by Maria Padian
“Talk to me, ladies.”
“Take all three?” Lindsey suggests.
I suppress the urge to jump up and kiss her. Yes! I think, glancing at the clock over Min’s head: 4:37.
“Bad precedent,” Simone declares. “We go to thirteen now, what’ll be next? Fifteen? Twenty?”
“Well, we need Ann,” one girl asserts. “There’s a spot for one alto and one soprano, and she’s the highest-scoring alto.”
“Great point,” Min says, jumping up. She grabs a marker. “Are we agreed, Ann’s our alto?” Snaps all around. Min draws an emphatic circle around Ann’s name.
“So, now we have to choose between Aubrey and Sarah?” Lindsey says. “I don’t know if I can.”
“I don’t think this is even a close call.” Simone again. “I know we were all blown away by Aubrey’s sound. But—how can I put this kindly—she is not a performer. Hers is the first zero I’ve ever given for Presence. Sarah, on the other hand, is . . .”
“Gorgeous?” Jamila suggests. Which doesn’t sound like a compliment. It’s the first time I’ve heard a VC girl get testy.
“Not that we’d hold that against her, Jamila,” Min remarks.
“Poised,” Simone continues, meeting Jamila’s eyes. “As opposed to terrified.”
“Uh, singing in front of you people is terrifying,” I say.
Everyone laughs, breaking the tension.
But Simone isn’t done. “Listen, everyone’s nervous. But we can’t appear nervous. We have to appear totally relaxed. I don’t think Aubrey can pull that off. But hey, she’s only a freshman! Sarah’s a junior. I think given the tie in their overall scores and the gap in their stage presence, we should go with the more mature girl.”
I see nods, hear a couple of snaps. Lindsey is frowning and Jamila looks downright pissed. Min, meanwhile, is heading for the whiteboard, ready to circle a name . . .
“Whoa. Hold up there.” The words emerge from my throat. Everyone turns to me. I think they’re as surprised as I am.
“Umm . . . this isn’t so clear cut. To me, anyway,” I manage.
Min looks interested. “Go on,” she says.
My mind whirls. I have to be careful. I know things I shouldn’t and I have questions they don’t. Questions that have nothing to do with this tryout. Like, why is rich, popular, athletic Hot Sam’s sister the Queen of Cringe?
How could you have the talent of a diva and the confidence of a mouse?
Here’s what I do know (because she pretty much said it): Aubrey Shackelton needs this.
Not wants. Needs. There’s a huge difference. You want the cute top you saw at the store; you need air and water. You want to be invited to the party; you need friends. A friend. Any friend.
I’m not sure the other VC girls know about needing.
“I didn’t score Sarah nearly as high as the rest of you,” I begin. “Maybe all the ‘Let It Go’s started to blur for me?” That draws a few snickers. “At any rate, I think Aubrey is gives-me-chills amazing.”
“No one argues with that—” Simone begins, but I cut her off.
“Sarah isn’t amazing. She’s good. She’s got stage presence. She’s a very put-together person. And I predict if she doesn’t make VC, she’ll get on with her life just fine. But not Aubrey.
“Aubrey is painfully shy. She’s so clueless, she didn’t know how to sell herself to us. But she’s crazy talented, and Veronic Convergence will sound better with her. And . . . maybe it’s not just about what she brings. Maybe it’s about what we give. I think Aubrey will be good for this group, and we’ll be good for her.”
A long silence follows my little speech.
Finally, Lindsey says, “I agree.”
“Me too.” Jamila.
“Me three. And thanks, Izzy,” says another. Snaps.
Min looks around the room. “Let’s see a show of hands,” she says. “All those for Sarah . . . ?”
The tradition is for all the VCs and auditionees to gather in the auditorium after the tryouts. Min thanks everyone, tells them what a hard choice this was, encourages the girls to try again next time there are openings . . . then announces the new members. It’s the excruciating cherry on top of the awful sundae, because thirty-eight of the girls are in tears while two are trying not to shriek with excitement.
I tell Min my ride is waiting for me and I need to skip this finale. Which is true, but also a great excuse. I don’t do other people’s disappointment if I can help it.
When I emerge from the building, Roz is out front with the car idling. I jump in.
