End Me a Tenor (3 page)

Being a show choir coach might not have been my life’s ambition, but the idea of being fired freaked me out. Which is why I was driving through the sleet and snow to Prospect Glen High School at nine o’clock on a Sunday morning. Last night, over pepperoni pizza and warm soda, Larry, Devlyn, and I had kicked around ideas for replacement songs. I’d stayed up until midnight tweaking what I hoped was a brilliant arrangement of the chosen number. This morning, Devlyn and I would create the choreography. How the team was going to learn the music and steps before Thursday’s concert was beyond me. Personally, I didn’t understand why we couldn’t just tell the choir boosters that we were working on a new song. Unfortunately, Larry nixed that option. The new song had to be ready and performed by Thursday. Or else.

If I didn’t want to lose my source of guaranteed income, I needed to find a way to squeeze in extra practice time with the show choir in between
Messiah
rehearsals. While my aunt would be happy to let me sponge more than free rent, I was raised to pay my own way. I couldn’t lose my coaching job. At least, not yet.

Wrapping my scarf around my mouth and nose, I grabbed my dance bag and climbed out of my toasty warm car into the arctic cold. My car told me the temperature outside was ten degrees, which seemed optimistic. By the time I reached the school’s side door, I had barely enough sensation in my fingers to slide the key into the lock, open the door, and close out the cold behind me.

Achoo. Achoo. Achoo.

Crap. Some of the artificial snow must have gotten on my coat. It was the only explanation for the sneezing, because I was not getting sick.

Warmth was beginning to return to my appendages as I unlocked the choir room door, dumped my dance bag on a chair, and pushed the piano to the side of the room to give Devlyn and me room to dance. I had taken off my electric blue coat and gotten down on the floor to stretch when Devlyn walked in carrying two large cups of coffee.

“I thought the caffeine might inspire us.” He set the cups on the piano bench and shrugged out of his black trench coat and violet scarf. Underneath he was wearing black sweats and a fitted gray T-shirt. Between the coffee and Devlyn’s biceps, I was starting to think this morning rehearsal wasn’t such a bad idea after all.

Devlyn handed me a cup of coffee, walked over to the CD player, and pushed play. “I know you have to be at
Messiah
rehearsal in a couple of hours, so let’s get to work.”

Any ideas of a fun, flirtatious morning were quickly put to rest. The minute the music started, Devlyn danced like a man possessed. We twirled, dipped, and stomped, arguing about the best dance moves.

“The dance needs more difficulty or it won’t score well.”

“Well, it won’t score well if the team is too winded to sing,” I shot back.

“Your job is to make sure they can.” Devlyn grabbed a towel out of his dance bag. “The only way the school board and the boosters will let you keep that job is if we get this number ready.”

My stomach clenched in panic. Somewhere between last night and this morning, I’d half convinced myself that Larry was just being overdramatic. That my job didn’t hinge on a new show choir number being ready by Thursday. By the way Devlyn was acting, it was clear he believed it did. That meant I was totally screwed.

“How can the school board fire me for doing the same song two other choirs are doing now? The competition isn’t even until spring. That’s not fair.”

“This isn’t about fair.” Devlyn’s eyes flashed. “This is about winning. Especially since Chessie Bock’s father is on the board. If he thinks a new coach will get his daughter a better shot at landing a trophy, he’ll make sure a new coach is hired.”

Oh, crap. If Chessie’s father was in charge of my fate, I might as well hang it up now.

My dejection must have shown because Devlyn put his arm around me. “Don’t give up. We’re going to show them that you’re the best thing to ever happen to this program. Right?”

Taking a deep breath, I considered my options. Give up or fight?

Since giving up wasn’t my style, I walked over to the CD player, hit play, and nodded. “Right. Let’s get to work.”

Every muscle in my body wept as I walked into Northwestern University’s Cahn Auditorium. I’d changed into black pants and a deep green sweater, which I hoped looked casually professional. Making a good impression on both my fellow soloists and the show’s conductor was important. My heart pounded with a combination of excitement and nerves as I walked through the lobby and into the historic thousand-seat theater. Four chairs were positioned on the front of the stage. Risers lined with chairs sat farther back. A blonde was flipping through music in one of the chairs up front.

As I walked down the side aisle of the theater, the blonde looked up and smiled. “You must be Paige. I’m Vanessa Moulton.”

