Rival (18 page)

Laughing, I nod as he helps me into his car and then puts the key in the ignition.

“That's what I've been missing,” he says. “The Matt Melter. Seems I can't go too long without it.”

“You forgot the tee em,” I pout.

“No I didn't. I just wanted to hear you say it.”

He pulls out of the school parking lot and starts driving toward my house. We ride silently for blocks, but it's a comfortable silence, and when we pass a bank of fast food restaurants he pulls into a drive-through. He orders the greasiest items on the menu for us to eat during our movie. Then, as we wait for the pickup window, he says, “So. John Moorehouse, huh?”

I moan, my cheeks going hot. “If I ever had a chance with him I'm sure I ruined it. He probably thinks I was the worst date ever.”

“At least you had a date.”

I look over at him and he looks back at me. I have so much to apologize for that I barely know where to start. “I know,” I say. “What I did really sucked. I should have come with you like I'd promised. I'm sorry.”

He pulls the car forward, takes out his wallet, and hands the girl at the window his money.

“I wasn't talking about me,” he says. “I was talking about Brooke.”

KATHRYN JUST LEFT. THERE'S NOTHING
more for me to do here.

In the locker room, crammed in with my regular swimming gear, are eight Super Soaker guns, a water balloon launcher, and five packages of balloons that never got filled. Out in my car there's a huge fishing net and a bag of lifeguard's whistles. After halftime, I made Dina and Laura empty out their bags. Chloe got the message to anyone else who wasn't in the Homecoming court.

And on my way to the dance I called Matt.

Standing by the DJ booth, I look out at the gym. John is buddying around with the football players. Chloe is giving fashion advice to some new sophomore she's decided to adopt. Laura Lindner is hanging around the edges, trying to look like she belongs. In two weeks I'll be onstage at the Blackmore. All that's left after that is
spring semester; then I'll be out of here and I'll probably never see these people again.

The DJ plays an old Billy Idol song. People start chanting along, which makes my throat hurt just listening to it. Dr. Dunne told me I didn't have nodes, but he did see polyps starting to form. He gave me a bunch of exercises to do, plus a lecture on taking better care of my voice. No way I'm going to try to yell over all this noise.

I'm getting out of here.

I go around the crowd, weaving through the teachers so nobody on the dance floor will see me. The ticket table is deserted. As I walk past, I take the crown out of my hair and toss it onto the table. Chloe can have it if it means that much to her.

I don't look back as I walk out of the gym. Now that I've done my job, I can finally leave.

THE BANNERS WENT UP OVER
the weekend—big red swaths of silk cascading from the entries of every building on the Baldwin campus, each one emblazoned with a golden B for Blackmore. Monday I took the long way to school so I could see the streamers on the Main Street light posts: crimson and cheerful against the November sky. The local paper is filled with breathless stories about the new recital hall, as if nobody can believe that the festival is really going to happen like the organizers promised it would, albeit a month and several days late. And yesterday on my way to my voice lesson, I caught a glimpse of Margaret Frist-Stallworth, the Met's new contralto, going into the opera workshop theater. If competitors weren't banned from talking to judges I would have asked her for an autograph.

The banners, the streamers, the famous people arriving in our tiny town—they're a reminder of what
waits for me at the end of these last, grueling two weeks. The day after Homecoming, I spent the morning with Mr. Lieb and my accompanist, the afternoon with the Honors Choir, and the evening writing my post-Homecoming feature for the
Picayune
. I started my AP English paper around midnight, but fell asleep waiting for our dial-up to download the formatting requirements from Ms. Amos's website.

Monday when I tried to explain, she sat me down and offered up a story.

“When I was in college I wanted to be an actress,” she told me. “Junior year, I got the lead in the annual production,
The Taming of the Shrew
, and I spent every waking minute in rehearsals. When my American Lit professor informed me I was failing his class I told him how busy I was, thinking surely he'd cut me some slack. His response is something I remember to this day. He said we all have choices to make, and we make those choices based on what is really important to us. If passing American Literature was important to me, then I would find a way to pass it. If not, then I would have to accept the consequences, though he hoped I would do so without regret. I flunked that quarter, but do you know what? It was the best three months of my life.”

I looked at her, blankly.

“Thanks,” I said.

“It's no trouble,” she replied. “I'll know your choice when I see your next assignment.”

