Starswept Read online

  Thud. Vera slams her cane on the floor.

  Taking the cue, I start playing, my fingers flying to the run’s fast melody, and the sweet smell of rosin flies up from the strings. But my mind keeps whirling. I should have tucked the object into my viola case. No one would look for it there, right? Or maybe I should carry it in my pocket instead of leaving—

  Thud. Vera’s cane interrupts my thoughts. “Iris! Where’s your mind today?”

  “I-I’m…” My throat clenches.

  Vera reaches toward my left elbow. An alarm beeps as her holographic hand surrounds my skin. I hastily move out of her glow. She pushes up, and the beeping continues as I raise my gleaming, umber instrument. When I reach the height she wants, she draws back, and the sound finally cuts out.

  Vera shakes her head. “I’ve seen better posture from beginners.”

  Clenching my teeth, I straighten my spine.

  “Again!”

  If I’m to play this passage well, I have to relax. I close my eyes to picture something that calms me. Milo’s face appears in my mind, with his playful gray eyes and boyish blond curls. The silly smirk on his lips, telling me that he doesn’t take life too seriously, and I shouldn’t either. He may be older and taller than me, but out of the two of us, I’m definitely closer to adult. If he were in my place, he wouldn’t care that Vera was here. She has no way of knowing what I hid. She’s halfway across the country, walking around an empty room and yelling at a holographic student. A trick of light and sound in my dorm, physically unable to open a drawer.

  “Iris! I said again!”

  At the sound of Vera’s voice, I strike the lowest string and begin my run. The melody flutters through my head like a fledgling bird, each note an instant in its flight. The bird rises, trying to reach the sky, but falls under weariness. It sulks near the ground, then regains its fervor and rises again. Then, triumphant, it ascends.

  After finishing the last note, I lower my instrument.

  Vera beams. “Now that’s the Iris I know. What happened earlier?”

  “I… was up late last night. Sorry.”

  I might have been all right today if I’d been able to sleep after returning to my dorm, but it’s not every day you run into an alien.

  Alien? The word rings false. Alien means something foreign and unnatural—something that doesn’t belong with you. The Adryil boy may be from another world, but he doesn’t seem… alien. There was something familiar about him. I’ve read about how the Adryil and the Earthlings are essentially versions of each other, like how roses and lilies are both flowers. If that’s the case, then the Adryil boy isn’t really all that alien, is he?

  Other than the telepathy—and the glowing eyes, of course—there are no obvious physical differences between his kind and mine other than that the Adryil possess sharper senses, stronger bodies, and longer lifespans. Some speculate that, in the far future, we may evolve into them, since though Adrye is about half a billion years older than Earth, its environment was once similar to how ours was during a comparable era. If that’s true, if they were once just like us, then the Adryil and their thriving, advanced civilization are an encouraging glimpse at the future of humankind. At the same time, something must have been lost through the generations, because before they came to Earth, the Adryil had never seen a ballerina’s sublime movements, nor heard a pianist’s transcendent harmonies.

  Without the Adryil, we’d have no starships or holograms, but without us, they’d have no music or dance. They brought us the future, and, in exchange, we brought them true beauty.

  Thud. Vera crinkles her brow, and I realize I’ve let my mind wander off again. “Sorry,” I repeat.

  She sighs. “Let’s move on. Have you chosen an audition piece?”

  The tension surges back, but for a different reason. The audition, which was only announced yesterday, could be my ticket out of obscurity. Master Raucci, the Orchestra Director, decided to include a viola solo in the next Spectacle. One person, alone on stage, reminding everyone that violas are more than just filler for string sections. I know he means to give it to Estelle, but he did specify that all violists are eligible. I mentally list the viola solos I know, but nothing seems adequate.

  Except one: the song no one dares play. “‘Butterfly’s Lament’ by J.W. Colt.” The words slip from my mouth. I bite my lip—I hadn’t meant to say the piece’s name out loud.

  Vera raises her thick eyebrows. “My, that’s bold.”

