Page 1 of Rise of the Melody
Chapter1
Death of the Dress
Itipped my chin from side to side with my hand, feeling the satisfyingcracksin my neck before shaking out my arms and meeting my instructor’s eyes. Mr. Goneley smirked with amusement as he sat at the piano in his office at my high school. I ignored the occasional muted blare of car horns from the city streets outside.
He adjusted his glasses. “Ready, Letty?”
I nodded and exhaled, though I wasn’t nervous, exactly. I’d had many in-person auditions and recitals in my life, and recently with college applications. I adjusted my silken blue choir gown. Normally I’d wear all black to match my eyeliner, nails, and dyed black hair. No black lips, though. Red all the way. And I wore my long hair in a series of intricate braids that the camera would probably not be able to capture. Oh, well.
“You’ve got this,” Mr. Goneley said. I granted him a smile. He’d helped me a lot, pushing me to apply to all the nearby musical schools for next year. This tape was for the final round of auditions with Manhattan School of Music, but Mr. Goneley had contacts in the theater world and had encouraged me to get a side job in a local theater this summer, despite my aunt’s insistence against it. A foot in the door. We’d use this video for that, as well.
“Here we go. Three, two….” He silently mouthedoneas he pressed the record button on my propped phone and began to play. I closed my eyes and let everything else fall away except the notes floating up. It was a haunting, Gaelic inspired tune that I’d written myself to match my voice perfectly—smokey and breathy, yet rich. My voice was attuned to the slow, deep melody of long-ago ancestors, the hardships I could barely fathom.
Through the night, my fire bright
I wait for my sailor, nigh
I sit in the breeze, but my soul does not ease
As I wait for my lover, nigh
When I opened my eyes, I looked into the camera, willing it to hear every nuance. My arms moved of their own accord with the emotion of the song. As the notes rang from my throat a strange sensation came over me, like heat razing my skin. I’d never felt anything like that before while singing—a slight burn and tingle that only strengthened as I lost myself to the music. A sense of command filled me, and I embraced it.
Three weeks he’s been gone as I stare at the dawn
Awaiting my sailor, nigh
Powerful. That’s what I felt. Holy crap. Like I could do absolutely anything in that moment. Was the camera getting this?
The sky has gone black, the thunder does crack
As I wait for my lover, nigh
It was that moment when I noticed Mr. Goneley sweating, moisture beading along his hairline and lip. It had been abnormally hot today in New York City for May, but notthathot. The AC was pumping overhead, yet he was grimacing. I closed my eyes again to force myself to concentrate on the rumble of reverberations in my throat.
When Mr. Goneley flubbed a note, I opened my eyes and wondered if he’d stop, but he kept going for another few seconds before pulling away from the keys and staring at me. His eyes looked blank and lost as he made a strange noise at the back of his throat. I wanted to scream in disappointment because that had been the best I’d ever sang in my entire life! Would I be able to do that again on the second take? He finally broke the weird stare and wiped his forehead with the back of his hand, slumping.
“Mr. G?” I said. “Are you okay?”
“I…did you change anything?” he asked in a croaky voice.
“What?”
He shook his head and rubbed his chest with the heel of his hand. “With the song? I don’t know. Your voice is…” He cleared his throat and looked at me funny. “Different.”
“No,” I told him. “It was the same, but it did feel kind of different. Like, stronger. Did it sound bad?”
Again, his head shook back and forth, almost as if in confusion. “I’m not sure how to explain it. I think it must be me. I’m not feeling well all of a sudden.” He blinked up at me as his eyes began to clear, a nervous sounding chuckle escaping him. “I’m so sorry about this, but do you mind rescheduling?”
“Yeah,” I said, regret washing over me. “No problem. I hope you feel better.”
There was a strange, awkward tension in the room as I gathered my things and Mr. Goneley gave me a wide berth to leave.
I swung my bag over my shoulder and walked quickly out of the school building, my purple boots hitting hard with each step on the Brooklyn sidewalks. A giant bird swooped down from the ledge of a window and I jumped, cursing as its wings lifted my hair for a second. Was that an eagle? I watched it dart skyward and tried to shake off the startled feeling. I didn’t have many wildlife encounters here in Brooklyn, other than pigeons and the occasional rat. I absently weaved through people, speed walking. Sweat ran down my back, probably soaking into the satiny material.
Had I been singing too loud? It hadn’t felt like it. It felt like the best singing of my life, but clearly it had been terrible based on the bizarre look he gave me. Was I losing my touch? Panic flared because singing was my everything. The only thing I was good at. And even though Aunt Lorna had been begging me for years to focus on some other line of work, something more stable, I had to chase this dream. But what if I got home and watched the video and it was awful? If my singing had felt that good, but actually been horrible…oh, Gaia. I didn’t know what I’d do.
I cut through a small park, the grass squishy under the soles of my boots. Usually there were couples picnicking on blankets and kids running around chasing bubbles, but it was barren. It was never this empty on beautiful afternoons, even during the week. Weird.
