A Boob

Jasmine Kwok was my first student of the day. She came in promptly at three thirty, put her book bag down on the long desk, and pulled out the lyrics to Elise Estrada's "One Last Time". I put her through the usual vocal warm-ups, plenty of breathing exercises and diaphragm stretches, singing a scale up and down (Jasmine didn't have much range) and then some close-set intervals, keeping the notes within one octave of each other. Jasmine is a very hard worker, but hasn't got much confidence in herself. I have this suspicion that Jasmine could be better than she currently is if she'd just relax a little, but the poor girl is one of those kids who is incredibly tense and wound up tight like a clock spring. She sometimes forgets to breathe properly while she sings in that weak, childish voice, and on occasion I've had to make her sit down and put her head between her knees, to keep her from passing out.

After Jasmine is Alice Wong at four thirty. Alice has a surprisingly deep voice for such a small person, but she's got a big, crazy personality that's bursting out of her little frame. It's hard to keep Alice focused; she likes to try for big runs that go all over the place, jumping keys left right and centre, and her pitch often ends up completely sour. I wish I could persuade her to sing something more suited to her register, something jazzy, something simple; but she's a Mandy Moore fanatic: right now she's dedicated to butchering Moore's cover of "Only Hope" as thoroughly as she possibly can.

Matt Girard, my five-thirty student, is a tone deaf jock. I have no idea what made him take up singing, but he has this unshakable, quiet sort of determination that warns me not to bother telling him that he'd probably have more success with a non-musical extracurricular activity. Matt has this curious way of controlling every muscle in his body and when he sings (or attempts to), his posture makes me think of a relaxed mannequin. It's eerie to watch him in that paradox, as he monosyllabically hums out Beatles tunes.

In fact, that Monday, Matt's perfect control gave me the jitters more than usual. When he'd finished up a sub-par rendition of "Yesterday", I reached jerkily for my thermos of tea and nearly knocked it over. Tricked into thinking I'd side-stepped Murphy's Law, I didn't pay attention as I brought the thermos to my mouth and ended up dribbling the clear, greenish yellow tea down my front.

When the hour was finally over, and Matt had left the room, I breathed easier again: I had an hour and a half break before Zarina would show up. I walked over to my attaché case on the long desk against the wall. I opened the case and pulled out a spare shirt that I keep stashed in there for such tea stained emergencies. It was a practicality that Carolyn had instilled in me; she had a spare set of clothes at school. She'd warned me that working with children promised to get messy.

I had unbuttoned my shirt and was peeling it off my shoulders, when the classroom door suddenly opened, the intruder knocking on the door as he or she opened it.

My head snapped around and I felt panic grip my chest; it would look pretty bad if a parent or a student came in while I was half naked in slacks and an under-tank. But it wasn't a student; at least, not a student of mine.

The young woman that stepped in the room was just that: a young woman and not a high school kid. I'd put her at twenty-five, no older. She had long, straight black hair that had a few little kinks and knots woven through it; her hair spilled down over her shoulders and passed her breasts and framed her young, wide-cheek-boned face. She was completely unique-looking; I couldn't distinguish her ethnicity. Her dark, almond shaped eyes suggested she had some First Nation's blood in her, but she also had arched, expressive eyebrows and long, curled eyelashes. Her lips were thin and a few shades darker than her smooth, latte-coloured skin, but that might have been thanks to lipstick.

The girl looked around the room and quickly spotted me. Embarrassment and self-consciousness abruptly flushed up my neck and into my face, turning me red. I scrambled into my clean shirt.

"Hi, ca-can I-" I felt further embarrassed and caught off guard when my voice, my bread and butter, failed me.

"Are you Thomas Rahl?" the girl asked, ignoring my ridiculous stammering. "Sorry for barging in... I didn't stop to think you might be changing."

"It's fine. Just knock next time," I said. I sounded like a prick.

"Got it. I'm Shawna Burton, the receptionist said you were a voice coach?" the girl, Shawna Burton, inquired, breezing past my stiff admonishment. She walked into the room, striding up to me.

"I am, yes," I said, blinking and nodding.

"She also said you had an hour free... I was hoping I could talk to you about getting some vocal training," Shawna went on, coming to a stop a few feet away from me. She was wearing a light blue cotton shirt, unbuttoned at her collarbone underneath an ill-fitting men's blazer. I could see the gentle slope of her clavicle peaking out at me from under her shirt.

