The Sound of Us Read online

  Mr. Bertrand gives me a smile. Genuine or not, I can’t tell. Maybe it’s a smile he perfected just for dealing with difficult voice students. “And now you do.”

  Mr. Bertrand stands up and turns around to survey the scores of music on his shelf. “We need to find you some songs to study this summer.” He pulls down the Cop Land book and flips through. He smirks when he finds the right page and sits back down at the piano. Taking in a deep breath, he sings the words as he plays the accompaniment, feeling the music all the way to the tips of his ’80s TV mom curls.

  When he finishes, he glances up. “What do you think of that?”

  I nod. “I like it.” I try to place the song in the Cop Land movie, but I can’t.

  “Fantastic.” Mr. Bertrand stands up and turns toward his library of music. “Write this down,” he says, pointing at me without looking at me, “‘Laurie’s Song.’ It’s by Aaron Copland. You’ll need to locate a copy of this music. The library will have it.”

  I write down the title and the composer. Copland, I think to myself, not Cop Land, you idiot. I am officially the worst opera student ever.

  We go through the same rigmarole for six more songs, until finally he sits down at the piano and says, “Let’s see how you’ve done with ‘Vergebliches Ständchen.’”

  I pull out Seth’s well-worn copy of “Vergebliches Ständchen,” and place it on the music stand in front of me. I try to psych myself up. You know this, Kiki. You can do it. I take a deep breath as he begins the familiar introduction.

  I keep time with my right foot while following along in the music. He pauses after a point. “That’s you,” he says.

  “Oh, sorry,” I say. “I lost count.” Shit. Shit. Shit. This is no time to get the yips. Come on, Kiki. Let’s do this. You know this song.

  Mr. Bertrand starts the intro again, and again I miss my entrance. I jiggle my shoulders, trying to shake out the nerves. I don’t know why Mr. Bertrand is freaking me out so bad.

  “Did you get a recording of this?” he asks me.

  “Yes,” I croak. My throat feels like it’s closing up on me.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes.” Don’t cry, you fool.

  “Ms. Nichols, when did I assign you this song?” Mr. Bertrand asks, looking both up and down at me simultaneously.

  “Um,” I say, “I think it was supposed to come with my admissions stuff, but it didn’t.”

  “It wasn’t in your envelope?”

  I shake my head.

  “I personally put copies of this song in every student’s envelope. Are you saying I made a mistake?”

  “No,” I squeak. “I don’t know what happened to it. It could’ve fallen out…” I wrack my brain. Beth looked at my packet. She held it in her hands. She wouldn’t have taken my music, though. Right? I mean, that would be low, even for her. Then I remember how she sabotaged things between me and Davis and I realize stealing a song is pretty on-brand for her.

  I draw in another deep breath and tell my shoulders to relax. They don’t cooperate. I stand up as straight as physically possible. “It doesn’t matter,” I say. “I got the music from Seth last week. I’ve been working on it non-stop.”

  “So, you’ve been working on this song for one week?”

  “Yes.”

  “You’ve had seven days to learn this piece, and only this piece, and you still can’t find your entrance?” Taking a moment, he makes prayer hands and rests the tips of his index fingers between his brows. “Ms. Nichols, how many songs did I assign you a few minutes ago?”

  “Um…” I look down at the Post-It full of song titles and composers. “Six,” I say.

  “And how many weeks will you be here at Krause?”

  “Six, five weeks now.”

  “That’s about a week a song,” he says, raising his eyebrows. And I get it. My only having the song for seven days is no excuse. “How long should it take a seventeen-year-old girl to learn a two-page song?”

  I bite my lip and shake my head. If I talk, I’ll cry. And I’m not going to cry. Not here, not now.

  “The answer, Miss Nichols, is less than a week. You had ample time to master this fine Johannes Brahms piece that you have besmirched with your impudence.” He folds his arms. “I can do nothing with you today. I am not here to plunk out your notes and spoon-feed you German diction. I’m here to help you improve your voice. You need to hold up your end of the bargain. I am not going to sit here and waste either of our lives.” Mr. Bertrand stands up and opens the door. “We are done here today. I expect you’ll come back on Thursday ready to learn. Seven scholarships, Miss Nichols. Seven.”

