Elara
"You are late. Both of you."
Anderson's voice is a low murmur. His face does not change as his eyes move over us. I am suddenly, painfully aware of how good looking he is, and heat floods my cheeks. This is a special kind of torture. What is he doing here?
Iris grabs my hand. Anderson's head lifts. "Excuse me?"
Oh, god. Did I actually say that?
"Yes, you fucking did," Iris whispers, her face pink with embarrassment for me. She presses close to my side. "Do you have a death wish?" she hisses.
Anderson watches us for a long moment. I can feel his irritation from here. I clasp my hands behind my back.
"Are you finished, both of you?"
He keeps saying 'both of you,' but I know he means only me.
"Yes, sir." The word 'sir' feels strange in my mouth, but I do not know what else to call him. And the big question is still there: why is he here? Iris jabs me with her elbow. "We are sorry we are late. Sir," I add.
"It must not happen again."
"Yes, sir," we say together.
"Join them."
Finding a spot should have been simple, but our usual places are taken. We end up standing behind the altos. Because we are both tall and the choir stands are raised, we can easily see over the other singers' heads, straight to Anderson's displeased face.
The music does not start again. Anderson tells a girl in the front to hand us a music sheet. My eyes scan the page and I hum the notes quietly, getting a feel for the song.
Iris glances up and we share a quick grin. She was doing the same thing.
"As Mr. Prescott explained before you two decided to join us," Anderson says. A few people laugh softly. It is not our fault he showed up early. Mr. Prescott is always five minutes behind. "I will be assisting him to prepare all of you for the national open singing competition." He holds up the sheet, his gaze moving across every one of us to make his point. "We begin learning these pieces today."
"You did not tell us your name," Iris says suddenly. I press a hand to my forehead. She leans into me. "He is so hot," she breathes.
"The name is Anderson Dissick. You will call me Mr. Dissick," he states.
A wave of murmurs moves through the group. Anderson claps his hands once, and the talking quiets to hushed sounds. Iris squeezes my hand. One look at her and I know she is already lost to him. She is not the only girl developing an instant crush, and I cannot blame them. Anderson is the kind of teacher every teenage girl imagines having in class. If he were not my infuriating stepbrother, I might be right there with them.
"Do you remember him?" I ask her quietly.
"Um… no," she whispers back.
A few seconds pass, and she does not laugh or poke me, which is what she would normally do if she were joking. She genuinely does not recognize him. To be fair, without the messy beard and the aviator sunglasses, Anderson looks like a completely different, more mature man. But she should still be able to tell. Then again, I am the one who spent more time with him. More time kissing him. More than once.
"He is my stepbrother."
Iris lets out a short, loud shriek. It is a fucking unmistakable sound, and every single person turns to look at us. Perfect. I feel the weight of fifteen pairs of eyes, but I keep my own fixed on the floor.
"No more talking, please," Anderson says finally. "Does everyone have their music?" A collective 'Yes' echoes in the room, followed by a waiting silence. "Then we can begin."
And we do. The altos start the piece. Iris does not say another word to me, not that I give her an opportunity. Our voices rise together, filling the space, and the corner of my mouth turns up in a small smile. I pretend my mother is sitting in the empty audience chairs, so I sing with more power and feeling. We are halfway through the third verse when Anderson stops us. His face is unreadable. He calls for Christie to come forward. Christie is a soprano, like me, but my range is wider.
Christie stops beside him. Her glasses are slipping down her nose, and she pushes them back into place. Anderson indicates a line on the sheet music and she nods.
"You will take this opening section," he tells her.
He snaps his fingers, then sings the first line himself, and my heart does this strange, joyful leap. I close my eyes and let the sound surround me.
If I did not get why Mr. Prescott gave him control of the choir, I do now. Anderson's voice is like warm honey. Rich and effortless, it finds all the hidden, broken parts inside me. He stops singing, and the happiness his voice created inside me vanishes.
"Now, you try it," he says, and his tone is nothing like the annoyed one he used with Iris and me. It is gentle.
Christie's hand, holding the paper, trembles slightly. Anderson puts a hand on her shoulder, and a hot, red knot of anger forms in my stomach. He was not that nice to me. Then again, I probably earned his attitude. "Take your time. There is no rush."
My hand goes up into the air. "I can try it, sir."
"Thank you. But we are going to give Christie her opportunity."
Maybe I am imagining it, but I think I saw him smirk right after he said that. I hate him. I fucking hate him.
Iris tries not to laugh, because she is a good friend, but a choked giggle gets out. I step on her foot, and the sound cuts off. We both turn our attention back to a nervous Christie. She is never this anxious to sing. It seems to take an age, but she finally finds her courage.
She twists her brown hair into a bun, takes a deep breath, and sings the lyrics to Puccini's *Nessun Dorma* in a clear, pleasant voice. Anderson stands to the side of the stage, nodding along. No offense to Christie, but I could do it much better. It is why Mr. Prescott usually gives me the solos.
When she finishes, he gives her an approving smile. His eyes scan the choir stands. "Who else would like to try?"
A few hands go up. I raise both of mine. "I will bet you ten pounds he ignores you," Iris mutters. I shoot her a look. "I am just being honest." She puts her own hand up and he immediately calls on her.
"See what I mean?" she whispers as she passes.
"I want to try," I announce into the quiet room. Iris's steps hesitate. I mouth "sorry" to her and she just shrugs. I walk forward, stopping at the front row. I put on my most innocent face and address my stepbrother. "Please, may I have a turn?"
He looks at me like I am a bug he wants to swat. "Your friend is next."
Iris's eyes jump between the two of us. She points at herself. "Me? No, I am all set." I am going to buy her a car and a whole new art set for this. "Sir, just let Elara have a go if she wants to."
Anderson's calm breaks. He walks toward us with a smile that is all teeth. "That is not how this works."
"But I had my hand up first," I say, backing up Iris's claim. "And Iris does not care if I go before her."
I tap my fingers against my leg. Our eyes meet in a silent war. I am the one who breaks the stare. He is being completely unreasonable. We can have this argument anywhere but here, any time but now.
He walks back to the center of the stage. I give him my best smile.
All he says is, "I did not see that."
"You are a liar."
Anderson pretends I do not exist. Iris tries to pull me back to my spot, but I will not move. I raised my hand so he would see me, but he just calls on someone else.
"What is your name?" he asks.
"Regina," she answers from the middle row.
I hate Regina. She feels the same way about me.
"Please, come down."
Regina winks at me, and I see red. That hot ball of anger in my gut explodes, and I march to the front. I point a finger right at Anderson without speaking. He looks me over from head to toe, and my last bit of control snaps. I stare right back at him, matching his coldness with my fire.
"Are you for real?" I shout in my stepbrother's face. I can hear the gasps and whispers. I can already imagine the gossip tomorrow, but I am too furious to stop. "We.." I cut myself off before I say too much. "Just grow the hell up."
Anderson tilts his head. The coldness in his eyes makes me shiver. I know I cannot win this, but it is too late to retreat. He is the one who started it.
"Out." He points to the door, and my anger suddenly drains away, replaced by a cold dread. He must be joking. The first competition round is at the end of next month, and it is already the middle of January. "You are finished here, Elara. For the rest of this practice."