I DON’T LIKE KATHRYN PEASE. That doesn’t make me evil or anything. I’m just not one of those people who thinks everybody has to go around being nice to everybody else all the time. I could pretend everything’s fine between us. I could be nice to her face, then trash her behind her back. But I think it’s better to be honest. I don’t like Kathryn, and I’m not afraid to admit it.
Unfortunately for her, if I don’t like somebody you can bet nobody else does, either. My best friend Chloe says it’s a power thing—people pay attention to who’s on my bad side because they don’t want to end up there, too. But I think that’s only part of it. Kathryn does a pretty good job turning people off all by herself.
Take right now, for example. We’re down front in Honors Choir. In one of Anderson’s quintets, which are really no big deal. But from the way Kathryn’s going after it you would think this was the Met. She’s singing way too loud. Even has the music memorized. When we’re done, Anderson starts gushing about her “nice, straight tone,” and she looks over at me—right at me—with this bitchy little smile on her face.
“Ow!” whispers Laura Lindner when I elbow her in the arm. “What’s the deal?”
“I’d have a nice, straight tone, too,” I whisper, “if I had a nice, straight stick up my ass.”
Laura laughs. Kathryn looks away. And she doesn’t look at me again for the rest of the rehearsal. Choir would be my favorite class if it wasn’t for her.
I know. Choir. It sounds lame. And if you were Chloe, that’s exactly what you’d say. “You can do whatever you want, Brooke. You’re a Dempsey! So how come you’re wasting your time with the music freaks?”
But she has no idea. None of the people we hang out with have any idea how big a deal music really is at our school. You’d think they would have gotten a hint when the Honors Choir performed at the White House—not one of those trips where you get to go if you sell enough popcorn, but a real concert set up by the First Lady and broadcast on public television. Or when two years in a row, somebody from William O. Douglas won the Blackmore Young Artists’ Festival, which is one of the biggest voice competitions in the country and just happens to take place at Baldwin University, right up the road. But it doesn’t have anything to do with sports or getting wasted or hooking up, so music might as well be knitting or ballroom dancing as far as they’re concerned.
Music, however, is my life.
It’s also the one place where I can’t get rid of Kathryn.
She and I have other things that we’re good at, of course. I swim. She writes for the school newspaper. But music is our main focus. Some days the only thing that keeps us from ripping each other apart is the fact that we’re different voice types, which means we don’t usually go up for the same parts.
We’ve always known, though, that that was going to change.
The bell rings, and while we’re putting away our folders Anderson picks up two yellow envelopes from the podium.
“People!” he shouts. “Don’t forget the pool party at Brooke’s after school. One last hurrah before we start the contest season! And speaking of contests—Brooke, can I see you for a moment? Kathryn, you too.”
We both head down to the front of the room, but Kathryn hangs back a little. It’s like she thinks I’ll bite or something.
“You’ve been waiting for these, I believe?” says Anderson as he gives one envelope to me, the other one to her.
She thanks him. Puts the envelope into her bag, and hurries out of the room. I see her take it out when she’s halfway down the hall. She opens it and reads while she walks, her dark ponytail swinging.
I wait until I get home to open mine.
Congratulations. You have been selected to participate in the 50th Anniversary Blackmore Young Artists’ Festival.
I sit on my bed and open the pamphlet that came with the letter. I read the section about the contest history—how Ian Buxton Blackmore came to Lake Champion after a highly successful opera career and started the contest to get our singers into the elite music world. I scan the list of past winners—they end up at Juilliard, at Peabody, in Europe singing with major orchestras. I imagine my own name on that list. This is what I’ve been working for ever since we moved to Minnesota.
And it’s going to be my ticket out of here.
Finally, I flip to the contest rules, even though I’ve been to every Blackmore for the past seven years and I know everything by heart. There’s only one first prize in the vocal division, so different voice types don’t matter. It’s sopranos against tenors. Baritones against altos. Altos against sopranos. Me against Kathryn.
The letter has a link to an online registration form. I grab my laptop and fill it out, listing all the voice teachers I’ve had. Especially the ones in New York, which is a big deal since not many singers from here can afford training like that. Just to be safe, I rip out the snail mail entry and fill that out, too. Then I walk to the post office and send it priority with delivery tracking. This way, I know that the entry is on its way—that I am on my way. For the past two years, somebody from our school has won the Blackmore. This year is my turn. All I have to do is keep Kathryn in her place, which should be easy when you consider who I am, and who she is.
But I learned a long time ago that you can’t assume anything when it comes to her.
I learned it the hard way.