1985

I cannot believe that I am here, doing the unthinkable. What I've always dreamed of doing. It is funny when I think about it now, how insane my life ended up and how it did not go according to the plan of Ruby Carter. By now, I really should be a prima donna diva, gracing the halls of the Metropolitan Opera, the bright red carpet of the main foyer, my home. I could have been riding in the best cars. Perhaps I would have been hobnobbing with women in the ilk of Maria Callas or Renata Tebaldi, that glorious spinto soprano. I think of brazen ball gowns, flashy arias, clandestine encounters in dressing rooms with handsome co-stars. I've always had a thing for Verdi Baritones. God. But life isn't all champagne, roses, and luxurious gowns.

I try not to look back on what could have been, but it is so hard not to. When I see people I studied with having successful careers in opera, it makes my heart sting. Then the green monster injects itself into my veins, spreading its bitter poison through my body and into my heart. But it was for a good reason that I didn't enter the world of opera after my graduation from Juilliard. Mom got sick with Guillain-Barre Syndrome, and she didn't survive an attack. Her lungs became paralyzed — all because she had a terrible case of the flu.

When my mom fell ill, and the frequent hospital bills started costing more than our house, I could no longer afford to go to school for my master's. Dad tried his best with his swanky Madison Avenue job to help pay the bills, but it was never enough. We were well off enough that we could have made it work, but he was stupid with his money. Spending it all on gambling and prostitutes. Such a beautiful way to honor my mother.

Scrubbing floors at Mom's favorite diner, Penny's Place, was not exactly where I wanted to be in my professional life. I would have rather been singing scales all day long in a random practice room at school. Every day, my skin would get thinner and more irritated by all that soap.

It seemed like my life would never advance without my mom's support. Dad wanted me to get married the second I turned eighteen. But he had someone in mind for me when I turned twenty.

My father even had a nice young man all packaged up for me, with his own Bentley car and all. A way for me to get ahead in life; because of that choice not to marry the man he chose for me, he cut me off. Bastard.

But I didn't like Henry Stevens, and I don't think he liked me much either. It wouldn't have worked out — the two of us. We were too different and, well, when he found out I wasn't a virgin, he called me a Jezebel whore and stormed out. Asshole. I know he has been around. I could see it on the collar of his shirt, the bright pink lipstick stain. He had a hickey on his neck when he came to me, shitfaced drunk. I could smell the combination of whiskey and vodka on his breath. Disgusting.

And my first and only time was ages ago. I don't even think Thomas Merrill remembers me now. It was a mistake, a one-night stand. I was destined to be the cliche-ex. Something that never should have happened. Ever. The thought of me sleeping with a high school jock that had little aptitude. So I called off what we could have become because I wanted to write my story. Not be the blonde beauty that hung around his arm.

God, what was I thinking? Especially since Thomas was so cruel to all the choir nerds. I remember he used to hang around the music room after the choir was over just to sing in that awful falsetto he used to use. God, his voice was absolutely awful. God did not bless that boy.

Yet sometimes, I wonder what happened to Thomas. The last I heard from a friend, he was living somewhere in New York City. Since we had different social circles, I didn't really care to find out more about his life. I haven't seen him or talked to him since that night when we both parted ways after our tragic mistake and I want to keep it that way. I wonder if he would recognize me if we crossed paths on the street. Maybe he's still living in the past, glorifying his high school days with his varsity football jacket. The star quarterback, always up for a game. Always up to terrorize and relentlessly tease the musicians in the choir. Including me.

But here I am, standing backstage of the Forsythe Hall, waiting for the preliminary round of auditions. Someone is singing O Mio Babbino Caro. Pretty voice, but a little too large for the aria. The voice is trying to hold back so much. She's a dramatic soprano. I can hear it in her voice. The vibrato was so heavy, the wobble. Maybe she's nervous. I know I am.

I'm among the people that have a private voice professor. Some came from college like me, and it shows that they graduated with a degree like me. There are those some sopranos whisper about. The ones that aren't as strong vocally but have huge dreams. I hear their subtle taunts, their hurtful remarks behind their backs. The 'Oh, Sweetie! You sounded absolutely marvelous today.' Then go around and tell their friends how that tiny-voiced soubrette sounded like a dying cat while singing the coloratura passages of Strauss's The Laughing Song.

It makes me wonder what they'll say about me when they hear me sing. Will these people be nice to my face and then go around their clique, spreading vitriolic hate about my voice? After all, it is a competition. It's every man, or woman, for themselves here. Everyone's got the same goal. No matter how much one has learned or practiced to get to this point.

