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OVERT UR E
The opera ghost really existed . . .
Gaston Leroux, The Phantom of the Opera
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h .. I ..i
On the other side of the limos window, a gray sky looms above
thickly woven trees lining the country road. The clouds heave like
living, breathing creatures, and raindrops smack the glass.
Not the ideal Sunday afternoon to be driven along the French
countryside, unless I were here for a vacation. Which Im not, no
matter how anyone tries to spin it.
The opera house has a violent history. No one even knows
how the fire started all those years ago. That doesnt bother you? I
mumble the words beneath the hum of the motor so our driver wont
hear. Theyre for Moms benefitat the other end of the backseat.
Mom bounces as the tires dip into a deep puddle while turning
onto a dilapidated road of mismatched cobblestones and dirt. Mud
splashes across the window.
Rune . . . youre understandably predisposed to hate any building that has suffered a fire. But its a fear you need to outgrow. The
eighteen hundreds were a long, long time ago. Pretty sure by now, all
the bad karma is gone.
I stare at the privacy screen separating us from the uniformed
man at the steering wheel, watching the wipers slash through the
brown muck on the windshield with a muffled screech as they clear
a line of vision.
Mom uses the term karma like its a four-letter word. I shouldnt
be surprised at her cynicism. Shes always had a different view
on Dads heritage than I have. She thinks my anxiety stems from
Grandma Lilianas impact on our lives. That my grandmothers
actions and accusations compounded the gypsy superstitions my
dad had already imprinted on me, and theyve affected how I see the
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thing entirely different, and it masters me. Which is the real reason
Im being sent away, although Mom wont admit it.
My braid drapes across my left shoulder, the end tapping the
belt loops on my jeans in time with the cars movement. I tug the
silvery ribbons woven within, relieved I plaited the unruly waves this
morning before our shopping spree. Otherwise, Id have no control
over them in this dampness. I pull my handmade knitted cap lower,
wishing I could disappear inside.
If I were going anywhere but a music conservatory, Id be more
cooperative. Something happened in Harmony recently . . . something
I have reason to run from. Something Mom doesnt even know about.
But to send me to RoseBlood? Shes so desperate to fix me, she
hasnt stopped to consider the hell shes sentencing me to.
They found a skeleton in the deepest basement, floating in the
water. A skeleton, Mom. Do I really need another reason to be
scared of water? This weather . . . its an omen.
Right. Mom scoffs. Any minute youll start preaching about
auras and visions.
Tension knots in my shoulders. My dad and my grandma spoke
of auras a lot, as if they could see them. And since I see rainbows
when I sing, I used to think that ability passed on to me. There was
a time I was convincedif I focused hard enoughI could see halos
of color around other peoples bodies. I made the mistake of telling
Mom once. She took me to the eye doctor, and I ended up recanting
the claim in order to get out of wearing glasses I knew I didnt need.
Now, Ive convinced myself to stop looking for them. Its not worth
the hassle or the confusion.
Consider this, Mom continues, every time you fall back into
her way of thinking, you give her power over your life. Moms voice
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earned our family a spot among the boarding schools most elite
beneficiaries. Which explains my acceptance as a student without
the usual three-month consideration period.
Nothing like nepotism to earn you a place in the hearts of your
peers.
Hopefully the other students wont know my aunt sent this limo
to pick us up at the hotel this morning and drive us around shopping
all day; that she is paying my tuition for the year; and that she wired
Mom nine hundred and fifty euros last weekthe equivalent of a
thousand dollars, give or taketo help buy my uniforms and dorm
accessories at the posh boutiques here.
Ive never met her, other than through ten years of spotty, onesided phone conversations with my mom. Charlottes never visited
America, and Id never been to Paris until now. According to Mom,
she used to call once a month to talk to Dad. Until he got sick
enough to land in hospice care; then she stopped. She didnt even
come to his funeral, so I cant help but question her motives.
It said in the brochure they coordinate their calendars with
public schools in the states. That means its already one month in
here. I wind my hands together, an attempt to quell the pain in
my heart at the thought of Dads absencethe wound that never
heals, even after a decade. Do you know how hard it is to make
friends so close to the end of the first six weeks? Not that I plan to
try . . . but true intentions take a backseat when it comes to guilting
Mom.