  “I worked really hard,” I tell him. “I don’t know what happened to me today. Maybe I’m just nervous. I swear, though, I…tried my best.”

  “This was your best?” He shakes his head.

  I feel my eyes go stingy and hot with tears as I gather up my things. I might as well have sung with Jack the other night and every night for all the good my laser-focus did me. “Thank you,” I mutter as I duck under his arm and into the hallway.

  I am so screwed. I’m never going to get one of those scholarships. I’ll have to go back home to Beth—that horrible, thieving wench (allegedly)—and tell her I couldn’t cut it. Even worse than that, it’ll mean no Krause, no music next year.

  “Ms. Nichols.” Mr. Bertrand sighs, looking left and right. The hallway is empty except for the two of us. He leans toward me and whispers, “How badly do you want this scholarship?”

  “I want it more than anything. I need it. I’d do anything,” I say.

  “Keep working,” he says. “Keep your head down, follow the rules. I know not everyone is toeing the line. As I’ve said, breaking curfew, screwing around vocally, drinking—those things will ruin their voices.”

  I nod. “I haven’t been doing any of that.”

  “I know,” he says, giving the empty hallway a once-over. “We’ve been doing this camp for a few years now, Kiki, and the prize at the end of these six weeks is gargantuan. A full ride to study voice. What other school does that?”

  I shrug.

  “No other school,” he says. “Or no other school I know of, anyway. Do you know how many times we’ve awarded a scholarship only to have the student show up for college unable to hack it as a voice major?”

  I wait for him to answer his own question.

  “Too many times,” he says. “We’ve lost singers to nodes and apathy and stress and to simply not being able to do the work required of them. My theory is that there were warning signs we missed, that maybe if we’d watched these students more closely during camp we would’ve been able to weed them out and award the scholarship to someone more deserving. Do you see what I’m saying?”

  I shake my head.

  “I’m saying that we voice teachers need your help to preserve the sanctity of this program. I know you’re not doing the things that will set you up for failure when you’re here studying under me full time, but some of your fellow students might be.” Now it’s his turn to shrug. “Maybe just keep an eye out for this kind of behavior from your competitors.”

  I stare at him for a moment, waiting for more. “Are you asking me to rat them out?”

  He chuckles. “No, of course not.”

  “Because I would never—”

  “Of course you wouldn’t. That’s not what I’m saying, Kiki,” he says. “I’m simply suggesting that if you happen to notice anything I should know about, you keep me in the loop. For the good of the program, and so that we know we’re awarding the scholarships to the most deserving singers.”

  He steps inside the door and I realize our conversation is about over.

  “Just think about it,” he says. “Keep an eye out. Talk to your sister. She understands what it takes to succeed in this school, and she would’ve done anything to stay on top. Anything. Know that much.”

  “Well, I’m not her,” I tell him.

  He grins. “Maybe you’re not.”
r />   He shuts the door, leaving me dumbstruck and alone in the hallway.

  chapter nine

  Kiki Nichols @kikeronis: Apparently I know even less about classical music than I thought I did. Related: Anyone want to livetweet Cop Land tonight? *crickets*

  When I agree to go to Mary’s room to do theory homework that night with her, Brie, and Kendra, my goal is to figure out if Mr. Bertrand asked anyone else to spy for him. On some level, I’m looking for someone to talk to about this, just because I can’t believe he’d stoop so low. I need someone to confirm that what happened after my lesson actually happened.

  But upon entering Mary’s room, I’m distracted by all the Spencer Murphy paraphernalia. Her entire half of the room is covered with pictures of him. As soon as she walks in, she puts on one of his movies, like it’s automatic. The whole thing is a come-to-life example of “You’re killing me, Smalls.” I despise Spencer Murphy with a burning, hot passion.

