Sing Me to Sleep

by Angela Morrison

  “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?

  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.”

  I get myself clean out of her way. Guess our capes are doomed. The hand-painted flowers on the front are kind of hokey, but they’re pretty. And we get to wear comfy black pants and a cotton choir T-shirt under them.

  Meadow’s mom continues in a loud voice, “They’ll need an entire travel wardrobe.”

  Terri’s eyebrows shoot up. “We better keep it basic. Most of the girls don’t have a budget for a new wardrobe.”

  “Don’t let that worry you. I have suppliers.” She’s getting excited. “A few classic pieces. Mix and match.”

  “Comfortable.” Terri’s not going to win this one.

  “Well-made clothes are always comfortable.” Meadow’s mom launches into a list of exactly what we must have.

  “Thank you so much,” Terri finally says. “I’ll leave it all up to you.” Good going, Terri. We won the war—let her have this battle.

  “I insist on it. At least they’ll all look good.” She catches sight of me. “Well, most of them.”

  I can’t thank Terri properly with this woman in the way. Terri sees me. She knows. I give it up, heft my music bag onto my shoulder, and turn to go.

  There’s Meadow. Right in my face.

  I mumble a weak, “Hey.”

  She frowns. “I’m not going to bite you.”

  I hold out my arm. “Take a chunk if it will make you feel better.”

  “What? And blow my diet?”

  “Thanks for—”

  “That solo has been driving me crazy. I can never get it right. Terri’s always crabbing at me to stay after and go over it and over it and over it. I’ve got better things to do with my time.”

  “Better than singing?”

  “You would say that.” She laughs and flips her fake blonde hair back. “There’s lots out there better than singing.”

  I’m guessing Meadow rates love over singing. Maybe she’s not a fair judge. It’s obviously way easier for her to get guys than sing a solo. Her mega-hot boyfriend picks her up sometimes in his mega-hot red sports car. Maybe he gives her the exact same high I get when the music pours through me, engulfs the choir, and transports us to a different plane.

  Sarah laughs from behind us. “Have you seen who’s on the program? The Amabile guys are one of the host choirs.”

  The Amabile guys are a tenor and bass choir just across the border in Ontario, but light years away from us in the youth choir universe. The entire Amabile organization is like that. Their girls’ choir kind of invented the whole movement. Hatfield composes for them. I have all their CDs. They set the standard. The girls are legends.

  But the guys?

  Rock stars.

  I have their CDs, too. I can’t believe we might get to meet them. Every girls’ choir in the world is crazy in love with them. It’s not that they are amazingly hot. A few are. Most are just gangly teen boys. Cute and sweet. Kind of like Scott. But when they sing—that’s hot. Amazingly.

  Meadow turns on Sarah. “Really? Are you sure?”

  Sarah sighs. “Funny, we have to go all the way to Switzerland to meet them.”

  Leah is in the pew behind us, sorting the rhythm instruments. She leans into the conversation. “Have you seen the latest pictures on their Web site’s gallery? The ones of their Christmas concert? I die for a guy in a tux.”

  “Who can sing.” We all say it at the same time. Even me, Beth the Beast who never got a guy in her life, gets this.

  Sarah kind of writhes. “Ooh, why does that make them so hot?”

  Meadow narrows her contact-blue eyes at me. “So Miss Soloist, what are we going to do here?”

  I look around for help. “Ummm.” Leah and Sarah stare, too. “Practice hard, like Terri said.”

  “No, silly. Listen, I don’t know how you came up with that stunning voice completely out of the blue but,” Meadow shrugs and wrinkles up her whole face, not just her nose, “the rest of you is a disaster.”

  I look down at the hole worn through the knee of my Levi’s, rub my hand over it. “I’m sure your mom will come up with some great looking clothes for us.”

  “Don’t worry about the wardrobe. We’ve got that handled. Easy fix. At least you’re not obese, too. You’ve got a bust under there somewhere right? But—”

  I drop my head and stare at her shiny black pumps. “I was thinking I could stand behind something. Flowers. Curtains.”

  Sarah and Leah laugh.

  I smile up at Meadow. “I’ll sing from backstage, and you can lipsynch.”

  Leah says, “We’d so get kicked out for that.”

  “No gold medal,” Sarah adds.

  Leah snaps the lid closed on the instrument case. “No press conference.”

  Sarah winks. “No finale singing with the Amabile guys.”

  Meadow’s eyebrows tease up. “We wouldn’t want to jeopardize that.” She scrutinizes my face. “Drop your bag. Try to stand straight.” She walks around me. “Statuesque. Nice cheekbones. The jaw is a little heavy.” She grabs a chunk of my hair. “At least there’s lots of this to work with.” She pulls off my glasses. I can’t see much, but I can tell Meadow is in her element now—way more than when she’s singing. “We can do a lot with your eyes. Have you ever tried contacts?”

  “Whoa. Hold on. You think you can Glinda me? It won’t work. I’m magic proof.”

  “Oh, honey.” Meadow rubs her hands together. “Glinda’s got nothing on me.”

  chapter 4

  REMAKE

  “What happened to your hair?” Scott flicks it with his finger and makes a section puff up as he sits down beside me in the caf.

  “Being soloist has a price.” I feel naked. It’s still frizzy. No way am I going to add hours to my morning routine straightening my hair with that nasty tool of torture they gave me. It’s just school. But my hair is way layered and a go
od foot shorter. It looked fantastic at the salon. Today I’m the Beast on shock therapy.

  “They made you cut your hair?” Scott shoves a forkful of spaghetti in his mouth. “I liked your hair.”

  Only Scott could like my hideous hair.

  As soon as our official invite to the fourteenth annual Choral Olympics arrived, Meadow got started on me. She called it a makeover slumber party and invited Sarah and Leah and the rest of the prettiest girls in the choir—and me. No bones about who was getting made over.

  I put down my sandwich. “They ambushed me.”

  “A bunch of skinny wimp choir girls ambushed you ?”

  “Meadow sat me down in her glitzy bathroom.” She’s got a Hollywood-type vanity mirror. “And did my face—troweled it on.” All the girls gasped and said I looked beautiful. I put my glasses back on so I could see what they were talking about. Kind of ruined the effect. Then I had to tell them all about getting contacts when I was twelve, how excited I was, what a disaster it ended up being. I remember telling my mom that my fiery red hypersensitive eyes didn’t hurt at all. She flushed them down the toilet.

  “Jeez, Bethie, that’s rough. Explains the new breakout.” He goes back to his spaghetti.

  “So nice of you to notice.” Last month’s fading crop of hormone-induced zits are being crowded out by a fresh load of fine red bumps all over my face. Not just my usual zit zone.

  He swallows. “Stupid brats. Who do they think they are?”

  “Beautiful. They don’t understand ugly.” I tear my sandwich in two.

  “You’re not ugly, Beth.” He opens his milk.

  “I just wanted to go home and scrub.” I take a bite and chew. “They made me sleep over.”

  Scott puts his milk carton back down. “They waited until you fell asleep and then whacked your hair off?”

  “Does it look that bad?”