Chapter 3 Christine
Christine
“You gotta pay your dues if you want to make it in this business.”
When you live in Nashville, you hear that statement almost every day, and I’m sick of it. I don’t want to pay my dues. I’d like to be able to pay rent for a decent apartment instead of having to live in the shitty back hallway of the New Orpheum Theatre.
Today, the person telling me to “pay my dues” is Carlotta Vanetti, a curvy woman in her midtwenties with flawless makeup, acrylic nails, and a cascade of caramel extensions.
She’s standing in front of my desk, tapping those glossy nails on the varnished wood while I pull up our events calendar to see if the New Orpheum has availability for her birthday party.
The New Orpheum Theatre isn’t just a theater.
It’s a sprawling industrial complex that has been mostly renovated and features a bar, several dance studio spaces, a chapel for weddings, and a gigantic ballroom for receptions and parties.
Then there’s the theater itself, decorated in a decadent gothic style, draped in suffocating crimson velvet and gleaming with electric candelabras.
The building also houses green rooms, dressing rooms, storage rooms, and “residences,” which is a fancy word for tiny studio apartments that the owner, Firmin Richards, rents out to cash-strapped twenty-somethings like me.
My studio apartment is a severe downgrade from the beautiful suburban mansion I grew up in.
In fact, it’s barely worthy of the word “studio,” more like a closet with a mirrored wall at the end to make it seem larger.
The toilet is located in the tiled shower stall.
I don’t have a sink, so I have to spit my toothpaste down the shower drain.
I’m pretty sure none of it’s up to code—like much of the work that’s been done to the New Orpheum—but Mr. Richards has a business partner with connections in city government, and somehow, they’ve been able to weasel their way through the inspections and obtain every permit they applied for.
They’ve cut corners everywhere, and eventually, it will start to show. But until then, it’s my job to make sure the books stay full of high-profile events—like Carlotta Vanetti’s masquerade-themed birthday party.
“I’m fortunate to have connections in the music business,” she says confidentially, leaning over the top of the lobby desk.
“Not to mention plenty of natural talent. I’ve performed in a bunch of shows, and I could get more roles if I wanted them.
In fact, I might be starring in this new musical by a young composer who grew up right here in Nashville.
It’s going to be big. I just know it. I have a gut instinct about these things, and it feels like fate, like the part was written for me.
But that’s all very hush-hush. Nothing’s settled yet. ” She mimes zipping her lips.
How considerate of her to brag about her connections and prospects to an aspiring singer with neither advantage.
“I won’t tell a soul,” I say through a dazzling smile. “And it looks like you’re in luck. We have an opening for the end of October.”
“Perfect! Thanks, doll.” Delicately, she plucks at her hair with her long nails, tucking a loose curl back into place as she purses her lips.
I’ve lived in Nashville long enough to tell when someone’s lips have had a little plumping assistance, and hers have definitely been overfilled more than once.
Whatever makes her feel good about herself, I guess.
After taking her information and her deposit, I assure her that our event coordinator will be in touch soon with more information.
“That’s great. And you keep chasing those dreams.” She flutters her hand at me before stalking across the wide lobby and flouncing out through the theater’s rotating door.
Why did I tell her I wanted to be a singer? Mindless chitchat, I guess. She asked what part of the city I live in, and when I said I live here, I saw the slight lift of her eyebrows, the surprise, the judgment. Maybe I wanted to convince her—and myself—that this job isn’t the end goal for me.
Maybe I’m tired of being unseen, unheard, and ignored, but honestly, it’s my own fault. Dancing onstage has never been a problem for me as long as I’m in a group. I could dance backup all day, every day. But singing for people? Nope.
Sure, I’ve pictured myself belting out jaw-dropping notes for an adoring crowd and hearing them cheer for me.
I dream in cotton-candy colors, but the reality is a sour gummy worm, dust coated and too hard to chew.
No matter how low the stakes, even on the tiniest stage in the smallest back-room bar in Nashville with the most accommodating audience, I just can’t make myself sing in front of anyone.