Its not unheard of, Mom rebuts. Lots of people are scrambling to send their kids, even late. Doesnt that say something to the
credit of the school? Only two years in, and theres already a wait
list. There were at least twenty names in front of yours. Mom looks
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out her window where the wet trees have thickened to multicolored
knots, like an afghan gilded with glitter.
My point exactly. I tap my fingers to some endless rhythm
turning inside of me . . . an operatic aria I heard in an elevator earlier. Its reawakened, and thats not a good sign. The melody will
writhe like a snake on fire and burn holes behind my closed eyelids
in the shape of musical notes until I sing it out. Its physical torture,
like a constant spark in my skull that scorches my spinevertebra
by vertebra. Ill be winning friends left and right once they hear I
jumped the list via my bloodline.
Mom clucks her tongue. Well, according to you, theres still the
phantom. Im sure hes not too picky about who he hangs out with.
My jaw tightens as I suppress a snort. Touch.
I trace the window now curtained by mud, imagining the glass
cracking and bursting; imagining myself sprouting wings to fly away
through the openingback to America and my two friends who
were tolerant of my strange quirks.
Aching for another glimpse of the sky, I trigger the automatic
window to swipe the pane clean, allowing a fresh, cold wind to usher
in a spray of mud and rain. I smile as the moisture dots my face and
neck, easing the sting of the song in my head. Mom yelps and I send
the window up again.
Rune, please. She tightens her plump, red-tinted lips to a frown.
Working her fingers through the dirty droplets in her cropped hair,
she digs a Kleenex from her purse.
Sorry, I whisper, actually meaning it. Using my velvet scarf, I
blot my cheeks then sponge the leather seat.
Moms scrubbing shifts to the taupe crepe jacket and pencil skirt,
which hang like tissue paper on her small frame. With each move8
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ment, her signature fragrance wafts over me: Lemon Pledge. She
cleans other peoples houses for a living, and can never seem to shake
off the stench of dust solvent and Pine-Sol.
With her delicate bone structure and striking features, she missed
her true calling. She did some print modeling back when Dad was
alive, but she wasnt tall enough to be on the catwalk. Once he got
sick, she needed job security to help pay bills. Housekeeping filled
that niche, but I know a part of her has always regretted switching
professions. And now shes determined to see that I dont lose my
shot at something better, something she thinks I was born to do.
Gray light and purple shadows take turns gliding along her high
cheekbones as we pass through the trees. People say we could pass
for sisters. We share her ivory complexion, the tiny freckles spattered
across the bridge of her nose, the wide green eyes inside a framework
of thick lashes, and her hairblack as a ravens wings. The only
difference is, I inherited my curls from a father whose laughter I
still hear when I dance in rain puddles. Whose face I still see in the
waters reflections, as if hes beside me.
Without being at home, close to our garden, my only remaining
connections to him are the music he loved and his family, each inseparably intertwined with the other. Since Moms parents passed away before
I was even born, she had no one to lean on once Dad got sick. So,
Grandma Liliana came from France to live with us in Harmony. She
was a lot of help in the beginning, but a few months after Dad died,
she left our lives in a blaze of horror, literally. The last time I saw her
she showed up at my second-grade Valentines Day party and purposely
started a fire that almost wiped out an entire class of eight-year-olds.
She was carted back to France and has been locked away in the
city of Versailles ever since, at a prison for the criminally insane.
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pupils are her only cue. Shes never seen what I see in the mirror
. . . what Dad used to see when music burned inside me: my irises
brightening to a lighter, almost ethereal hue, like sunlight streaming through green glass. Dad called it an energy surge, but because
Mom couldnt see it, she laughed him off.
Just get it over with, she insists.
Another coughhard enough to strain my vocal cords. I cant
sing in here. The nagging notes tangle in my throat. What if I hit
a high C and break the windows? Your clothes wont survive that
much rain.
She frowns, oblivious to the way my skin prickles under my raincoat, to the sweat beads gathered at my hairline beneath my cap. I
dig through the bag at my feetan oversize tote, with burgundy,
mauve, and green beads sewn onto the pearly front to depict roses
and leavesand drag out my newest knitting project.
