Starry-Eyed (17 page)

For a minute my soul sings with joy, until it crashes to the scuffed linoleum beneath me. It's a mistake. I didn't audition, and no one here has ever heard me sing, so there's no way I'd be called back. Now I have to tell Ms. Jolley, the choir director, that my name shouldn't be on the list.

The bell rings and I swear softly in German, which is the only time it slips from me. I run to class, feeling as far away from my dream as I ever have.

. . . . .

I'd meant to find a time to let Ms. Jolley know about the mistake, but it's lunch before I have a chance. And then I know where she'll be—in the auditorium, with the people who actually made callbacks. The idea of walking in there in front of all of them, especially Brianna after she was so nice this morning, makes me so upset I duck into the bathroom, afraid I'm going to puke.

I pace in front of the sinks, noting the still-broken mirror with a twinge of guilt. The spot of blood is gone, at least.

I still have time to make it to the auditorium, but it doesn't matter. I won't show, Ms. Jolley will realize I was never supposed to be on the list in the first place, and everything will go back to the way it was before.

Quiet.

So very, very quiet and invisible.

That's the thing about living in a small town and going to a small high school with the same kids you've known since elementary school. You are assigned your slot, and unless you do something crazy to change it, you stay put. My slot is the quiet German girl. I have become part of the background, unseen the same way you cease even noticing the poster tacked to the back of the door you see every single day.

I splash some cold water on my face, put my hand on the back of my neck, and try to get over the panic. It's fine. It doesn't matter. I look up to the splintered mirror to make sure my mascara didn't run, but—

I'm sick
. This isn't nerves. I'm actually sick, I have to be, because the me in the mirror doesn't have her hand on the back of her neck. She has it pressed up against the center of the spiderwebbing cracks in the mirror.

My head spinning, I raise my trembling hand to match my reflection. I have to match my reflection. If I match it, then I'm not going crazy.

When my fingers touch the sharp glass, the me in the mirror smiles triumphantly, and with a spinning twist of mirrors and sinks and pale pink stalls, everything once again goes black.

. . . . .

I wake up with my cheek smashed against the cold tile floor, my backpack digging into my spine. I really should not be making a habit of this. I sit and hold my aching head, still overcome with dizzy vertigo. Maybe I should go home. I must be ill, not getting enough sleep, something.

I use the wall to leverage myself up, leaning heavily against it. A couple of girls come in, chattering to each other, and I pull my backpack around to pretend to be looking for something. It's another trick for being invisible. Always have something to do, some barrier between you and eye contact.

“What happened to the mirror?” one of them asks, and I don't look up, can't without admitting it was my fault.

“Is that blood?” the other asks, leaning in close.

My eyes snap to the shattered section and—yes, there, in the middle, where I touched. There's blood again. I know there wasn't before. From where it's safely hidden in my backpack, I twist my hand around and see a smear of blood from a knick on my finger.

I must have cut it on the mirror. The mirror that . . .
schiess, schiess
, the mirror that wasn't doing what it was supposed to. My eyes wide with fear, I look at myself, but everything matches. Both me's are doing the same thing. Though I swear—and this is paranoia talking, it has to be, I'm losing my mind—I swear that my reflection's eyes are narrowed in a way mine aren't.

The bell rings. I've missed lunch entirely. Was I really passed out for that long? I stumble into the hall, thinking to go see the nurse, but the world rights itself and I feel better, so I go to precalc like I'm supposed to.

When classes are finally over for the day, I trudge toward the parking lot where my fifteen-year-old Volkswagen Rabbit waits for me. My backpack is too heavy, digging into my shoulders, and the whole day—the whole
year
—feels like it's weighing me down. Classes. Home. Homework. Classes. Home. Homework.

My life has no real music in it. No joy. I listen to music, sure, but it's not the same as making it. I don't know if I can take two more years of high school. And what after?

I pass the auditorium. There's a new sheet posted, and bitter, resigned curiosity pushes me forward to look. I'm sure Brianna made it. I've gone to all of the school's choir performances, all of the musicals. The way the singers draw energy from each other, each performing better than they ever could alone, never stops amazing me. Brianna is one of the best. I wonder if it helps, having a talent that everyone knows, this wonderful thing about you they can use to identify you. She always seems happy.

I wait until a couple of seniors move away and lean forward, glancing at the list. A couple of dramatic monologues, a drum solo, a magic act, and of course, Brianna with a solo and as part of a quartet. Good for her. The rest of the list are the usual suspects: Jake Temple, an amazing baritone in the senior class; Carly Hansen, a beautiful soprano who played Maria in
West Side Story
last year; and the other members of the show choir.

Except one.

My name is on the list, again, for a solo.

For one split second, seeing my name on there with everyone else fills me with elation, belonging. Which is immediately washed away as angry, embarrassed tears burn in my eyes. One mess-up I can understand, but there is
not
another Loti König at this school. I'm sure Ms. Jolley didn't do it on purpose, but it feels like I'm being mocked for my cowardice. There's no way I was automatically put on after skipping my audition in the first
place.

My anger propels me to the music wing of the school, into the choir room with its built-in risers. I've never actually been in here before, though I walk as slowly as possible past the large windows looking in on it every day. Actually coming in, seeing a pile of music scattered on the piano bench, hurts.

It hurts.

There's a glass-walled office and I shuffle my feet, staring at it, all my anger evaporated into humiliation.

Ms. Jolley, her short gray hair curled around cat-eye glasses, walks out of the office, a stack of papers in her arms.

She looks up and almost drops them. “Oh! Loti! I didn't hear you come in.”