"I do have a free slot, right now, yes," I said, my incoherency probably sounding worse in my ears than hers.

"Ah, beauty. See, I really need some lessons," Shawna barrelled on, the 70' slang making me blink more.

"For anything specific?" I asked, regaining my composure. I gestured to a fold out chair and Shawna side-stepped her long, skinny legs over to the chair and sat down. I pulled a chair out from the desk and sat down as well.

"Well, there's going to be this completely tripped-out production of 'Jesus Christ Superstar' downtown, and I'm going out for the part of Mary Magdalene. A friend of mine knows the director and got me in for a pre-audition, you know? No big deal or anything, but I sang a couple verses of "All That Jazz" for him and the douche gets all high and mighty like he thinks he's God's gift to musicals and says I need fuckin' vocal lessons."

Her voice rose and fell dramatically, getting so irritated over this director's comments that I felt like she was reliving her story as she was telling it and projecting the unfortunate role of the director onto me. I'd only met a handful of people who could get total strangers swept up in their lives within minutes of first meeting them. This girl was definitely one of those rare people.

"I really want that part, so I'll do whatever it takes to get it. The production is just in this crappy little theatre, but it's going to be a great showcase opportunity; my friend says that agents scout at piss-y little productions like this one all the time. So, you know, I figure it'll be a wise move for my career." Shawna said, wrapping up her thought.

It took me a moment to realize that it was quiet now because she'd finished her emphatic explanation and was waiting for me to say something. I blinked.

"Oh... well... Mary Magdalene's a big role," I said. That was an understatement: Jesus Christ Superstar was an epic rock opera that followed the last few days of Christ's life before his crucifixion, looking at everything from a more human and less supremely religious perspective. And Mary Magdalene is a complicated character: she's in love with Jesus as a man, but also reveres him on high as the true messiah. It's a great role, but very difficult to pull off.

"Right?" Shawna agreed, my apprehensive tone going completely over her head. "And I think I already kind of look the part. Do you think I look a little like Yvonne what's-her-name?"

"Elliman," I injected, recalling the name of the actress. "Um... yes, you do. But it'll come down to the vocals, of course." I paused, feeling wary. This was the first time in a long time that a student had come to me with a serious ambition to sing and I felt a slight, unhealthy tightening in my chest. Suppose this girl didn't have the slightest chance at the ambitious role, but was planning her future around it anyway? That would be tricky, icky-sticky situation to handle.

"Can you sing?" I decided to be straight-forward.

Shawna blinked and frowned at me. "Uh... yeah. But apparently I need lots of direction," she said.

I swallowed again and frowned a bit. Just how much direction, though? How hopeless was this case? "Ok... well, good," I lied lightly. I took a breath and then stood up, business-like. "If you want to be a student of mine, you have to audition," I said, walking over to the piano.

"How many times?" Shawna asked, standing up as well.

I did a double take as she slid the blazer off her shoulders and draped it on the back of her chair. She followed me over to the piano and then stood at its side.

"Just the one," I assured her.

"Ah. So it's a ruse, then, to make you seem like a priceless virtuoso?" Shawna said with a sly smile.

I blinked at her and cracked a smile. "You're sharp."

Shawna grinned, pleased with my compliment. I averted my eyes to the keyboard and flexed my fingers once before resting them on the keys.

"But if you really can't sing then I'll tell you so and kick you out." I'm not sure where that quip came from; I wasn't consciously trying to be witty.

Shawna laughed anyway. "Gotcha. Alright, do you know 'Cabaret'?" she checked.

I glanced at her from under eyebrows. "I think so," I said dryly. "... you're sure you want to audition with Liza Minnelli?"

"Why not?" she said with a shrug.

I nodded once, letting it go, and then played the opening chords. I counted her in, prompting her with a gentle 'and' at the end of the last opening bar. Shawna rested one arm on the piano casually and started singing.

Well. Whaddya know?

She wasn't Liza. She wasn't Christina or Alicia or Mandy either. But... what a voice. All of her personality, her breezy, abrupt, youthful brashness, seeped into her husky, pure vocals. This girl had plenty of talent; though I could see, a little, where that director was coming from. Shawna had a great personality in a great voice; but it was very performance-y. She had no honest emotion, it was all a show.

But I could work on that; I could work on her. She was something worthwhile; someone who deserved time and effort, my sweat and tears. I could just tell.