It amazes me that I’ve been around music and singers all my life,and yet I never heard anyone explain proper breathing technique, nor did I ever explore the topic myself.
“Sing it once more for me,” the Angel commands. This time, I employ what he taught me, and my voice is stronger and clearer than ever. When I finish, he says, “Well done.”
“I have dance class in half an hour,” I say reluctantly. “Before I go, will you sing with me again?”
Silence, and then he says, “Let’s try ‘A Little Priest’ from the same musical.”
“You know it?”
His laugh echoes delicately through the shadows. “I have devoured every song I could find, melody, lyrics, and all. We’ll do the abbreviated version, since you’re short on time.”
The duet is saucy and wicked, and though I can’t do a Cockney accent for the life of me, I give Mrs. Lovett’s part a Southern twang that makes the Angel laugh through his lyrics more than once. The cautious part of my brain, evolved for self-preservation, keeps muttering frantically about how strange it is that I’m performing a duet with a disembodied voice. But I suppress the worries with all my might, becausethis, singing with someone, is new for me, and I’m loving it. I haven’t felt this confident since…ever.
When the song ends, I thank him, and I run. I have barely enough time to get back to my room and change before heading to the dance studio.
When Mrs. Giry guides us through stretches, Meg gives me a sidelong glance. “Your face is flushed,” she whispers.
“I was doing some exercises.”
“Exercises? Right before dance class?”
“You know me. I’m all about the fitness.” I turn and face the mirror wall, watching myself grip the bar and sink into a stretch.
“Fitness. Right.” Meg’s reflection winks at mine. “Did you burn some calories last night with that hottie? He wasn’t my type, but I gotta say, he did have a nice ass.”
“Um, yeah. He was delicious. What about you?”
She shrugs. “Danced with a couple guys, made out with Gabriella.”
“Oh my god!” I exclaim in a loud whisper, but then I catch Mrs. Giry’s eye. She’s glaring at both me and her daughter, so I shut my mouth and focus on warm-ups.
But even as I go through the motions, I’m already thinking about my next lesson with the Angel.
For the next month, I go to the stairway every day, usually around five thirty in the afternoon. Some days, I can’t make it until six, seven, or later, and on weekends when the New Orpheum is hosting events or when I’m serving in the bar, it could be two in the morning. But no matter when I show up, the Angel is always there. Always waiting.
He seems to favor musicals for our work together, though he adds in some pop and indie songs here and there. At the end of each lesson, he and I sing a duet he has chosen. If I don’t know the words, he’ll sing it first—both parts. He can clone his voice somehow and sing harmony with himself, which is incredibly eerie and beautiful at the same time. That ability clinches it for me—he’s a supernatural entity. It makes me feel closer to him, even though he won’t tell me his name or anything about himself. Maybe there’s nothing to tell. Maybe he has always been a muse, and I’m just the latest in a long line of creatives he has coached. It piques me a little, the idea that I might be one of many students…nothing unique, nothing special.
One Friday, Meg swings by the front desk to ask me if I want to go out with her and a few of the dancers from our jazz class. Lately,her mom has been way cooler about her going out, and we’re taking full advantage of Mrs. Giry’s new-found permissiveness.
“Just us and the girls from class? What happened to Gabriella?” I ask.
Meg flushes slightly and shrugs. “I dunno. She got needy.”
“Needy, or was she just trying to get closer to you?”
She squirms. Looks away.
“This is what you do, Meg,” I tell her. “You’re the quintessential bolter, like the Taylor Swift song.”
“Since when do you listen to Taylor Swift?”
“Since fucking always.”
“Well, I’m not a bolter. I just don’t want that kind of relationship right now.”
“I call bullshit. You’re scared, and because you’re scared, you’re letting a gorgeous, smart, emotionally intelligent girl slip right through your fingers.”
“You’re one to talk,” Meg mutters.
