Starry-Eyed (18 page)

I have to be at the rehearsal in two minutes. It's the only one before the show next week, so everyone can see the order and fix blocking for the group numbers. But I cannot—cannot—sing in front of people.

I've never done it before, and I have no idea if I'm good. What if what comes out of my mouth is so horrible no one says anything? Worse: What if they laugh? I can't handle being laughed at, or pitied. I just can't.
I can't risk it.

As long as my voice is mine and mine alone, I don't have to know whether or not I'm good. I can keep treasuring music as my own secret, special thing. If I put it out there for the rest of the world, I have to be judged.

I can't go to the rehearsal.

But . . . maybe
I
don't have to.

Before I talk myself out of it I slam through the door and burst into the bathroom. The mirror still isn't fixed, and before I'm even all the way in front of it, my reflection is smirking at me.

“I know what you are,” I say, avoiding looking into my own pale blue eyes when they aren't really mine. I don't know if I expected her to answer, but finally I look her full in the face. She has one blonde eyebrow raised in derision, my full lips pushed into a smirk. “Why are you doing this?”

She rolls her—my—eyes, and points to her throat.

“Oh. You can't talk?”

She claps slowly, all of her actions dipped in sarcasm.

“Listen. I—I don't want you to take over my life or anything, but I've been thinking about it, and I always come back to myself after, right? So maybe you just borrow my life for a few minutes, and what's the harm in that?” My voice is getting faster and higher, I'm so nervous I can barely breathe. “The rehearsal is right now. I can't go. But . . . you can?”

A tiny smile pulls at one corner of her mouth and she nods.

“Okay.” I take a deep breath. “Go ahead.”

She holds out her hand expectantly.

“Oh. Right. Blood.” I bite my lip, nervous, and before I can think better of it, I push my finger against the center of the cracks in the mirror.

This time before things go totally black, I hear laughter.

It's not coming out of my mouth.

. . . . .

I wake up to the now familiar sensation of cold, grimy tile against my cheek. Every muscle is sore. And the bathroom is way too dim. Are my eyes damaged?

I probe for tender spots as I stand, my knees shaking. My head feels intact. But why—

It's
actually
dim. Not just my eyes. The narrow windows along the wall next to the ceiling don't let in the brilliant afternoon light they should. It's evening out there. Only a single emergency light is on in the bathroom.

I can't see my reflection, and I'm glad. I stumble out of the bathroom and through the halls, passing a janitor who has his back turned to me, floor waxer loud enough to cover my flight. My phone informs me it's 8:00 p.m. That means I've been unconscious for seven—SEVEN—hours. My phone also informs me I missed a call from my parents.

I'm in so much trouble.

Fortunately the doors leading to the parking lot don't lock on the inside, and I push through into the spring-chilled evening. My car is where I left it, along with a note from the campus security guard that cars parked overnight will be towed.

Trembling so hard I can barely steer, I drive the familiar streets back home. I can barely look in the rearview mirror. I don't know what I'll see. Or what I want to see. What happened this afternoon? Did I—I mean, my double—make it to practice? Did she do a good job? Why was I out for so long?

The first time it was just a few minutes. But now that I think about it, the second was all of lunch period. If it's getting progressively longer each time . . .

I can't think about it right now. I stop at my spot on the curb in front of my house and take a deep breath. If I tell my parents I was unconscious for seven hours, they'll make me go to the doctor. Probably the hospital.

Maybe I should.

But I don't want to. I know what happened. Sort of, anyway. And it's not an explanation that will show up in an MRI or through blood tests. Locking the car, I go up the walkway and open the door as quietly as I can, like if I'm silent they won't have noticed how late I am.

I nearly scream when I see my parents, snuggled up on the couch with a bowl of popcorn between them.

“Hey, Loti-bug,” Dad says. “I thought you were spending the night?”

“I was? I mean. I was. I told you that, right? I, uh, decided to come home.”

“You sounded like you were having fun when you called from your friend's phone. You ate, right?”

I nod, trying to force a smile. “Yeah. I got tired, is all. Wanted to go to bed early.”

My mom holds out her arms and I lean forward, letting her kiss me on the forehead. “I'm so glad you've made good friends, Loti. I worry about you. And we can't wait for the talent show next week.”

I grimace a smile and, sneaking my dad's phone off of the side table, lock myself in the bathroom. I scroll through the incoming call history to find out who called to tell him I was out with friends.

It was Brianna Johnson. Or her phone, at least. And my dad knows my voice—he wouldn't believe anyone else calling and imitating me. Which means not only did my double walker go to rehearsal . . . it means she had so much fun the other kids invited her to hang out with them afterward. I wonder what happened, if she could feel me waking up and made an excuse, or if she just disappeared?

All I know is she was having a blast while I was passed out on the floor in the bathroom.

Turns out my double is better at my own life than I am.

. . . . .

I have the dream every night in the week leading up to the talent show.

The microphone, the dress, the dark auditorium, waking up just before I get the audience's reaction—it's all the same, except one detail has changed. Now I can remember the song.

It's a lullaby, an old German tune Oma used to sing me. The tune is simple, haunting, the sounds and syllables of my childhood. And it feels
true
as I sing it, it feels like I am singing my soul, and I know it could be German or English, it doesn't matter. What matters is my voice with the song.

It's the song Oma is humming softly next to me as we ride in the back of the car to the school for the concert.

I could kill my double for that phone call where she mentioned the talent show to my dad. I tried to get out of it—telling my parents it was no big deal, telling them I'd changed my mind and didn't want to do it. But they were so excited, so happy and
relieved
. It was the relief that killed me.