  It’s more than bold—it’s sacrilegious. “Butterfly’s Lament” was one of five pieces Katarin Kaminski performed to in the first Earthling-Adryil Spectacle, a gala for interstellar peace showcasing the best of both cultures. I can’t count how many times I’ve gone into the archives to watch Katarin’s slender body, intertwined in gleaming red silks, unfold from the theater’s ceiling to the dissonant yet fervent chords of Colt’s masterpiece, played by the renowned Jianguo Shan. The perfect partnership between the violist and the aerialist moved even the Adryil to tears. We hadn’t known before then that they could even cry.

  And I, a mediocre musician at best, dare emulate that? I drop my gaze. “I’m sorry. That’s—That’s not appropriate, I know.”

  A beep. I look up to see Vera’s hand, pressing up slowly beneath my chin. I lift my head. Although she’s hundreds of miles away, I can still sense her touch.

  Her eyes warm. “It’s brave, Iris. I approve.”

  “Really?”

  “You have nothing to lose by auditioning with ‘Butterfly’s Lament,’ and you’ll put yourself on Raucci’s radar. Estelle won’t be here much longer. She’ll probably find a patron after the next Spectacle, leaving Raucci in need of a new Principal Violist. If you impress him, he could pick you. That’s worth taking a chance for, don’t you think?”

  I brighten, glad that Vera believes in me so much. “I have the song memorized already.”

  “Very good. Show me.”

  I lift my viola and picture Katarin’s flawless performance and the low, immaculate instrumental voice that accompanied it. I can’t compare with Jianguo Shan’s brilliance, but I can imbue the piece with my own kind of sparkle—something he never had.

  How has it been just half a day since I ran into the Adryil boy? I feel like I’ve been awake forever. His mysterious device sits deep in the pocket of my black pants. It’s the only pair I own thick enough to shield the object’s telltale glow. Enough time has passed for me to conclude that Security isn’t looking for the device, or doesn’t suspect that I have it. Still, its presence makes me nervous.

  I wish rehearsal would end so I could examine it again. This morning has dragged on for much too long. If only the Circus didn’t view us, their accompanying orchestra, as a human compuplayer they can rewind at will. I want to stand on my chair and yell, “We’re not a recording! We’re Artists like you, and you’re wasting our time!”

  But if I did that, Mistress Asif would promptly expel me from the Pit, and I can’t risk that. Since I haven’t made it into the Orchestra’s main ensemble yet, the Pit is the only way I can participate in Spectacles at all.

  Behind her narrow-boned figure at the conductor’s podium, the giant screen imitating an audience turns black, then resets to an image of a shuffling crowd easing into their seats.

  Master Malkin, the bald, barrel-chested Circus Director, claps his hands. “Back to starting positions!”

  The acrobats and contortionists, in their colorful bodysuits, retreat into the rehearsal stage’s wings. From my angle, I can see the aerialists perched on the catwalks above, waiting.

  Apparently having received Master Malkin’s signal, Mistress Asif cues the soft clarinet introduction. I turn my eyes to the stage. A blue-and-gold-clad aerialist descends from the catwalk in an elegant fall, with only the skillfully wrapped silks around her body supporting her. As she winds her graceful leg around the red cloth, I hear the three-bar cue for the string entrance.

  I come in with the other violas without having to look at
the sheet music. My knack for memorization comes in handy for moments like these. The other Orchestra members don’t care much about the other Arts, but I want to see it all. I don’t want to miss the aerialists’ twisting glory between the silks, the acrobats’ lively stunts as they tumble across the stage, or the contortionists’ fluidity as they bend themselves into unnatural yet alluring shapes.

  A loud rip tears through the music. The aerialist plummets through the air and lands on the stage with a grotesque thud. I gasp in shock. One of her silks flutters down on top of her, forming a pool of red around her limp body.

  My viola drops from under my chin, and the music peters out.

  The aerialist groans. Her peers shout in panic, and the other Pit members mutter nervously. Master Malkin waves, his expression frantic. Seconds later, a pair of security bots wheels onto the stage with two multi-limbed med bots close behind.

