AllFreeNovel
Share Us
Loopholes, I think, mimicking what Izzy said.
There’s no rule about FaceTiming.
And it’s not like I’m recording this to broadcast online, let alone recording anyone but her.
The lights have nearly completely dimmed by the time I disappear under the overhang. Someone bumps me in the shadows—so dark under here, I didn’t see them in my haste.
I murmur a quiet, “Excuse me,” and hear something mumbled back in…
Russian?
Turning my head, I catch the back of a dark head of hair, and a black suit jacket, before facing forward once more, squinting and slowing my steps so as not to run into anyone else.
The doors back here are all sealed shut, allowing no light or noise in from the lobby beyond. Save for the very faint aisle lights along the floor, and the spotlight cutting a line over everyone’s heads, aimed right at the thick, red, velvet stage curtain, it’s pitch black in here now.
But it won’t be for long.
I quickly slip into the aisle seat in the very back row, right up against the curved wall. Pulling out my phone, I tuck it between my oversized jacket, and unlock it. I already dimmed the brightness as low as it’ll go earlier.
Pulling up my contacts, I click M, squinting to find his name.
There.
Izzy’s the second performance tonight. So I don’t click the Skype icon just yet. But it’s locked and loaded for when I do.
The curtains part slowly, the rolling sound echoing in the deafening silence.
A boy enters from the left wings with the neck of a violin in one hand, and a bow pinched between his fingers in the other. He stops and turns center-stage, facing the microphone and the audience right where the spotlight spears through, lighting him up, and even from way back here I can see how…how calm he is.
I’d be shitting bricks.
Slinking down in my seat, I wait with bated breath and a nervous sort of thrill that I could get caught at any second as the guy on stage starts his piece. This is a ticketed, highly exclusive event after all. Despite how many seats there are—how many empty seats—they only permitted three guests per performer max.
Hence why I’m the only one here with my parents, and not Mason and Waylon too.
This trip was paid for by Notre Père in its entirety—flight and room included. An all-inclusive package, despite this just being one night out of our total stay of six.
Makes me wonder who’s trying to woo who more.
The mad, high-pitched, and crazy-skilled rush of what was the peak of the guy’s performance, fades into a low, somber, almost mournful trailing end.
When he finishes, and takes his bow, and the curtain closes, the concert hall doesn’t explode into cheers like I was expecting. There’s a very formal, stilted sort of…speculative atmosphere in the room as they clap. It’s all very methodical, almost like the performers are being auctioned off on a conveyor belt.
It’s not even a whole ten seconds before the curtains start to open once more.
Quickly unlocking my phone screen, I hit the button to video-call Mason.
He knows to expect this, so when he answers after the first ring, and our gazes meet—our faces pale in the surrounding shadows displayed on the screen, telling me he’s watching this in the dark too—he just gives me a smile and a nod.
And then I tap the screen, flipping the camera, and lift my phone as high as I dare, zooming in on where Izzy, with a surprising amount of grace, all but floats toward the white baby grand that wasn’t there during the first performance.
Izzy’s long brown hair has been pulled up into a sort of braided up-do, with tendrils curling around her face and neck. Her face has been all painted up, and she wears a black lace dress with a high collar, a cinched waist, and billowy sleeves that are fastened tight above her wrists, giving her plenty of freedom to play.
And she’s wearing heels—low ones, but heels all the same.
And tights—flesh-colored.
My gaze drops to my phone screen. The box in the corner shows Izzy just as she lifts her hands, placing them with practiced ease and grace on the keys.