My struggle with performance anxiety is nothing new, but since my parents were killed, it’s gotten worse.
If I try to sing in public, I go into a full-blown panic attack or I projectile-vomit.
It’s infuriating. I’m pissed off at my own brain, at my parents, at the whole world.
Yeah, I could use some therapy, but who’s got the time or the money?
Not me, that’s for damn sure, because per fucking usual, my parents screwed me over one last time from beyond the grave.
I shouldn’t have been surprised. My parents were always more loyal to the Progeny cult and its leader, Wolfsheim, than to their own blood.
When Wolfsheim summoned his followers to fight for him, I told my parents not to go.
But they were devoted fanatics, dedicated to his cause.
Mom was upset with me for even suggesting they ignore a command from their “progenitor,” and she refused to speak to me the morning they left.
But my dad pulled me aside into the study where he kept all the trophies of his music career.
He used to sing and play bass guitar in a band before he switched to being a talent manager.
It always weirded me out a little, seeing old photos of him in his heartthrob days, surrounded by girls begging him to sign their pictures, their arms, their boobs, anything.
That was before I was born, though. When my mom got pregnant, he quit touring and shifted the focus of his career.
On that last morning, he spoke quietly, reassuringly. “Don’t worry about us. Your mom and I will be fine. This is something we need to do.”
I opened my mouth to protest again, but he shook his head.
“Listen…if anything should happen to us, stick with the Progeny. They’ll take care of you.”
“I don’t want them to take care of me,” I told him. “I’m an adult, Dad. I keep telling you, I’m ready to be on my own and fend for myself.”
“That’s not up to you,” he replied, a hint of sternness in his voice. “You have a responsibility as a Chosen female to marry within the Progeny and keep our bloodline pure—”
“God, do you hear yourself?” I exclaimed with an incredulous laugh. “I wish I could convince you to let go of all this Progeny crap. We could do so much on our own, just the three of us. Why don’t you and Mom understand that?”
His face darkened. “Why don’t you understand that after everything we’ve devoted to this cause, everything we’ve sacrificed, we can’t just leave it behind?”
It was the first time he’d expressed anything akin to regret. Silence hung between us, the kind of silence only penetrable by months of family counseling.
After a long moment, I whispered, “I just don’t want to lose you.”
Dad sighed, pulling me close until I could hear the double thump of his heartbeat. “I’ll make you a deal. If anything happens and we cross to the Afterworld, I’ll come back and haunt you.”
“Screw that,” I mumbled against his shirt. “Send me a guardian angel or a muse, something that grants courage. Something that might actually be useful.”
“Hey.” He pushed me gently back and clasped my shoulders. “You’ll find your courage one day. You were born to sing. All you need is the right teacher to give you confidence.”
I swallowed the sob sticking in my throat. “So if you die for Wolfsheim, you promise to send me a supernatural mentor from beyond the grave?”
“I swear, I’ll send you the best one I can find. Protection and inspiration…a guardian angel of music.”
I couldn’t help laughing a little, even as I brushed away tears. Mom’s voice rang through the house, yelling that they needed to get on the road. Dad gave my shoulders one last squeeze, picked up his leather bag, and walked out of the study.
I never saw either of them again.
It’s been over a year, and there’s been no ghost, no muse, and no guardian angel.
Another disappointment from my disappointing family.
Proof that the Afterworld they believed in doesn’t actually exist. This life is all there is, and after death…
nothing. If I can’t manage to pull myself together and go after my dreams, I’m going to languish here at the New Orpheum Theatre until I die, and my life will have been entirely pointless.
“Christine!” Meg’s excited voice comes from the doorway behind me, snapping me back to reality. “Was that Carlotta Vanetti?”
I’m grateful for the interruption. A few more minutes in that mental space, and I would have dissolved into hopeless tears.
I clear my throat and straighten my spine. “Yeah, that was her.”
“Shit,” Meg says reverently. “Mr. Richards is going to be thrilled about this. Did she just walk in? No appointment?”
“Yup. She wants to have her birthday party here in October. Some kind of masquerade deal with spooky Halloween vibes.”