  I look up at the frayed end of the torn silk, wondering how this could have happened. A girl with a long, dark braid stands on the catwalk, looking down. Her calmness amid her shouting peers chills me. Then, I notice something even more disturbing: an unmistakable smirk curling her lips. Was she behind this?

  “She looks happy.” Zuriel, the violist who sits in front of me, sounds unperturbed. “She must be the understudy.”

  I glance at him, and his round-featured ebony face is as calm as his tone suggested. Before I can reply, Mistress Asif’s voice cuts through the chaos.

  “Orchestra! We’re done for today. Pack up and return to your sector.”

  I look up again, aiming to get a better look at the girl on the catwalk, but she’s gone. If she did sabotage the aerialist, Security will find out, I tell myself.

  I press the red X in the corner of the electronic music stand. The music disappears, leaving only a blank screen on a silver pole. A black, velvet curtain, rapidly closing, blocks the stage.

  I tuck my viola under my arm and follow the others. The crowd grows tighter as we enter the staircase leading to the area under the stage, where we stored our cases.

  Something bumps my shoulder, nearly knocking me over. Then a hand grabs my arm, steadying me. I look up and see a pair of hazel eyes adorning a strikingly handsome face.

  Brent, the Pit’s concertmaster, gives me an apologetic smile. “Sorry, Mouse.”

  I’m not clear on what just happened. All I know is that Brent Lachen is looking down at me.

  “Mouse?” His brown eyebrows furrow with concern. “You okay?”

  I try to steady my breath. This is stupid—he’s engaged to Kiki Fiore. But his charm coupled with the immensity of his talent has held a kind of power over me for as long as I can remember. It’s idiotic, but at least I know I’m not alone. Everyone from Estelle to twelve-year-old novices has gazed at him with longing eyes.

  “I’m fine,” I manage.

  “Glad to hear it.” He rushes down the stairs toward Kiki, who’s waiting at the bottom with a glowing smile. They’re so lucky to have found each other. The look in Kiki’s eyes as she gazes at him—I’d give anything to share that with someone.

  I meander down the stairs toward my case, mentally listing all the reasons I can never be with Brent. Not only is he engaged to Kiki, but he’s the Orchestra’s local Prince Charming. And I’m the local… mouse. Besides, I barely interact with him, even though I’ve known him my whole life. Like me, he was born here, though Estelle’s never thrown that in his face like she did to me. At least I’m smart enough to know that the pull he exerts over me is a meaningless infatuation brought on by striking looks and talent.

  I used to think Brent’s was the most beautiful face I’d ever see, but last night, a boy from another world proved me wrong. I recall his shining eyes, the intensity and unearthly beauty behind them. His mouth, an incongruence of hard expression and soft lips. His smooth, tan complexion, too flawless to be human. I remind myself that I’ll never see him again, but I don’t want to believe it. The story can’t end with the inexplicable device in my pocket.

  I reach the bottom of the stairs and start toward my case, then freeze at the sight of Estelle waving at me.

  “Iris!”

  Oh, no. I glance around, searching for a way to avoid her.

  “Hey!” She runs up to me, quashing any chance of escape.

  I tighten my grip on my viola, and the metal strings dig into my fingers. “Yes?”

  “Sorry about earlier.” She drops her mouth into a sheepish expression. “I was in a bit of a bitchy mood.”

  That’s an understatement. “It’s okay,” I reply automatically.

  “I mean it.” She sighs. “It’s this solo audition… it’s been eating at me. Everyone keeps saying ‘Oh, Estelle will get it,’ so it’ll be humiliating if I don’t. Also… I’m old.” She bites her lip. “If I don’t impress a patron soon, I might never get the chance.”

  I suddenly feel awful for her. At nineteen, she’s coming close to aging out. No wonder she’s so sensitive about it.

  She inhales. “Anyway, I’m not trying to make excuses. Just want you to know I’m sorry.”

  “It’s all right,” I say. “I understand.”

  “You guys talking about the audition?” A low voice rings in my ears, and I turn to see Zuriel towering over me. “I think it’s driving us all a little crazy. Have you chosen your pieces yet?”