  Calliope Pfeiffer, the actress who plays Dana on Project Earth, is starting to take off as a movie actress as well. She and Spencer Murphy met on the set of his big franchise movie, The Dictator. They dated for about two years, and the whole relationship was constantly in the gossip columns because it was so volatile. She left him for good a few weeks ago (allegedly because he was cheating on her) and took up with his childhood best friend and their costar, Scott Adams. Spencer and Calliope’s most recent movie, Heart Lock, based on one of those cheesy romance novels where people fall in love and one of them ends up dying, is premiering at the end of the summer. Everyone is excited to see how they’ll handle the press.

  Anyway, long story short, he’s a jerk and we hate him.

  But Mary, apparently, loves him.

  As much as I loathe being surrounded by Spencer Murphy pictures, I choke it down. I don’t do the thing I would’ve done three months ago. I don’t disparage Mary for her taste in actors. I don’t give her a list of reasons (the same list I gave to Beth back in January, by the way) why Spencer Murphy is a disgusting pig and should be strung up by his toenails. I don’t say anything at all. I do the polite thing and avoid mentioning the elephant in the room. Though I do mentally compose a tweet or two I plan to send later, in the privacy of my own dorm room.

  “I can never remember the sharps,” Mary complains while fiddling with her corkscrew curls and drooling over Spencer Murphy on the TV.

  “For flats and sharps, you have to remember the mnemonic devices,” Kendra explains. “They’re easy.”

  “I forgot to write them down,” Mary says.

  “‘Father Charlie goes down and ends battle,’” I say. “That’s for sharps. F-C-G-D-A-E-B.”

  “And the flats are the opposite,” Brie offers. “B-E-A-D-G-C-F. ‘Battle ends and down goes Charlie’s father.’”

  “Thanks, guys,” says Mary, scribbling furiously in her notebook. “Theory is killing me. Give me a song and I can learn it. Ask me to analyze it, and I’m mess. They’re not going to hold our theory grades against us for the scholarship?”

  “I don’t know,” says Kendra. “Probably?”

  “Definitely,” says Brie.

  “But it’s singing camp, not theory camp,” Mary whines.

  “They’re looking for the whole package, Mary,” adds Brie. “That’s why I’m in the practice rooms all day, every day. I will not squander this opportunity. I will not leave here with any regrets.”

  “You’re going to kill yourself,” says Kendra. “Like, relax. Have a little fun. If you work too hard, you’ll burn out.” She rolls her eyes at me. “Right, Kiki?”

  “I’m with Brie,” I say. “We have to do what we have to do to get the scholarships. That’s why we’re here. If I don’t get one, I can’t go here next year. I can’t even study music. My dad will force me to go to his school.” And I need to prove to Beth I can do it. Because screw her for thinking I’m an aunt and not a star. Screw her for stealing my music and messing with my chances.

  “That’s kind of my situation,” says Mary. “My parents don’t have the money to spend on a four-year college. They want me to study something safe like nursing or I don’t know what. I need to prove to them that I’m good enough to be a singer.”

  I put my arm around her shoulder. Despite her Spencer Murphy love, Mary and I are kindred spirits.

  “Seth’s in the same boat as you guys,” says Brie. “I’m going to study music regardless. Singing is my life. But come on. We all want the scholarship. Who wouldn’t? Singers don’t make a lot of money, generally. It’d be nice to kick off my career with no loans to pay off, at the very least.”

  “Well,” says Kendra, shoving her books and pencils into her backpack. I check the clock. It’s 8:32. “All work and no play makes Kendra go crazy.”

  “Where are you going?” I ask.

  “Finley’s. You know, from Ms. Jones’s class.” She makes a note inside her theory textbook and slams it shut. “We’re stuck here for a few more weeks, so the two of us are hanging out.”

  “You have an hour and a half,” says Brie, eyes still down in her music.

  “Thanks, Mom.”

  Brie looks up. “I’m not kidding. There’s a saboteur in our midst.” She looks meaningfully at me and Mary.

  “What are you talking about?” I ask. Mr. Bertrand’s words ring in my ears again. I wondered earlier if I was the only one he approached about spying on the other students. He mentioned my sister. I figured this was the kind of thing she used to do for him and he assumed I’d follow in her footsteps. I mean, I’m already here studying opera in her wake. But now here’s Brie talking about sabotage.

