Summary:
Mrs. Vilonte, a strict and devoted mother, sees to it that her children receive the best education for a successful life. With her son already a respected doctor, she now directs her attention to her youngest child, 17-year old Gabrielle, aspiring for her to become a renowned violinist. Mrs. Vilonte is prepared to go to great lengths to secure her daughter's success, even striking a deal with the Devil. However, when Mrs. Vilonte fails to uphold her end of the bargain, the Devil arrives to forcefully claim what is his: Gabrielle.
The wailing siren of an ambulance startled Isabella Vilonte, causing her hands to tremble and spill a portion of her green tea onto the kitchen counter. The tranquility of her early morning routine was shattered. With a sigh, she set her teacup down, momentarily resigned to the interruption.
As the siren faded into the distance, she wondered where the ambulance could be headed. An unsettling sensation gnawed at her nerves, and a small voice murmured in her ear, "Oh, but you do know where it's going.”
“No, no, it could be passing through this street to get to the other side of town.”
“You know that's not true. It makes no sense.”
“It does to me.”
The voice persisted. “Keep telling yourself that. You know where it's going. Don't you remember your part in the ritual?”
“I took part in nothing! All I did was crack open the window just a tiny bit. The Sullivan’s house needed some fresh air.”
“That was an invitation to let it in.”
Ignoring the voice, she hastily seized a kitchen towel from the sink and wiped away the spilled tea off the pristine marble surface of the counter. She peeked out of the window and noticed no movement in the houses across the street. The neighbor's dogs had barked when the siren passed, but now they were quiet. The entire neighborhood seemed undisturbed.
As she lifted the teacup near her lips, anticipating a sip, a strong hand gently pressed and squeezed her shoulder. The unexpected touch jolted her. The teacup slipped from her grasp, landing on the counter before tumbling off, shattering into fragments on the floor. Once more, the kitchen counter was wet with spilled tea.
Out of the corner of her eye, she glimpsed the silhouette of a tall, stocky figure vanishing behind her. Swiftly turning, poised to confront the intruder, she stopped as she saw that it was none other than her husband, Philip. A sigh of relief escaped her as she placed a hand over her chest to still her pounding heart. Her fear turned to irritation.
“You shouldn't have scared me like that!” She yelled, scowling.
The smile faded from Philip's round face, replaced by an apologetic and worried expression.
“I didn't mean to scare you, honey,” he said, stepping back with his hands raised up. “I just wanted to say, ‘good morning.’”
“Then you should've said ‘good morning’ instead of sneaking up behind me.”
Her gaze fell to the broken pieces of her teacup on the floor, her eyes widened and her frown deepened. She bent down to pick them up, using the kitchen towel to protect her hand.
She snapped. “See what you made me do!”
“I'm sorry, honey. I'll buy you a new one.”
“Oh, yes, I'm sure my late mother's teacup–which is part of an expensive bone china set, by the way–could easily be replaced.”
“Maybe we could find one online–”
“Yes, yes, brilliant idea, Philly! Let's find my dead mother's one-of-a-kind teacup on the Internet!”
Her words oozed with bitterness. She was annoyed and the sorry look on her husband's face only fueled her agitation.
"Pathetic," she muttered, discarding the teacup into the trash before wiping the kitchen counter clean for the second time.
Mr. Vilonte apologized again.
“Nevermind,” Mrs. Vilonte sighed, tossing the towel into the sink. “Why don't you sit down, and I'll fix you up with your breakfast.”
She poured him a mug of coffee, then moved about the kitchen, retrieving a pan and a bowl from a cabinet, gathering eggs from the refrigerator, and grabbing bread from the pantry, while her husband took a seat at the kitchen table.
“Why are you so jumpy this morning?” he asked.
She cracked the eggs and dumped the insides into a bowl. “I didn't get enough sleep,” she confessed, whisking the eggs until the clear gooey part had mixed in with the yolk.
“I noticed you came home very late last night; it must've been past midnight. Gabby was home before then; I think around 10 o'clock. Victoria had dropped her off. Weren't you at the Sullivan’s house too?”
“Yes, I stayed to chat with Victoria's mother while the girls went out to see a movie.”
“How’re the Sullivans these days? I haven't had the chance to catch up with them in months.”
“They’re doing splendidly!” she exclaimed, continuing to beat the eggs, each motion slightly becoming more agitated. “Howard got a promotion at the law firm, and Carol’s taking an advanced pottery course and plans to open up her own home decor store next year. Their lovely daughter, Victoria, is the First Chair violinist in the school’s orchestra.”
“Oh, I thought Gabby was the First Chair violinist.”
“Nope. It's Victoria.”
“But Gabby was–”
Mrs. Vilonte pursed her lips and shook her head. “At the end of every school year, the students have to re-audition for the orchestra. Gabby was First Chair during her sophomore and junior years, but somehow this year she got second and Victoria got first.”