  Estelle shrugs. “I’m going to play safe and go with Amsel’s ‘Adagio.’ If Master Raucci meant for me to have the solo like everyone says, he’ll give it to me anyway. If not, well, I’m too worn out to keep panicking over it.”

  “I know what you mean.” Zuriel drums his fingers against his viola. “I’m playing it safe too, with ‘Forest Anthem.’”

  “Can’t go wrong with that.” Estelle looks at me. “What about you? What are you playing?”

  I stall. Vera warned me not to tell the other violists that I’ll be attempting “Butterfly’s Lament” in case they decide to play the same piece in order to one-up me, but I didn’t have the foresight to think of a lie in case someone asked. I hadn’t expected Estelle, of all people, to engage me in this kind of conversation—or talk to me at all.

  Estelle rolls her eyes. “If you’re worried about someone copying you, you can stop, because everyone’s already picked out their pieces. No one else is keeping it secret.” She raises one eyebrow at me. “But I guess you think you’re better than us.”

  “Of course I don’t!” I exclaim.

  “Then why so secretive?”

  “I…” I can’t come up with any response that won’t affirm her belief, so I trail off.

  She crosses her arms. “Fine. Be sly about it, then.”

  Zuriel shakes his head of tightly cropped black hair, shooting me an expression of disgust, then walks off with Estelle. I stare, my mouth hanging open with indignation. I almost want to run after them and confess that I’m attempting “Butterfly’s Lament,” but every performer instinct I’ve cultivated screams at me not to.

  I turn with a huff and continue on my way. My case, with its black exterior and dark red lining, sits open along the edge of the wall. I kneel beside it.

  “Iris!” A boy’s voice rings in my head.

  I whirl. Was that Zuriel? Brent, maybe? Several people surround me, but no one pays me any attention.

  “Iris, can you hear me?”

  I can’t tell where the voice is coming from, but in case it’s someone I can’t see through the crowd, I straighten. “Who is it?”

  A handful of Pit members give me strange looks. I wait, hoping whoever that voice belonged to will approach. After a full minute, I turn back to my case.

  That voice—it sounded like the Adryil boy’s. But it couldn’t be… I saw them take him away. Besides, I think I’d notice an alien with glowing eyes among my Pit peers. The stress must have me hearing things.

  I shut my case, then place my palm on top to indicate that I want it to stay closed. The edges glow green, telling me it’s safe to pick it up.

  Me
anwhile, I know that, even though no one else can see it, the Adryil device glows green as well in the depths of my pocket.

  CHAPTER 4

  I SLIP INTO THE EMPTY orchestra pit below the Ballet’s practice stage. Minali, the rehearsal pianist, glances briefly at me, then turns back to her music.

  On the stage, Mistress Duval, in holographic form, watches the dancers twirl and leap to the bright piano notes. Thanks to technology, Papilio was able to secure her as the new Ballet Director even though she lives in Paris.

  I spot Milo among the boys, each of whom wears a form-fitting white t-shirt, black leggings, and dance shoes. The girls pirouette in unison, the short black skirts of their leotards rippling above their pale pink tights.

  The music speeds up. Milo breaks away from the crowd, kicks up a leg, and spins on one foot. His blond curls whip through the air as he repeats the move at a dizzying speed.

  He finishes his turns with a flourish before joining the line of dancers across the back of the stage. I want to clap, but resist. Mistress Duval would banish me in a moment if I disrupted her rehearsal.

  Although Milo performs the same movements as the rest of the boys on stage, the strength with which he sweeps his arms and the passion in his expression set him apart from the rest. Mistress Duval gives him an approving beam, and that sends a spark of excitement through me. I’m glad I’m not the only one who sees his talent.

  “Wake up!” she shouts. “You are soldiers returning from war, not puppets dangling from strings! I want vigor! Triumph! Like what Milo’s doing!”

  A satisfied smirk creeps onto Milo’s mouth. One of the other boys shoots him a look of hatred. Catching his eye, Milo mouths two words that look suspiciously like, “Suck it!” I cover my mouth to suppress a giggle.