Mouth closed, I go to work on the cream-colored sweater I
started a few weeks ago. With each metal clack of the needles, the
fluffy chenille skims lightly through my fingertips. The cold instruments are firm and empowering in my hands. I start the looping and
rolling rhythm so the tactile stimulus can distract mea strategy
that sometimes works.
Moms frowning lips soften to a frustrated straight line. The one
good thing your Grandmother Lil ever taught you, and you use it
for a crutch.
Ignoring her, I snap my wrists so the needles loop and roll, twist
and twirl. Chenille winds around the shimmery silver metal like
strands of cotton candy on a cone.
The music wouldnt affect you like this if youd just stop fighting
it, Mom presses, trying to stall my hands.
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Why should I have to fight it to begin with, Mom? Is that normal? I pull free and return to my rhythmic escape.
Mom shakes her head, steadfast in her denial. Secure in her faith
in me. If only I could borrow some of it.
I wish I were like those mimes we saw on a street corner when
we shopped. If I could pantomime a songs exit from my bodya
silent and effective murder of melodymaybe I could once more
be grateful for my gift, instead of fearing its gradual and violent
consumption of me: body, mind, and soul.
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T HE T HR EAD S
THAT B IND US
Sometimes, the Angel [of Music] leans over the cradle . . .
Gaston Leroux, The Phantom of the Opera
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he wakes from his coma, he wont remember a thing. Hes the only
other witness.
My shoulders slump at the thought of last time I saw him,
hooked up to IVs and machines in the hospital, just like my dad
before he died.
For my part in Dads death, Grandma Liliana wanted to send
me to hell. An old woman terrified of a young child. Whereas Mom
was, and is, convinced Im the one with fears. Shes oblivious to the
dangers, sees my curse as a talent, and thinks that with practice, Ill
get over my stage fright and learn to perform for the public one day.
If only.
It was hard enough feeling normal in Texas. At least there,
an operatic aria popping up unexpectedly on the radio was a rare
event. I dont know exactly what the trigger is. Although its always
a womans aria, its not every single one I hear. Some speak to me,
some dont. But once the spark has been ignited, the music eventually wins. And at RoseBlood, Ill be exposed to opera every day, and
forced to purge the notes in front of strangers who will see me at my
most vulnerable.
No more blending, quiet like a raindrop siphoning into a stream
on a windowpane.
Tiny rivulets of water jostle on the limos window, and I rest the
knitting needles in my lap, forehead pressed to the glass. Coolness
seeps in to counteract the hot rush rising from my neck to my face.
Through the leaves, the sky darkens, as if borrowing from my mood.
I dont know why youre being so morose today, Mom says,
the cadence of her words dancing around me like a taunting chime.
Youve always talked about being involved with Broadway or theater. Hows opera any different?
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a legitimate fear. Just admit it. You want me gone so you can play
house with your new fianc without me there.
RoseBlood is hardly a prison, Mom says. How many foreign
boarding schools offer admittance only to American kids? This is a
rare opportunity . . . a taste of French culture in a setting that feels
like home.
I suppress the desire to point out that shes quoting the RoseBlood brochure almost word for word, and instead focus on how
she avoided my accusation about her fianc. A burst of contentment
sneaks in unexpectedly. I smirk on the left side of my face. I wont
risk the right because she might see it.
Im so glad shes met someone after all these years of raising me
alone. And Ned the Realtor is a really nice guy who treats Mom like
a queen and me like a princess. Im actually glad he moved in. Its
nice to have some semblance of a family again. Still, Im not about
to admit any of that since Ive found some leverage.
No Wi-Fi in the place, I say. That means no Internet access.
And were out in the middle of nowhere with no cell phone service.
How am I supposed to stay in touch with you . . . with Trig and
Janine . . . anyone on the outside?
They do have a landline, Rune. Youll be able to call home. The
other half of my smirk has found its way to her mouth. As for the
absence of texting . . . Ive got the perfect substitute. She bends over
to sift through the shopping bags at her feet, the small ones that
were left over after stuffing the trunk full.
I watch, suspicious, as tissue paper crinkles beneath her fingers.
We spent the morning driving through the Louvre-Tuileries neighborhood, touring the grand squares, gorgeous gardens, and trendy
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in a forest. Together, the children escape, using their minds and wills
to murder and outsmart their dark tormentors before they can be
eaten. Although the books pages are water damaged and crumpled,
Ive never thrown it away.
