Chapter Nineteen

For the first time in my life, the school day sped by. Even chemistry seemed to end in a matter of minutes. As the bell rang, I reluctantly gathered my belongings. I really, really, really didn't want to go to my voice lesson. What if I just don't go? I wondered. But although I fantasized about going straight home, I knew that it was a mad wish. No, it would be better to get it over with and pray that Erik wasn't furious with me.

I should have known better. A heavy silence hung between us as we rode from the library to the church. He stared straight ahead, and I intently studied the buildings and people as we passed them. When we arrived, he held the church door open for me me, and I felt a twinge of guilt for snapping at him the day before. That would have been a nice moment to apologize, but he moved to take his place behind the piano, and the moment was gone.

The lesson was . . . easy. Too easy. Erik said little only saying "posture" or "breath support" occasionally. He made me repeat exercises for the majority of the lesson. I suppose I should have been thankful that he was tight-lipped, but it was insulting. Just as I would almost reach a part of my range that challenged me, he would have me ascend or descend again.

When it became evident that this was all that he intended to do for the entirety of the lesson, I stopped singing. "This is pointless."

"What is?"

His tone was flat. Nonchalant. Disinterested. Anger shot through me. "This lesson. You're wasting my time."

"Wasting your time?" His fingers flew up and down the keys, continuing the exercise without me.

"You know you are!" I retorted.

He stopped playing and finally met my gaze. "Yes, it is infuriating having your time wasted, isn't it, Miss Daaè?"

I frowned. Of course. He's making a point. Part of me wanted to just walk out of the church and leave, but even then, my desire to sing – to really sing – was too strong. "You think I'm wasting your time?"

Erik began playing again, this time a slow piece in a minor key that I didn't recognize. "You are becoming more and more distracted during your lessons."

"If this is about me being irritable yesterday –"

"I assure you it's not," he interrupted. "We have discussed how outside factors can affect your lessons, yes?" I nodded. "Yet, you continue to allow yourself to become easily flustered. I don't know if it's because school has been causing you stress, or if you're having trouble balancing your responsibilities, but you have lost your focus."

"I don't think I have."

"No?" he challenged.

"I just . . . You take my lessons so seriously, Erik, but we both know that this is just a hobby."

He inhaled sharply, and I took an involuntary step backwards. "I take your lessons too seriously?" he echoed.

"Not just my lessons," I explained. "My schoolwork. My social life. You told me that I need to only focus on school and singing. You flipped out when you thought I'd gone on a date because that would be a distraction."

"Because you are far too talented for music to be a mere hobby!" he shouted, his indifferent attitude breaking.

I stood, stunned by his outburst. "I'm . . . what?"

A muscle in his jaw twitched as he spoke in a carefully controlled voice. "I told you the first time I heard you sing that your voice could be exquisite. You have . . . an inordinate amount of potential. And it frustrates me, no, infuriates me. It infuriates me that you don't believe me. No, you don't," he added, cutting off my protest. "Somehow, you have become convinced that you were made to shape your life around the world's expectations. This goes beyond music; that's why I wanted you to choose a harder paper topic. But when I push you, you become scared. You are scared that I'm right about you, and you are scared to want things for yourself."

"That's not true. I want to sing. I do care about my lessons," I argued, struggling to hold back tears. "But I don't want to set myself up for disappointment. What comes after high school? What happens when I can't afford college because I'm spending my free time at voice lessons instead of a job?"

He stared at me for several moments. I began fidgeting with the sleeves of my sweater. Finally, he said, "If you will trust me, you will never need to worry about your future."

I rolled my eyes. "Trust you with my entire future?" I repeated, my voice colored with more than a hint of irony. "I don't even trust that we can go more than a few days at a time without fighting."

"True," he conceded unapologetically. "We seem to . . . disagree rather frequently. Yet, you have always trusted me with your voice."

"That's different."

"Not if your future is your voice. Not if music is your calling." I didn't reply, so he continued. "I am not a man who wastes his time. If I didn't firmly believe in you and your voice, I would never have offered to teach you. But I grow weary of dreaming for you. If you truly think that music is only a hobby, we will end your lessons. Or you can learn to want something for yourself. I will push you. You will undoubtedly become angry with you more than once, and I will be demanding and impatient. And you will find joy in music. The choice is entirely up to you, but this is the point of no return."

I didn't know what to say. The practical side of me warned that I should put an end to my lessons. I could go back to the days when Erik was just an odd acquaintance from the library. I could be safe and stick to my plans. I would be crazy to do anything else.

Yet . . . he believed that my voice was special, that I, the loner with frizzy hair and old clothes, had something special. He didn't look at me the same way as my classmates. He didn't brush me aside like everyone else. Even if it was only because of my voice and the amusement he received from arguing with me, he didn't look past me.

"You really believe I have a future in music?" I asked quietly.

"Yes." He gave his answer without hesitation.

"You promise?"

A ghost of a smile flickered across his lips. "I may be stubborn and difficult, but I don't lie, Christine."

I sighed. "Very well. I'll continue my lessons."

"I do have one condition."

I raised an eyebrow. "Oh?"

"If you ar3e going to pursue music, you must be completely devoted to it. Even if you and I are in a state of disagreement, it will not affect your attitude during your lessons. And no dating."

I laughed at this but sobered quickly when I realized he wasn't being sarcastic. "Oh, come on!" I protested. "I'm not going to get asked out on dates. "You have nothing to worry about!"

"Just the same, I want your word. No distractions. Music will become your top priority."

I studied his face. He really is serious about this, I realized. How odd. Then, I said, "I promise I'll say no to my many suitors." I was hoping he would see the ridiculousness of his request and laugh.

Instead, he nodded once. "Good."

"I have a condition too, though. We agreed to be friends before we agreed that you would become my voice teacher. You know that my best friend and I aren't on speaking terms, and you . . . you know how lonely I feel sometimes." I stopped, certain that he would make fun of me, but he remained quiet. "So if you're not going to be at the library," I continued nervously, "it would . . . it would be nice if you would let me know."

He looked down at his hands in . . . embarrassment? "Yes. I will do my best to let you know from now on." Then, he rose to his feet. "Now, I think it's time to get you home."

We didn't talk the entire way home. I kept glancing at him, but he gazed out the window, lost in his own thoughts. It wasn't until I was locking the front door and the car was pulling away that I realized he had called me "Christine" instead of "Miss Daaè."

Posted on May 21, 2018