Chapter 5 Christine #3
He seems to favor musicals for our work together, though he adds in some pop and indie songs here and there.
At the end of each lesson, he and I sing a duet he has chosen.
If I don’t know the words, he’ll sing it first—both parts.
He can clone his voice somehow and sing harmony with himself, which is incredibly eerie and beautiful at the same time.
That ability clinches it for me—he’s a supernatural entity.
It makes me feel closer to him, even though he won’t tell me his name or anything about himself.
Maybe there’s nothing to tell. Maybe he has always been a muse, and I’m just the latest in a long line of creatives he has coached.
It piques me a little, the idea that I might be one of many students… nothing unique, nothing special.
One Friday, Meg swings by the front desk to ask me if I want to go out with her and a few of the dancers from our jazz class. Lately, her mom has been way cooler about her going out, and we’re taking full advantage of Mrs. Giry’s new-found permissiveness.
“Just us and the girls from class? What happened to Gabriella?” I ask.
Meg flushes slightly and shrugs. “I dunno. She got needy.”
“Needy, or was she just trying to get closer to you?”
She squirms. Looks away.
“This is what you do, Meg,” I tell her. “You’re the quintessential bolter, like the Taylor Swift song.”
“Since when do you listen to Taylor Swift?”
“Since fucking always.”
“Well, I’m not a bolter. I just don’t want that kind of relationship right now.”
“I call bullshit. You’re scared, and because you’re scared, you’re letting a gorgeous, smart, emotionally intelligent girl slip right through your fingers.”
“You’re one to talk,” Meg mutters.
“Come again?”
“You heard me.” She shoots me a challenging look. “Planning another one-night stand if we go out?”
“I thought you didn’t judge me.”
“I don’t. Be cool enough to return the favor.”
“What I’m doing isn’t judging, it’s friending.”
She rolls her eyes, but she laughs, too. “Fine. I’ll ask Gabi to come along. Will that make you happy?”
I tap my lips as if deep in thought. “I suppose. For now.”
“Cool. And in return, you keep your eyes open for someone you might want to sleep with more than once. Like a guy with a fuckable brain, not just a fuckable body. Deal?”
“A fuckable brain? That sounds grotesque.”
“You know what I mean. We’re leaving at seven. Dress cute.” Meg shakes a finger at me, then flounces off.
Work ends at five thirty, and then I take a quick shower.
I’d planned to do laundry last night, but my lesson with the Angel ran long.
We were working on a piece from Rent, and time got away from us.
I think he would have gone on all night if I let him.
Anyway, my failure to do laundry for two weeks means that after my shower, I discover I have no clean underwear.
Not even my scratchy emergency thong or a threadbare pair of the granny panties I sometimes use when I’m on my period.
The panties bin in my drawer is completely empty.
And everything in the laundry bag smells because it’s been sitting there getting infused with the sweat stench from my dance clothes.
I have no option but to go commando in a short skirt and hope for the best.
I pull on the clothes and do my makeup more hastily than I normally would for a night out.
Maybe I should take more time getting ready, but I’m desperate to squeeze in a lesson with the Angel before I meet up with Meg and the others.
For some reason, I can’t bear to go a single day without hearing the Angel’s voice.
He speaks in my dreams sometimes, with the smooth, sexy tones of a 1920s crooner, and I’m always sorry when I wake up to silence.
“Today, we’ll work on strengthening your pelvic floor,” the Angel tells me.
“You must learn to use your entire body to support the resonance of your voice. Engaging your abdominal muscles and exerting light downward pressure on your pelvic floor will help you extend and enrich the sound you produce without making you run out of breath too quickly.”
“Oh. And how do I strengthen my pelvic floor?”
“There are a number of methods. We’ll try an exercise first. Lie down, spread your legs slightly, and bend your knees.”
A simple enough request, and yet his voice is so decadently sinful that my mind immediately goes to some very naughty places.
I arrange myself in the position he requested, on my back, knees bent.
I can feel the chilly air of the stairway like a ghostly breath between my legs.
Of all the days to run out of underwear…
Can the Angel observe me while in his spirit form?
What if he likes what he sees? Can ghosts get turned on?
And why am I aroused by this? God, I need sex.
When I go out tonight, I might actually have to sleep with the guy I choose before I drug him, just so I can stop fantasizing about my spiritual voice coach.
