"She failed to see a shadow which followed her like her own shadow, which stopped when she stopped, which started again when she did and which made no more noise than a well-conducted shadow should."
Gaston Leroux, The Phantom of the Opera
On Thursday morning, it finally looks like I might have a chance to get out in the garden later in the day. But the rain has already started again as Quan and I walk from breakfast to our shared first-period class.
Professor Tomlin's science room is everything you'd expect from an ecologically minded rock-star Einsteinian who dabbles in theatrics. There's a genuine skeleton in one corner dressed in a Shakespeare costume, spindly legs spray-painted blue in lieu of tights to match its velvet tunic and hat. A sign hangs under its fake beard that says: RESPECT THE BARD. Test tubes line several shelves, each filled with water and seeds, some already blossoming into plants. A picture of a wrecked motorcycle in a standup frame occupies one corner of the professor's desk, seated beside a deeply dented helmet. Tomlin hit a brick wall a few years back at high speed and was thrown off his bike, yet he survived. Rumor has it he uses that story to demonstrate Newton's law of inertia. Macabre, but memorable.
The students' table surfaces are slick whiteboard, and each of us has our own set of dry-erase markers to work out formulas and theories, then erase them once we've jotted down our answers, to prevent the need for scrap paper.
Tomlin always schedules labs on Thursday, and this morning's is on how "external force can alter the energy of a given system." He's separated everyone into groups of four and sent us to our tables where a steel-hooked weight sits beside a two-foot plank of wood balanced atop some books in the center. The idea is to make a ramp and alter the number of books beneath for different heights. Then we'll drag the hooked weight up and down to measure force.
It has to be some kind of sick joke that he paired Quan and me with Kat and Roxie. There's no love lost between Quan and the diva duo, considering how they treated both Sunny and Audrey last year. And they certainly haven't welcomed me with open arms. A genius professor can't be that clueless, can he?
Things are even worse ever since first-tier auditions for Renata's role yesterday afternoon. Of course I couldn't stop myself from leaping up and singing her aria, and despite that I fell back into my chair fatigued the instant I delivered the last note, my rendition was pristine enough it won me one of the three spots for final Renata tryouts, alongside Audrey and Kat, should I so choose. I'm already planning to develop infectious laryngitis that week and be quarantined to my room. But Kat and Roxie don't know that tidbit.
"In your lab journals, copy down and record your data for these questions," Tomlin says with his back turned, scribbling on the chalkboard. A few of the students have their gazes trained to his tight buns. I'll admit he's the hottest teacher at the school, even in a nerdy, two-piece wool suit. "And be sure to include the incline variations of your ramp from each run-through."
As we wait to transfer Tomlin's questions to our journals, Quan and I play tic-tac-toe on our half of the dry-erase table. It's the only way I can keep myself from staring at the mirrored wall on the north side of the room.
The scent of chalk dust and chemicals irritates my nose, though it's pleasant compared to Kat's overpowering perfume and the stench of dry-erase markers saturating the air. Roxie, the resident artist, draws sketches of me on their half of the white surface. She puts an impressive likeness on a cross made of musical scores, my hands and feet nailed in place by quarter notes and whole notes, my eyes blocked out with treble clefs. It's an obvious reference to the idiot I've made of myself during rehearsals and auditions over the past three days, and my cheeks grow hot when both girls start snickering.
Quan fakes a body-jolting sneeze. Eraser in hand, he swipes it through Roxie's masterpiece as he drags his arm back across the table. I mime thank-you and he tips an imaginary hat, snubbing Roxie's dagger glare.
By the time Tomlin reaches us to drop off our remaining lab materials, we've wiped our entire table clean.
"Each group needs to check the screw top on their spring scale," our teacher stresses. "Make sure it's calibrated to line up with the capital N. It takes a specific amount of force to stretch that spring. You want to be sure you're measuring the stretch accurately when recording your newtons."
Just as he hands off the final scale, there's a knock at the door. He opens up enough to step out but ducks his head back in. "Everyone get started. Mister Jippetto's here to discuss theater props. I'll be out in the hall if anyone has questions." Then the door shuts behind him.
The class erupts in whispers and the sounds of books being shuffled, wooden planks being adjusted, and journal pages being flipped.
"Well, shoot." Kat pouts her lips. "Our scale is broken." She holds up the tool that I could've sworn wasn't missing the top piece earlier when Tomlin placed it next to her. "This would be a good opportunity for Rune to see the walk-in closet where the Prof keeps all the extra supplies, don't you think, Roxie?"