“Thank you thank you thank you,” I begin. “I owe you big-time.”
Roz acts like she doesn’t hear me. She peers at something in her rearview mirror, her nose wrinkled as if she smells something bad.
“Don’t turn around,” she says. “Look in the side mirror. See behind us?”
I adjust the side mirror, and see a navy Range Rover parked about three lengths away. A slim blond girl leans against it, arms folded across her chest. She appears to be waiting for someone. She wears leggings and leather riding boots.
“What?” I ask.
“That’s Melissa. Sam’s girlfriend,” Roz says.
I suppress the urge to whip my head around. “Awful Melissa?” I lean forward to get a better look.
“The one and only,” Roz confirms. “What the hell is she doing here?”
“Damned if I know,” I reply. “Are you sure it’s her?”
“Can’t mistake those bad highlights. Or her daddy’s car,” Roz says. “Let’s wait a minute to see who she’s picking up.”
I glance at my watch. 4:46. Even if Roz guns it, I’m late. “Roz, can we please just go? I’m already going to be in it so deep with my mother.” I make my best pathetic face. Which is pretty pathetic.
Roz does the disgruntled growly noise. The one for when she’s annoyed with me. “Where’s the fire, Izzy? One minute?”
I shake my head. “There’s these people I’m supposed to meet,” I begin.
She flashes me the are-you-kidding? look.
“Church people.”
“Oh. Well. ‘Church people,’” she says. She rolls her eyes. Roz isn’t big on church. “Why didn’t you say that in the first place?” She glances in the rearview one last time, then shifts the car into drive.
“Thank you,” I repeat. “I promise I’ll make it up to you. Fan you and feed you grapes, buy you endless bags of Cheetos, massage your feet with oil . . .”
“Ew. Stop right there. I don’t like people touching my feet.”
We pull out from the curb and head down the winding driveway. Roz keeps her eyes on the road, but I glance back before we exit the school grounds. The front doors yawn open and girls spill out. One approaches the Range Rover. I see Melissa straighten, see the girl practically skip toward her. See words exchanged, an excited embrace.
As Roz turns onto the main road, Aubrey gets into Melissa’s car. I try to imagine her voice as she tells her brother’s girlfriend that she’s been chosen for the most amazing a cappella group ever.
I know why I don’t tell Roz about the Habitat meeting. For one thing, I don’t want to jinx it. For another, why upset her and make her think we’re moving? It’s such a long shot.
I have no idea why I don’t tell her about Aubrey.
5
I show up twenty-five minutes late, in spite of Roz breaking every speed limit posted between St. V’s and lovely Meadowbrook Gardens. Our place smells like a Pine-Sol factory—Mami spent the last two days scrubbing it into submission—and everyone is already gathered in the living room. A woman with silvery hair sits perched on one of our Walmart folding chairs while Mami and Jack take up two-thirds of the Scrouch (with a notably vacant third reserved for me). In the pleather recliner, a man cradles Paco in his lap.
His face is creased with smile lines that deepen when he sees me. Which is a welcome contrast to the if-looks-could-kill glance I get from Mami. Or Jack’s agonized expression. He’s wearing his khaki Church Pants, which are pretty much a little boy’s version of a Hair Shirt. Not that they hurt in any way. They’re just not supposed to get dirty. Which, for Jack the Hyperactive Stain Magnet, involves not moving. Which is torture.
“Finally!” Jack exclaims when I make my grand entrance. Mami places a restraining hand on his arm. Paco stands, balancing on the Smiley Guy knees, his curlicue of a tail whipping him in the chest.
“Yes, here she is,” Mami says. “Finally.” Her eyes glitter. Her mouth forms a tight smile. “This is my daughter, Isabella.”
I am so doomed.
“Sorry I’m late,” I begin, crossing the room with hand extended. Smiley Dude rises, propping Paco on his left forearm and shaking my hand with his right. I brave a glance at Mami. “Auditions ran long,” I explain. “I managed to get a ride, but then we got behind a bus . . .”
Smiley Guy is all forgiving.
