Wraps his sweet, sweet fingers so tight around my heart—
Each section wanders down its own tangled pathway until we wind back together into a perfect sustained chord: HE AIN’T READY FOR JORDAN!
We’re one with that tragic girl so far away in time and place. A bunch of white girls finding their souls.
Terri hushes us into reverence for the next line. A mother breathes because she must.
Like my mom who kept going when my dad bolted. For me. She kept breathing, kept working—too wounded to ever love again. And I stare at her with his eyes, his height, his face, his zits. Every day, I’m there to remind her. The Beast incarnate.
The girls around me chant, Pulls me back, pulls me back, pulls me back.
My voice finds its way out of the harmony. Alone. One small slave girl looking for salvation.I bid farewell to the river,
The sweet, sweet river Jordan,
Turn my back on the muddy water,
Close my eyes to that other side.
I don’t know how I keep singing the final chorus. I’m so full of her agony. My voice breaks when I sing, Where my master cannot find me. I get control, and the choir joins me in a harmonious, heart-throbbing, Lord, I long for the other side.
I’m weeping on that last note. So is Terri. So are Sarah and the girl in front of me. All the girls are wiping their eyes. The final piano chord dies away. Terri drops her hands.
Pandemonium.
Everybody crowds around me. Hugging me. Pulling on my arms. Patting my back. They’re all cheering. For me. Massively unprecedented emotion surges heat into my face.
Terri plows through the choir and hurls her tiny self at my giant frame. “Why didn’t you tell me you can sing like that?”
I sniff and wipe my eyes. “I’m an alto.”
That’s when I see her. Meadow. Standing in the doorway. Her face matches the pale-green walls behind her in the hall. “What’s going on?”
chapter 3
TAKE TWO
What Terri says next bounces in my brain but doesn’t get through to me.
She clears her throat and says it again, “Meadow, I’m giving Beth the solo in ‘Take Me Home.’”
Me? The soloist? For real? My legs go jelly. I sink onto the pew behind me.
“But it’s mine.” Meadow clutches the wood doorframe. “You can’t give it to that—”
Hideous beast. She doesn’t need to say it. Everyone knows what she means.
“You can’t dash out to the bathroom when we’re onstage in Lausanne.”
“It’s not like I do it on purpose.”
“We need a soloist for this piece, hon. You’ve tried and tried. I know that. Beth can do it. You heard her, didn’t you?”
Meadow stamps her foot. “Give it up, Terri. We’re not going to be on the stage in Lausanne.”
Her cold words blanket the room, silence the glow of the music we welded in the midst of the night. We all remember the pathetic recording we submitted.
I can’t believe Terri is finally getting real with Meadow. I’m sick of all the babying, but Meadow is right. It’s way too late. It doesn’t matter now. I guess we’ll need this piece in Vancouver. Singing is singing. I’ll be the soloist there. Maybe that trip won’t be up to Meadow’s standards, and she’ll skip the whole thing.
Meadow glares at me. “I say we dump that stupid piece. I hate it.”
“Unfortunately, Meadow, I think we’ll still need it.” Terri stands up on a pew so all the girls can hear her. “You’re not going to believe this, ladies.”
“Quiet, everybody.” Leah hops on the bench and waves her hands around. “Listen. Shush.”
“I heard from the Choral Olympics yesterday.”
Dead silence.
Please let it be yes. Please let it be yes. Please let it be yes.
“The MP3 file I sent them with our audition performance was corrupted. They need a new copy. I was going to resend the recording we made back in January, but I got busy today. Put it off.”
Somebody squeals. And then another girl. It’s getting noisy. Terri has to yell to be heard. “How about we get together on Saturday and record this again—with Beth.”
“Hold on.” It’s Meadow. She looks even worse than before. “Who is going to tell my mother?”
I float home. Float into the house. Float up to Mom’s room, totally amped that I can give her this. A fragment of “Take Me Home” runs through my head when I knock on her door. A mother breathes because she must. That’s my mom. For sure. She breathes for me.
I tell her, and she flips out. “You’re going to be the soloist?”
“Yeah. Me. And Terri’s pretty sure that with me singing, we’ll get in. You should have heard me tonight.” I drop onto her bed and curl up on my side next to her, still trying to believe it’s true.
“Too bad Grandma Lizzie is gone.” Mom smoothes her hand over my head. “She would have loved to see this.” Grandma Lizzie is where I got my voice. She was in a big band, sang for the troops in World War II. She died just after I was born.
“Maybe she did. Maybe she was there tonight. Holding my hand.”
Mom gets all teary and hugs me.
I get settled for the night in my own bed but can’t sleep. Stand up and stare at myself in the mirror. The girl that looks back isn’t a soloist. She’s the one you hide behind the floral arrangement. That would work. I can sing from anywhere. I don’t want this face to wreck what they hear. I’m still that damn ugly daughter, still defined, still believe them.
I’m floating at school next day, too, but I’m so sleepy. I keep nodding off. Finally wake up by choir. Scott sits down next to me. I’m too happy to go back to where we left off yesterday. He’ll never have to cheer me up again. He can be sweet and stupid if he wants. I’m so high—nothing will hurt. At least nothing Scott can dream up. Colby could probably get through, but he’s done his worst for a while. He’ll have to lie low after his naked-freshmen stunt. Only a couple of guys directed crude remarks in my direction as I crept through the hall this morning. Life’s good. Really good.
“What’s up with you?” Scott is still grumpy. He does need to go find a cute, short girlfriend. He’s starting to fill out. He has a neck now. He never used to have a guy neck. And he’s letting his baby-blond hair grow out. Crew cuts no more. He’s almost got locks. It goes good with the neck.
“Are you lifting weights?”
“I go to the gym with my dad.”
“That must be nice.”
“He needs encouragement. You want to come with us—Saturday?”
“I’m recording on Saturday.”
“You sign with Motown when I wasn’t looking?”
“Hardly. But—” I can’t help breaking into a foolish, sappy, I-can’t-believe-my-good-fortune smile. “I’m the new soloist for Bliss.”
“The fancy chick choir? About time.”
“This is huge. Is that all you can say?”
“Congratulations. When you sign with Motown, let me know.”
I want to grab him by his sexy new guy neck and throttle him, but class starts and he needs it to sing.
Saturday I’m up early. Out the door. I’m so pumped and alive. Wonder if love feels like this. Who needs it when you can have this rush, this excitement? Maybe that’s why divas churn through men. What guy could match this high?