The girls exchange twin smirks, devious enough to light up a warning inside me like a fiery red flare.
Roxie offers to show me the way, but Quan stands up instead. "I'll take her," he says.
We walk side by side toward the back of the room where a door waits. I don't have to try to ignore our classmates watching us. My mind is preoccupied with the movement I'm catching in the mirrors via my peripheral vision, as if something or someone's following alongside me. A reflection … a shift in the atmosphere … an omen, maybe.
I won't let myself go there, remembering my logic from the night before. It was the caretaker that I saw the day I arrived. The one who's standing in the hall right now talking to Tomlin. As soon as I meet him in person, it will be confirmed.
We arrive at the closet and Quan tugs the door open. The light switch doesn't work, so neither of us can see inside. He shrugs. "Let me get a flashlight."
I nod and opt to wait at the threshold while he heads to Tomlin's desk. My eyes adjust to the shelves along the left wall. There's a box labeled: TUBULAR SPRING SCALES. I step inside to dig through it.
A shiver races through me when something rakes the top of my head. Lifting my hand, I feel the outline of a shoe tugging my hair. I look up in the same instant Quan arrives and flips on the flashlight, revealing a body swaying above me on a noose tied to the light fixture.
Icy terror freezes me in place. I scream, my vocal cords strained to near breaking and my bones shaking as if they'll shatter.
Quan drags me out and props me against the wall. The world seems to move in slow motion. "Rune, you okay? It was a dummy. Someone played a sick joke." His eyes narrow to angry slits as he looks over his shoulder to our table, where Kat and Roxie are doubled over, snorting with laughter.
My heart pounds in my chest, trying to speed things up again. Trying to hammer me back together.
Puzzled classmates join with the laughter—a timid chain reaction—first confusion, then relief that they weren't on the receiving end of the prank. Tomlin rushes in with the caretaker at his side. The man is tiny, comparable to Audrey's petite height, but portly. Still trying to catch my breath, I concentrate on him. His white beard and flannel shirt paired with a handkerchief cinched around his neck are a cross between a pint-size lumberjack and Santa Claus. He lifts a silver charm hanging under his handkerchief and blows it. The class silences as the sound of birdsong fills the room.
I'd been told he was a mute and communicated via written notes and gestures, but I knew nothing about a whistle. After pointing an accusatory finger at Kat and Roxie, the caretaker shuffles over to the closet where Quan helps him drag down what I can now see is a mannequin. Before becoming the resident caretaker, Jippetto used to make them for shops in Paris, and he still has a collection. Those woodworking skills are the reason he's the go-to for sets and props at the academy.
I slide down the wall and curl my arms around my knees, barring the shell shock from all sides. Not only did Kat manage to shake my foundations, but there's no way Mister Jippetto could possibly be the guy I saw half hiding in the garden on my arrival.
I can't do this anymore. Someone very real is shadowing my every move, and I need to know who.
I shift my gaze to the mirrors and for an instant I see it, clear as day: a gloved hand pressed to the opposite side of the glass, as if to tell me I'm right, or maybe to offer support. Then it's gone.
Once I'm on my feet again, Tomlin gets the class back on schedule without skipping a beat and everyone manages to finish their labs. Two minutes before the dismissal bell rings, the professor tells our table to stay put. After everyone's left, he closes the door and gives the four of us a speech about how we're all in the opera together, which means being supportive and being a team. That the reason he paired us for the lab in the first place was in hopes we might learn to work together.
"You guys really need to end it here. Headmaster Fabre and Principal Norrington aren't taking Rune's missing uniforms as lightly as you might think. Student perks are in danger—"
"Uh, wait a second," Kat interrupts. "We had nothing to do with the uniforms! This mannequin thing was to teach Rune and her kleptomaniac pal Sunflower Sunshine a lesson about sneaking into my room and stealing my brush."
"Summers," I correct, annoyed by her subtle dig on Sunny. "And why would either of us want anything that has your DNA on it?"
"It was a Mason Pearson boar-bristle hairbrush," Kat says, her perfect forehead furrowed, as if she can't fathom my ignorance. "Worth more money than Sunny's cheap dye job."
"Sunny's hair is naturally red," Quan interjects. "And she doesn't steal."
For the most part, anyway, I think, and by the gaze Quan shoots me, I can tell we're sharing brainwaves.
