The Shadow Prince (13 page)

But I imagine trying to explain what happened and it coming out all wrong: an attractive guy, wearing tight black clothes, with long rough-cut hair, looking like he’d wandered off the set of a pirate movie, talked to me about my singing and then asked me to go somewhere with him? Yeah, the guards would probably say that he was just trying to hit on me.

Maybe I had completely misread the situation?

CeCe always teased me about how I have no idea when guys are flirting with me. She said it’s because I’ve got a wall around me that’s a mile high, so I’m either completely oblivious when guys try to flirt or I think they’re trying to make fun of me.

I’m not here to create amusement.…

That’s what the guy in the grove had said when I accused him of making fun of my singing. It was such a weird thing to say. Maybe he’s even more socially inept when it comes to the opposite sex than I am?

But any idiot should know that you don’t go around trying to grab a girl’s arm like that.

And social awkwardness doesn’t explain his eerie, fiery eyes, or the strange heat that seemed to be radiating off his skin. It had actually hurt when he had tried to touch my arm.

I look down at my wrist. My skin stings, and there are four red marks on my arm. They’re long and thin, like the shape of fingers. Right where the guy had touched my skin.

That definitely isn’t normal.

I notice the time on my watch. It’s almost three o’clock. I’d been in the grove much longer than I’d realized. That’s not nearly enough time for me to bike down to the security station and back before my audition.

My audition!

Why am I letting myself get carried away when I have much more important things to worry about? Forget about weird guys in the woods; I have only thirty-six and a half minutes to finish preparing for my audition.

Leaving my bike in the rack, I make my way between the granite columns at the entrance of the school and into the main hall. It’s large and echoey, and I can hear singing drifting through the halls. Auditions for the musical must have been going on all day. I follow the sound through the school until I find the auditorium. I peek through the heavy double doors. Someone is onstage, singing a song from
Evita
, while a few clusters of students sit in the auditorium seats. Back at Ellis High, which comprised five whole rooms, we had to do all of our performing on a platform in the cafeteria. I’ve never sung in a room this big.

The girl on the stage stands perfectly still, her hands clasped in front of her chest and her chin out. Her voice is strong and even, and I can tell she’s had years of professional training, but if Jonathan were around, he’d probably tell her to be more expressive with her body, not just her voice. The only adult in the room is a thin man with graying hair, who sits at a table, making notes in a binder. I assume he’s Mr. Morgan, the music director. When the singer draws out her final note—a bit too long, in my opinion—I push the auditorium door open and slip inside.

Mr. Morgan calls out a name I don’t quite catch. A guy comes out from behind the curtains on the stage. He wears skinny jeans, a white button-up shirt, a small open vest, and a tweed, narrow-brimmed fedora. He lifts his hat and gives a curt bow to Mr. Morgan, revealing his floppy black hair. He announces the songs he’s going to sing to Mr. Morgan and then puts his hat back on. I
take a seat near the back of the auditorium. The accompanist on the piano starts the intro, and with a snap of his wrist, Fedora Boy grabs the microphone stand and croons into the mic with all the flare of Frank Sinatra.

I’m still shaking a bit from my close encounter of the weird kind, so I try to run through a few relaxation exercises that CeCe taught me, but Fedora Boy’s voice is so warm yet powerful that I find myself distracted. I like the sound of this guy’s voice, and it relaxes me more than the breathing exercises. There’s something familiar about him—something I hear in him and the way he moves his body while he sings. He reminds me of someone, but I can’t place it. I find myself smiling when he starts his third song. I must have caught his eye, because as he finishes his last line, he plucks his fedora from his head, dips it down when he bows, and then winks … at me.

“Well done,” Mr. Morgan says to the boy. “But the winking was a bit much.”

Fedora Boy smiles wide and hops off the stage with a goofy swagger that makes me giggle inside. Mr. Morgan picks up his coffee mug and announces that he’s going to “take five.”

I realize just how dry my throat is from my bike ride, so I pick up my guitar and head out a side door to find a drinking fountain. Only twenty minutes remain until my audition, and a raspy voice isn’t going to impress anyone.

The hall is dark and empty. I find the drinking fountain, but as I’m leaning over to take a sip, I think I see something move in my peripheral vision. A low hiss buzzes in my ears. I pop upright, water dribbling on my chin. I look left and right, but all I see are shadows.

