Sound Carries

4.

Master classes at Connolly were likely one of the largest sources of stress for the general student body. In the vocal faculty, they happened every week, as part of our regular academic schedule, and we were required to bring repertoire from outside of our opera material, which meant extra memorization, extra practice, extra work. Though we all complained incessantly about the additional hours in our already cramped schedules, none of us could truly object. The merit in the process was visible even an untrained eye.

I was fortunate that memorization came easily to me. It wasn't a point of pride, exactly, as I was surrounded by people to whom memorization came easily – with the exception of Oliver, perhaps, who fought tooth and nail to get repertoire to stick – but the skill made my life easier, and with the rate at which music was being thrown at us, it took every ounce of hard work in me in addition to any natural ability I'd come to Conolly with to stay on top of it.

Master classes were by far the most intimate of our classes. When we gathered, it was just the seven of us, and Dr. Davis and Dr. Richards, the vocal faculty representatives.

We met in the theatre, where every sound was amplified. I loved the acoustics in that room; it took every sound we made and exaggerated it – the high notes soared, loud became even louder – so of course, all mistakes were much more apparent. It was the perfect space in which to take our progress and strip it down to something we no longer recognized.

On that particular day, I was not on the list to sing, so I just sat back to watch.

It didn't feel like it at the time, or maybe I was just oblivious to the tensions that were already brewing just beneath the surface, but that day was the first of many face-offs between our two top sopranos.

I had been looking forward to that masterclass, because I hadn't yet heard either Hannah or Audra sing individually that year.

The first master class after the break was always the most exciting. Being a vocal student – or any music student, really – was a little like being an athlete. None of us could never stop, or take time off for the holidays, or we'd fall behind, so we all knew that theoretically, at the start of every school year, we could expect some improvements in our peers from the year before due to a summer of independent practice. Despite this, I was still quite surprised when I heard the singers that day.

Dr. Davis, the official head of the vocal department and the professor responsible for all second and third year female singers, rummaged around in her bag, before she pulled out a sheet of paper and adjusted her glasses to read it properly.

"Let's start with Colin, today."

He swung himself up off his seat and in front of us. "Alright." He looked down at his feet, and as our accompanist started towards the piano, he waved her off. "I'm acapella today, thanks. For the vulnerability, and all that." He winked at Dr. Richards, who did not so much as move a muscle.

It was common knowledge that the boys were all trying to crack Dr. Richards. He was the faculty member responsible for all the male vocal students, and I had never seen him smile. He always wore the same thing: grey shirt, grey slacks, with suspenders. He was known in his diction classes for being a menace of a professor, and I knew that next semester I would have to deal with him, but for now, as I had for the previous years, I watched him from afar, glad I wasn't one of his students.

Colin was taking a deep breath, eyes closed, rocking back and forth a little bit in preparation.

"Steady." Dr. Richards voice was serious, verging on condemning.

Colin stopped rocking.

He opened his eyes. "Today I will be singing Un furtiva lagrima from Donizetti's L'elisir D'amore." He took a moment to prepare, and somehow, in the space between breaths, he had become a different person, dark, tragic, secretive.