I frown, surprised she knows my name, since I've never spoken with her.

“Did you decide to stop depriving me of that gorgeous alto and transfer into choir?” Her face lights up. “I'll sign the slip right now.”

I shake my head, my voice coming out a mumble. “Umm, no, it's about the talent show? The list?”

“I posted it! Didn't you see? Just promise me you'll sing what you sang today at callbacks. We'll need the name of the number for the program, if you can find it. You can't tell this to anyone, but that's the first time a student's voice has brought me to tears. Where have you been hiding?” She beams at me, then someone calls her name and she looks out the door. “I'll be right there!” As she's leaving, she turns around and says in a playful tone, “And don't think I'm dropping my campaign to get you in my choir. See you at rehearsal next week!”

I watch her go with my mouth hanging open. It's official: either I've gone mad, or the rest of the world has.

. . . . .

My parents don't know I don't talk at school. It's amazing how easy it is to slide right under the radar—of parents, of teachers, of fellow students. I pull good grades; I keep my head down; I never raise my hand. Whenever I have to talk, I do so as quietly and succinctly as possible. I slip through.

But Oma knows something is wrong the moment I walk in the door.

“What happened?” she demands, arms open for a hug. I let her fold me in and rest my cheek against the polyester sleeve on her shoulder. She smells like dried flowers. I know this isn't what Düsseldorf smelled like, but in my head the two are intertwined. I wonder who I would have been if we had stayed there, if I had grown up where opening my mouth didn't get me made fun of.

She pats me on the back. “Let me feed you, and you tell me what has you looking like a ghost of yourself.”

I follow her into the kitchen and slump at the counter. She has one of her old albums on, Mozart's
The Magic Flute
. My favorite opera, usually, because Mozart wrote it to so many different talent levels. Some of the parts are simple, heavily supported by the orchestra, but the Queen of the Night's solos are insanely hard, showcasing her voice alone.

Today it sounds lifeless.

“You'll think I'm crazy, Oma.”

She clucks reproachfully, scooping a steaming spoonful of apple pudding cake onto a plate and sprinkling cinnamon on top. Then she climbs heavily onto the stool next to me. “Go on. Tell me.”

I push the cake around my plate with my fork. What have I got to lose? Besides my mind, which maybe has already happened. Keeping my eyes on my food, I tell her almost everything: signing up to audition, chickening out, hitting my head, waking up to find my name on the callbacks, passing out in the bathroom again, waking up to find my name on the final list.

“But it's not a mistake, because Ms. Jolley knew who I was—she told me herself my singing had made her cry! But I never sang, Oma, and I don't know how this is happening or what's going on.”

When I finally look up at her, it's not confusion or pity on her face. It's terror.

“Tell me about the mirror,” she says, her normally strong voice trembling.

“The mirror? It's broken. I broke it.”

“Did you see anything in it before you broke it? Did it look wrong?”

My eyes widen. I hadn't wanted to admit it to myself, had left it out of the story entirely. Finally, I nod. “I didn't match my reflection.”

“Did you give it something of yours? Hair? Jewelry?”

I shake my head. “No, nothing, I—” I stop, rub my thumb over the raised spot on my finger where I cut it. Then I bring my hand to the small cut along my hairline. “Blood. My blood got on the mirror both times.”

Her hand catches mine, squeezing it in a trembling grip. “Double walker,” she whispers, and it takes me a few moments to realize I'd heard the German term before:
doppelgänger
.

She feels my forehead, looks in my eyes, and tugs my chin until I open my mouth to let her look at my tongue. Oma questions me ruthlessly about details from our life together, things only she and I would know. I get more and more scared until finally I scream, “Stop it! Tell me what's going on!”

Her shoulders are stooped, and she looks much older than she did when I got home. “It's bad,
Liebchen
. Double walkers steal your soul. They steal your life. Whatever you do, stay away from that mirror. Cross yourself when you pass by that bathroom.”

She straightens, walks out of the room as though possessed with a new purpose. I want to run after her, ask what she was talking about, but I can't. A doppelgänger? A double of me, trying to steal my life?

Who on earth would want my life
?

When I finally walk out of the kitchen, I stop short. Oma has covered the large mirror hanging over the mantel. I drift through the hall to the bathroom we share. The mirror there, too, is completely blocked by towels. I make it to my room in time to see her dragging out the long mirror that
hung on the back of my closet door.

“No one is stealing you,” she says, steel back in place in her German consonants.

I lean against the doorframe, looking at the empty space where the mirror was. I don't say anything, but I can't help but wonder: If this spirit is evil, why did it get me a spot in the talent show?

. . . . .

Oma has watched me like a hawk all week. But she's not at school, and I haven't been able to stop thinking about this, to stop wondering.

The first rehearsal is this afternoon. I can't go. I can't. But Brianna Johnson has smiled and waved at me every day this week. And a few other kids—Carly, Jake, a few juniors not in show choir yet—have all started saying hi to me, too.

It's amazing how normal, how accepted, something as simple as a smile and a wave can make me feel. I'm on the edge of being part of a group, and it makes the last few years feel even emptier than they did before.

I researched doppelgängers. They're supposed to make your life worse. This doesn't feel worse to me.

That is, other than the massive, sick pit in my stomach in the afternoon as I hover, hiding in a recessed doorway one hall over from the auditorium. They all know me now. They're expecting me. They're counting on me. I have a slot in the talent show, which means someone who wanted one doesn't. I've thought of everything: faking sick, telling them I've lost my voice. At one feverish point last night, I even considered running away.