My mouth feels even drier. I take a second sip. This time, I
hear a sound from behind, like the
ratta-tat-tat
of a snare drum, and I know I am not alone. I whirl around and find the boy in the fedora standing there. He smiles wide, and the drumming sound grows stronger. I realize the syncopated beat is coming from him. It’s his song. His inner melody, which only I can hear. It’s a warm and inviting sound, not like the cold hiss I’d heard just a moment ago, and it clicks with his Sinatra vibe. He’s a crooner at heart.

“Hey,” he says. “Glad I caught you. You must be New Girl.”

“Yeah,” I say, looking over his shoulder to make sure he’s the only other person in the hall. Maybe I’m still just shaken from what happened in the grove, but I have the weirdest feeling at the moment—like we’re not alone. Like someone is watching me.

Maybe I
should
tell someone about what happened.…

“Hey, do you know where Mr. Morgan might have headed off to?” I ask. “I need to talk to him about something.”

“Nope. I’m sure he’ll be back in a few minutes. Pleased to meet you, by the way.” He presses his hat to his chest and offers his hand for me to shake. A real handshake. Not a stupid “fist bump and blow it up” like most guys. “I’m Tobin Oshiro-Winters.”

I shift my guitar to my other hand, and I take his outstretched one. He smiles wider in return, and I realize who he reminds me of—in both the friendly tone that wafts off him and also his toothy grin. He’s the male, part Japanese version of CeCe back in Ellis Fields.

“Nervous?” he asks.

“No. Um.” I realize my hand is shaking a tiny bit in his grasp. “I guess so. I’m on deck,” I say, meaning that I’m up after the next person.

“Oh,” he says. “Well, don’t worry too much. I’m pretty sure Mr. Morgan has never eaten a student.”

His friendly beat grows so strong, I know right then that Tobin and I are going to be good friends. Just like CeCe and me. Some people just click that way. Two melodies that complement each other.

“Hey, is your arm okay?” he asks, noticing the marks on my wrist.

“Oh, that. I must have brushed up against something in the grove.”

“You went to the grove?” There’s a strange note of disconcertment in his voice.

“Yeah,” I say, pulling my hand behind my back. “I think I’ve got a rash or something.”

“It looks more like a burn. Do you need …?”

“It’s fine,” I say, but for a split second, I wonder if I should tell Tobin about what really happened. Maybe that would shake the weird feeling that has been following me ever since. I can tell from how much I like his tone that he’s someone I might trust.

I open my mouth to say something about the grove, but I don’t get the chance.

“Besides, you have to be pretty talented to get a scholarship here,” a high-pitched voice says as three girls enter the hallway from the auditorium, using the same door I had. “I bet she’s really good.”

“Hey, ladies!” Tobin says, catching their attention. “Have you met New Girl?”

The three look at me, and I can tell from the expression that crosses one of the girls’ faces that
I
was the subject of their conversation. The other two seem mostly uninterested.

“I’m pretty sure New Girl has a name, but she hasn’t shared it with me yet.” Tobin raises his eyebrows at me expectantly, and
I realize my lack of social grace has struck again.

“Raines. Daphne, Raines,” I say, doing a silly James Bond impression. Because impersonations always make things less awkward.…

One of the girls laughs along with Tobin. The short blond one rolls her eyes, and the brunette yawns.

The girl who laughed gives me an amused smile. “I’m Iris Thompkins,” she says. “It’s nice to have another schollie around here.”

“Schollie?”

“A scholarship kid,” Tobin answers. “Iris thinks there are too many spoiled kids of famous people at this school. Don’t you, Iris?”

She blushes and gives him a shut-up sort of look.

Tobin doesn’t seem to notice. “Iris is always saying that the last thing we need is another brat kid of a celebrity mucking up the works around here.”

She gives him a pointed glare and rocks her head toward the brunette.

“You mean someone who deserves to be here by talent?” the blond one asks, nudging her friend. “Not because her daddy pulled some strings?”

“Whatever,” the brunette says and yawns again. I recognize those vacant eyes of hers and realize she’s the spitting image—in a younger version—of the actress in Jonathan’s favorite rom com.

“Anyway,” Iris says, trying to get the conversation back on track, “
all
I was saying is that it’s nice to have another schollie like me around.”

