read the program. “If this concert had a title,” Malachy said, “it would be ‘Dare Me to Sing It and I Will.’ All she’s missing is something from the Supremes.” Esme would begin with two Negro spirituals and an Appalachian folk song, followed by a trio of Schubert lieder, a Handel cantata, and, to leave her audience longing for more at intermission, Cio-Cio-San’s farewell aria from
Butterfly
.
She came onstage wearing a gown that looked as if it were made of gold leaf. The skirt billowed dramatically from a cinched waist—the colored spotlights flashing on its folds as she moved—but the strapless bodice was so tight that Daphne wondered how the singer’s lungs could take in the air they required to produce such a powerful voice. Between each song, after the applause faded, the sound of crickets was urgent and vivid—yet every time Esme opened her mouth, Daphne’s ears shut out everything else, even the piano.
At the intermission, as spectators rose to stretch out the kinks from an hour of sitting on their punishing chairs, she felt as if she couldn’t move, as if she’d become, literally, “all ears.”
Malachy stood. “I’d better go find those friends of my dad.”
Mei Mei wandered off as well, so Daphne was alone, glad for a chance to collect her emotions. She looked up at the lighting cables and the night sky beyond, then back at the deserted stage. Only now did she notice the blue Oriental rug on which Esme had stood. The piano gleamed like a Cadillac waiting by a city curb to carry its privileged owner somewhere important.
It occurred to her that this was part of what they were being shown that summer: The Life. They were there to be drilled and tested, to learn that it could never be easy, and maybe to be noticed or even discovered, but they were also catching a flashy glimpse of the rewards for those who excelled. Daphne felt, for a moment, as if Esme were performing for them alone. The rich patrons with their city clothing, Esme’s fellow “artists” with their bloated egos, the locals with their picnic baskets way at the back of the field: all these people were merely set dressing, like the blue carpet, the potted gardenia plants flanking the stage, and the champagne bar at which the wealthiest ticket holders were toasting one another and scanning the crowd for celebrities. Daphne spotted Natalya, their dour taskmistress, in a short hot-pink dress, talking to the camp’s director, Antony Carpenter-Rhodes, and a handsome platinum-haired man in a plaid jacket. Natalya looked
giddy
; she was laughing, her magenta mouth wide open to the sky. She looked like a wax version of herself, a doll.
“You haven’t budged. Esme put you in a coma?” Malachy was back, handing her a paper cup of water.
“Just taking it all in.”
“Yeah, this is the night we get it that we’re actually
here
. At this mind-blowing place with all these mind-blowing people. The fame! The glory! The girdles about to burst! Like, pinch me, man.”
“Did you see Natalya?” asked Daphne.
“You mean her benevolent twin? Do not be fooled, Swan!”
He sat and opened his program. Side by side, they read the next round of songs they would hear.
The lights dimmed and swelled. Spectators reseated themselves. Throats cleared; shawls were adjusted; the shushers shushed. Antony Carpenter-Rhodes stood and beckoned the campers to stand as well. The rest of the audience applauded them politely, briefly. Daphne felt herself smiling inanely. Malachy murmured in her ear, “How does it feel to be among the chosen people?”
Their wooden chairs creaked awkwardly as they sat down.
The air grew swiftly chilly, and Daphne wished she had remembered a sweater. She leaned toward Malachy, who did not pull away. The stage lights bloomed. Once again, silence fell, though only to be broken by a collective sigh when Esme appeared wearing a different but equally revealing dress, this one a column of pleated gauze, pinkinfused with
Butterfly
.
She came onstage wearing a gown that looked as if it were made of gold leaf. The skirt billowed dramatically from a cinched waist—the colored spotlights flashing on its folds as she moved—but the strapless bodice was so tight that Daphne wondered how the singer’s lungs could take in the air they required to produce such a powerful voice. Between each song, after the applause faded, the sound of crickets was urgent and vivid—yet every time Esme opened her mouth, Daphne’s ears shut out everything else, even the piano.
At the intermission, as spectators rose to stretch out the kinks from an hour of sitting on their punishing chairs, she felt as if she couldn’t move, as if she’d become, literally, “all ears.”
Malachy stood. “I’d better go find those friends of my dad.”
Mei Mei wandered off as well, so Daphne was alone, glad for a chance to collect her emotions. She looked up at the lighting cables and the night sky beyond, then back at the deserted stage. Only now did she notice the blue Oriental rug on which Esme had stood. The piano gleamed like a Cadillac waiting by a city curb to carry its privileged owner somewhere important.
It occurred to her that this was part of what they were being shown that summer: The Life. They were there to be drilled and tested, to learn that it could never be easy, and maybe to be noticed or even discovered, but they were also catching a flashy glimpse of the rewards for those who excelled. Daphne felt, for a moment, as if Esme were performing for them alone. The rich patrons with their city clothing, Esme’s fellow “artists” with their bloated egos, the locals with their picnic baskets way at the back of the field: all these people were merely set dressing, like the blue carpet, the potted gardenia plants flanking the stage, and the champagne bar at which the wealthiest ticket holders were toasting one another and scanning the crowd for celebrities. Daphne spotted Natalya, their dour taskmistress, in a short hot-pink dress, talking to the camp’s director, Antony Carpenter-Rhodes, and a handsome platinum-haired man in a plaid jacket. Natalya looked
giddy
; she was laughing, her magenta mouth wide open to the sky. She looked like a wax version of herself, a doll.
“You haven’t budged. Esme put you in a coma?” Malachy was back, handing her a paper cup of water.
“Just taking it all in.”
“Yeah, this is the night we get it that we’re actually
here
. At this mind-blowing place with all these mind-blowing people. The fame! The glory! The girdles about to burst! Like, pinch me, man.”
“Did you see Natalya?” asked Daphne.
“You mean her benevolent twin? Do not be fooled, Swan!”
He sat and opened his program. Side by side, they read the next round of songs they would hear.
The lights dimmed and swelled. Spectators reseated themselves. Throats cleared; shawls were adjusted; the shushers shushed. Antony Carpenter-Rhodes stood and beckoned the campers to stand as well. The rest of the audience applauded them politely, briefly. Daphne felt herself smiling inanely. Malachy murmured in her ear, “How does it feel to be among the chosen people?”
Their wooden chairs creaked awkwardly as they sat down.
The air grew swiftly chilly, and Daphne wished she had remembered a sweater. She leaned toward Malachy, who did not pull away. The stage lights bloomed. Once again, silence fell, though only to be broken by a collective sigh when Esme appeared wearing a different but equally revealing dress, this one a column of pleated gauze, pinkinfused with
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