Pieces of Why

by K L Going

  Best friends are allowed to fudge the truth.

  “Tia’s voice is okay,” Mary-Kate said, “but I could sing the lead just as well. In my last choir, I was always the soloist. Everyone knows Ms. Marion plays favorites and that’s why she chose Tia. Again.”

  At Mary-Kate’s church, I’d performed a song called “A Note to God” that Ms. Marion and I had been working on during my private lessons. It wasn’t usually part of our program, but Ms. Marion thought the Presbyterians would like it. Afterward, Mary-Kate’s mother had sought me out to tell me how moved she’d been by my performance, while Mary-Kate had tried to murder me with her glare.

  “If you hate it here so much—” Keisha started, but she never had a chance to finish because that’s when Ms. Marion called us to begin rehearsal.

  “C’mon, children,” Ms. Marion coaxed in her thick accent. “Y’all take your places on the risers.”

  Ms. Marion was originally from one of the parishes outside the city—Metairie or Slidell, I could never remember which one. She didn’t talk like New Orleans folk, smooth and neutral with just a hint of the south. She talked like a large, Southern woman, proud and loud.

  Keisha gave Mary-Kate one last stare before pulling me onto the risers. We couldn’t stand next to each other because Keisha was a soprano and I was an alto, but Keisha and I watched out for each other, so she wasn’t about to leave me alone with Mary-Kate.

  “Remember, children,” Ms. Marion said, “you are the living, musical embodiment of Martin Luther King’s dream. Make me believe it!”

  As we took our places, Ms. Marion started us humming, but we were flat. We practiced in Ms. Marion’s church because it was free space, but it was hot—steaming even—and the lazy ceiling fans barely made a difference. No matter how hard Ms. Marion waved us on, the Rainbow Choir swayed half a beat too slow.

  Everything was heavy.

  “I know y’all can do better than this,” Ms. Marion chided. “Y’all can be better than this.” Ms. Marion’s voice took on the singsong cadence of a preacher. “I know,” she said, “don’t I just know, don’t I just know, don’t I just know?” She raised one eyebrow before turning the singsong into a song-song, filling in the first words of the song we’d been practicing. “I knooooow.”

  She stomped one foot, shaking her arms in the air. Ms. Marion was a drama queen. In the back row the tenors started laughing and the altos covered their mouths with their hands. Ms. Marion grinned through the heat, and a bead of sweat ran down her plump cheek.

  “Don’t I just knoooow,” she sang, stretching those words like a siren call. Off to one corner, the preacher man nodded and said “Amen, sister” as he gathered the hymn books off the red velvet pews.

  “C’mon now,” she said, and some of the parents clapped and whistled, cheering us on.

  “Sing it, children,” said old Nana Whiskers, who always came to practice even though no child belonged to her.

  Ms. Marion sang, “Don’t you just knooow?” turning it into a question as we hummed in the background. Then she made it a command. “Tell me if you know.”

  “I know,” we sang in answer. Ms. Marion let our words come out loud and quick, then cut them off with a swipe of her fist.

  “Do you know?” she asked again.

  “I know,” we answered.

  I snuck a glance behind me. Keisha lifted her chin like she did when she was ready, Tallulah Jackson wriggled her hips, and Tyrone Sanderson stomped in rhythm to the drumbeat. Even shy Kenny Lin, the Korean tenor with the stutter, smiled in anticipation.

  “One more time,” Ms. Marion prodded.

  “I KNOW.”

  Now we had it, and our words filled the small sanctuary.

  “Tia,” Ms. Marion said, nodding at me. I took a step forward so I was standing front and center and inhaled a deep breath. This was my moment.

  I reached down inside, found the music waiting, and let it loose.

  “I know that the Lord is good, that the Lord is good, that the Lord is good. That’s what I know.” My line soared above the choir, and I swear I felt my heart expand.

  I sang like a magician pulling scarves from my sleeve. More and more scarves until it didn’t seem like there could be any left. They flew up and out, every one connected to the last in a flurry of color. I sent my cool, bright sounds into the thick June air, letting the scarves weave their way through the rafters of the old church.

  That’s how it was that night.

  The sound coming out of me was so loud, the preacher man stopped what he was doing and shut one of the big leather Bibles with a thump. Keisha’s mom, Ms. Evette, sat in the first pew rocking baby Jerome back and forth. She was a large woman with close-cropped hair and beautiful high cheekbones, and her eyes were shut in appreciation. I heard her murmur hmmm and Jerome pointed at me with his chubby baby fingers. Old Nana Whiskers watched him and laughed like a hyena.

  The sound was still coming, sucking up every scrap of breath, and behind me the choir lent their voices. They didn’t sing, but they let me know they felt it too.

  “All right.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Go Tia.”

  I barely heard them. They were far, far away. Right then I didn’t care about anything but my song soaring through the air. I didn’t care that I was a twelve-year-old girl who didn’t match the size or shape of a great singer. I didn’t care that my father was in prison, and me and Ma barely scraped by. I didn’t care that I was at church on a Thursday evening instead of home watching TV. I didn’t even care that my own mother had never once come to hear me sing.

  In that moment, nothing else mattered, so I let the sound pour out.

  “I knooow,” I sang, pushing the volume louder and fuller than I ever had before. “I knooow,” I repeated, letting the spirit take over. “I know, I know, I know, I know.”

  Everyone was clapping, hooting and hollering, lifting their hands in praise. Ms. Marion stomped her feet and the preacher man yelled, “Hallelujah!”

  The sanctuary was filled with celebration. Power pulsed around me, and I sucked it inside, filling my lungs to their fullest, ready to let loose the next phrase.