“Oh. Yeah.” I feel heat rushing into my cheeks. “How can you tell I’m a schollie?” I don’t want to admit that Joe Vince is my
father. Not yet anyway. I’d let these kids pass judgment on me after I had a chance to sing. If they don’t think I deserve to be here afterward, then that would be a whole different issue.

“Your outfit,” the tiny blond girl says. I feel like a giant compared to her. “It’s totally thrift store chic.”

“Thank you,” I say, even though the girl’s statement is clearly an insult wrapped inside a compliment. “You’re so kind.”

Tobin catches the irony in my voice and smiles.

“Well, I think Daphne looks supercute,” Iris says. “I love the bohemian look.”

“I concur,” Tobin says, his smile widening.

The petite blond flips her curly hair over her shoulder and then narrows her eyes as she looks up—way up—at me. “So whom have you trained with? Borelli in LA? Caldwell in San Diego? Iris had to do two years with Rimaldi before they’d give her a scholarship here. It’s a good thing he does pro bono work, isn’t it, Iris? Oh, by the way, how was the bus ride from Compton?”

Iris purses her lips. A sharp, angular tone comes off her and I can tell she wants to say something rude back, but is biting her tongue.

“I’m from Utah, actually,” I say, to draw the attention from Iris.

“Oh, then, Risedale in Salt Lake City?” the blond says, a tiny note of envy coming off her.

“Actually, Jonathan in the back room of Paradise Plants and Floral. Sometimes with an iPod out in the yard, too.”

“You haven’t had formal training?” she asks, the notes of envy growing stronger. “I had assumed you’d be good, considering Mr. Morgan is allowing you to audition for the vacancy that Cari Wilson’s left in the program.”

“You play the guitar?” Tobin asks, pointing at Gibby. “That’s a sweet Gibson. Where did you—?”

“So what do you sing?” the girl asks, cutting him off.

“I like indie music mostly, but I have a soft spot for more classic—”

“Not what
songs
you like to sing.
What
do you sing?” she says, like I’m a simpleton. “Like, what part?”

“Oh. I don’t really know. Contralto, maybe. Or possibly mezzo-soprano.” I’d never been able to figure that out in my self-taught lessons. My normal voice isn’t high-pitched, like most of the female singers’ on the radio. I have a lower, slightly gravelly quality. Like Adele’s. But I can also sing higher if I want. Jonathan was always throwing new pieces of music at me, trying to stump me, but nothing ever seemed out of my range.

“You don’t know your range and they let you step foot on this campus?”

I shrug, but inside, I start to worry that I am in over my head.

“Well, this is one audition I can’t wait to see,” she says with a wicked smile. “Come on, Bridgette. I doubt this newbie is Sopranos material. We’re wasting our time.” She turns on her heel and heads back into the auditorium, with the brunette trailing behind her.

“Okaaay,” I say under my breath.

“Don’t mind Lexie,” Tobin says. “She’s not always quite so … abrasive. She’s up for the lead in the play this year and that’s got her on edge. With Cari gone, it’s most likely between Lexie and Pear Perkins. She’s just worried you’ll be new competition.”

“She’s been a total pain since she took over leadership of the Sopranos,” Iris says. “All that power is going to her head.”

“The Sopranos?” I ask. “What is she, like, the godfather of the school mafia or something?”

“Pretty much,” Tobin says. “But I have it on good authority that they do more shopping than killing these days.”

“On the bright side,” Iris says, sounding more relaxed now that Lexie is gone, “if you suck at singing, she might actually be friends with you.”

“Well, that’s a relief,” I say, and make a grand gesture of wiping pretend sweat off my forehead.

Tobin laughs. He takes my hand and bows, pretending to plant a kiss on my knuckles. “I think I might be falling in love with you, Daphne Raines.”

I laugh.

Iris gives me a not-so-enthused look. “All joking aside. You don’t want to cross Lexie. The Sopranos can make your life miserable if they want.”

“I’m not really worried about them.”

What I am worried about is my audition. I check my watch. It’s 3:20. I haven’t realized how long I’ve been talking to Tobin and the others. The next audition should have started by now, and then I am up after that.

The door swings open, and Bridgette, the brunette, pokes her head out. “Have either of you seen Pear? It’s her turn, and Mr. Morgan is calling for her.”