A Phantom Enchantment (11 page)

We told him about our idea to go to Arles next weekend, and Flynn was on board with the plan. Shortly afterward, we left the café, tightening our coats against the winter chill. I was listening to Flynn wax poetic about the need to incorporate some eighties post-punk style into our opera when I caught sight of a man walking opposite us, bundled in an overcoat and wearing a Cossack hat. A scarf partially obscured his face, but I spotted the familiar crow's feet by the eyes and the salt-and-pepper scruff on his chin.

It was Monsieur Crespeau, and I was pretty sure he saw me, too. But as he passed us, he pretended I was a stranger.

We continued on our way, Flynn rattling off some musical inspirations he wanted to include in our songs: The Cure, Echo & the Bunnymen, Joy Division.

“I think that style would go well with your lyrics,” Flynn said. “What do you think, Emma?”

“Huh?” I was still mulling over Crespeau's snub.

“Post-punk? Eighties sound?”

“Sure,” I said. “Sounds great.”

“These are your lyrics, Emma,” Owen said. “You should care what we do with them.”

“I know. And I do care. But I don't know music like you guys do.”

“Why do you do that?” Owen asked.

“Do what?”

“Sell yourself short like that. I saw you crying during the opera. You appreciated it more than any of us. Just because you haven't studied music formally doesn't mean you don't know what's good. You know what moves you, right? That's all we're asking for. We want your opinion. We want to know what you want.” And then Owen said the one thing I'd been dreading, the thing that terrified me most. “In fact, now that Elise has gone over to the dark side, you're going to be our new Christine.”

C
HAPTER
12

I
don't know where my fear of singing came from. I wasn't tone-deaf. I could sing on key, at least in the shower. But ever since I could remember, I froze up at the thought of singing in public, even at friends' birthday parties.

My mom used to have a beautiful voice and sang often. Genetically speaking, I was 50 percent predisposed to carry a tune. But there was something about singing that laid all my insecurities bare. As soon as I heard my own voice, it triggered all my inhibitions and I became a stuttering, incoherent mess.

So despite the beauty of the scenery out the train window as we made our way to Arles that next weekend, I was in turmoil about just how badly I was going to screw this all up. By the time we arrived at the station, the sun had burned off the clouds, and the sky was a color I could only describe as Provençal blue. Walking into Arles was like traveling back in time. The city was ancient, compact, and crowded with buildings, like someone had shrunk Rome down to 10 percent of its size. The buildings were a sooty white color with red tile roofs, and the narrow terraced streets would have been a nightmare for anyone in heels. Luckily, I was wearing my Converses.

Since we were only staying the night, we splurged on a hotel close to the sights instead of staying at a hostel. Our hotel room looked like it had been decorated by Dr. Seuss—turquoise walls and bright yellow curtains, whimsical furniture with curvy lines, polka-dotted wallpaper in the bathroom, and giant round headboards with a red-and-white swirl design.

We stashed our luggage in the closet, washed up, then grabbed a map of town from the hotel lobby before heading out to the famous Amphitheatre, which looked like a miniature Coliseum. Owen and Flynn were like little boys running through the arched tiers and hiding behind columns while I took photos of the arena and the gorgeous views of the Rhone. Supposedly our hotel had a rooftop deck with stunning views, and I was looking forward to scoping it out later.

When we went down to the performance area, Flynn, dressed all in black, pretended to be a matador to my reluctant bull. “Come on, Emma, charge me!” he kept saying.

Owen laughed. “I hope that's not code.”

“Sexual innuendo from Flynn?” I said. “Surely not.”

After the Amphitheatre, we walked to the town square, which had an obelisk in the center surrounded by some civic-looking buildings and a church. We ducked into the church of St. Trophime and strolled through its Cloisters, which were practically empty, making the experience feel solemn and meditative. I took some great pictures of the sun coming through the columned arches and the weathered statues of saints who seemed to be surveying the grounds.

“Where's the van Gogh café?” I asked.

“You want to go to that tourist trap?” Flynn said.

“I know you're a complete iconoclast, but one of the main reasons I wanted to come here is because I love van Gogh. I want to see the yellow café.”

“Oh, all right,” Flynn groaned.

We checked our map and made our way to the café, passing by a tiny restaurant tucked in an alley. A chef stood outside the entrance cooking a pan of paella that must have been three feet wide.

“Please tell me we can come back and eat that for lunch,” Flynn said.

