Dark Notes(7)

I made that sound a lot more charitable than it actually is. I do what I do to survive. Fuck everyone else.

Ann glares down her scrunched nose at me. “You are such a slut.”

A label I’ve worn since my freshman year here. I’ve never discouraged their presumptions about me. Sexual misconduct requires proof. As long as it doesn’t happen on school grounds and I don’t show up pregnant, I won’t get kicked out. Of course, the rumors tarnish my already loathsome reputation, but they also distract from the real reason I spend time with the guys at Le Moyne. That truth would get me expelled in a heartbeat.

“A slut?” I lower my voice in a conspiratorial whisper. “I haven’t had sex in a while. I mean, it’s been like forty-eight hours.” I turn away, wait for their gasps, and spin back, grinning at Ann. “But your dad promised he’d make up for his lapse tonight.”

“Oh my God.” Ann doubles over, gripping her midsection and cupping her gaping mouth. “Gross!”

Her father? I wouldn’t know, but sex in general is gross. Horrible. Unbearable.

And expected.

I leave them in shocked silence and slip through the first half of the day without losing my smile. Mornings at Le Moyne are a breeze, comprised of all the easy A/B block classes, such as English and History, Science and Math, and World Languages. As midday approaches, we disperse for an hour to eat lunch and work out before switching gears and heading to our specialized classes.

Daily exercise and food are required as part of the balanced musical diet, but eating is an inconvenience, seeing how I don’t have food or money.

As I stand at my locker in Campus Center, the empty ache in my stomach awakens with a groan. Layered on top of the hunger is a tight bundle of dread. Or excitement.

No, definitely dread.

I stare down at the printout of my afternoon schedule.

Music Theory

Piano Seminar

Performance Master Class

Private Lessons

The last half of my day is in Crescent Hall. Room 1A. All taught by Marceaux.

During English Lit, I overheard some of the girls blabbing about the hotness that is Mister Marceaux, but I haven’t worked up the nerve to wander over to Crescent Hall.

My insides coil tighter as I mutter aloud, “Why does he have to be a he?”

The locker door beside me swings shut, and Ellie angles around my arm, glancing at my schedule. “He’s really pretty, Ivory.”

I whirl toward her. “You saw him?”

“A glimpse.” She wiggles her little mousy nose. “Why does the he part matter?”

Because I’m more comfortable around women. Because they don’t overpower me with muscle and size. Because men are takers. They take my courage, my strength, my confidence. Because they’re only interested in one thing, and it’s not my ability to play the last bars of Transcendental étude No.2.

But I can’t share all this with Ellie, my sweet, sheltered, reared-in-a-strict-Chinese-home friend. I think I can call her a friend. We’ve never really established that, but she’s always nice to me.

I stuff the schedule in my satchel. “I guess I was hoping for someone like Mrs. McCracken.”

Maybe Mr. Marceaux is different. Maybe he’s gentle and safe like Daddy and Stogie.

About a head shorter than me, Ellie smooths a hand over the cowlicks of her inky-black hairline and does this bouncy thing on her toes. I think she’s trying to stretch her height, but mostly it just looks like she needs to pee. She’s so tiny and adorable I want to tug on her ponytail. So I do.

She bats my hand away, smiling with me, and drops back to her heels. “Don’t worry about Marceaux. It’ll be fine. You’ll see.”

Easy for her to say. She’s already locked in a cellist spot at Boston Conservatory next year. Her future doesn’t hinge upon whether or not Marceaux likes her.

“I’m headed to the gym.” She lugs a backpack half her size over her shoulder. “You coming?”

Instead of an organized PE class, Le Moyne provides a full fitness center, personal trainers, and a myriad of conditioning classes like yoga and kickboxing.

I’d rather cut off my 5-4-3 fingers than jump around in a mirrored room with disapproving girls. “Nah. I’m going to run the track outside.”

We say our goodbyes, but my curiosity about Marceaux has me calling after her.

“Ellie? How pretty exactly?”

She turns around, walking backwards. “Shockingly pretty. It was just a glimpse, but I’m telling you, I felt it right here.” She pats her stomach and widens her angular eyes. “Maybe a little lower.”

My chest tightens. The prettiest ones have the ugliest insides.

But I’m pretty, aren’t I? I’m told I am, less so by people I trust and more often by people I don’t.

Maybe my insides are ugly, too.

As Ellie bounces away and flashes her pretty smile at me over her shoulder, I stand corrected in my generalizations. There’s nothing ugly about Ellie.

In the locker room, I change into shorts and a tank top then head outside to the track that encircles the twenty-acre campus.

The humidity deters most of the three-hundred students from venturing out of the A/C this time of year, but a few laze on the park benches, laughing and eating their lunches. A couple dancers practice their synchronized warm-ups beneath the imposing steeples of the Campus Center building.