Read Online The Crickhowell School for the Muses by Rachel Waxman - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Rachel Waxman
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your lesson.…”
Awen stopped. Her left foot hung in the air, ready for the next step. But Rosaline was standing inches in front of her, blocking the way. Frustration coursed through Awen; suddenly, she wanted to rip the page she was holding into tiny shreds and throw it in the woman’s face. It seemed Rosaline was always trailing her, always knew where she was. Awen cut her teeth into her bottom lip to keep from screaming.
“You are supposed to be able to read music now, yes?”
Awen narrowed her eyes, but then nodded. How had she known? Awen wondered if Rosaline had again listened in on her lesson.
“Well then, turn around and walk back from where you came.” Rosaline pointed down the hallway.
Awen looked up and focused her eyes on Rosaline’s chin, turning her head sideways in puzzlement.
“No questions,” Rosaline huffed. “You had your lesson; now, obviously, you must practice.” Rosaline leaned over, grabbed Awen’s shoulders and whirled her roughly around to face the other way. “Follow me.” She walked briskly forward, past four white doors, finally stopping at one on the right-hand side of the hallway. It had no label etched above the door frame. She spun around to face Awen, who had not moved an inch. Rosaline raised her eyebrows. “How else do you expect you’ll get any better?”
The tingly feeling, the excitement, the anticipation…it fizzled out like dissolving sugar. And Awen had no choice but to walk forward, toward that little white room.
Seven
At first, it was almost fun. Almost re laxing, almost enjoyable. It almost could have been something to look forward to.
A little locked room. White. Wooden. A four-paned window that she never looked out of, and a scent of cedar that seemed to come from nowhere. There was a piano pushed up against the wall; it was old and bruised, but it worked. When the strings were struck, it sounded like they were gasping. But they sang nonetheless.
It was almost right.
Almost.
But then, the hours got long. Three hours of practicing every afternoon, with only lunch to separate the practicing from the one-hour lesson. They were an innocent three hours, at first. But they became something different: six half-hours. Twelve quarters of an hour. One hundred and eighty minutes. Ten thousand eight hundred seconds. And finally, Rosaline would come and release her from the room.
Singing had once been breathing. Now, after hours and hours of the same songs, the same notes, the same scales, the hidden patterns and the pitches and the discordant études—now, singing was strain. Singing was hoarseness. Singing was suffocation.
The little white room. It was stifling.
* * *
Awen hit an A on the piano. She tried to match the pitch with her voice, but no sound came out. Her throat was dry. On fire. She forced out a cough and tried again. This time she sang the note easily, letting the sound gush forth until she was out of breath. She let her head fall down upon the piano keys; a crash, a dirty dissonance, roared back in protest. She did not hear it. Or, at least, she pretended not to.
It was Monday. She had lost count of the number of days and now knew only their names, differentiated merely by prefixes, and the lack of lessons on Saturdays and Sundays. All the rest felt like the same mushy grey.
The measured clanking of high-heeled shoes resounded from the hallway. Awen jerked her head up. She hit a key on the piano and sang it softly while trying to listen to the footsteps. She already knew it would be Rosaline, but had three hours really passed? She heard a key jiggling in the door. She looked up at it, then away, staring back at the piano in feigned concentration, all the while continuing to sing the same soft note, but her vision was blurring and the white keys were growing black and the black, white, until all congealed into grey. The door opened, and she pretended not to hear it. She sang more loudly. Fortissimo .
“Awen.”
She heard Rosaline calling
Awen stopped. Her left foot hung in the air, ready for the next step. But Rosaline was standing inches in front of her, blocking the way. Frustration coursed through Awen; suddenly, she wanted to rip the page she was holding into tiny shreds and throw it in the woman’s face. It seemed Rosaline was always trailing her, always knew where she was. Awen cut her teeth into her bottom lip to keep from screaming.
“You are supposed to be able to read music now, yes?”
Awen narrowed her eyes, but then nodded. How had she known? Awen wondered if Rosaline had again listened in on her lesson.
“Well then, turn around and walk back from where you came.” Rosaline pointed down the hallway.
Awen looked up and focused her eyes on Rosaline’s chin, turning her head sideways in puzzlement.
“No questions,” Rosaline huffed. “You had your lesson; now, obviously, you must practice.” Rosaline leaned over, grabbed Awen’s shoulders and whirled her roughly around to face the other way. “Follow me.” She walked briskly forward, past four white doors, finally stopping at one on the right-hand side of the hallway. It had no label etched above the door frame. She spun around to face Awen, who had not moved an inch. Rosaline raised her eyebrows. “How else do you expect you’ll get any better?”
The tingly feeling, the excitement, the anticipation…it fizzled out like dissolving sugar. And Awen had no choice but to walk forward, toward that little white room.
Seven
At first, it was almost fun. Almost re laxing, almost enjoyable. It almost could have been something to look forward to.
A little locked room. White. Wooden. A four-paned window that she never looked out of, and a scent of cedar that seemed to come from nowhere. There was a piano pushed up against the wall; it was old and bruised, but it worked. When the strings were struck, it sounded like they were gasping. But they sang nonetheless.
It was almost right.
Almost.
But then, the hours got long. Three hours of practicing every afternoon, with only lunch to separate the practicing from the one-hour lesson. They were an innocent three hours, at first. But they became something different: six half-hours. Twelve quarters of an hour. One hundred and eighty minutes. Ten thousand eight hundred seconds. And finally, Rosaline would come and release her from the room.
Singing had once been breathing. Now, after hours and hours of the same songs, the same notes, the same scales, the hidden patterns and the pitches and the discordant études—now, singing was strain. Singing was hoarseness. Singing was suffocation.
The little white room. It was stifling.
* * *
Awen hit an A on the piano. She tried to match the pitch with her voice, but no sound came out. Her throat was dry. On fire. She forced out a cough and tried again. This time she sang the note easily, letting the sound gush forth until she was out of breath. She let her head fall down upon the piano keys; a crash, a dirty dissonance, roared back in protest. She did not hear it. Or, at least, she pretended not to.
It was Monday. She had lost count of the number of days and now knew only their names, differentiated merely by prefixes, and the lack of lessons on Saturdays and Sundays. All the rest felt like the same mushy grey.
The measured clanking of high-heeled shoes resounded from the hallway. Awen jerked her head up. She hit a key on the piano and sang it softly while trying to listen to the footsteps. She already knew it would be Rosaline, but had three hours really passed? She heard a key jiggling in the door. She looked up at it, then away, staring back at the piano in feigned concentration, all the while continuing to sing the same soft note, but her vision was blurring and the white keys were growing black and the black, white, until all congealed into grey. The door opened, and she pretended not to hear it. She sang more loudly. Fortissimo .
“Awen.”
She heard Rosaline calling
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