Lament: The Faerie Queen's Deception

As I pushed through the heavy doors, it occurred to me that, before my mother mentioned it, I hadn’t wanted to puke at all. I hadn’t even been thinking about the competition. True, I’d had my familiar glassy-eyed, all-attention-devoted-to-not-hurling look on my face on the drive over, but not for the reason my mother assumed. I had still been lost in last night’s dream. But now that she’d brought it up, and with the competition in sight, all was right again with the world and my stomach was a disaster.

A woman with two chins and a clipboard asked for my name.

“Deirdre Monaghan.”

She squinted at me—or maybe that was her normal expression. “Someone was looking for you earlier.”

I hoped she meant James, my best (only) friend. Anyone else, I wasn’t interested in them finding me. I wanted to ask what they looked like, but I was afraid that if I talked much, I’d lose my tenuous control over my gag reflex. Mere proximity to the competition area was definitely antagonizing the whole bile thing.

“Tall, light-haired woman.”

Not James. But not Delia, either. Puzzling, but not really a priority, all things considered.

The woman scribbled something next to my name. “You’ll need to pick up a packet at the end of the hall.”

I held a hand over my mouth and asked carefully, “Where can I practice?”

“If you go down the hall past where you get the packet, the big double doors on the—”

I couldn’t wait much longer. “Right. The classrooms down there?”

She wagged her chins. I took that as a “yes” and walked farther inside. My eyes took a minute to adjust to the light, but my nose operated immediately. The familiar smell of my high school, even without any students nearby, pricked my nerves. God, I was so dysfunctional.

My harp case rang. The phone. I fished it out and stared. A four-leaf clover was stuck to the back of it, damp and fresh. Not one of the ones where the fourth leaf is stunted, either, and you can obviously see it’s just a mutation of a three-leaf clover. Each of these leaves was perfectly formed and spread.

Then I remembered that the phone was ringing. I looked at the number, hoping it wasn’t Mom, and flipped it open. “Hi,” I said tightly, peeling the four-leaf clover off the phone and putting it in my pocket. Couldn’t hurt.

“Oh,” James said sympathetically, picking up on my tone. Though his voice was thin and crackly over the line, it still had its usual calming effect. The bile in my throat momentarily retreated. “I should’ve called earlier, huh? You’re puke-a-rella already.”

“Yeah.” I headed slowly toward the double doors at the end of the hall. “Distract me, please.”

“Well, I’m running late,” he said cheerfully. “So I’m probably going to have to tune my pipes in the car and then run in shirtless and half-dressed. I’ve been lifting weights. Maybe they’ll score high for a defined six pack, if they aren’t awed by my mere musical genius.”

“If you manage just your skirt, at least the judges’ll give you Braveheart points.”

“Don’t mock the kilt, woman. So, did you have any entertaining dreams last night?”

“Uh … ” Even though James and I were just friends, I hesitated to tell him. My intensely detailed dreams were usually a source of great amusement for us—two nights ago, I’d dreamt I was being interviewed by a Harvard college counselor who was up to her neck in cheese (Gouda, I think). The mood of last night’s dream still lingered with me, in a sort of appealing way. “I couldn’t really sleep well enough to dream,” I finally said.

Oh. The moon. It suddenly occurred to me that my dream was where I had seen a moon in a daytime sky—that was where the sense of déjà vu came from. I was disappointed that it was something so normal.

“Well, that’s typical,” James was saying.

“Delia’s coming,” I told him.

“Oh, so it’ll be the whole sister-on-sister catfight thing today, huh?”

“No, it’s the whole ‘my kid’s more talented than you are’ thing.”

“Neener neener,” James added helpfully. “Oh, damn. I really am late now. I have to get my pipes into the car, but I’ll see you soon. Try not to spaz out.”

“Yeah, thanks,” I said. The phone went silent, and I stuffed it back in my case as I arrived at the double doors. Behind them I could hear a vaguely muffled cacophony. I waited in line for my competition packet, pulling my harp behind me. Finally, I accepted my crisp manila envelope and turned to go. I was so eager to get out of there that my harp tipped precariously. Next thing I knew, the student behind me was stumbling under the weight of it.

“Uh—God.” He carefully set the harp back upright and I realized I knew him: Andrew from the brass section of the school orchestra. Trumpet, maybe. Something loud. He grinned hugely at me—boobs first, then face. “You have to be careful. Those inanimate objects will get away from you.”

“Yeah.” If he got much funnier, I was going to throw up on him. I pulled my harp a few inches away from him. “Sorry.”

“Hey, you can chuck your harp at me any time.”

I didn’t know how to respond to that, so I just said, “Yeah.” Effortlessly, I became invisible and Andrew turned away. Funny how it was just like any other day in high school.

Except that it wasn’t. Standing next to the double doors, listening to the roar of voices and instruments behind it, I couldn’t forget why we were all here. Tons of students were warming up for their turn on stage. Warming up for their shot at winning a prize at the 26th Annual Eastern Virginia Arts Festival. For their chance to impress the college and conservatory representatives who would be watching from the audience.

My stomach turned again and this time I knew there was no going back. I fled for the girl’s bathroom, the one in the basement below the gym, so that I could puke in private. Leaving my harp by the sinks, I barely made it in time, arms resting on the old gray-yellow toilet seat that reeked of too much cleaner and too many students.

I hate this. My stomach gurgled more. Every time I played in public, this happened. I knew it was stupid to be afraid of crowds, and I knew that the throwing up and nerves were all my fault, but I still couldn’t stop it. James had looked up “the fear of public humiliation” for me (katagelophobia), and one afternoon we’d even tried hypnosis, complete with self-actualizing pamphlets and soothing music. We’d just ended up slap-happy new fans of New Age music.