“No worries,” he says. “We started with the walk-through. And just now we were hearing all about Jack’s day. Plus getting to know this little fellow!” He scratches Paco between the ears. “Who looks very happy to see you! Aren’t you? Aren’t you happy to see Isabella?” Paco, as if on cue, bares his teeth and grins. He’s clearly in Chiweenie heaven: they adore attention. “I’m Lyle Cole. And this is Clare Danvers.” I shake Silver-Haired Lady’s hand and settle on the Scrouch next to Mami.
“Your mother was telling us you sing?” Smiley Guy begins.
“I’m in an a cappella group at my school, St. Veronica’s. We had auditions today for new members, which is why I’m late.”
He nods encouragingly. It’s an expression I recognize. Which is when it hits me.
This is an audition, too.
“What sorts of songs do you sing?” he asks. “Back when I was in school—”
I cut him off. “Mr. Cole—”
“Call me Lyle,” he urges.
“Mr. Lyle,” Mami prompts. Of course. I try to contain my irritation.
“Mr. Lyle. Ms. Clare. We don’t know the first thing about building.”
The room falls silent. Even Paco freezes. The only sound I hear is my own heartbeat, blood pounding in my ears.
If sitting through forty stress-filled auditions taught me anything, though, it’s this: don’t beat around the bush.
“But we’re not afraid of hard work. Especially my mother. There is no harder worker than her. So whatever it takes, if you show us what to do, we’ll do it.”
I see the two of them exchange glances. Mr. Lyle places Paco on the floor. Carefully, like his skinny legs are bird bones.
“Building with Habitat is quite a commitment,” he says. “A lot of hours.”
“I’d do anything for a real home,” I tell him. “To stay put and not move? Name how many hours. I’ll do it.”
“Isabella, if you didn’t have to move but could stay here, would that be all right?” Ms. Clare asks.
I know she’s supposed to ask, but . . . really? Do they not see this place?
“I guess it’s all right if you’re tuna. And like living in a can.”
The frozen expression on Ms. Clare’s face tells me she doesn’t get the joke. Neither does Mami. Who looks . . . murderous?
Only Jack appreciates me. He whoops. “Ha! Tuna! And it’s smelly, too!” he piles on.
“What I mean is,” I quickly amend, “we freeze in the winter and bake on hot days. Every time we cook, the smoke alarm goes off—that’s how little air circulation there is. And it’s . . . gross. Look at this carpet! We tried washing it but those stains are permanent.” One of them looks like a massive bloodstain, I don’t add. No need to freak Jack out.
“It sounds like you’ve moved a lot,” Mr. Lyle prompts. “Tell us about that.”
Before I can answer, there’s smashing at our front door. Not knocking: repeated, double-fisted pounding that threatens to pop the flimsy aluminum hinges. Accompanied by a man’s deep-throated cursing. And a familiar voice screaming my name.
“Good god, what’s that?” Ms. Clare exclaims.
Mr. Lyle startles like he’s been poked with something sharp.
“Roz,” I say, but Mami is already racing to the door, Paco close on her heels, yapping. I stand to follow when I’m brought up short by a whimper.
Jack. Knees curled to his chest as he presses back into the Scrouch. As if he’s trying to disappear into the cushions. His face has gone white.
I hadn’t told them Shawn was back. Hadn’t wanted to break it to my six-year-old brother that the scary man who yells at Roz and drives too fast and curses at Mami when she calls the police was living across the road again.
I drop to my brother’s side and wrap my arms around him.
“Shh, shh, shh,” I murmur, pressing my cheek against the top of his head. “It’s okay, buddy. I’m right here.” His little shoulders tremble.
Mami opens the door and Roz stumble-bursts inside like she’d been leaning her full weight against it.
“Mrs. Crawford, help please!” She’s panting, her face red and tear streaked. She dives into my mother like she’s home base and there’s two out. Except Roz isn’t playing; she’s running for her life. With one arm, Mami maneuvers Roz back and behind her, putting her body between my frightened friend and whoever is chasing her.
“Yeah, you try ’n’ run! I know where you are!” we hear.
Jack sinks further into himself. There’s no mistaking Shawn.
“You stay away from me! Stay away!” Roz shrieks. “I will call the police and they will lock your ass away this time!”
“Say that to my face, girl!” Shawn’s furious reply sounds closer. Too close.
Then, Gloria: “Rosaline Jenkins, you get yourself out here!”