Roxie stands up at the table. It's unsettling to see such a hard expression on a face that matches Jax's, who's almost always smiling or cracking a joke. "Awfully coincidental how it went missing the first full day you were here. Kat hasn't seen it since Monday morning before breakfast."
Tomlin pounds the table, getting our attention back on him. "Here's my one-time offer. I don't care who did what. I won't report any of this conversation, or what happened today in my room, but only if these pranks stop now. Because were anyone to go to the headmaster with even one more thing, you guys can forget about having any fun activities for a while. That includes Saturday outings and the masquerade being canceled. Do you hear what I'm saying, ladies?"
The three of us nod.
He turns to Quan. "Okay, dude, I'm appointing you as referee. See that everyone gets along so you and Sunny can win the title of best costume couple again this year."
Quan gives the professor one of his lopsided smiles along with a thumbs-up. "You got it, Prof."
The four of us head out. I'm last, and just as I step into the hall, Tomlin stops me. We move to the wall beside the door, out of the wave of students rushing to class.
His intense blue eyes study me. "How's your voice? Did you hurt it screaming?"
I tamp down the panic his question inspires, feeling eyes on me from inside the walls, too. My voice is the least of my worries. "Um, no."
"That's good."
He starts back inside when I mumble, "I wish I had."
He turns on his heel and rubs his beard. "Look, you know about my accident, right?"
"Yeah." I cinch my arms around my books and strain to hear him over the passing students.
"Before that, my parents used to pressure me to be a doctor because I was so good at science and biology. To appease them, I was going to medical school, even though I didn't want it. I wanted my music. And I wanted to make science and theater fun for kids," he says. "After the crash, I realized how much time I'd wasted trying to be what someone else thought I should be. So, believe me, I get it. Just because you're good at something, doesn't mean you want to do it forever. Or at all. I made my choice and never looked back. Someday, Rune, you'll get to make your choice and be free to do what you want. Just take care of yourself until then, okay?"
His kindness touches me, even though he has no clue. My issues have nothing to do with any choice on my part. I see Sunny wave at the other end of the corridor where we always meet up before second period and offer a nod. "Thanks, Professor Tomlin."
He flashes his teeth in a grin that makes him look way too close to our age, even with the facial hair. "Call me Prof. And give it time. Things will get easier for you soon."
He's wrong again. They don't.
While having dinner with Aunt Charlotte and Mom that night, I find out Mom won't return to Ned or her job until she's sure I'm safe. The missing uniforms are eating away at her more than she originally let on. It would be so easy to admit that I suspect Kat took them, considering the macabre hanging in science class. But that would screw up every extracurricular escape the students look forward to, including my new friends. So I fake a confession: that I hid them myself in the beginning because I was so scared to face my stage fright, but now they've gone missing for real. I apologize profusely, and promise to get my act together. Mom pats my hand, saying she's proud of me for being honest, and is relieved. Aunt Charlotte watches us quietly while chewing her veal cutlet. I get the distinct impression she sees right through me, yet she doesn't say a word.
On Friday at breakfast, I tell Sunny, Jax, Quan, and Audrey the truth: that I've no idea what happened to my uniforms, but that lying is the only way to send Mom back to Texas so she can live the life she's worked so hard for. Quan tells everyone the other reason I'm doing it—to save us all from losing privileges.
However, pretending to have a severe case of stage-fright-turned-neurosis doesn't earn me any points with Kat. She croons soprano in full vibrato when I pass her in the hall then drops to the floor, flailing as if she's having convulsions. I decide not to hold it against her; she doesn't know how seeing a person in a convulsive state affects me. She isn't aware of my experience at the frat party.
All I can do is turn and walk away, wishing quietly that I could sever and discard the musical entity that lives inside me, and finally be normal. But even then, I still wouldn't be. Because although this academy is full of interesting and quirky personalities, I'm pretty sure I'm the only one who's left a guy comatose in a hospital across the ocean.
My loyalty to my friends pays off in other ways. During fourth-period historical musicology, Audrey passes me a note that explains the meaning behind her tattoo, and why her future career is so important she can't let herself get distracted by a romantic relationship. Her ballerina sister was the victim of a hit-and-run in New Mexico, and was left a paraplegic. Her name is Ravyn, and since she "can never fly again," as Ravyn herself puts it, she wants to ride vicariously on Audrey's operatic wings. So Audrey got the tattoo in honor of that sentiment. Their beautiful bond echoes my memories of Dad, and from that moment on I, too, want to see her reach all of her goals, not only for her, but for her sister.
