Take that, Becky Platter, I think, flicking off the bathroom light and heading for the mixed media room to play the academy’s pedal harp. Bet I’m the only student practicing their instrument tonight.
And that’s how it’s going to be from now on: I’m going to go above and beyond for myself. What other people do or say, I’m going to let roll off of me like water off a duck’s back.
Easier said than done, right?The Friday after Halloween is the day I make my real stand against Becky.
Revenge can be sweet, especially when it’s only my success that inflicts it.
Orchestra auditions are after class, held in the school theater. Everyone is welcome to come and watch. Back at Lower Banks, nobody would. Okay, so maybe an anxious parent or two, a best friend wanting to lend support, but for the most part, nobody cared.
Here … everyone does.
The room is packed so full that some students are standing up in the back, watching as Mr. Carter makes his way through each student on the audition roster. According to the number pinned on my shirt, I’m dead-last, right after Becky. We’re the only two students in the school gunning for first chair in harp. Good thing, too, because there is only one chair.
Harper is here for support, but she’s not trying out. Instead, she’s focused on the choir, satisfied that at least in some respect, I’ll be under her thumb. Singing for the junior choir for class credit, and trying out for the academy’s performance choir group are two totally different things, but she’s content to rule them both.
“Tristan is starting to come around,” she tells Becky as I stand there, leaning against a column and watching a petite brunette girl fumble around with her flute. She’s so nervous, her hands are sweating and she can barely keep hold of the instrument. “I told him I was done sleeping around and asked if he wanted to make it official this summer.”
Becky chuckles and adjusts the number pinned to her blouse.
“Well, I’m not sure I’m done playing around with the boys, but to snag Tristan, I’d do it, too.” Becky pauses, and the two girls glance over at me like they’ve just realized I’m standing there. “Getting engaged to someone like him this early and locking him down is probably a good idea.” My mouth tightens, but I don’t turn to look at them. What do I care if one female monster wants to get engaged to another male monster? They can make little monster babies and go on to terrorize the world together. They deserve each other.
My lips twitch as I think about Tristan, bending Kiara over the sink. Harper can have her man-whore fiancé. And yet … my stomach twists, and my good humor is short-lived.
There are some incredibly talented students in this school, and watching them play onstage is awe-inspiring. So much so that I soon forget that weird twinge of jealousy, my mind numbing to the constant chatter of the two Idol girls. Zayd is front and center in the auditorium, sitting right next to Mr. Carter. He’s a student ‘helper’, along with a half-dozen fourth-years who are all in the advanced orchestra. How that jerk got to be on the panel is beyond me. He’s a rock star, not a concert pianist.
I don’t think about that kiss. Bet he was too drunk to remember it anyway.
Once Becky’s turn rolls around, she shoves her way past me, nearly knocking me over. I let it go, gritting my teeth, and wait as she sits down to play. A hush falls over the crowd because there’s not a student at this school—first-year or fourth-year alike—that doesn’t know what’s going on with me.
Becky inhales, tossing her blond hair over one shoulder, and flashes a winning smile to the crowd. She starts to play, and I recognize it as the one and only piece Mozart ever wrote for the harp: Concerto for Flute, Harp, and Orchestra. It’s a good choice, and one of my personal favorites. Becky, however, just doesn’t have the skills to pull it off, not even with her friends from the Inner Circle accompanying her.
She’s pretty when she plays, her eyes half-lidded, that evil smirk of hers wiped clean for a brief moment in time. Makes me love the harp all that much more, knowing it has the power to ward off hate. Her expression is clear and open, as if she wasn’t the daughter of Satan. Well … I glance over at Harper, running her fingers through her long, brunette hair and completely ignoring her friend’s performance in favor of her phone. Maybe Harper is the daughter of Satan, and Becky’s just her bestie.
Becky finishes to a standing ovation, bowing and blushing, touching a hand to her chest. When she turns to look at me, her eyes flash with darkness, and I make sure to give her a wide berth as she passes, moving onstage to the sound of booing and hissing.