So what was my choice? I did it all. I passed the Anatomy test, I stayed up all of Monday night writing an A-plus English paper, and Saturday at regionals I sang flawlessly, helping the Honors Choir earn the top score, which will send us on to State in the spring.

And now, the Blackmore is just one day away.

I'm lying under the covers in my room, hitting snooze on my alarm clock, when my mother peeks through the door.

“You're not up yet,” she says. “Aren't you going to go to school?”

“I don't feel well,” I tell her. “I think I'm going to stay home.”

I move over so she can sit on the side of my bed, letting her feel my forehead for fever. “Is everything okay?” she asks.

“Yes.” I rest my cheek against her cool hand. “I just…need the rest.”

“I understand. You've got a big day tomorrow.”

I close my eyes. Her words have melted the hardness I've been trying to build up inside of myself, and the tears threaten to spill over; it's the first time she's mentioned the Blackmore directly to me.

“I have something for you,” she continues. “I was
going to bring it out after school but since you're not going, maybe you'd like to take a look now.”

She disappears into her bedroom and returns minutes later with an armful of midnight blue. She drops one arm, and I gasp as out unfurls a ball gown with capped sleeves, a fairy-tale skirt, and a dusting of glitter on the bodice.

“I'm sorry this went until the last minute, but I wanted to surprise you and you're up until all hours of the night these days. I had to steal whatever time I could get while you were at your voice lessons.”

I climb out of bed and walk around to finger the voluminous layers of the skirt. “It's beautiful, Mom,” I murmur. “Really gorgeous.”

“I knew you needed a dress for the competition,” she says, then frowns at the sight of me in my T-shirt and underwear. “Though you've lost so much weight, I may have to take it in. Stay here while I go get my sewing kit.”

I'm standing on a stack of books, Mom circling me with pins in her mouth, when Dad comes in carrying a bagel in one hand, morning coffee in the other.

“Well if you aren't the prettiest girl there ever was,” he says. “Maybe you should drop music and take up modeling instead.”

He watches, sipping his coffee, while Mom cinches the gown so that it fits like a second skin. When she
unzips me to adjust the bra inside of the bodice, he looks away, out the window at the bullet-colored sky.

“It's supposed to snow,” he muses. “Could be bad news for the Blackmore folks if the roads get too icy.”

“They can't postpone the contest again,” I tell him. “The whole town will flip out.”

“Well, then maybe there'll be less competition for you.”

I hesitate, then decide that since we all of a sudden are talking about it, I'm going to get everything out in the open.

“Do you think I need less competition? You've barely said anything about the Blackmore these past few months. Do you think I'm not good enough?”

“Oh, honey.” Mom rushes around so she can take my face in her hands. “No, no! That's not it at all. It's just that you have so much pressure on you, and we didn't want to make it worse. We know how hard you've been working—sometimes I think too hard.”

“But a lot is riding on this,” I say, sounding more desperate than I want to. “It's a lot of money. I mean, think what we could do with it.”

Dad laughs. “Like a trip around the world?”

“Or my college tuition.”

He stops laughing. “We'll find the money for that. You don't have to worry about it.”

“Yes, but think how much easier it would be if I won.”

Now he's the one standing in front of me, taking my hands in his.

“Sweetpea.” He hasn't called me that in a long time; I've missed it. “You've been to the Blackmore. You know how big it is. There are dozens of other people competing; how can you put all of that pressure on yourself?”

“Somebody from here has won it for the past two years,” I tell him.

“They've been incredibly lucky. And the odds are even tougher now because of that. I'm not trying to be negative, honey, but your mother and I, we need to know you won't be devastated if things don't work out like you're hoping.”

“I know the odds,” I tell him. “Brooke Dempsey will win it if I don't.”

“Brooke Dempsey,” says Mom, placing one last pin and then standing back to admire her handiwork. “Isn't that your friend from last year?”

“Yes.”

“Whatever happened to her?”

“She…,” I begin, but then stop. To tell them everything would take forever, and I am only just now starting to understand it myself.

“Nothing happened,” I say. “We just didn't end up being as close as we'd thought we were.”

IT'S TOO LATE TO GO
to New York. Hildy picked out the rest of my Blackmore music and we polished it with no help from my dad. I keep calling him, though. More than anything now, it's like I'm on a mission to just get somebody on the phone.

