1 Its Stubborn Heart Olive Preiss thought of her city as a massive beast, and the theater district was its heart. Not a pretty heart you might doodle in a notebook, all curvy and neatly joined up at a point. More like the heart of a kraken--a raw mess of arteries and ventricles and veins clustered in the center, pumping tons of frenetic black energy through the monster. So Olive didn''t draw neat, pretty hearts. She preferred them big and messy. Kraken hearts. One side might be bigger than the other, or the ends might cross with a violent slash. Sometimes her hearts looked like a hastily scrawled letter B, or a lopsided 3 with a tail.
Olive used to attempt to be neat, but occasionally she practiced deliberate carelessness. Yet another imperfection for her mother to pick at. She was doodling hearts on her music folder in the car one morning as her mother drove them to the city''s arts center. These hearts were more wibbly-wobbly than usual, thanks to Olive''s trembling hand. When the car made a sharp turn, the resulting heart looked more like a sloppy treble clef. Olive tucked her pencil back in the folder with a sigh. Casting a furtive glance at Mrs. Preiss, she rolled her window down a tiny bit and inhaled deeply.
Olive liked how the city smelled, because it smelled like everything good and bad--fried foods, cheap cologne, trash left out a day too long. Her mother said it stank, but Olive found it complex: a full range of disgusting to delicious. "Olive." "Yes?" "Where is your barrette?" Olive''s hands flew up to her windblown hair, combing through short, dark tangles for the metal barrette. She plucked it out, wincing when a few strands ripped free. The car slowed to a stop at a light, and Mrs. Preiss turned to her daughter with a disapproving frown. "Here.
" She took the barrette and slid it into place, the metal scraping Olive''s scalp. "And close your window. The heat causes frizzies." Olive took her time, turning the window crank as slowly as possible. "Do you have the forms?" "Yes." Olive patted her music folder, wondering why Mrs. Preiss had bothered to ask. She had, after all, tucked the arts center''s theater camp enrollment forms into Olive''s folder herself before they left.
"And the check?" "Yes." The slip of paper worth more than a month of bills was secured to Olive''s forms with a paper clip. Nonrefundable. Mrs. Preiss cast a sharp glance at her. "How are you feeling?" Anyone but Olive might miss the underlying threat in the question. She clasped her hands tightly. "Fine.
" "This audition is important, Olive," Mrs. Preiss said, as if Olive weren''t acutely aware of this fact. "Theater camp isn''t worth the expense if you''re just going to be an understudy, like last summer. Talent scouts won''t be interested in anyone outside of the leading roles." Olive swallowed hard and said nothing. She had enjoyed being the understudy, truth be told. There had been no reason to worry about talent scouts. And most rehearsals weren''t darkened by her mother''s presence, so Olive had been free to lose herself in the performance in peace.
But that was last year. A lot could change in a year. Her mother pressed on the gas pedal, tucking a straight brown lock behind her ear. No summer humidity would dare cause Laurel Preiss''s hair to frizz. "It''s time to conquer this ridiculous . stage fright." Stage fright. She said it with a sneer, the same contemptuous tone she reserved for words like beggars and thrift stores.
Olive traced a messy heart on the window with her finger. She did not have stage fright. "I know" was all she said. "You love singing, Olive." This was very true. "You want to perform." Also true. "Most children don''t have the opportunities you have.
Especially these days." Mrs. Preiss squeezed the steering wheel, her knuckles whitening. "You can''t let fear of the spotlight stop you." I''m not afraid of the spotlight. Olive bit her lip and stared through the glass at a bus stop, where colorful new advertisements for the latest musicals and plays covered the outside of the shelter. The city may have been struggling to survive in the last few years, weakened by hard times, constantly on the verge of collapse. But its stubborn heart beat on.
Squinting, Olive scanned the names of the theaters. She''d heard of only a few, but that wasn''t unusual. It was next to impossible to know all the venues in the city, and not just because of sheer number. The theaters were in constant flux, moving and changing, opening and closing. It was a feverish, never-ending search for the next big show, the next big star. Olive dreamed about being that star. If it hadn''t been for her mother, she might even have dared to believe it was possible. 2 Mother Fright When Olive was eight, she''d spent months practicing for her first music recital.
She still grew warm at the memory of the stage lights overhead, sweat blurring her vision as she listened, detached, while her own voice turned to an unrecognizable warble. The whir and flash of her father''s camera in the otherwise silent crowd. Her mother''s fierce gaze, more scalding than the lights. Just a little case of stage fright, her teacher had said reassuringly. Normal for your first recital. It''ll get easier. And that might have been true if Olive weren''t the daughter of one of the city''s most beloved stars. Mrs.
Preiss had been discovered by a talent scout at age ten and enjoyed a few wildly successful decades on the city''s most prestigious stages. Olive had vague memories of attending those shows, of watching in awe as her mother became someone else, someone with a story to tell, someone who could render an audience breathless. She vividly remembered her mother''s final show, when years of belting it out finally took its toll on her voice. The strained, off-key performance was sensational in the worst possible way, an undignified end to an otherwise magnificent career. Humiliated, Laurel had turned her attention to her daughter''s career instead. After Olive''s disastrous recital, Laurel took control of everything, booking auditions, preparing recital material, maintaining a careful practice regimen. Everything Olive did was under constant scrutiny, and for most of her life, she''d tried her hardest to win her mother''s approval. A word or two of praise, and Olive would glow--but criticism always followed, like a bucket of icy water.
Eventually, Olive had come to realize that her mother wasn''t trying to help her become the best singer she could be. She was trying to re-create her own career, but with a happier ending. Olive did want to perform. But as herself, not as a mistake to be corrected. Which was why, in a small act of rebellion, Olive had chosen her own secret audition music. It was a song Laurel disapproved of and, therefore, Olive adored. In the final weeks of school, she''d caught herself humming the tune during classes; tangling the lyrics up with sonnet couplets in English; solving for x and getting B-flat in math. She practiced it whenever she was alone: in the tub; in her bed; on the balcony, where her voice was lost to the sounds of traffic below.
She thought she was quite good, in all honesty. But practicing Mrs. Preiss''s music was another story. There was no joy in singing if she was involved. Olive did not have stage fright. It was more like mother fright. Today, though, would be different. Because of the sheer number of children auditioning, family and friends were not allowed to watch the process.
Olive felt a shiver of anticipation at the idea of standing on a stage and singing her own song, free from her mother''s critical gaze. She could land a good role--maybe even a leading role. She exhaled shakily as Mrs. Preiss swung the car into a parking space. Stepping outside, Olive closed her door and patted her hair self-consciously. Hello, frizzies. The thick, humid air filled her mouth and coated her throat like the bland lentil soup that had been last night''s dinner. Olive and her mother entered the lobby and joined the line of parents and children at the registration desk.
Olive kept her eyes downcast, doing her best to ignore all the excited chatter. If anyone had tried to strike up a friendly conversation with her at that moment, they just might walk away with lentil soup on their sandals. At the desk, Olive pulled her enrollment forms and piano sheet music out of her folder. Mrs. Preiss took them, lips pursed tight as she unclipped the check and handed it to a smiling woman. She squinted down at the forms, then up at Mrs. Preiss, and her face brightened. "Preiss! Oh my goodness, you''re Laurel Preiss, aren''t you? The Laurel Preiss? My Dearest Bernice was the very first musical I ever saw--you were just incredible!" Olive''s mother forced a smile.
"Thank you, that''s very kind." "Of course, you were Laurel Bernstein then," the woman continued chattering as sh.