“It’s nice to meet you,” I said, climbing the escape stairs onto the stage. Technically we’d met before, not that Vanessa would remember. She had performed the role of Ida in
Die Fledermaus
at the Lyric Opera while I sang in the ensemble. She had a stunning voice and a demanding personality, which according to gossip, was the reason she had yet to land any major roles.

Carrying my bag filled with singer essentials—a black binder with the music score, a large water bottle, and several well-sharpened pencils—I walked across the stage to my chair. “Where is everyone?” According to my watch, rehearsal began in five minutes.

Vanessa snorted. “You don’t really expect a rehearsal conducted by Magdalena Tebar to start on time, do you? She’s known for making an entrance. I think Jonathan McMann is lurking downstairs in the greenroom, and our accompanist is having a smoke. If you need to freshen up, you have plenty of time.”

Vanessa went back to studying her music, and I headed backstage to the stairs that led to the greenroom. I’d performed in this theater before. When school wasn’t in session, like now, the university rented the facility to other performance groups. In past years, I’d done a number of professional shows here. I was hoping this performance would be the one that made critics sit up and pay attention. With talent like David Richard on the bill, how could I lose?

Wrapped up in my own thoughts, I barely registered the sound of raised voices. Until I turned the corner and saw a petite, busty brunette punch world-renowned tenor David Richard dead in the face.

“How was rehearsal, dear?” My aunt Millie smiled at me from her perch on the stool at the kitchen island. On the other side of the counter, her houseguest, Aldo Mangialardi, was dropping biscuit dough onto a cookie sheet.

Aldo was a gifted pianist and a friend of Millie’s. A few months ago, he’d tried to take my car for a spin only to end up in the hospital. When the doctor refused to discharge Aldo because he lived alone, Millie offered him her guest room for a few days. Only Aldo hadn’t left. Instead, he cooked gourmet meals and feigned deafness when Millie suggested he move out.

Sitting at Aldo’s feet, looking for handouts, was Millie’s prizewinning standard poodle, Killer. The minute Killer spotted me, he started to growl. Most days I was intimidated by Killer’s anger management problem and gave the dog a wide berth. Today, my need for the wine sitting on the counter trumped all.

Dumping my bag on the floor, I ignored the dog’s low growl and poured myself a large glass of red, which just about matched my aunt’s current hair color. “The other soloists are very talented. It should be a great show.”

“With you singing, how could it not be
brillante
?” Aldo smoothed the tufts of white hair springing from the sides of his head and gave me a wink. “Millie has been telling everyone that you are singing with the famous David Richard.”

“Did you see him today?” Millie’s eyes twinkled behind her pink-rimmed glasses. “Is he as handsome in person as he is in his photos?”

“I didn’t have the chance to meet him today.” Between David clutching his nose and the brunette screaming angry threats, I’d decided it was best to make an exit before anyone noticed I was there. Which was probably a good thing since the brunette strutted into rehearsal ten minutes later with her orchestral score tucked under one arm and her conductor baton in the other. Something told me that international conductor Magdalena Tebar wouldn’t be happy if she knew I’d witnessed her right hook. The last thing a singer wants to do is piss off the conductor. David Richard must not have gotten that memo. “The conductor said David would be at rehearsal tomorrow. Speaking of rehearsals, I need to go work on some new choreography Devlyn and I are putting together. I have to teach it to the choir tomorrow.”

Millie’s eyes narrowed. “Why do you need new choreography?”

The idea of sharing my plight was tempting. But I knew my aunt. She hadn’t earned her pink Mary Kay Cadillac convertible by waiting for a problem to resolve itself. She’d end up on the school board president’s doorstep, doing an impersonation of the Christmas caroler from hell.

Plastering a smile on my face, I said, “Another school is doing one of our songs and we want the option of changing routines if we need it. No big deal.” Grabbing my bag, I headed up to my room and hoped I was right.

“Five, six, seven, eight. Step kick step prep turn turn turn. Eric, you’re turning the wrong way. Let’s try it again. Five, six, seven, eight.”

I started the music again and watched the team as they stumbled through the dance steps. To their credit, the kids didn’t whine and moan about learning a new routine. The minute Larry and I explained the problem, the team was ready and willing to work.

“Ms. Marshall.” Chessie planted her hands on her hips. “You haven’t assigned the solos yet. I don’t see why the soloists should have to learn some of the steps when they won’t be performing them.”