I thought I was fooling them all these years, but I can see in their happiness just how worried they've been. I can't let them down. Even if it's not me who is finally becoming what they've hoped I could be.

My parents are both dressed up like they're going to the symphony. Oma gave me her strand of pearls, the only jewelry she has left from Opa, and my mother took me out for a new dress.

It's not quite the satin screen siren of my dreams, but it's a creamy off-white, the cut making me look older, braver, and prettier. In this dress I look like someone who can stand in front of an audience and sing.

Or at least that's what the me in the mirror looks like. Oma still has all the mirrors at home covered, much to my parents' consternation, but there was one in the dressing room at the store. I know the dress was on my body, but I swear my reflection wore it better.

When we get to the school, I wave my parents ahead, claiming I need to be backstage. I have no idea where I need to be—I wasn't at rehearsal. Oma watches me, her eyes wary. Before she goes into the auditorium, she pulls me into a hug.

“I love you, Loti,” she says, her lips almost against my ear. “Don't ever
hold yourself back from what you can be. No one else can be it for you.”

Guilt joins the terror in my stomach. She knows. She knows what I did, what I'm planning to do. But I can't go up there. I can't. And I can't back down, not now that my parents are here waiting, not now that Brianna has asked me to eat lunch with her and the other choir kids every day. Not now that I'm accepted. Part of a group.

I can't lose this new life, even if it's not mine.

Oma pats my back and leaves me. My feet feel like lead as I escape the buzzing area around the auditorium and head for the bathroom.

My bathroom.

She's waiting for me when I go in, and I was right—the dress
does
look better on her. I wear it, but she owns it, shoulders thrown back confidently.

I analyze her through the cracked glass. “How long will it last this time?” I ask. I don't want to be lying here for hours before I wake up or someone finds me. And I wonder, too, if maybe, eventually. . . maybe she'll be me and I'll be the reflection.

She shrugs, smiling. I think I look kinder than that when I smile.

“Are you me?” I ask.

She raises a hand and twists it at the wrist, in a so-so sort of gesture. Then, my red lipstick forming the words, she mouths:
I'm better
.

I slump against the wall. It's true. She's better at being me. She's braver and stronger and a better singer, and . . .

The door opens and I jump. Brianna grins, breathless, her dress a short, flirty green number. “Loti! I'm so excited! I get so nervous before performances. That's probably why you came here, to be alone. Great hiding place—this bathroom is the worst. But now I'm totally ruining your solitude. I just wanted to say how happy I am that we've finally gotten to know each other!” She pulls me into a hug and squeezes me tight, her perfume tickling my sinuses. “And I'm going to say it right now so it's not awkward: If you beat me out for lead on the next musical there are no hard feelings, okay? About time this school had another alto who could carry her weight!”

“Thank—thank you,” I whisper. “Good luck tonight.”

She laughs, skipping to the door and pulling it open wide. “We don't need luck! Just our fabulous vocal cords. See you in there!”

I watch the door swing shut behind her, the room feeling smaller and colder in her wake. She doesn't need luck. I don't, either. I need to be someone else, is all. I turn back to my reflection. She's tapping her finger against the glass impatiently, mouthing something silently.

Wait.

“You have my voice,” I mumble, remembering the call that my dad couldn't tell wasn't me.

She shrugs impatiently, nodding as she jabs her finger at the sharp center of cracks in the mirror.

I stand up straighter, still watching her in the mirror. I move my shoulders back, trying out the same posture she has. Lifting my chin. Looking boldly forward. “You don't have any voice until you take mine,” I say, and this time I do not mumble or whisper. I speak clearly and I speak loudly. “It's my voice. My voice in the audition, my voice that made Mrs. Jolley cry, my voice that Brianna thinks is as good as hers.”

She looks puzzled, and then her eyes flash slyly. She raises an eyebrow at me. She pantomimes singing into a microphone, and mouths the words:
so many people
. She opens her mouth like she's singing and grabs her throat, eyes widening in terror. Dropping her hands, she smiles at me again.
You can't
, she mouths, shaking her head.

My shoulders drop. She's right. I can't. I can't face the fear, the worry that if I open my mouth and let my soul out, I'll be laughed at. I've hidden for so long, I don't know how to handle the idea of being seen for who I really am.

I close my eyes. I will never know how the dream ends. I will never know how the audience reacts. I lift my hand, ready to cut my finger, ready to check out and let my double take my place. I cling to the dream, to the only space I'll ever be able to sing.

And just before my finger touches the glass, I stop. Because I have evidence now, from Brianna and Mrs. Jolley, that I
can
sing well enough to avoid embarrassing myself. But even more, I've realized something about the dream I never saw before.

I always thought I was waiting for the audience's reaction, but the truth is it doesn't matter. They don't matter. The way I feel when I'm singing, the truth of my soul coming out in the notes—that's what the dream is about. That's where the magic is. That's where my heart is.

The audience doesn't react because
I don't need them
.

My voice is mine.

“Mine,” I say, opening my eyes. I pull my hand back and my double looks up at me, her eyes as sharp as the razor edges of the mirror.

I step back, smoothing the front of my dress. “It's not about them,” I say. “All these years I thought so, but I was wrong. It's about me. I'm the one who chose to hide. I didn't need to. And I can stop now.”

Her face contorts in rage, and she silently screams at me. She brings her fist up and slams it against the glass, again and again. And I step back again, suddenly scared that maybe she'll break her way out.