I sneak a glance at Fletch as we cross Soho Square. I notice other people do too. Hot guy with a guitar—I bet they’re checking to see if he’s famous. He totally looks it.
“So…Nettie,” he says. We stride beneath the shade of a tree, dodging a group of sun-dappled Hoxton hipsters attempting to eat their lunch without getting it in their beards. “Is that short for anything?”
“Antoinette.” I pull a face. “I like Nettie, though. How about you?”
“Just Fletch.”
Fletch. Nettie and Fletch. Netch. OMG stop.
“So, you’re on the musical theatre course?” I say.
“Writing and musical direction,” he says. “Second year. It’s all I’ve ever wanted to do, write music.”
“But your singing… Don’t you want to sing?”
“I like singing my own stuff. I got away with it last year but they want me to do more performing this year, hence being shoved into MT three times a week.” He smiles ruefully. “Got hauled into Miss Duke’s office yesterday.”
“Was that scary?”
“Nah. She’s a pussycat.”
She didn’t seem like a pussycat while she was tearing Lauren Rose to shreds. Maybe she’s nicer to the boys.
“Well, it’s a good thing,” I say. “People need to hear your voice.”
“How about you?” I can tell by the change of subject that he’s not up for a bucket load of compliments. “You’re a dancer, right?”
“Er, no.”
“Singer?”
“Sort of.”
“You’re a sort-of singer?”
I smile but say nothing, feeling an unpleasant stab of adrenaline. He’ll work it out soon enough.
We arrive at an old music hall venue not far from Soho Square, with a faded red-brick façade and a pair of heavy wooden entrance doors painted in black gloss. One is wedged open, a glimpse into the gloom inside.
“Is this it?” I say.
“Nice, huh?” says Fletch. “This is where the main college was when Miss Duke took over, before she bought the new building. It was only meant to be a temporary venue, but here we are. I know it’s run-down now, but I kind of prefer it. Feels more like the theatre.”
We make our way through to the dingy corridor, where we’re greeted by a collage of overlapping squares of faded neon, mainly bill posters, all with peeling corners and ripped-out sections revealing myriad posters from decades of gigs underneath. They’re mostly advertising evenings with Seventies comedians, discos, and punk bands.
“Be up in a minute.” Fletch turns left down a dark corridor and indicates a rickety wooden staircase to my right. “MT’s just up there.”
I try not to make great big doof-doof sounds as I climb the stairs to a studio at the top of the building, which looks like it’s been stuffed there as an afterthought.
The room’s full of Duke’s students. I’m sure some of them are new, like me, but they’re all chatting animatedly to each other. I find it harder to talk to new people since Mum died. It’s the expectation that with every person I meet, at some point I’m going to have to explain things, relive what happened.
I choose a seat at the back of the small studio. The blonde girl who laid into me in the changing room is over on the far side of the room, whispering to a redhead, who gives me a side-eye worthy of Regina George.
Thankfully the teacher arrives almost as soon as I’ve sat down.
“Hi, kids,” he says. He’s older—maybe sixty—white, with a graying mop of hair and a kind, expressive face. He’s wearing a Liberty-print shirt and a paisley silk scarf with tassels. “My name is Michael St. John. That’s Mr. St. John outside this room, Michael in here. For those of you who don’t know, I am head of Music at the college. You’ll be seeing me for some of your musical theatre classes, along with Miss Prescott, Mr. Turner, and Miss Astor.
“Second-years, welcome back. First-years—so, you got into Duke’s? Lucky you. Do you know how many people auditioned to be here today? Thousands. What does that mean?” He surveys us, eyes twinkling, enjoying the drama. “It means you are talented, of course. That goes without saying. But there is something about each and every one of you that is special—something that sets you apart. That’s why you’re at Duke’s.”
Or you got in because of who your mum was, despite being terrible in the audition.
“So, what does this year hold for you in musical theatre?” It’s becoming apparent that he begins every speech with a question he can then answer himself.
“We work on technique, repertoire, theory, and performance quality. As well as your classes, there will be the Duke’s Awards after Christmas (a college-wide competition), and the Easter Musical, which I expect all of you to audition for. And, of course, the prestigious Summer Showcase…”
He leaves that one suspended, rubbing his thick fringe out of his eyes. I look around. The whole room’s hanging off his every syllable.
“Today I want to hear you. I want to see how you work. I want to get to know you,” he continues, smiling at us. I warm to him instantly (although to be fair, I’d warm to anyone in a floral-print shirt). “We’ve got a few visitors from the Musical Directors and Writers course this year, so do be welcoming. Together you’re a wonderful mix of creativity and talent, and I can’t wait to see what that brings. Someone give out these dots for me.”
A set of sheet music is thrust into my hands. It’s “For Forever” from Dear Evan Hansen, which I already know and love. Even though the whole song’s meant to be an elaborate lie, there’s something about it that just feels so true to me. I listened to it a lot after Mum died. It helped, a bit.