“Fine by me,” I said.

We finally came to the famous yellow café, which except for the daytime sky beyond, looked just like van Gogh's
Café Terrace at Night
.

“Let's go in,” I said. “Just for a drink.”

Flynn grudgingly agreed, but the inside was not nearly as impressive. There were a few phony van Goghs on the walls, and the service was a bit surly.

“See?” Flynn said. “Tourist trap.”

Eventually, the waiter managed to brings us our
citron pressés,
drinks made from the juice of an entire lemon with just a dash of sugar. They were just a little less sour than our server.

By the time we got our check, we were starving. We found our way back to the little restaurant we'd passed before. The paella man was no longer outside, but a host promptly met us at the entrance and took us into a dining area that made us feel like we were guests in someone's home. The kitchen beyond was open, so the homey scents of roast meats and seafood wafted our way.

Flynn and I both ordered the paella, and Owen got a chicken dish infused with thyme and rosemary. We shared a carafe of Grenache that tasted faintly of blackberries and lavender. After dessert, we began discussing the opera over the last of our wine.

“So we should assign roles so we can try out the different parts to see if the songs are working,” Owen said.

Flynn said, “I don't know what you guys think, but I'd be perfect as the Phantom.”

“Agreed,” Owen and I said at the same time.

“Should I be offended that it was so easy to come to a consensus on that one?” Flynn asked.

“No,” Owen said. “I just think I'd make a better Raoul.”

“Which leaves me as Christine,” I said. “Are you sure you and Elise can't make up so she can play the part?”

“Definitely not,” Owen said. “Besides, we have an idea to get you over your fear.”

We paid the bill, and the two of them led me through the narrow streets of Arles until we came to the ruins of an ancient Roman theater. The semicircular seating area was largely intact, but not much was left of the stage except for two columns that stood in eerie silence now, watching over nothing. We were the only spectators.

I stood there, marveling at this architectural wonder. “This is so freaking cool.”

“Yeah, especially since it's been here since 14
B.C.,”
Owen said, reading from the map caption. “It used to seat ten thousand people.”

“Wow,” I said, trying to imagine the seats filled to capacity.

“They still use it for concerts,” Owen said. “Sigur Rós played here just a few months ago.”

“Can you imagine performing here?” I said.

“Actually, we can,” Flynn said. “And that's exactly what we're going to do.”

“What do you mean?” I said, feeling my stomach drop.

Owen grinned. “We're going to start your singing lessons right here, so the ghosts of ancient Romans can spur you on.”

“Guys, I don't think this is such a great idea,” I said. “It's getting late, and—”

“Emma, it's three o'clock,” Flynn said. “We have a couple hours before we lose daylight, but we only have a few months to get you in singing shape, so we've got no time to spare.”

“Can I just say that I hate you?” I said.

“Look,” Flynn said. “Think of this as singing boot camp.”

“Yeah,” said Owen. “The acoustics here are great, and despite Flynn's snide comment, I know you can sing after—”

“The event that shall not be named,” I said.

“I know you don't believe me, but you've got potential.”

“Fine,” I said. “But you're both a bunch of bullies.”

“You know you love us,” Flynn said as they dragged me to the center of the performance area.

“Most of your issues come from your fear of being judged,” Owen said. “And we promise not to judge. What an audience really wants is to be told a great story. So think of singing as one way to tell a story, and your voice is the instrument to tell that story. Emotions and authenticity are far more important than perfection. Remember, Christine wasn't a perfect singer, either. She needed lessons, too.”

“Yeah, just consider us your angels of music,” Flynn said dramatically. I couldn't help but crack a smile.

“Eventually, we're going to work on vocal techniques, breathing exercises, and all that,” Owen said, “but for right now, all we want is to get you over the fear of your own voice. So we're going to play a little singing game.”

We sat in a circle at the center of the “stage” and passed around Owen's iPod, which was set to shuffle. When a random song came up, the person holding the iPod would hum the tune until one of the others guessed it. You got bonus points if somebody guessed correctly in fewer than ten seconds.

Humming instead of singing made the game a lot less intimidating, and after a few rounds I wasn't feeling as nervous anymore. I was just laughing and having a good time.

“Okay, now we're going to step it up a little,” Owen said. “This time, you have to sing the words. If you don't know them, you can look up the lyrics on your phone. But you have to try and imitate the singer's style. We'll start with classic rock.”