“I didn't know that.”
“I didn't expect you to.”
Mr. Vilonte let out a tired sigh. “I may not be around as much, having to travel out of state for business, but I try to pay attention to what's going on at home.”
“I know your work can get crazy busy. Anyway, that's what's been going on.”
“Second Chair, huh… Wait a minute. Aren't we paying for private violin lessons? What's the tutor's name?”
“Maestro Giovanni Salerno. He's played for the symphony orchestras in Berlin and Moscow. Very well known in the classical music circle.”
“How long has he been tutoring our daughter?”
“A couple of months. Lessons are once a week on Wednesdays for an hour and a half.”
“How much?”
“Six hundred a month.”
Mr. Vilonte choked on his coffee, coughing and spitting it out. “S-six hundred a month,” he sputtered, “and she was placed second?!”
"Oh, Philip! You've made a mess!”
She set aside the bowl of eggs, grabbed a paper towel, and approached the table to clean up the spilled coffee.
“But six hundred?” her husband gasped.
“He’s the best tutor in town, and with his resume and reputation, we were lucky that we even got on the waiting list! We waited more than a year to get a slot in his schedule.”
“And do you think he's worth it? Six hundred dollars?...and she got Second Chair…”
“We need him, Philip. Gabby needs the best tutor she can get.”
Mrs. Vilonte picked up the bowl and resumed beating the eggs. “I went to see the school's orchestra director, Mr. Ramazanov, last week,” she said, “right after he posted the final list of the seating arrangement. I told him he surely made a mistake, an error in judgment.”
“What did he tell you?”
“He said he made the right call and refused to reverse his decision, and that if Gabby wants First Chair, she'd have to challenge Victoria.”
“Challenge? How does that work?”
Mrs. Vilonte rolled her eyes, annoyed that her husband didn't know. “If you want to move up the ranks within the orchestra, you challenge the chair next to you. You play a piece and they play a piece in front of everyone. Mr. Ramazanov lets the students vote on which one played better but he makes the final call.”
“Okay, that sounds simple. Is she going to challenge Victoria?”
“Of course! I told her to. She has to!”
“And Mr. Salad–”
“Maestro Salerno,” she corrected him.
“Is he going to prepare Gabby for the challenge?”
“He told me that he'll take care of it.”
Mrs. Vilonte froze, feeling a presence behind her, its mouth drawing close to her ear and it whispered, “It's been taken care of.”
A mist wrapped around her thoughts as a pulsating red light flickered within her gaze. On the wall, a face emerged, wearing a wide grin that unveiled rows of jagged, yellow, spiked teeth. It let out a terrible roar, echoing like the hungry cry of a wild beast.
She screamed, turning away while shielding her head with her arms, and then instinctively shrank into a corner. As the roar subsided and the strange presence in the room waned, she cautiously peeked through her fingers, discovering her husband kneeling beside her, shaking her shoulders and urgently calling out her name.
“Isabella! What happened? Are you okay?”
“I'm fine. I just had a sudden headache. It could be a migraine again, and you know how if I don't get a good night's sleep, it's likely to happen.”
Mr. Vilonte appeared doubtful. "You've never screamed like that before. Something frightened you," he remarked, pointing to the wall. "You were looking at something over there. What was it?"
"It was nothing," she replied, waving a dismissive hand.
She grasped the edge of the counter, heaving herself up as her husband lent support by lifting her other arm. She glanced downward, discovering egg yolk smeared across the front of her dress. The bowl lay upturned on the floor, surrounded by a puddle of spilled egg yolk. Releasing an exasperated sigh, she picked up the bowl and tossed it into the sink.
Mr. Vilonte insisted that she go upstairs to change and rest for the day; he would handle the cleanup and drive Gabrielle to school since he didn't need to be at the office until the afternoon.
"What's going on? I heard screaming," asked a soft voice.
Mrs. Vilonte turned to find her daughter standing by the doorway, looking distinguished in the dark blue uniform of New Renaissance Academy. However, her gaze then fell upon Gabrielle’s beat-up sneakers.
“Oh, sweetheart, not those shoes,” she groaned. “I bought you a new pair of dress shoes to go with your uniform. Why aren't you wearing them?”
“Because they hurt my feet.”
Mrs. Vilonte shook her head furiously. “No, no, no. I need you to go change your shoes.”
“I don't want to. These ones are more comfortable.”
“The challenge is today; at least appear that you care.”
“But I don't.”
Mrs. Vilonte slapped her hand on the counter, exclaiming, “Gabrielle!”
“Don't upset your mother,” Mr. Vilonte said, firmly, wagging his finger at his daughter, and then ordered, “Go change your shoes.”