Unfortunately, Bouchard catches us whispering and makes me stay ten minutes after class, carving time out of my lunch period. Audrey argues that she is to blame, too, but I shut her down. I've come to realize Bouchard's a fangirl of Katarina, and since I tromped over her star pupil during tryouts and various rehearsals, the vocal instructions and musical studies on my schedule have been even more painful than I already anticipated. There's no reason Audrey should suffer for that.
As soon as I'm released, I find Sunny in the hall waiting for me. She says I deserve vindication and sneaks me in to see Bouchard's room of deceased pets on the second floor—complete with the mounted heads of a beloved parakeet, a pampered chinchilla, and a plaque showcasing three field mice with real butterfly wings stitched meticulously to their backs. The scent of something medicinal blends with animal dander and stale bones, creating a sinister and clinical combination that knots my stomach.
"I've heard her talk to them," Sunny murmurs.
"To the dead things?" I ask as we both stare up in petrified wonder.
"Yeah, sometimes when she's in here with the door closed. Or maybe she's talking for them. Maybe she's one of those … what do they call that again?"
"Ventriloquists?"
She nods. "Yeah. And they're her marionettes."
"Or maybe she's theirs," I half joke, eyeing a white rabbit head still attached to its front torso and forelegs. Bouchard has carved a window in the rabbit's chest where it's hung flat against the wall, embedded an oval wooden frame within, and inserted an image of her holding the prized bunny years earlier, when it was still alive. She's younger with no wrinkles, without that trademark layer of French powder and rouge. A white lab jacket covers a casual button-up shirt. It's unsettling how happy she looked back then. Not even a trace of the stern bitterness I've come to dread each time I'm in her class.
"She flunked out of veterinarian school," Sunny whispers. "That picture was taken before. She obviously didn't ever get over having a scalpel in her hand or her love for the scent of blood."
I cringe. Neither one of us notices that the Bride of Frankenstein herself has stepped up behind until she shouts: "Get out!"
We both yelp in surprise and spin around.
Her eyes are glossy and glaring, like pointy blue beads. She might as well have pulled them out of one of her projects. She wields a frighteningly sharp pair of scissors as she backs us into the hall. "How did you get in?"
Sunny stammers, vowing the door was already ajar. Only I catch the implication of her hand tucked inside her skirt pocket where she earlier dropped the key she'd lifted.
Headmaster Fabre appears at the top of the staircase. "Is there a problem, Miss Bouchard?" His commanding presence ignites a blush through Bouchard's rouged cheeks—coloring them the same shade as the dye in her hair.
"Whatever it may be," the headmaster continues, "I think we could solve it without physically threatening our students."
Bouchard slaps the scissor handles against her palm. "The problem is a deplorable lack of respect for other people's belongings and privacy. In my experience, the best way to make an impression on the uncivilized is by giving them a taste of their own barbarism." She stomps back into the room, mumbling in French about shoving marble eyes into a hedgehog. The door slams shut.
Sunny repeats her excuse for us getting into the room. Unable to prove otherwise, Headmaster Fabre sends us to the last fifteen minutes of lunch with only a warning.
Friday comes to an abrupt end when Mom leaves for the airport. We stand out in the foyer, saying our good-byes while everyone else is at dinner. I make a marked effort not to look at the mirrors … not to let in that uneasy sense of being watched. The chauffeur gathers Mom's bags and offers to wait outside with the limo. As he opens the door, the scent of wet roses and foliage drifts in and the room brightens with the sunset's soft blush. In the parking lot and the foyer, the academy lights are set on timers to conserve energy—from six thirty until nine thirty every evening.
Mom tucks an unruly wave behind my ear. I admire how pretty she is in the pink haze, and think of the gauzy, romantic dress she found at a chic Parisian shop this week. She's planning to wear it for her wedding in December, when I'll be home for Christmas break. A smile inches across my lips. Her fiancé is picking her up from the airport when she lands tomorrow. "Ned's got to be dying to see you."
She smiles and shrugs. "Nah. Only mildly eager. You know his true passions are en suite bathrooms and hand-carved mahogany millwork."
I laugh at her realty humor, but it's forced. I'm going to miss her. I've become accustomed to sharing my dorm room. She hadn't been willing to take the bed every night, so we'd alternated, but her presence was the one thing—other than my dreams—that made me feel safe.
