Part 8 (2/2)
”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 scholars.h.i.+p 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 rus.h.i.+ng 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 pa.s.s 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.
With no malls in Ellis, I can't deny that most of my outfits have a secondhand quality to them, but I'd picked the best of my clothes I'd brought with me on the plane for the audition. A blue sundress that I'd helped CeCe pick out a yard sale. She'd given it to me since, on her, it came to her midcalves (a very unflattering length, according to her) but I'm so tall that the hem barely rests at the tops of my knees. I'd cinched it at the waist with a large leather belt that used to be my mom's, and I'd finished off the look with my flat, gladiatorstyle, golden sandals-one of the treasures Jonathan had brought back for me from last year's shopping pilgrimage. They are the nicest things I own, but they pale in comparison to the other two girls'.
Iris is dressed like most of my school friends back in Ellis: in khakis, a b.u.t.ton-up blouse, and loafers that have that not-quite-reallooking, matte texture to the leather. But the other two girls are dressed to the nines, all the way down to their s.h.i.+ny, patent leather, wedge platform sandals, which are just like the shoes that the girl I'd hit with my bike was wearing. Only the short girl's are teal and silver, and brunette wears purple and gold. They must all share the same personal shopper or something.
”Well, I think Daphne looks supercute,” Iris says. ”I love the bohemian look.”
”I concur,” Tobin says, his smile widening.
The pet.i.te 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 scholars.h.i.+p 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 a.s.sumed 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 cla.s.sic-”
”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 mezzosoprano.” 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 compet.i.tion.”
”She's been a total pain since she took over leaders.h.i.+p of the Sopranos,” Iris says. ”All that power is going to her head.”
”The Sopranos?” I ask. ”What is she, like, the G.o.dfather 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.”
”Pear Perkins, second call for Pear Perkins,” I hear Mr. Morgan's yell from inside the auditorium.
”Pear likes to make an entrance,” Tobin says.
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