Below that, they had an honest-to-God coat of arms, which displayed a pair of crows peeking around a quartered shield. Each crow carried a corner of a banner in its beak, stretching the cloth out to display VERBIS DEFECTIS MUSICA INCIPIT. I forced back the urge to laugh.
To be fair, the Sharps had been around since the 1930s, so the crest and the Latin hadn’t been these guys’ idea. Besides, with the way the school treated them—basically, with the type of reverence usually reserved for religious figures—how could we expect them not to have egos the size of your average planet?
Something about the Sharps made people lose their minds. The all-girls’ group, the Precautionary Measures, packed Arlington Hall for their concerts, but for some reason it wasn’t quite the same. Our whole student body—girls and guys alike—fawned over the Sharps; they were a blank canvas that people could write their dreams onto, a blend between boy-band obsession and artistic admiration. Even Michael had harbored a secret dream of joining the Sharps up until graduation, not that he’d ever had time to audition.
Maybe that was why the Minuets were so unpleasant. An inferiority complex. The thought pleased me a little more than it should have.
I scrolled back up and paused over the photo. The Sharps looked nothing alike, but something about them was identical. The crisp lines of their jackets, maybe, or the loose way they held their heads and hands and bodies. Or maybe just their expressions, which wore the thoughtless confidence that came with practice.
I would’ve bet all my worldly possessions that the Sharps would win that December competition, and just like that, they’d have a shot at fame. The envy in my mouth tasted hot and bitter. Liquid gold.
Then my eyes fell to the audition notice, to the words TENOR 1, and my hands went flat on the keyboard as an idea hit me like a thunderbolt. An idiotic, impossible idea.
“Your range,” echoed Reese’s voice, as I straightened in my seat. “It’s just so deep.”
It could never work. Of course not.
Could it?
The feeling of failure still itched across my skin, a brand I was desperate to claw away. How hard will you work to get what you want? demanded Reese’s voice. I remembered that kid from this afternoon sneering at me, and now, eight impassive faces stared out from this audition notice, daring me, questioning if I had what it took: Could I be a Sharpshooter? Could I be hyper-confident, hyper-competent, all my self-consciousness forgotten?
For the sliver of a chance of performing across the sea, maybe I could.
This competition was three months out. Find my way into the Sharpshooters, stay under the radar for ninety measly days, make damn sure we won, and there was the springboard to my future. An international tour would be a shining star on my college apps—something not every other overachieving arts kid would have. It was downright depressing, the lengths it took to feel special when you wrote yourself out on paper. All As? Who cared? That was the standard here. Some shows, some activities? Big deal. How were you changing the world?
Sometimes, when I wasn’t too busy, I wondered why we had to change the world so early.
I went for my wardrobe and yanked it open, eyeing myself in the full-length mirror. From my dresser, I grabbed a tissue and rubbed off my purple lipstick, my eyeliner, my blush. Cheap chemical remover stung the air. Barefaced again, back to monochrome tan, I flipped my hair up the back of my skull and over my forehead, the fraying tips hanging above my eyes.
Everyone told me I looked like my dad. Never my mom, who had a delicate nose and chin. I had Dad’s prominent features and his stubborn mouth. But I’d inherited Mom’s height, plus a spare inch that had come from God knows where. “American food,” she’d said, shaking her head, when I’d growth-spurted past her at age fifteen.
I released my hair. As it fell halfway down my waist, I remembered the endless row of wigs in the costume shop. I could even picture the one I wanted—short, shaggy, black. We were supposed to sign them out, and for only three days at a time, but if anyone ever confronted me, I could say I’d forgotten . . . innocent mistake, right?
I worked my dresser’s top drawer, gummy with age, out of its slot and rummaged around for the finishing touch—a blunt-tipped pencil, worn down by use. I started filling in my eyebrows, shading the ends out with the tip, making my brows thick and serious.
I gathered my hair up and postured in the mirror, hooking one hand into the pockets of my jeans. Legs swiveled to shoulder-width apart. Tilting my head, I stuck my chin out.
“Hey,” I said to myself, and again, deeper. “Hey. What’s up?”
I was unrecognizable.
For the first time since Monday, I didn’t hate the sound of my voice. I couldn’t fix it, but I could use it. I’d solved the unsolvable problem, kept my answer and rewritten the question.
Two knocks came on my door, and I flinched. In the mirror, my shoulders buckled in. I shrank two sizes.
“Hey, lights out,” called our prefect, Anabel, from beyond the door. Heart pattering, I flicked the switch, but my desk lamp still shed a remnant of buttery light. As I turned back toward the mirror in the dark, lifted my hair back up, and pulled my guy-stance back on, limb by cautious limb, I felt free and empty and new.
This had the potential to be the most embarrassing stunt in Kensington history, but I had nothing to lose except my dignity, and I’d lost so much of that in June, the prospect hardly fazed me. Besides, theater was all about risk. Risk wasn’t scary. Insignificance was terrifying.
The light drew streaks down the thick lines of my arms. I rubbed one elbow, my throat tight. Michael Jordan, they’d taunted me every other day in middle school—not so much the girls as the boys. Incredible Hulk. Hey, Jordan, can you sell me some steroids? Whatever you’re on, I want some. Early growth spurts and a thick frame had gotten me so much shit back then. I’d come out of middle school thinking, that was it, I was done caring what anyone thought.
Of course, if I didn’t care, I wouldn’t still be trying to prove myself, would I?
I wouldn’t still want to win.
I spent Friday afternoon on the Palmer stage practicing my audition piece, serenading the empty theater. With my chin drawn back toward my neck, I muted the brightness of my upper notes, adjusting my delivery to hit the sweet spot between scratchy and strong. I sang out the stress of the week until my throat felt raw.
On Saturday evening, I fixed on my wig and warmed up in my dorm, nervous froth bubbling in my stomach. Then I headed for West Campus.