I groaned, but the reality was that it was much easier to sing if I was pretending to be someone else. I could let loose with a Robert Plant scream or the raspy growl of Janis Joplin. We quickly graduated to more recent songs—punk, pop, and hip-hop. And I found that, despite everything, I was having fun.

Later that night, exhausted from our vocal exertions, we found a little pizzeria and shared a few slices as we strolled by the river, which looked exactly like van Gogh's
Starry Night Over the Rhone
except the stars weren't quite as sparkly as they were in van Gogh's vision.

When we got back to the hotel, there was a little verbal scuffling over the sleeping arrangements. The room had two double beds, so the consensus was that I would share my bed with one of the guys.

“Emma and I have already slept together,” Flynn said, “and I thought it went quite well, didn't you?”

“Fine by me,” Owen said, but his voice was a little gruff.

“Yeah,” Flynn said to Owen, “in case you get back together with the Ice Queen, I don't want you to do anything that might blemish your reputation as the perfect gentleman. I, on the other hand, have no reputation to speak of.”

“And what about my reputation?” I said, feeling mildly insulted that I wasn't being consulted on the matter.

“Spotless as always,” Flynn said. “This will be a charitable gesture on your part, allowing a bum like me to crash in your bed. Some would say you're downright saintly.”

He stripped down to his boxers and T-shirt, and Owen went into the bathroom. I waited until he came out, then went in to brush my teeth and change into my pajamas. Flynn was already cozied up in the center of the bed, and I had to forcibly move him over to make room.

“Good night, Owen,” I said, reaching over to turn off the bedside lamp.

“Good night,” he said softly.

I scooted over to the far side of the bed and tried to sleep. It should have been easy. We had traipsed all over Arles that day. I was exhausted. But I couldn't stop thinking about Gray. Getting away from Paris with Owen and Flynn had been a great distraction, but tomorrow the illusion would end, and I'd be back at school facing my demons. Well, one demon in particular.

As I lay there painfully awake, I remembered that I'd never gone up to explore the rooftop balcony. I wondered if it would be accessible at night. I tiptoed out of bed and threw on my jacket over my pajamas, creeping out of the room and taking the elevator to the top floor. A door led outside to the roof, and I strolled to the balcony railing and peered out over the river, calm and smooth as glass.

After a few minutes, I heard the door open behind me and wheeled around.

“Owen, you scared me!”

“Sorry. Couldn't sleep, either.”

He came to join me by the edge, and our arms were nearly touching as we leaned against the railing.

“What kept you up?” he said.

“I can't stop thinking about Gray,” I said. “Today was probably the first time I stopped thinking about him every second. And I have you to thank for it. I had so much fun today. I felt almost . . .”

“Happy?” he said.

“Yeah.”

He grinned at me. “I want you to be happy, Emma,” he said. “And believe me, you will be happy again.”

I shook my head. “Sometimes I wonder.” The night's silence grew around us as we stared off into the distance. “Why couldn't you sleep?” I asked.

“Honestly?”

“Yeah.”

“Because you were in the bed right beside mine.”

“Ah,” I said, feeling a little confused and a little self-conscious in my pajamas. “Were you mad that Flynn got to sleep with me?” I said, going for a joke.

“I was mad that I wanted to,” he said. He ventured a shy glance at me. “Emma, as much as I try, my feelings for you don't go away. I know it's not fair to put this on you with everything else you're going through. But it's so hard to just be your friend when I want to be so much more.”

I was flustered by this late-night confession. “What about Elise?” I said. “You guys just broke up.”

“Emma, I never loved Elise. We had fun for a while, and I know everybody thinks I was devastated by the breakup, but the truth is, I'm going crazy because I can't seem to find a way to get over you.”

I could feel my throat growing tight and my underarms beginning to sweat. Just a few hours ago, we'd been humming and singing songs like total dorks, and now he was here on the roof with me making romantic proclamations.

Only unlike Elise, I didn't mind romantic proclamations. I wasn't afraid of commitment and true love. The problem was, I was still in love with Gray.

I thought back to what Crespeau had said about me being like the Lady of Shalott, watching shadows through a mirror instead of living my life. For once, I wanted something real,
someone
real who was standing right in front of me, not an illusion in a mirror.

Owen turned to me and let his finger drop to the grasshopper pin on my coat. “Has it brought you any luck?” he asked softly.