Mami steps into the doorframe. She’s only five foot two, but for some reason she seems to fill the space.
“Gloria. Shawn. Get away from my house,” she says clearly.
“This ain’t none of your business, Margarita!” we hear Gloria yell. “Tell my daughter to get out of there.”
“You’re right, it’s none of my business. Unless you bring it into my home. Scaring my children. Then it’s my business.” Mami doesn’t shout. But her voice is steel.
“So send her out!” Shawn, slurring. But he doesn’t sound any closer.
“Lyle?” Ms. Clare’s eyes are round. “Should we call nine-one-one?”
Mr. Lyle shakes his head. He rises from the chair and squeezes Ms. Clare’s shoulder as he brushes past her. He joins Mami at the front door. “Why don’t we all take a deep breath right now?” he says, addressing the cool air outside. “Let’s not escalate this and do something anyone regrets.”
“Who the hell are you?” Gloria demands. “Roz! I know you hear me!”
Roz has seated herself on the edge of the Scrouch and covered her ears with her hands, now rocking back and forth, humming. Like some little kid, playing the I-don’t-hear-you game.
“I am a friend of Mrs. Crawford’s,” Mr. Lyle continues. “I don’t mean any disrespect to you, but I suggest—”
“I’m gonna count to ten!” Gloria screams. “And you better be out!” The woman sounds deranged.
A sob escapes Jack. It cuts through the bedlam. Even Roz lifts her head, her face swollen from crying. Mami casts one furious glance at us, then steps into the night and closes the door behind her. We can still hear through the walls.
“No, I am going to count to ten,” she says. “I am going to count, and you two are going to leave. You are going to stop screaming outside my door and you are going to stop scaring my children. That is what is going to happen. If you are smart. But if you are not smart, then I’m going to call the
police. Again. And Gloria, this time? Schiavo will throw you out. When he realizes he is back.”
Roz’s eyes meet mine. Dominic Schiavo is the manager at Meadowbrook. The last time Shawn caused trouble and police were called, he threatened Gloria with eviction if the dude moved back.
“Know what you are?” Gloria shouts. “A Mexican whore!”
“One,” Mami replies.
“Screw it,” we hear Shawn say. “Let her stay. No one wants her sorry ass back!” This last bit he yells for Roz’s sake.
“Two,” Mami continues. “Three.” We hear gravel skitter as Gloria and Shawn retreat. “Four.”
The counting continues until the Jenkinses’ front door slams shut across the road. Mami comes back inside. Her eyes, blazing, go straight to Roz. “Are you hurt?”
Roz shakes her head, then throws herself into my mother’s arms. Mami holds her tight as Roz’s shoulders heave with sobs.
The home visit is pretty much over after that. Poor Mr. Lyle can’t seem to figure out what to do with himself: reassure Jack (who has curled into a catatonic human ball on the Scrouch) or comfort Roz or talk down terrified Ms. Clare (who still wants to call 9-1-1, even though Mami tells her that would be the wrong move right now). He ends up herding us all into the living room for a prayer.
As we stand in a circle, arms linked around each other’s shoulders, I can’t help feeling ridiculous. We look like we’re in a football huddle. Playing some game of Touchdown Jesus while we keep our ears open to sounds of a possibly returning wolf outside our door.
The wolf Roz lives with now. As we stand there, I see her working to control her breathing, still too shaken to flash me the smirky, rolled-eyes glance all the praying would normally prompt. I want to ask her what the hell happened to set him off this time, although it doesn’t matter. In the past, anything from Roz drinking the last of the orange juice to Roz (supposedly) swiping twenty bucks from his wallet sparked a scene. Mr. Lyle’s words wash over me, barely registering (“Lord, bless and protect this family . . .”) as I wonder how long it’ll be this time before Roz can go home.
By the time Mr. Lyle and Ms. Clare finally leave—the obligatory we’ll-be-in-touch and please-don’t-worry-we’ll-be-fine exchanged as the adults walk outside—Mami has set us up with grilled cheese and tomato soup at the counter. Food has returned a sense of normalcy to Jack, who munches, wiping his butter-greased fingers on his Church Pants. Roz stirs her soup in distracted circles.