"I'll call you on the landline," I say, in lieu of what I want to say: Please don't go.
"Not if I call you first," she teases.
I grin. Then, against everything telling me not to, I ask, "So, when you slept in my bed this week … did you hear anything weird?" Granted, I'd only heard the sounds in the vent that first night, but maybe she'd heard them since.
She frowns, looking pale as the lights in the foyer switch on. "No, sweetie. Like what?"
Startled by the worry clouding her eyes, I change tactics before she decides to stay another week. "Oh, nothing. Just … the air filtering through the vent. It's noisy. Maybe I'll ask Aunt Charlotte if maintenance can look at it. It might be stuffed with lint or something."
"Okay." She grins and her cheeks warm again with a healthy flush. "It's been so nice having this extra time with Lottie. I'm glad you'll finally be getting to know her, too. She sees so much of your father in you." Mom's eyes tear up a little. "He'd be so proud of you. How you're facing your stage fright. And how you're making friends."
I manage a bright smile by thinking only of my new friends and blocking out all things operatic or phantasmic. Ever since yesterday morning, I haven't seen any movement within the mirrors; but I don't think my shadow's gone. Not for a second.
Mom wraps a lock of my hair around her thumb. "I know you're disappointed that you can't make the trip to Paris tomorrow. Lottie says you can go with her to Versailles instead. She's really set against you staying here alone for the day. In fact, she keeps asking if I'm sure you're up for staying at the school at all. I assured her you are. That you're doing it in honor of your dad."
I nod, because I'd do anything for him.
"But since you're family," Mom continues, "Lottie said you can skate around the weekly task rules if you're with her. It'll get you out of this building for a few hours, you know?"
Thoughts of Grandma Liliana in the prison infirmary gnaw at my already-frayed edges. "There's only one reason Aunt Charlotte would go to Versailles."
Mom's lips purse. "Yes. She visits her mother once a week. But … Grandma Lil seems to be sorry. She arranged all of this for you. Maybe soon she'll even confess where she hid Dad's violin, or why she started that fire. Maybe then we can try to forgive her before it's too late." Mom shrugs because in her heart, she knows there's almost zero chance of that ever happening. I frown, because it's possible Grandma Liliana was only trying to rid the world of a plague, and Mom could one day be stepping inside Aunt Charlotte's doeskin ballet shoes to visit me in a penitentiary.
"Pretty sure the other students wouldn't consider a day trip to Versailles as a family outing," I say. "I've already received enough favors." My tongue stiffens, barricading what wants to escape: that even though I have a few new friends, I'm not going to be class favorite anytime soon. That someone hates me enough to have left a dead crow on my chair at lunch earlier today.
I noticed it only seconds before I sat down. As if the sight of its black, greasy feathers wasn't enough to make me lose any appetite for the cordon bleu chicken rolls on my plate, it also triggered a vivid memory of the meowing crow I saw the day I first arrived.
Quan picked up the corpse with a napkin and covertly threw it away while Jax tried to reason that the resident ghost cat, Diable, had struck again. It was obvious Jax was trying to keep Sunny from attacking the diva duo, her number one suspects. But a part of me doubts they did it, because they don't want to lose privileges any more than the rest of us.
"Mom"—I sidestep the bird confession with another, more obvious one—"I don't think I'm ready to make that trip to see Grandma."
She squeezes my shoulder. "Oh, honey, Lottie wouldn't expect you to go with her to visit your grandma. There's a library within walking distance of the prison with computers. Lottie goes there to check the school's email each week. So she'd drop you there so you can get on the Internet, check your emails, do some Facebooking. And you'll have access to cell towers, so you can make phone calls and text."
I sigh. Regardless that I won't be expected to visit Grandma, I don't even want to be in the same vicinity. "I really need to start on the garden. The weather is finally supposed to clear tomorrow."
Mom nods, then scans her watch. "Just make sure you get out of your dorm for a while. I don't want you staying cooped up for too long. It can mess with your mind."
Tell me about it.
Pulling me into her arms, she whispers in my ear, "You have the potential to be something … amazing. Please, Rune. I don't want you to spend your life with other people's dust and soap scum under your fingernails. Your father wanted so much more for you than that."
She kisses my temple. Then she's out the door and in the limo, disappearing across the bridge and into the sunset, as every fear, flaw, and insecurity wraps tight around my shoulders—a chilling foil to the warmth of her good-bye hug.