The old, acrid scent of the wood from backstage wafts around me as I watch people pass me by, trilling high notes, singing scale after scale. Should I be doing this, too? It's been too long since I've sung on stage. My music sits on my lap and I look at the vocal score for what feels like the millionth time. Si, mi chiamano Mimi. My favorite opera aria, and the one I was learning while I was at Juilliard.

I'm glad that I chose the most beautiful, heart-wrenching of all of Puccini's arias for me to sing today. Will they love me or hate me? They'll probably despise me. Either of those. If I think about it, probably the latter. Oh, Ruby, stop thinking. Just stop. Deep breaths. They'll call your name soon.

The door opens and out walks the dramatic soprano wannabe. Did her voice teacher tell her to sing that aria? Was he or she trying to set the poor thing up for failure? I can see tears in her eyes as she runs away, clutching her music folder to her chest like it's her baby.

The others around me whisper about the other girl and what could have happened in the room to elicit such a reaction out of her. I hear some of them saying how terrible she sounded, how she shouldn't have ever thought of joining the competition.

"Don't you think that maybe she just wants the experience?" I ask, feeling my blood boil.

"You know her or something?" one girl asks, eyeing me up and down. "We do. Her name is Ophelia Brown and every year she comes here. She never makes it past the first round. And you must be new. My name is Nancy. What's yours?"

The other girl is a stereotypical pretty girl. Dark brown hair, permed curls cascading down her back like a chocolate waterfall. Doe-eyed, perfect prim and proper gown. I can tell by her manicure that she cares about her appearance. Her nails are perfect. I look down at my own fingers, full of dark red spots, ghosts of blisters, and calluses from my last shift at the diner. Her baby pink tweed dress must be brand new. Saw it just a week ago at Macy's. I know people like Nancy, but there's something about her eyes — something about the way she carries herself, which is electrifying. I wonder what aria she'll be singing. Judging by the title that I can barely see, it looks like it might be Ach, ich fühl's from The Magic Flute. Another soprano.

The doors open and a man makes eye contact with me, but looks down at his sheet. "Number 10?"

"That would be me," Nancy says, standing up. "I'm number 10."

"Come this way."

"Break a leg," I say, smiling.

"Don't need it. I know I'll be great."

I internally roll my eyes because, of course, someone like this will think she's God's gift to opera. Yet I feel threatened by her confidence. Will she sound good?

The introduction to the Mozart aria makes my blood go still. Of course, the girl is perfect. The perfect light lyric soprano. I breathe a sigh of relief. She's not a spinto like me, but God, her high B flat is perfect. I can't listen to this. I have got to get out of here before I let any kind of jealousy impede my performance.

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When I get back from my deep breathing exercises in the foyer of Forsyth Hall, I see Nancy standing, talking among the others. She has such an air of confidence that I find infectious, but alarming. Could we be friends or foes?

"Of course it was perfect," I hear her say with a haughty sounding laugh. "What else would it be? As terrible as Ophelia Brown? Now shush everyone. He's about to sing. So dreamy."

Her voice went sotto voce, barely above a whisper.

I can hear the introductory sixteenth notes of Leoncavallo's Vesti la Giubba. So, this one is a tenor. Already not a fan. Tenors to me, by default, do not set my heart racing. There is a pregnant pause and then the tenor begins his recitative. He's singing about how he has to go on with the show since he is a pagliacco — a clown that has to continue on with his job, although his wife has just had a sordid affair. A risky audition piece because of the emotions that are laced within it. The tenor sounds all right. At least he's got a decent voice.

I can barely contain my shock when I hear him build up the dynamics in the aria. The raw emotion in it, the pure talent, I can't believe what I am hearing. His voice is unlike anything that I have ever heard before. He's got such confidence that for a moment, I feel envious of it. If only I could sing that effortlessly on the stage if I don't let the nerves get the better of me.

He finishes the aria, and everyone around me stands there silently. No one said a single word at all. I can tell that he's made a deep impression on us all. The door opens and at first; I notice his feet. He's wearing a pair of shiny black shoes. The shoes must be of the finest quality. So he's got music skills and a sense of style.

"Oh, you did so well!" Nancy says, edging up towards the man. "You're in, Baby." She kisses him on the cheek.

My heart does backflips and my throat goes dry when I see his face. His dark, soulful brown eyes. His dark brown hair which is perfectly tapered to the side. I haven't seen him in so long. It's not been our senior year of high school.

Thomas Merrill.