  “That girl from Mr. Zagorsky’s class?” Brie says. She mimes crying.

  “Sad Mezzo,” I say.

  “You don’t know her name, either?” says Kendra.

  “In one ear and out the other.”

  “She shall henceforth be called ‘Sad Mezzo.’” Kendra makes a sweeping motion with her hand.

  Brie frowns at her. “Sad Mezzo says that someone hid a pack of cigarettes in her bag, placed perfectly so that they’d fall out right in the middle of her voice class. Mr. Zagorsky was livid and threatened to send her home. She, of course, started crying and said they weren’t hers and that someone was trying to frame her and get her kicked out of camp.” She raises her eyebrows.

  Kendra stands up and stretches. “Sad Mezzo’s just covering her ass. She got caught and she tried to pin it on someone else to keep herself out of trouble. I swear I’ve seen her smoking in the parking lot outside Chandler.”

  Brie, eyes back down on her homework, says, “You’re probably right. Besides, if there really were someone trying to sabotage singers, why would they pick her? I mean, ew. She’s in Zagorsky’s class.”

  “That doesn’t mean anything,” says Mary. “There are really good singers in Zagorsky’s class.”

  Brie shakes her head. “It means everything. In fact,” she says, looking up again and leaning in to whisper, like someone could be listening, “I think we need to watch that girl as a potential threat. She probably put the cigarettes in her own bag, got caught on purpose, and will use that as her cloak of innocence so she can throw the rest of us under the bus.”

  “Now you’re really talking crazy,” says Kendra.

  “Am I?” Brie looks at Mary and me. “It’s a known fact that the scholarships generally go to Greg’s students. I’d pay close attention to everyone outside our class. Heck, even inside our class. I’d be careful getting too friendly with anyone at all.” She looks right at me. “Who knows how desperate they might be?”

  I gulp. Shit. Does she know Bertrand said something to me? Did she hear our conversation? And now I’m wondering if the other teachers talked to their students as well. I hate to admit it, but Brie’s not paranoid. She’s exactly right. We can’t trust anyone.

  “I mean,” says Brie, “what do we know about anybody’s situation? How badly do you want this scholarship, Kiki?” Her eyes are wild. She looks almost feral.
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br />   I refuse to show weakness, so I stare right back at her. I am not the saboteur. I’m clean. I know that much, at least. “I don’t want the scholarship any more or less than you do. Same goes for any of us.”

  “Ladies,” says Kendra, grabbing her key, “I hate to leave the party, but Finley’s waiting for me.”

  “Get back to your room by ten,” says Brie.

  “Brie.” Kendra shakes her head. “I’ve got this down to a science. The RAs do rounds three times, at ten p.m., midnight, and two a.m. Twice on weekends. They don’t check the actual rooms because they don’t want to be the jackass who wakes up the kid who goes to bed early, and also, we’re here to get the full college experience. This is the full college experience.”

  “So how will you avoid getting caught?” asks Mary.

  “I’ll just time it right, come in at one or after three.” She winks. “They only really care that you’re not out in the hallway or down in the boys’ rooms making a big ruckus.”

  Mary narrows her eyes. “How do you know all this?”

  “Chet.”

  “The boys’ RA?” Brie’s mouth forms a giant O.

  “Yes, the boys’ RA,” Kendra says. “It’s summer. No one freaking cares. Everyone just wants to have a good time, even the RAs.”

  I jump in. “Somehow I think they also probably want to do their job and make money and not get fired.” Part of me wonders if someone fed Kendra this information just to trap her. I wouldn’t be surprised to find out Mr. Bertrand put Chet on his personal payroll, or offered him some kind of deal. This is how my brain works now. Everyone’s out to get everyone else. No one is beyond suspicion.

  “Chet lets the boys drink in his room. I don’t think I’d go by him as far as rules are concerned.” Brie folds her arms across her chest.

  “Good point,” Kendra says. “But I think I can trust him on this. He has as much to lose as the rest of us—his job, for one thing. If everyone keeps his or her head down and doesn’t muck things up for the rest of us, we can all just go on living our lives in peace and harmony. Have you ever seen the show The Wire?”