Id been so upset on the plane when I realized I forgot to bring
either of those keepsakes to Paris. But Mom found a substitute for
the red string.
Wow, Mom
Oh, and theres this, too . . . She hands me one other tissuestuffed bag.
Hmmm. Maybe I should go off to school more often after all,
I tease, dragging out the tissue. My breath catches at the glossy,
brand-new Les Enfants Perdus staring up at meas though shes
been reading my mind all along.
She shrugs when I turn a questioning glance her way. It was in
a display window at one of the shops this morning. Its a modern
edition . . . and the illustrations are different. But its the same story.
Now you have your thread and your book to tie us all together.
My eyes sting. Thank you.
She pats my hand and we share another smile. My lips wobble as
I thumb through the pages, remembering Dads deep, strong voice
reading the text to me in flawless French. I miss that so much. Just
like I miss him speaking to me with his violin. When he got bad
enough that we had to check him into hospice, I took up sleeping
with the instrument under my bed every night. It almost seemed like
a part of himmaybe because each time he played, hed cradle it as
one would a precious child.
Id still have it with me to this day, had it not gone missing when
Grandma Liliana first arrived in America. Mom suspected she took
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beneath the limo. According to the pamphlet, the water even surges
underground beneath the estates foundation, f looding the third
basement.
Water. My least favorite element, second only to fire. And now
Ill be surrounded by it. The fact that the rain has finally subsided
relaxes me a fraction. Fog settles across the landscape, clinging low
to the road as we roll off the bridge. RoseBlood Academy rises up,
grim and ominous. The baroque architecture, looming and majestic,
looks more like a brooding castle than an opera house in this isolated
location.
The auditoriums cupolaa cap of bronze that cuts through the
dreary sky like a ghostly crowndescends to a gabled roof where a
winged horse stands guard beside Apollo. The god lifts his lyre, as if
it were a bow and arrow. In the Phantom book, a similar roof played
a pivotal and romantic role in the story line. Its where Christine met
with Raoul and they claimed their undying love. They were spied
upon by the Phantom, who then unleashed a series of events to punish them and make Christine his forever. But the school brochure
claims this roof s stairway was sealed off along with the top three
floors after the fire.
The driver turns the car onto the long, gravel drive leading up to
the opera house. Glistening trees bend over us like sequined actors
taking their final bow. As we plunge out from the overhanging
limbs, I begin to understand the uniforms. Its as if weve crossed
into an alternate time.
Ivy and lichen cling to the huge edifice. The wet faade reflects
our headlights so it appears an ethereal white, but as we get closer,
the stones true color comes into view. Time has eroded it to a scaly
turquoise green, like a mermaids tail. Antique street lampsthe
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chin. Two coppery-colored eyes look back at mebright and metallic. The sight makes me do a double take. As far as he is from the
car, I shouldnt be able to make out the color, yet they glimmer in
the shadow of his cape, like pennies catching a flashlights glare in
a deep well.
Ive seen those eyes beforecountless timessince the age of
seven. But I cant even consider why I recognize them. I cant think
beyond what theyre broadcasting, loud and clear: Hes warning us
not to approach hima part of the sprawling wilderness, neglected
yet beautiful and thriving in his solitude.
Transfixed, I dont stop staring until Mom opens the glass panel
to speak to the driver. A hot blush creeps up my neck and I glance at
my worn Timberland boots, all too aware of the patchwork embroidered vest beneath my jacket and the faded and ripped boot-cut
jeans hugging my legs. For the first time since I started sewing and
designing, Im uncomfortable in my bohemian style, even if it is a
tribute to Dads heritage. Here at this castle, faced with the strangers
somber formality, I feel too casual . . . wayward and misplaced.
Im almost aching to put on that outdated school uniform.
When the limo stops, I brave a glance again, in search of the
caped figure and those shimmery eyes. The gardening shears lie
abandoned on the ground, and the cluster of red roses he held are
now withered, leaving behind a whirl of petalscoal black and
crinkledaflutter on the wind.
An icy sense of foreboding prickles the nerves between my
shoulder blades. The gardeners gone without a trace, as if he were
never there at all.
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