Starry-Eyed by Ted Michael Page B

for delivering beatings, I say to myself, wittily. It’s truly a shame Lily can’t hear what’s in my brain. She’d be in stitches.
    The minotaur Sabrina Krause nods in slow motion and sits her skinny arse on the piano bench. No words of intro from her, she’s all business. We stand up, and she runs us through vocal warm-ups. We bzzz , we brrr , we nyah nyah nyah .
    Well, everyone else bzzzs and brrrs . I just make the faces. My throat’s too raw to produce any sound. I feel like one of those fire-eaters at the circus—an incompetent one, the kind who sets her own throat on fire and has be doused with a hose in front of all the terrified children. Sorry about that, kids!
    Scharf takes the mic again. “As you know, Miss Krause has opted to teach demonstration lessons, rather than give a lecture. In the interests of being fair, I am simply going to pull names out of a hat.” He smiles as he holds up a big straw boater left over from last year’s production of The Music Man . “Don’t worry, you’re all in here,” he says, and reaches in.
    I stare at the hat with all my might, trying to make it ignite with the pure force of my eyeballs. A name is drawn, a paper unfurls.
    â€œFiona Kilcommons, to the stage, please.”
    All those “Danny Boys,” yet the luck of the Irish was nowhere near. I’m halfway to the stage before I think of appendicitis. Appendicitis! Brilliant. First I’ll double over, then groan, then collapse, then vomit, then they’ll call an ambulance. . . .
    Too late. I’m already on the stage, grinning like a dolt and trying not to catch Lily’s horrified eye. Krause plays a simple arpeggio, one measly octave, right in the sirloin of my range. “On the syllable nay , please,” she says. “ Nay-nay-nay-nay-nay-nay-nay . Ready?”
    I nod. She begins to play. I open my mouth. Out comes a hoarse croak, full of phlegm. Then a few tight, pitchy nays and a top note that’s mostly air, until it cracks completely.
    Her hands fly up as if the piano keys have suddenly turned into snakes. “Horrible, horrible! What have you done to your voice? Are you sick?”
    â€œNot—ahem—not exactly.” I sound like a man. Crap.
    She tips her head and peers at me over her glasses. Cute frames, I think. Expensive-looking. Little sparkly bits in the corners.
    â€œYou were yelling at a rock concert, hmm?” She sneers. “Or a football game?”
    â€œNo, ma’am. I sang at a party last night. It was my father’s birthday,” I add, like that’ll help.
    She waves a hand, signaling that I’m no longer worthy of her disdain. “Sit down. You cannot sing today.” She swivels sideways on the piano bench and looks at Mr. Scharf. “May I have another student, please? This time, one that isn’t broken?”
    Scharf’s face turns red at that little zinger. The man’s having a hot flash of shame thanks to me. “Of course, Miss Krause.” Hastily he pulls another name from the hat. “Anthony Rutigliano,” he calls out.
    Our resident Italian tenor jumps to his feet, both hands in the air. Did he really just double fist pump getting picked to sing? The lameness has no limit.
    As he bounds up the stairs to the stage, the succubus Krause gives me a hard look. Then she bows her head to the keyboard and plays a rapid two-octave scale that drips with sarcasm. My exit music, I guess.
    . . . . .
    For the rest of the day, no one dares look me in the eye, since we all know humiliation is contagious. Now it’s half past two. I’m almost out the door of the school. Almost. So close to being out—
    â€œFiona!” Mr. Scharf bellows. He’s right there by the exit. No escape.
    I slink over, and he hands me a folded note. Thick ivory paper, big “Krause” at the top in flowing script.
    I read. “‘Send the broken singer to my studio. Saturday