"Oops." Amy patted his chest, as if that would magically reverse any damage. "Sorry."
"Don't sweat it," Matt wheezed. What was she carrying in there, bricks? Probably massive science textbooks. Expensive bricks, as far as he was concerned.
"Did I do alright?" Amy asked, smiling as she fell into step with him.
Matt rolled his eyes. "You know you were great." He enjoyed her singing, but he wished she wouldn't pry for compliments. Still, singing was her heart and soul; he understood her need for validation.
Amy smiled- or beamed, more like. Her genuine pleasure softened him, easing his annoyance. Then he scowled and dismissed that thought, too proud to admit that she could change his emotional state.
They walked the corridors of the music wing of the Performing Arts Center, known as PAC to the acronym-savvy student body. A cacophony from the practice rooms, ranging from singing to tuba playing, accompanied their stroll. Then they traversed the acting wing, which stood between the music wing and PAC's lobby. The walls were covered with pictures from student plays.
Finally, the hall gave way to the lobby, and Matt blinked in the sudden illumination. Their school had spared no expense here. The ceiling and walls were mostly glass, and sweeping, tiered stairwells connected artfully layered floors. It looked stunning, but was difficult to navigate. Amy stopped, and Matt paused when he realized that she was no longer beside him.
"S'wrong?" he asked, pivoting on his heel. Amy's head moved in a slow arc as she scanned the upper levels of the lobby.
"Um… Can you figure out how to reach this theater?" She handed him a flier announcing a play. His eyes followed hers and found the correct stage entrance, but with the stairs branching off every which way, the arches, and the half-walls, it was difficult to find a path to it.
Honestly, Matt wasn't sure, either, but didn't want to admit it. He stalled for time by asking, "Are you going to watch a play? Seems early in the semester for them to have one ready."
Amy didn't look away from her path finding. "It's a collection of short scenes from different plays. It's a midterm for the acting students. I figured, since I'm here, I might as well poke my head in."
Matt frowned. Amy's interest in the arts was broader than his; he liked music, film, and fashion. But Amy was entranced with anything and everything artsy, from the theater to pottery making. That didn't mean that she was goodat it, but she appreciated it.
Unfortunately, Matt was too damned soft towards his closest friends to walk away without asking if she'd like some company. And, so, fighting to keep the reluctance out of his voice, he offered to watch it with her.
"No thanks," Amy said easily. Matt edged back, feeling slightly (and contrarily) wounded. It injured his pride to hear a girl say no, at least in such a dismissive way.
Her eyes flicked to his, drinking in his expression, and she smiled. "I appreciate the offer, but I'd rather not drag you to something you don't want to do." Her smile evolved to a full-on grin. "You should enjoy not having to do that while you're still single."
Matt winced, considering the double load of sporting events he'd attend when Sora's tennis club matches started alongside Tai's soccer games, assuming that things continued to go well. Then something occurred to him, and his scowl returned.
"You want to be alone, don't you?" he asked, somewhat suspiciously.
Amy twirled a lock of hair around her finger, then flicked it over her shoulder in an annoyed way. "What's wrong with that? I hung out with Izzy most of the weekend. I went to dinner with Sora and Mimi last night." She huffed and rubbed her forehead. "Of course, they grilled me about Izzy. As if playing video games and doing homework together is so scandalous."
Matt fought down a laugh. Damn, Mimi moves quick. He was glad to hear that Sora was edging her way into Amy's tiny inner circle. They seemed compatible as friends, and he hoped that his group of cherished people would get along.
Still, if anyone understood the need to be alone sometimes, it was him. "Fine. Then I'll just help you find your theater."
"Deal!" Amy chirped. They navigated the misleading lobby together, and he left her on the bench outside of the appropriate theater door, then went on about his day.
XXX
Amy thanked Matt and fell onto the bench with nothing remotely resembling grace. As Matt walked off, he turned to call, "If I see Izzy, I'll say hi!"
"It would be rude not to!" Amy replied, brushing off his teasing. She checked the clock on her phone and frowned- there was time to kill before the play began. Her gaze drifted over the lobby and landed on a group of girls standing in front of mirrors that stretched from floor to ceiling. Amy realized that the hallway beyond this theater led to the dance wing. Having nothing else to do, she watched them work through a routine of poses and stretches, hoping it wasn't rude.