In a huff, Gabrielle stormed up the stairs to her bedroom, then returned shortly after, now wearing the sleek black pointed-toe dress shoes. Mrs. Vilonte, with a sigh of relief, gazed upon her with eyes gleaming with pride, choosing to overlook the surly expression etched on Gabrielle's face. Wiping off the yolky mess from her dress, she gestured for her to sit down at the table while she prepared breakfast.
“I'm not that hungry,’ said Gabrielle, grabbing an apple from the fruit bowl instead.
“You must eat something.”
“This is something.”
Gabrielle took a bite of the apple.
“I just want you to have a nice breakfast,” said Mrs. Vilonte, switching on the stove and oiling up the pan. “The challenge is today and you need to stay focused. Having a full stomach helps with that.”
“I don't even want to do the challenge.”
Mrs. Vilonte scoffed. “Goodness, Gabby… sometimes I wonder about you.”
“Vicky's my friend, Mom.”
“The challenge isn't personal. Sometimes friendships have to be put aside for your progress. That's how real life works.”
“But I'm glad she got First Chair; she got it fair and square. And honestly, it's a lot to take on. There's so much pressure being first. It's nice to have a break from it.”
Mrs. Vilonte furrowed her brow and placed her hands firmly on her hips, her expression a mixture of concern and admonition.
“This is your senior year,” she said, “you'll be applying to universities very soon. How do you think it'd look to the Admissions Committee that you went from being first to second?”
“Being Second Chair isn't a death sentence.”
Throwing her hands up, Mrs. Vilonte cried, “Why must you be so difficult? Your brother wasn't like this at your age. He listened to my every word without argument, and now he's a doctor.”
“Good for him.”
Seated across the table from his daughter, Mr. Vilonte crossed his arms and fixed a penetrating gaze upon her. “Gabrielle, mind your tone,” he cautioned. “Speaking disrespectfully to your mother is not acceptable.”
Gabrielle rolled her eyes and asked, “How am I being disrespectful?”
“Your tone, young lady! And don't you roll your eyes!”
Mrs. Vilonte turned off the stove and returned the bread to the pantry and the eggs back into the refrigerator.
"I don't have the energy to cook right now," she declared, her voice tinged with irritation. "Your father will be driving you; I'm too exhausted. You're the reason I feel so drained!”
Mr. Vilonte nodded. “Go get your school things,” he commanded Gabrielle. “We're heading out now.”
"You don't have to drive me," Gabrielle said, rising from her seat and discarding the apple core into the trash. "I'm riding with Vicky. She'll be here soon.”
Mrs. Vilonte began to speak, with the intention of insisting that her father would be the one driving Gabrielle to school. It wasn't that she deemed Victoria a problematic student, but she harbored concerns that Victoria might persuade Gabrielle to abandon the challenge.
The persistent whisper in her ear reminded her to be patient. “Now you'll see,” it said.
She held back her tongue, watching in silence as her daughter left the kitchen. Moments later, rippling through the air, came Gabrielle's screams, "No, no, no! Oh, God, no!" There, at the doorway, stood Gabrielle—pale, lips quivering, and tears streaming down her cheeks.
“What is it?” Mr. Vilonte asked.
“I got a text from Vicky's sister,” she said, her voice quivering. “She said…oh, god,” she sobbed, “she said Vicky's dead.”
“Dead?”
Sobbing uncontrollably, Gabrielle collapsed onto the floor, her hands covering her face, while Mr. Vilonte hurried to her side, pulling her into a comforting embrace.
Mrs. Vilonte stood motionless and silent. What could she possibly do or say to comfort her? "I'm sorry that your friend is gone"? Then follow it up with "Now stop crying"? She couldn't understand the purpose of crying; aside from babies, it seemed utterly pointless for anyone past the age two to cry. She had long held a hatred for tears, deeming them ineffective in bringing about any positive change.
Crying didn't do anyone good. Her own mother had imparted those wise words to her in the past.
Gabrielle looked up at her with wet red eyes and whimpered, “I can't believe she's gone. Mom? Aren't you going to say anything?”
Mrs. Vilonte hesitated for a moment before finally saying, “Oh, honey, that's terrible news.”
Victoria Sullivan, First Chair violinist of New Renaissance Academy's orchestra, was dead. The news was undeniably devastating. Yet, within this dark cloud, there was a silver lining: First Chair was now Gabrielle's. As Mrs. Vilonte absorbed this revelation, she envisioned the future unfolding like a resplendent red carpet. Gabrielle's path appeared radiant, surpassing even her wildest dreams.
Vivid scenes played in her mind—camera flashes capturing her daughter on stage, commanding a standing ovation with her violin. In this vision, Mrs. Vilonte found herself in the front row, waving proudly at the captivated audience as they recognized her as the mother who had brought the world a heavenly gift.