Michael explains that the key will be modified to suit each person’s range. He sits at the piano and starts note-bashing it for us, although I suspect that most people already know it. I sing along with the others; well, at least, I think I’m singing along. I’m not sure there’s a lot coming out.
“I would now like you each to have a go at the first verse and chorus on your own,” says Michael. “Who’s up first?”
A show of eager hands appears. Before I can even assess how I feel about this, the door opens.
“Sorry I’m late, Michael.” It’s Fletch.
“Ah, good—I thought I was going to have to play,” says Michael. “Have you got your guitar?”
Fletch edges through the doorway to reveal a guitar slung over his shoulder.
“Always,” he says to general tittering—especially from the girls, I notice.
“Great,” says Michael. “Let’s go.”
Fletch walks across the front of the room to sit next to the now vacant piano. He grins at me as he passes; I smile back, flushing (annoyingly).
A boy gets up to sing. He tells Fletch the key he wants and walks calmly to the center of the room. Fletch tries a few chords on his guitar, raising his eyebrows to the boy, who nods. Fletch starts to play the intro for him. His fingers work quickly, picking out individual notes as well as chords.
The boy sings it well, but all my focus is on Fletch’s playing. I notice how his hair flops forward over his eye as he leans over to check an intricate part. As he pushes it back, the pencil behind his ear is dislodged and falls to the floor, but he ignores it, engrossed in the sound.
Student after student gets up and gives their rendition of the song, Fletch deftly changing key to suit range. I remember that it’ll be my turn at some point and my stomach tightens. Maybe they’ll forget about me. Maybe we’ll run out of time. But Michael looks up from his class list, where he’s been writing notes on each performance, and sees me.
As I meet his gaze, my heart starts thumping murderously. I knew this moment was going to come, but I thought I’d have more time to prepare, to get my voice back. I need to run, far away from this room, from Duke’s, from everyone. Right now.
“Just Antoinette to go now. Antoinette? Wait—it’s Nettie, isn’t it? I remember you from the auditions,” he says.
Of course he remembers. I was a disaster. I wait for the obligatory humiliation.
“I knew your mother,” he says. “She was a wonderful woman. One of the greats.”
I wasn’t expecting that. He knew Mum?
I get an involuntary flash of her face, but it’s not the face I’ve been longing to remember for months. It’s the other face—the raw-skinned, swollen, plastic-tube-laden face of those last few days, sunken eyes lonely in their wide sockets. I see her sadness as I try to get her to drink orange squash through a straw, and her taking it, not because she wants to but because I’m begging her. I see her despair as she watches me grow numb with disbelief at what’s happening, dealing with it minute by minute because that’s the longest amount of time I can handle.
The flash is brief, but it’s enough to make me forget where I am. “You knew her?”
He nods, his eyes suddenly brighter. In another world I would have run over and hugged him and cried and quizzed him until the bell rang, but suddenly I can feel everyone’s eyes on me, oh-so interested that I might have a connection with this teacher, and I hold back. Still, something unsaid passes between us.
“Shall we hear a bit, Nettie?” he says. Pleasant though his tone is, I know I can’t refuse. Not in front of the whole class. And not now he’s mentioned Mum.
It’s fine. I’ll be fine.
But something happens to my body. My pulse goes from andante to presto in two seconds flat and everything starts shaking. I get a huge head rush as I stand up.
The journey from my seat in the back row to the center of the room feels like a trip to the scaffold. I reach the dreaded spot and take a breath in. Fletch mouths “F sharp?”’ and I nod, afraid that if I speak, I’ll cry. He plays the introduction. The class waits. My throat closes up as I open my mouth, every last inch of my body shaking uncontrollably now. I see Michael’s encouraging smile, Fletch poised to play, the students leaning in curiously…
Nothing.
I mean, actual nothing comes out. Not even a squeak. I bombed in the audition and now I’m failing again, this time in front of a roomful of people.
Smiling supportively, Fletch plays the intro again. If I wasn’t too busy dying inside I’d be grateful. I’m hoping for something, someone to save me. Michael St. John to be called away? Or Fletch to suddenly forget every bit of musical information he’s ever learned? Maybe I could faint. Wilder and wilder get-out clauses flood my brain.
But I’ve missed the cue again. It’s over. I know it, and everyone in the room knows it. I can’t even speak. My eyes fill with unwanted tears as I shake my head.
Fletch’s smile falters as his eyes take in the situation. Intense embarrassment overcomes me, and I furiously blink away the tears. Michael says something to me but the bell for the next class drowns it out. The students gather their things quietly, without the usual clatter and chatter, reverent to my humiliation.
I push past them down the stairs, elbowing bags and shoulders aside, desperate to escape. Michael calls my name, but I ignore him as I sprint for the doors and run out into the street.