RoseBlood(23)

How is it possible that I saw a guy in Victorian clothing who no one else knows about, who can vanish and drain the life from roses with just a touch? Whose eyes have been in my dreams for years, alongside violin music I thought belonged to my father?

I force the unsettling thoughts deep down inside. I have enough to worry about today in the real world. Cinching the borrowed skirt’s waist with a belt only causes the excess fabric to pleat and bulge in weird places. At least the red necktie fits. After applying light strokes of blush and peach-tinted lip balm without risking a peek in the cheval mirror, I follow Mom toward the door, resigned to my fate.

I won’t be able to get out of this until I prove myself capable of performing without breaking down. Yesterday’s fiasco brought this truth to light, and it’s been confirmed by Mom’s determination to stay at my side until she feels I’m strong enough to be here without her. For years, Mom has put her life on hold to deal with my lack of one.

It’s time to figure out why this overpowering ability to sing—that once brought me so much satisfaction—is gnawing away at me like a sickness. I need to know why I’m broken, so I can fix myself. One way or another. Maybe this place can help me do that, and then I can finally look forward to my future. Because I’m starting to realize there’s something worse than stepping up and facing your fears—and that’s living as if you’re already dead.





6



PERFORMANCE ART


“Thinking will not overcome fear, but action will.”

W. Clement Stone

Abandoning my claustrophobic dorm room for the vast opulence of the grand foyer, Mom and I squint against the sudden brightness. Morning filters through tall, cut-glass windows, casting dappled imprints of diamonds, squares, and stars along marble floors, bronze statues, and the mirrored wall.

I focus on my reflection, and that eerie sense of being watched shivers through me. In Leroux’s lore, the phantom often observed his prey through mirrors, even used them as doorways to lure Christine into his underground world.

An icy gust whisks over me and teases my hair. Startled, I glance upward at the vents, breathing a sigh of relief to find the air conditioner kicking on.

I start to relax, basking in the dissonance of the warm sun dancing with the chilled air. There’s always been something about being in natural light that invigorates me, and makes me feel capable and strong. It’s almost as if I absorb its power somehow. Dad would’ve said I was basking in its aura. And Mom would’ve laughed at him. But it doesn’t matter whether she believes or not. I know what I feel.

I step directly into a ray of sun and my blood responds, sparks of stamina bursting through my limbs and muscles. The energizing sensation feeds my courage. As Mom and I take the winding stairs, following the scents of food to find the atrium, I convince myself I can do this. This is a school founded on theatrics. I can act confident. I can face the other students, apologize for interrupting the auditions, and win them all over.

My optimism wavers as we arrive at the atrium on the third floor, partly due to the quiet chatter seeping out through the dark, arched entrance, but even more because of the song being piped in softly through speakers. I recognize the rich nuances of the language—marked with aggressive and hard consonants—as Russian. It’s from the opera the students were auditioning for yesterday; although this piece belongs to one of the male performers, which explains why the orchestral rainbow blooming in my mind isn’t consuming me. Only female arias seem to have that effect.

I hesitate at the threshold, hoping that if another of Renata’s songs comes on today, it won’t speak to me . . . or if it does, that the low volume will subdue my itch to purge. I’d like a day or two to recoup before facing another bout of humiliation.

Mom crosses the threshold and gives me a nod of encouragement. Nibbling the ends of my hair to taste the sweet orange and vanilla of my shampoo, I follow behind her, and step into character.

I expected the spacious cafeteria—made of three lecture halls with the walls knocked out from between them—to be well lit, with windows at every turn to let in the outdoor light. That’s what atriums are, right? Big, bright, and sun-filled, burgeoning with plants and flowers like a rain forest?

Not this one. I’m not even sure why they call it an atrium. There’s not a plant in sight and it’s as dreary as our dorm rooms. Round mirrors were substituted for the windows when the layout was redesigned. The reflective surfaces—splotchy and black in places where the silver-backing was rubbed off to appear fashionably distressed—resemble the portholes on a ghostly, sunken ship.

Driven by that unshakeable feeling of something on the other side of the reflections, I pick up my pace. The glossy floor, a deep red-and-black-striped design, glides soundlessly under my Mary Jane loafers. Square red-and-black tiles continue the color scheme up to the ceiling. The long room is divided lengthwise. Shiny red chairs and matching candlelit tables, most of them filled with students draped in shadows, hug the far walls.

This half—the entry side—is open and provides a path to the buffet located around the corner at the far right end of the room. A gothic-style chandelier dangles from the low, red ceiling above us, like twelve-inch-long black and gold taper candles turned upside down. Multiple glowing tips, the size and shape of tiny flames, light the walkway with a subtle yellow haze.