“Now what?” I say faintly.
“Arms at your sides. Palms down.”
Is it my imagination, or does his voice sound nearer, more corporeal? More distinct?
“Inhale,” he instructs. “Lift your hips for me.”
Oh fuck.
I inhale, but it’s more of a gasp.
“That wasn’t a good breath,” the Angel reproaches me. “Try again. Engage the muscles of your pelvic floor. Lift, and hold that position while I count to fifteen. Breathe steadily. Here we go.”
Taking a full, deep breath, I lift my hips and maintain the pressure while he counts, but the delicate trickle of arousal between my legs makes it difficult to concentrate.
About halfway through my third attempt at the pose, my gaze locks on the door leading from the second-floor stairs to the hall. The narrow window in the door has been broken ever since I started coming here. But there’s something different about it today.
I lift my head, staring between my bent knees at the window. In the darkness beyond, I can almost make out the deeper black of a shape—maybe a head and shoulders. But I can’t tell if I’m imagining it.
Until the blackness moves.
With a startled gasp, I scramble to my feet, tugging down the hem of my skirt. “Angel?”
A few beats of silence, and then his cool voice echoes through the stairway, distant and reproachful. “You seem distracted. Perhaps we should end our lesson here.”
“I think someone was watching me.”
“Perhaps they were. Does it matter? Are we not working toward the goal of you performing for an audience?”
“Yes, but that’s not what I…never mind.” Mustering my courage, I stride over to the door and fling it open.
Nothing. Just an empty hallway littered with debris and dust, so dark I can’t see very far along it.
I shut the door again. “I guess I’m jumpy today. I’m going out tonight for a drink. That should help me relax. Except I know Meg is going to beg me to audition with her tomorrow.”
“Audition?”
“Yes, for a new musical. Meg says they need dancers and a chorus. They’re holding open auditions here at the New Orpheum, in the theater itself. I guess the guy who wrote the musical has connections to the building’s owners.”
“Excellent. Your homework is to audition for the musical.”
“What? No…I’m not ready. I’ve told you, I can’t sing for people.”
“Then don’t sing for them,” he says softly. “Sing for me.”
“For you?”
“I’ll be listening. When you stand on the stage, block out everything else, and sing for my ears only. Pretend you’re right here, in our sanctuary, and perform the way you do when we’re alone.”
“That won’t work.”
“Try. That’s all I ask of you.”
My palms are sweating at the mere idea, but I don’t feel sick to my stomach, which is an improvement. “You’ll be there?”
“I will. I promise.”
I’ve only known the Angel for about a month, but he has been present every single day since he promised to teach me.
Granted, he’s a ghost, which means he probably doesn’t have much else to do…
but he’s someone reliable in my life. Even Meg can’t always be there for me—she has obligations of her own.
If the Angel says he’ll be at the audition, I know he means it.
He speaks again, his voice swirling around me like a caress. “You’ve come so far in these few weeks, Christine. You amaze me…you inspire me. This gift you possess—it cries out to be shared with the world.”
My very soul cringes. “I think I would hate being famous.”
“Fame is irrelevant.” There’s a tremor in his voice, a fervor he doesn’t usually express unless he’s singing.
“Adulation and accolades mean nothing. The only thing that matters is the power you possess to stir a soul, to move emotions, to alter the course of a heart. Music can do that. You can do that. I know you can, because you’ve done it for me.
I am resurrected every time I hear you sing. ”
Tears pool in my eyes. “That’s the most beautiful thing anyone has ever said to me.”
“So you’ll try,” he urges gently.
“I’ll try. For you.”
Tension vibrates in the air, in the chasm between our voices. I’m trembling as I stand there alone, in a maze of concrete and shadow, goose bumps rising along my arms from the cool air, waiting for something. Waiting for him to speak to me, sing to me…touch me.
What the hell am I doing?
It’s been well over a year since my parents died, and I thought I had a decent handle on everything, that I was doing pretty well. But maybe I’m more vulnerable than I thought, because I am becoming far too attached to a literal ghost.
So when his lovely voice glides into the first few bars of “You’ll Never Find Another Love Like Mine” for our finishing duet, it’s too much for me to take.
I don’t sing with him. Instead, I run.