Four girls listened to the instructions of the most petite among them. She was tiny, a few inches shorter than Izzy. Her frame was skinny and straight, exuding grace, and even her hand gestures were mesmerizing. Something one of the dancers said made her laugh, and her smile was vivacious, and more than a little mischievous. Internally, Amy christened her Tiny Dancer.
That one might be trouble. As if the thought were a summons, the girl glanced in her direction, and their eyes locked. A feathery eyebrow rose, and the ballerina broke away from her group and approached Amy.
The girl had brown hair and eyes so stunningly green that Amy had to tear her attention away from them to observe the rest of her face. She had a tiny, upturned nose, slightly high cheekbones, and well-defined lips.
"You're staring," Tiny Dancer accused. The words were a bit harsh, but her playful smirk hinted that she wasn't upset. Amy blinked and sat straight, correcting her slumped posture. It seemed the thing to do when approached by someone whose spine was perfectly straight.
That one is definitely trouble, she amended. "I'm sorry. I like your dancing. And your eyes are gorgeous."
The girl's mouth snapped shut, and she crossed her arms. Those pretty, expressive lips twisted into something between a smile and a grimace. "Figures. The nicest compliment I've gotten so far in college came from a girl." She shrugged, a movement that exaggerated her bony shoulders, and turned to leave, apparently satisfied enough with Amy's response to forgive her for staring.
"I could try saying it again in a deeper voice," Amy joked, thinking of Matt's dumb tactic of lowering his speaking pitch when he wanted to impress a girl.
"Uh, pass." Tiny Dancer returned to her friends. Amy forced herself to focus on her phone, attempting to keep her eyes to herself, which was a pity. The group was practicing a ballet routine, and she would have liked to watch.
XXX
Amy suppressed a yawn as theater students filed off the stage. So far, the performances had been…well, lacking. The kids were stiff and nervous, and Amy suspected some of them were acting for a real audience, albeit a small one, for the first time. It didn't help that the first two scenes were from Our Town and The Glass Menagerie. She found the former preachy, and the later too depressing. If only the flier had been more forthcoming with details…
Another group entered the stage, a young man and woman. This was a small, simple theater, and the accommodations were neither comfortable nor visually appealing. But, as the girl drew a breath and squared her shoulders, Amy forgot about the sparse surroundings. Her attention sharpened on the actress, although she couldn't say why.
The boy spoke first. "Here she is, the doer of the deed- caught this girl burying him- but where is Creon?"
Amy choked down a gasp and sprang forward in her seat. The words 'Creon' and 'burying him' meant that this was a scene from Sophocles's Antigone. Her hands flew to her heart. This was going to be awesome, assuming they could act.
Another actor joined the stage, and the ancient tale was told. Antigone performed burial rites for her brother against the decree of the King of Thebes, Creon. The scene depicted Creon arguing with Antigone over her crime and sentencing her to death.
Antigone was breathtaking. Proud, fierce, adamant, passionate… Every emotion was clear, raw, powerful, and she delivered Sophocles's phrasing so naturally that the listener had no need to translate it to modern syntax and word choice. Amy watched her with wonder and admiration. She was determined to remember her appearance so she could talk to her if she ever bumped into her in the PAC.
Although it was difficult to tell with the stage lighting, the girl had tanned skin. She was average height, slim and boyish. Her thick, black hair was cut in a stylish bob. Her lips were full, and her eyes were dark and hinted at a saucy, impertinent nature- or perhaps that was her acting skill again, portraying the unbreakable Antigone.
Amy fished the flier out of her backpack. It listed the names of the actors, but they weren't linked to roles, and Amy huffed with frustration. Then she recalled that the other students had introduced themselves after their performance, and she returned her attention to the show.
The scene ended with the guards leading Antigone to the spot where she would be buried alive, and Amy applauded enthusiastically. The actors took their bows, then introduced themselves. Antigone stepped forward, her smile majestic, as if she were still caught in her role.
With a voice as heady and irresistible as a starlit, summer night, she said, "I'm Shauna Cross."
