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“Perfect,” I grumble. “Just…seriously fuckingperfect.”
7
SORRELL
I consider bringinga map of Toussaint with me, just to make sure I know where I’m going, but there are plenty of people still emerging from the dining hall, arguing and bickering furiously about Ford’s P.A. announcement; they gripe and bitch about how unfair this all is, but clearly none of them dare disobey the principal’s orders, because they dutifully stream north, down a drafty corridor, all gravitating in the same direction.
I’m expecting blue and silver curtaining—Toussaint’s colors—to be draped on either side of the auditorium’s stage. For the seats to be blue. For the carpet to be blue. In reality, it’s red—blood-red crushed velvet. Deep crimson brocade-work. Maroon-colored seats with gold filagree and scrollwork. The place is painfully traditional, like an old timey movie-theater, though its luxury surpasses anything I’ve ever seen in one of those places.
The smell of honey and wood polish laces the air. A female teacher I haven’t met yet stands at the top of the aisle, checking people off on the iPad in her hand. Not only does she ask for my name, but demands my student ID as well, which she then scrutinizes, eyes flicking from my picture on the plastic card to my face three times before she’s satisfied that I am who I say I am.
“All right. Go and sit on row E,” she tells me. “No talking. No texting. If we see you texting, your phone will be confiscated.”
Hah. I can get some of the apps open on my phone, but texting is out of the question. I doubt I’ll even be able to read a text now that my phone is busted, not that Ruth is making much of an effort to send many of those through. This teacher, whoever she is, doesn’t need to worry about me fucking around with my phone. I flip the button on the side of it, silencing it, but I set it on my knee all the same, hoping against hope that it might light up with a call from Falcon House.
Why the hell is she avoiding me? Who is this Henry? And how does Theo even know Ruth’sname?Ruth has a million different alter egos. Her driver’s license will read Olivia Markham one day; she’ll be Sarah Lothian the next. Her collection of passports have a variety of different names printed inside them. There is never a situation where she’ll hand over a piece of identification with her real name on it. Even our mailman thinks her name is Valerie.
But Theo called herRuth.
Somewhere on the other side of the auditorium, I can hear Beth laughing raucously. It’s the kind of laughter that has always made the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. Not real laughter. It’s the sociopathic kind, a mimicry of humor that broken people will force out of their mouths to appear fun. Beth laughs and jokes and flirts with guys, vying for their attention, pouting and flipping her hair, looking down her nose at the other girls, daring them to challenge her popularity and beauty.
Inside, she’s dying. She hates herself. She’s so afraid that one day somebody will reallyseeher. They’ll take one look at her, and see past the hair, and the makeup, and the clothes, and the over-the-top, phony laugh, and they’ll see the shy, insecure, frightened young woman who stands in front of the mirror each morning and practices that laugh so that it sounds and looks natural. She does it with tears streaming down her face.
There’s a lot of hurt inside Beth Johnson. It spills out in the most vicious ways.
“Good. You’re all here.” Principal Ford stalks out onto the stage, the sound of the heels echoing dramatically through the cavernous space. She barely raises her voice above a normal conversational level, but her words carry perfectly; the acoustics in here are phenomenal. “I’m glad to see I won’t be dismissing any more students from this establishment this evening,” she says. Gone is the friendly smile she wore for me yesterday. There’s a hardness to her eyes that makes me think of Ruth.
“I have no intention of rehashing what I’ve already said over the loudspeaker. And no, I will not be entertaining conversations with individuals, seeking to be excused from this punishment. I don’t care what commitments or responsibilities you have that make you think you ought to be above the rules of this school, but it’s this simple. You break the rules: you pay the price. Without exception.”
A low rumble of descent rolls like a wave through the crowd; clearly a lot of the senior year were planning on approaching Ford privately to present their cases as to whytheyshould be allowed to leave on the weekends or be out past curfew. They’re not happy that this back-up plan is already being nipped in the bud.
“Don’t worry. I won’t be keeping you here for long. As part of our new student enrichment program, students are now being selected to share their gifts with the rest of the school year. Make no mistake. Thisisa punishment, and you are going to sit here every evening, for as often as I deem necessary, and you’re going to pay attention to whoever steps up here on this stage. And if I callyouto step up onto this stage to get something done, it’d better get done. Give me a show of hands so I can see that everyone here in the room has heard this with their own two ears and understood what I am saying.”
A reluctant sea of hands raises across the auditorium.
Off to one side, bathed in shadows, both of my hands remain in my lap, stubbornly resisting the urge to rise. Over the years, I’ve become a people-pleaser. Making Ruth happy, giving her what she wanted, was a full-time task and felt like an uphill battle I would never win. It didn’t matter how quickly or efficiently I carried out the tasks she assigned me; there was always something I could have done better. Ruth’s cold grunt of approval was all I craved. It was the only reward that mattered to me. Here, in this foreign place, surrounded by people I don’t know or care about, I care very little about making anyone happy, least of all Principal Ford.
The woman standing on the stage appears satisfied. “All right. Let’s get on with this evening’s performance, then. And just so you know, I won’t be leaving. I’ll be standing right by the exit at the back, so don’t even think about trying to sneak out. If any of you even get up out of your seats, you’ll find yourself in an unending detention that I promise you will be absolutely no fun at all.” She turns to look off stage-right, jerking her head at whoever is waiting there in the wings.
Theo Merchant strolls out from beyond the heavy, crushed velvet curtains. Again, he wears another faded, over-sized long-sleeved black t-shirt and equally faded black jeans. I’m beginning to think his entire wardrobe solely consists of worn, threadbare clothes that used to be black but are now varying shades of dull, washed-out grey. His sneakers, on the other hand, are spotless and white, so bright under the single spotlight that snaps on overhead, that they glare against my retinas.
His dark hair is a tangle of disheveled waves. They tumble down into his face as he carries a large, black hard case across the stage and sets it down in front of a solitary chair that sits in the very middle of the rostrum.
The crowd mutters collectively as he unfastens the clasps of the case and opens it, silently hefting out a magnificent cello—the wood of the instrument is burnished black, sleek as hell, gleaming under the spotlights. It’s beautiful. For some inexplicable reason, my pulse quickens when I see it.
I find that I’m holding my breath.
Why the hell am I holding my breath?
The susurrus ceases, plunging the space into tense silence as Theo sits on the chair and places the cello between his legs.
With the bow in one hand, Theo slides the fingers of the other deftly up and down the strings of the instrument, seemingly practicing a series of shapes and movements. Then he sits there, still as can be, head bowed, face hidden behind his hair, the horsehair of the bow hovering a fraction above the strings…and he waits.
The light washes him out, turning his bare arms and the slope of his tattooed neck alabaster white. I’m close enough to see his shoulders rise as he draws in a steady, even breath. And then he plays.
The sound begins as a single mournful, high-pitched note. It seems as though it will last forever. Theo draws the length of the bow to the left and swings it back to the right so smoothly that the note doesn’t even quaver. Then he stops.
Waits.