Wednesday, I finally do it. I'm listening to the ring, expecting voice mail to pick up like always. Suddenly there's a click and, “Hello?”

“Jake!” I can't believe I'm actually hearing a real person. “Jake, it's Brooke! Where's my dad?”

“Oklahoma. I thought you were my business manager. She's supposed to be calling any minute.”

I push ahead. Screw Jake's business manager. “I tried Dad's cell. I've been trying for weeks but he never answers it.”

“That's because he has no time. Did he tell you how insane this new production is? The director fancies him
self so avant-garde he can't possibly communicate his vision without driving everybody else mad. Whenever
I
reach your father—which is not often, believe me—he sounds absolutely shattered.”

I stand up. Start pacing, and I hear my voice get louder, but I don't bother hiding how pissed I am, because if anybody should be reaching my dad, it's me. “He knows I've got this competition,” I say. “He knows what a big deal this is.”

“Brooke,” Jake interrupts. “Relax.”

“Excuse me?”

“I said relax. It's just music.”

Did I hear him right?

Tell me he didn't just say that.

“It's not ‘just music' to me,” I shout. “I'm building a career here, Jake. I thought you of all people would get that.”

“I get it,” he says. “Loud and clear.”

“So why are you giving me this ‘relax' crap?”

“Darling.” He says it like he's talking to a three-year-old. “Take it from someone who knows. You've got a lot of big auditions ahead of you. If you get wound this tight about every one, you're going to be burnt out by the time you hit thirty. This is a tough business. If you're serious about singing for a living, then you'd better know why you are, and it damned well better be because you love it.”

I have to bite my tongue to keep from screaming. Who the hell is Jake Jaspers to be telling me this? I sing because I have to. Because ever since Dad put me up in front of an audience, I have thought about nothing but getting that feeling back again.

“Look, Jake. You don't know what it's like to be living in the ass crack of Minnesota. You don't know about the Blackmore, and you don't know anything about me or what I love or what I can handle, okay?” I have a lump in my throat the size of a grapefruit. I swallow it down. I will
not
cry in front of him. I won't. “This is all I've ever wanted to do.”

“Then leave it for a while,” he says. “Go to the movies. Take a bubble bath.”

He sounds distracted. Like he's about to hang up on me. I can't let him go. I haven't even asked the most important thing yet.

“But what about my dad? He's coming, right? It's okay if he shows up at the last minute. He does that all the time. I just want to make sure he's going to be there.”

Jake doesn't say anything for a second. In the background, I hear paper rustling.

“When is this contest again?” he says.

The skin on my shoulders starts to prickle like it always does when something's been forgotten.

“Tomorrow. I've been leaving emails and messages
about it for three months. He knows when it is. He's got to have his plane tickets and everything by now, right?”

More not saying anything.

“Right, Jake?”

“Well…” He rustles the papers some more. “It's not written down in the schedule. But don't panic. It could be he just forgot to tell me about the trip.”

“Well can you double-check? Can you call him?”

“I'll try.” Now his voice sounds less full of itself. “It's just that I don't know when I'll be able to reach him. He's so busy with this damned opera. I don't want you to let this affect your performance, though. If Bill knew this was important, I'm sure he's taken care of it.”

But I know he probably hasn't. He probably hasn't even listened to all of my messages to know when the Blackmore is. And even if he is planning on showing up at the last minute, what makes him think that's okay? He obviously didn't think about what this would do to me, or he would have called by now.

I tell Jake thank you. Hang up the phone. Then—finally—I let out the tears.

I take the picture of Dad and me off the top of my piano, the one of us at that stupid party where he dressed me up like a milkmaid and made me sing “The Sound of Music” for all of his friends. I want to throw the picture across the room, but that would be cheesy. I feel
stupid for even thinking about it. So I put the picture back, facedown.

I need to do
something
, though.

The old book of Sondheim songs is sitting on the piano bench. I pick it up, open it, and put one hand on either side of the spine. I yank my right hand down, tearing the paper with a big, satisfying rip. I kneel down and start to pull out all the pages. Then I rip those into smaller pieces. I'm not crying anymore. I'm focused. When I'm done, I've got a pile of paper shreds on the floor in front of me. If I had some matches I would set it on fire. But this is Mom's house. The house she pays for with virtually no help from Dad, and I don't want to be the one who destroys it.

Looks like I won't be getting any help from him, either.