So Where Does that Put Us (boy x boy)

Chapter Four - Justin

They call you up one by one, slowly letting you stew for when your time arrives. They say it's a demonstration, preforming for your peers to see how far you've come since the summer. But everyone knows what it really is: public humiliation.

As if singing in front of a single class isn't enough torture, they have to bring in the tech students as well. We go to their robotics shows, they come to see us crack at that climatic high note.

At least that's how it is for me. Time speeds along as singer after singer stands up to face their doom. They sing, promptly mess up, and sit back down, Mr. Burness in the far back taking notes.

Ben looks over at me, eyes heavy, probably bored out of his mind. His hand runs through his thick hair, closing his eyes for a long moment. Most of the other tech students have already fallen asleep, but Ben seems firm in trying to stay awake. Why? I have no idea.

I glance over at the poster on the wall, closing my eyes and trying to imagine me in the opera singer's stead. Roran Mancini stands glorious in front of the crowd, taking the thunderous applause as confirmation that he is truly the best tenor in history. He brought New York to opera. He changed the whole music world of opera, stirring a great revival to modernize the ancient art of opera. Another picture of him sits behind the girl currently singing, but I know every detail from the frame to the words: The Marriage of Figaro (it's an opera to all those ignorant people out there who either don't know what opera is or don't care).

Sure, the girl's annoyingly frilly T-shirt and obnoxiously long hair blocks him from view, but the picture waits for me, ingrained in my imagination. I don't only have to prove myself to Mr. Burness and everyone else quietly judging me in the classroom, but also to him, watching from above. So one day I can stand where Roran Mancini stood, singing where he sang, wearing what he wore (a glittery suit) with an audience he sang to, and finally take that applause to confirm that I am the best tenor/countertenor in history. I sigh at the thought, knowing I'll probably end up teaching music to a bunch of ignorant children, but I can still dream even though my father says it's stupid.

Everything I do is stupid in my father's eyes...

The girl finally finishes her rendition of a German classic and takes far too long a bow. I stand, the last in line. They give me five minutes to sing a five-minute song. My hands suddenly grow cold as I step up front, giving the little photo of my hero a tap. A good luck tap.

What seems like a million pairs of eyes focus on me, waiting. The pianist at the baby grand looks over through his pretty long lashes and I nod, heart racing as he begins the introduction. My fingers go numb, fidgeting despite my head yelling at them to stop. My lungs contract as I inhale from my abdomen, looking up at the top of the far wall and singing the first note.

Just pretend no one is there, keep breathing, they all think you sound great. Those who don't are already asleep.

No one will remember this after about twenty minutes.

My attempts to reassure myself fail. Because what if they don't think I sound great? What if all those who fell asleep wake up because they hear my atrocious singing? They say that people always remember the beginning and the end of concerts. I'm at the end. This is the end. They're all going to run to their next class after this and tell all their friends how freak Ivanov fucked up his preliminary cross-class performance (which is just a fancy way of saying they jump out at you the second month of school, invite a bunch of bored techies, and make you sing for them as if you had something prepared, which you don't).

It already sounds terrible at this point, despite starting out alright. My runs had several out of tune notes and I forgot to breathe in one section and crocked at a sustained phrase. I might as well just stop and leave. Overall, my lungs have held up and my hands haven't fidgeted too badly. I've done okay. Passable even. Not nearly close to Roran Mancini's ground-breaking standards. Compared to that I'm the gum stuck to the bottom of his shoe.