All That Lives Must Die - Eric Nylund [183]
She sat on the stage’s edge, leaned closer to them, and whispered, “We’re going to get what’s inside you out into the world. Make real music. Make people feel something.” She rolled her hands in dramatic flourishes. “And do magic that’ll make all that other stuff seem like three-card monte.”
The spotlights on her focused. “I’m talking about the music in your souls, kids.” She made a fist and held it over her heart.
Eliot sat on the edge of his seat. That’s what he wanted . . . but then he remembered the permission slip in his backpack, and his excitement cooled.
It read,
I, (FILL IN COMPLETE NAME), hereby relinquish any claims and responsibilities of the Paxington Institute with respect to the class known as THE POWER OF MUSIC for damages to my psyche, soul, and mental state for the duration of the semester, and if I continue to practice the musical arts, in perpetuity. All mental aberrations, diminishment of spirit, lost faith, substance abuses, and other similar conditions are solely the undersigned’s responsibility to avoid and, if possible, correct.
(SIGN FULL LEGAL NAME HERE) / (DATE)
He’d signed it, of course. It wasn’t such a big deal. Eliot knew he was already in over his head with his music . . . so much so that his soul burned a little every time he played.
So let it—even if there was nothing left but ashes. He had to know how far he could take it, if his music would eventually save him . . . or destroy him.
Ms. DuPreé clapped her hands. “So,” she said, excitement gleaming in her eyes, “you got what it takes to be a great musician? You got real soul?” She stood and waved toward them. “Who’s going to show me first? Someone make me laugh. Someone make me cry.”
A boy stood and walked onto the stage. He was a junior or senior, with a goatee and a long black braid down his back. He carried an electric guitar.
Ms. DuPreé motioned, and stagehands quickly set up amplifiers and speakers. Then with a bow, Ms. DuPreé turned the stage over to him, backing to the shadowy edges.
Eliot couldn’t help but stare—not at the boy, but at his guitar. It was solid black with silver rivets, powerful and masculine, everything dinky Lady Dawn was not.
The boy took a deep breath and then played a rock ’n’ roll riff—tough and rough and shifting keys fast and furious as sound distorted through the speakers, so loud it made the hairs on Eliot’s arms dance and his insides quaver.
The boy’s face contorted with exultation and agony, as if this song caused him joy and pain.
Eliot clenched his hand into a fist. He could relate.
But more fascinating than the music was the guitar: Eliot wished he had something that . . . well, wouldn’t embarrass him every time he took it out to play in public.
Lady Dawn was a beautiful instrument. Eliot loved her. She had been his father’s heirloom before given to him, and he respected the music they made together.
He squeezed the never-quite-healed wound in his palm where Lady Dawn had cut him with a snapped string, and remembered there was a price to pay for playing her, too.
The boy onstage finished with a screaming crescendo and slid onto his knees.
Eliot and the others clapped. He was great.
How was Eliot going to pass any audition following that act?
The boy grinned and stood, and he held up one hand to the applause in mock modesty.
Ms. DuPreé clapped as well, but slow and without enthusiasm as she walked toward him. “A technically perfect performance,” she purred. “High marks for showmanship, too.” She moved closer and whispered to the boy—but with the perfect acoustics, Eliot still heard: “But you didn’t move me, kid. So go live a little, and then show me something next year.”
The boy’s smile contracted to a grimace, but he nodded, seeming to take her criticism seriously. He gave her a bow, picked up his guitar, and left without looking back.
Ms. DuPre