Strange Sweet Song Read Online Free

to be friendly, but it is always the same with her principals and conductors and teachers. They know her father is in the background.
    “Um, a vocalise—Number Seventeen by Janice Bailey.” She opens her portfolio.
    “‘Um, a vocalise’?” It is the Maestro who speaks now, and his voice is harsh. He twines his fingers together stiffly. “Are you aware that the placement auditions are held so that we can place you in appropriate groups and roles?”
    “Yes, Maestro.” Sing feels her face reddening. Is she in trouble?
    “And that this is our only chance to consider you for the opera?”
    “Yes, Maestro.”
    The Maestro sighs. “May I ask, then, why you have selected ‘um, a vocalise’? Did it occur to you that we might prefer something with words ? Perhaps French words, as we’re doing Angelique ?”
    Sing’s hands start to shake. She doesn’t say, I can’t sing Angelique for real. Not yet. Admitting that would be sure to squash any chance she has of getting the lead. No, she has to stick with what is safe, for now, and worry about the role of her dreams when she has secured it. There’s no need for anyone here to know her secret—that despite her blood and her training, there is still something … wrong … with her voice.
    Instead, she summons her courage and says, “I’ve studied French at home, sir, and German, and I’m fluent in Italian.”
    “I can read your form, thank you,” the Maestro says.
    President Martin smiles. “I’m sure her French is excellent.”
    The Maestro raises his voice just a little and looks at the president. “You know, my mother was a nurse. Would you come to me if you broke your arm? I mean, what are we trying to do here? I’m sorry the public misses Barbara da Navelli, but it’s not our job to bring her back!”
    The words take Sing by surprise, and she is silent. Professor Needleman looks uncomfortable. Some of the faculty fidget or clear their throats, glad to be outside the Maestro’s notice. Only President Martin shoots Sing a reassuring glance, a little smirk that says, Oh, well. He will insist on being that way, won’t he?
    No one says, That’s her mother you’re talking about . No one says that.
    She unintentionally looks again to the black-haired apprentice, whose hard face is unreadable, his eyes fixed on hers in a dark, burning gaze. For the briefest moment, she is frozen. But then he closes his eyes again, graciously severing the connection.
    “Never mind, George, never mind,” the president says, patting the desk. “We didn’t set any requirements. Goodness, we only officially named the opera this morning; we can’t expect all the voice kids to have French arias. She can sing whatever she wants.”
    “Yes, of course she can, can’t she?” The Maestro crosses his arms. “Well, go ahead.”
    Sing inhales deeply, blinking back the hotness that is beginning behind her eyes, and turns to hand her music to the accompanist. But she stops when she sees a smiling face looking up at her from behind the president’s mahogany baby grand piano.
    “Don’t sweat it,” whispers Ryan, taking the music. Sing is too surprised to do anything but give him the nod to begin.
    Two measures of four, then one of three … She breathes in through her nose and feels her ribs expand, though they are still tight. She wants to roll her shoulders and loosen them but can’t seem to find the muscles that are supposed to do it. Do not fear them! They are lucky to hear you sing! her father says in her head. They will soon be lining the streets to hear you sing!
    The first note is flat, but she corrects. She has chosen Ah, but regrets it now— Oo would have been better. Maybe she will change vowels after the first few phrases. Breathe. She shouldn’t have had to breathe there. Get a bigger breath next time.
    The black-haired apprentice watches her through slitted eyes. She doesn’t know why, but she feels him judging her. Was that pointed inhalation a comment on her