The roads are clear for once. No traffic, no slush, no construction. The sun even makes a brief appearance. I sail down the freeway, singing my solo with the practice CD cranked, coaxing Jeanette up to seventy. She shakes and vibrates, but I don’t let up until the speed limit drops back to fifty-five.
I get to choir early enough to help Terri set up the recording equipment. Rental stuff. Huge microphones. A double-reel tape recorder this time to back up the digital. We get lost in the wires and don’t notice Meadow and her parents when they arrive.
Her dad elegantly clears his throat. “Can I help?” He slips off his brown leather driving gloves, takes a bundle of mike cords from me, and adeptly straightens the mess. He wears a camel-colored wool coat, perfectly tailored. Really handsome. Not just the coat.
Terri’s cheeks go pink when she talks to him. “After what happened to our last file, I don’t quite trust digital anymore.” She nods at the extra equipment.
He turns to hook the mikes into the recording system. “Yes. Meadow told me you’re re-recording this morning.”
“That’s right. The Choral Olympics couldn’t get the file we sent with our application to work. So we’ve got a rare chance—the girls are so much better now than they were in January.”
Meadow glares in my direction. “But this is cheating. You should send the same recording.”
“It’s kind of messed up.” I wonder what she did to it. “I called the committee and explained we need to rerecord. They said fine.” She throws a look at me.
I turn away, biting the insides of my cheeks to keep my face in check.
Meadow’s father turns knobs on the soundboard, pretending to be preoccupied. “Meadow says you’re giving Beth her solo.” He looks meaningfully at Terri.
She sort of wilts. The man knows how to use his powers. He sells cars. Thousands of them. Terri swallows and starts shuffling through her music. “Meadow was too ill to sing it Thursday.”
“Ill?” Meadow’s dad glances at her mom.
She wraps the fur collar on her coat tighter around her neck. “Meadow was not ill. You bullied her into performing when she wasn’t ready.” She’s got full-length real furs in her closet at home. She wears them to our concerts.
Terri continues. I can tell she memorized this speech. “Beth filled in. The girls feel we should record both soloists, play it back and vote on which recording to send.”
Way to go, Terri. So sly. How can they object to that?
Meadow’s mom stares me down. “Beth can go first. Dear,” she addresses her husband, “you better stay.”
I can tell that no way does Meadow’s high-powered dad want to spend his Saturday at a tedious recording session, especially if Meadow’s singing, but he prepares to obey. “I can man this stuff for you.” He flashes a smile made for movies at Terri. “Old hobby.”
I can imagine the sound system they’ve got at their place and smile to myself. I bet Meadow is way into karaoke.
By 8:30 a.m. the pews are packed. Warm-up and neck rubs. Everybody’s loose and spirited. It feels like a party. Recording sessions are usually stressed, but not this one. Whispers run around the room. No one seems to be able to hold her instrument still. Terri rolls with it. Normally she’d be uptight, glare down any girl who made a single unwanted noise.
All the girls are eager to see what Meadow’s mom will do when she hears me sing. Sarah thinks she’ll walk out and take her checkbook with her. The girl in front of me says, “No way. She’s so delusional. She’ll think Meadow is better.”
Terri calls us to attention. Silence. She cues Meadow’s dad to start recording. I should be nervous, but there’s a fierce desire in me that doesn’t leave room for butterflies. I stand tall so I can pull a huge breath in with my diaphragm and close my eyes. The piano intro starts. By the time the pianist hits my cue, I’m that lonely slave girl again pleading with her Lord to take her to a better place. The choir joins me. The music swells and twists. I’m lost in it. No mikes. No digital recorder picking up every hint and color of my voice. No Meadow sitting in the choir seats with her mom, who watches with a stunned look on her face. I’m transported—lost in the words and the tragedy and quiet heroism they spell. I am this music. The celebration mounts, comes to its climax, and then it’s just me, my voice throbbing with emotion, sanctifying the song as I sing:Turn my back on the muddy water,
Close my eyes to that other side . . .
Lord, I long for the other side.
My face is wet again. I don’t know when the tears came.
Then silence. No one breathes. All eyes are glued on Terri’s upraised hands. She nods to Meadow’s dad. He pushes buttons, and it’s over. Perfect take.
First time.
That never happens.
Our eyes pivot to Meadow and her mom. They’re whispering. We’re still silent. Meadow’s mom stands up. Hang on. Here comes the cyclone. The woman shakes her perfectly styled head sadly and helps Meadow to her feet.
“I told you they’d split,” Sarah whispers. “Kiss those new outfits good-bye.”
I nudge with my elbow to shut her up.
Meadow’s mom guides her to the podium where the minister delivers his sermons. We’re all looking up at her. Meadow’s face is set, her mouth a firm line. “I really want to go to Switzerland.” She licks her lip gloss off. She points at me. “We’ll get in with that.” Meadow glances back at her mom. “Mom says it’s okay. I don’t have to do the solo.”
Stunned silence.
She can’t be giving in. Not so easy. I guess I was counting on her leaving in a huff when she lost the vote. But she wants to stay and let me sing? I don’t get it.
“What?” Meadow looks around the room. “You think it’s easy to have to sing the solos all the time? You think I want that kind of pressure?” She shrugs her shoulders. “Let her do it for a change.”
Pandemonium, take three.
Good thing we’re not taping again with Meadow because no one has a voice left after all that screaming. Terri passes around a big bag of honey-flavored throat lozenges, and we sit down and listen to the playback.
I’ve never heard myself like that before. Gives me chills. That rich, beautiful sound dancing above the choir is me? Doesn’t seem real. We’re sending this off to an international selection committee. Me. We’re sending me off. I get lost in the fantasy. I’m singing on a stage with lights shining all around.Can this be me ?
A microphone in my hand.
Lightbulbs flashing,
People screaming when I take command.
Can this be me ?
Taking the stage for gold dreams.
A true princess
Winning glory like the tales say
I can—
Is it me ?
After the playback, I avoid Meadow. She’s dealing with rejection better than I ever thought she could. Maybe she’s telling the truth. If I had her voice, I wouldn’t want to sing the solos either. She’s got ears like the rest of us. She’s allowed to want to go to Switzerland no matter what it takes—like the rest of us.
Her mom is another story. She hovers in the back, rapid-fire whispering to her husband while he winds up the mike cords.
“Okay, girls.” Terri ignores the angry woman at the back of the room. “If we’re going to get our act ready for the world stage, we’ve got a lot of work to do. See you Tuesday.”
I hang out so I can thank Terri, but Meadow’s mom descends on her. “If you’re actually going through with this, we need to talk gowns. They must have something elegant. My daughter will not appear on an international stage in one of those old capes.”