Page 12 of Phantom
That feeling of being not quite alone has only heightened, and I scan the room. It’s not an uncomfortable feeling, necessarily. If anything, I’d say it’s almost like a guardian angel is watching over me. There’s just my nightstand, the bathroom’s open door, and my full-length mirror beside the foot of my bed. Nothing out of the ordinary.
Maybe my demon of music is watching over me.
Shaking my head with a chuckle, I do another once-over of my lyrics and mentally combine them with the musical notes from the letter. A rush, unique and different from anything I experience when I’m acting, courses through me. I’ve always wanted to sing my own songs like my dad used to. But I’ve never had the courage.
Going solo means the entire show is based on me. No understudy, no one to rely on if I mess up. What if I have a manic or depressive episode and can’t perform? Fear, doubt, and uncertainty have held me back, but writing my lyrics brings me joy like no other.
I sing the words while sight-reading the sheet music. Before long, I’m swept along with the gentle swells and descents of the melody, until a buzzing noise sparks me from my focus.
Whipping my head around, it takes me a second to realize it’s my phone buzzing on my makeup counter in the other room. As soon as I answer, Jaime yells into my ear over the background music.
“Scarlett! What the hell? Where are you, babe?”
My eyes dart to the clock on the wall. I’ve been lost in the music for over an hour.
“Shit. I’m sorry Jaims, I’ll be there in a few.”
“Good. This puppy dog of yours is getting on my last nerve. If he makes one more rude comment to a waitress, I will kick him.”
I snort. “You can’t kick puppies, Jaims. Everyone knows that.”
“I think the world would make an exception for this one,” Jaime grumbles.
I toss my journal back on my bed. “Don’t worry. I’ll be down in a sec.”
“Good.” Jaime hangs up without another word. The man never says “bye” like a normal person.
I tuck my phone in the pocket the goddess of a seamstress sewed into the white Juliet dress. After touching up my makeup, I’m ready to go, but something in my full-length mirror catches my eye. The frame looks as if it’s been broken apart at the seam, so I pop it back in.
“Gonna need to get that replaced,” I mutter to tell myself as I grab my white lace masquerade mask.
My eyes catch the white rose on my makeup counter and before I can stop myself, I take some scissors from one of my drawers and cut the long stem. As I work one of my sewing pins through the thick fabric of my dress, I poke my finger.
“Shit.” Blood wells up and I pop my finger into my mouth to soak it up before it gets on my dress. Thankfully, I’d already gotten it mostly attached before I pricked myself, and I’m able to get the rose the rest of the way on one-handed. I check the mirror one more time before I leave and curse.
The rose has a barely noticeable smear of blood from when I pricked myself. The garnet speckles are the only color I’m wearing and totally stand out, but it still looks pretty so I keep the flower on. Other than the blood, the white petals nearly blend in with my white dress, but I don’t care. If I can’t work on the lyrics to my demon’s music like I want to, at least I can wear the rose he gave me.
Stopping by the doorway, I gaze wistfully through my bedroom door at the sheet music tucked into my journal lying on my bed. I’dloveto stay in and just work on the new piece my phantom pen pal sent me, but I promised Jaime I’d go to the after-party this time.
My pocket buzzes and I know he’s calling me again. He’s practically the only one who ever does. So with one last peek at my journal, I resolve to work on it later and close the door, not bothering to lock it. Bordeaux Conservatory of Music is one of the safest places in the French Quarter, if notthesafest.
As I walk the dim halls to Masque, I use an internet search to translate the sign-off of the letter, “tu me verras bientôt.” It’s a new one he’s never signed off with before and it has me curious.
But when the words appear, I stop in my tracks. Staring at the bright screen, my heart rises to my throat as alarm bells desperately try—and fail—to override the hope and thrill flooding through my veins.
“You’ll see me soon.”
Scene 3
MASQUE
Scarlett
With the crowd inside Masque, it’s hard to imagine there’s anyone left on Bourbon Street. Thankfully, Jaime has already secured us a table near the rest of the cast. As soon as I walk in, he leaps up from his chair beside Rand and waves wildly, confirming any question I may have had as to whether he’s been drinking yet.
“Scarlo! Over here!” Jazz and blues versions of current popular songs blare from the speakers, but I can still hear Jaime over it all.
The dimly lit room is a maze of eclectic furniture surrounding a dance floor and a currently empty stage. Small lamps glow at each table, showing off the patrons sitting in their velvet mismatched couches and chairs. Once I get to our section, Rand pulls out a seat next to his, but Jaime tugs my arm to sit beside him against the velvet booth across from Rand.