  Ms. Marion laughed, shaking her head and stomping her feet, and Jo Jo Lawsen held up her open palms in praise. “I believe,” she cried from the second pew. “Oh Lord, I believe.”

  And in that moment, so did I.

  Until the sound of gunshots shattered the air.

  CHAPTER 4

  ONE MINUTE I was singing loud and strong, pulling out the scarves, reaching for everything I knew was inside me, and the next moment the sound of gunfire pierced through the sanctuary. I’d heard gunshots before from far away, but these were right outside and moments later they were followed by a scream so horrible, it coursed through my body.

  The sound stopped in my throat. It was a sharp stop, as if a faucet got turned off quick and hard. My chest constricted as the pastor and several of the parents who’d been watching rehearsal ran out of the building.

  “Call 911!” someone yelled.

  “Get the children downstairs!”

  “Toil and trouble,” old Nana Whiskers moaned, rocking back and forth.

  Some of the sopranos started to cry as Ms. Marion and Ms. Evette herded us off the risers. “Downstairs, everyone,” Ms. Marion shouted, signaling for us to go to the basement, where the adult choir stored their robes. All the kids were pressing together on the staircase, and I tried to reach Keisha, but she was too far away. My knees shook and I thought I might fall.

  When we finally made it downstairs, I felt sick to my stomach and too hot in the heavy air. I was straining to find Keisha, but it was Kenny Lin who came up beside me. I didn’t know Kenny very well, but he reached out and took my hand. I wanted to cling to him the way I’d clung to a float one time when I’d nearly drowned in the YMCA swimming pool. Now I f
elt that same blind panic, and Kenny was the only life ring around.

  “It’ll be o-okay,” he said, working hard to get the word out despite his stutter. He held my hand for a long time, and I was surprised he didn’t let go. His hand felt warm and smooth, and every time I started to tense up, he squeezed lightly as if to remind me he was there. No other boy would’ve done that, and I wasn’t sure if I should thank him or try to pretend it was no big deal, but before I’d decided, there were footsteps on the stairs.

  “Police are here,” one of the parents hollered. “They said we can bring ’em back upstairs.”

  That should have been a relief, except now there was even more chaos as everyone tried to get up the stairs we’d just come down. In the crush, Kenny’s hand dropped away from mine and we were pushed apart. When we reached the top, all the parents who’d been watching rehearsal were waiting and they scooped up their children right away, hugging them tight.

  I couldn’t help wishing someone was there for me.

  “Don’t leave the building,” Ms. Marion yelled. “Everyone stay inside until the police say it’s safe to go out.”

  I looked around for Kenny and saw his rumpled figure beside Mark Whitmore. My face flushed when he caught my eye. I’d never held hands with a boy before. Why had he helped me?

  Everyone was asking about what happened, and finally the pastor came back in from outside, and the look on his face was so full of horror, I knew that someone must have died. There was blood on his right hand, a thin streak from the thumb to the wrist, and I couldn’t stop staring at it. He wiped it off right away, but the image was branded in my brain.

  “The devil is roaming,” he breathed. “Oh Lord . . .”

  He mumbled a prayer as Ms. Marion hurried down the aisle with the other adults. They met him by the door, talking in hushed voices, and I saw Ms. Marion’s hand fly to her mouth. I strained to hear what they were saying, but it was impossible over the sirens.

  Eventually, Ms. Marion came back, frowning and pushing us toward the risers.

  “Come on, children,” she said, “we’re going to sing the darkness out. No use standing around here letting evil devour us. Might as well keep busy until the police say it’s okay to leave.”

  “What happened?” Keisha asked, her voice rising above the babble.

  “Nothing y’all need to worry about,” Ms. Marion said. “You’re safe, and that’s the important thing.”

  “Did someone get hurt?” Mary-Kate demanded.

  Ms. Marion nodded. “Yes, but they’ve been transported to the hospital and they’ll be given the best possible care.”

  “I want to go home,” Amanda Chen said, starting to cry again.

  “Now, now,” Ms. Marion chided. “Let’s focus on something else. Your parents will take you home very soon, but until then you’re all safe. I promise.”

  That was a lie. Around here, safe was a wish, not a promise.

  “Come on. Places, children. Take deep, supported breaths. Everyone breathe together now.”

  We trickled back onto the risers, and Ms. Marion tapped one finger against her music stand. “Let’s pick up where we left off. From the top.”

  It didn’t seem right to pretend as if nothing was wrong, but I could hear my mother’s voice: Like it or not, life goes on, Tia Rose.

  “Tia,” Ms. Marion said, nodding for me to step forward.

  I relaxed my jaw, trying to remember the way I’d felt before everything shattered, but my face was flushed and blotchy. I pictured the blood on the pastor’s hand, and my stomach flipped like an undercooked pancake.

  “Let’s try to add more soul this time,” Ms. Marion was saying. She was stalling, trying to settle us down, so I breathed deep. The bass section squeaked out a hmmm, but the choir didn’t sway. Sweat trickled down my forehead, and the world began to tilt.

  No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t fill my lungs.

  Ms. Marion leaned forward. “Tia? You okay?”

  I meant to say yes, but I fainted instead.

  CHAPTER 5

  THE SOUND of whispering tickled my ears. It seemed to be coming from far away, and no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t make out whole sentences, but I caught certain words. Important ones.

  Tia’s father . . .

  . . . life without parole . . .

  . . . horrible memories . . .

  I recognized the voices: Ms. Evette, Ms. Marion, and Mary-Kate’s mother. Why were they talking about my father?

  Seemed strange. I was only four when he went to jail, so I had no memories of him: not the sound or smell or look of him. We didn’t visit or write, and no parole meant he’d never come home again, which, according to Ma, was a good thing.

  He’s dead to us, Tia Rose. When your father committed that robbery, he walked away from this family forever. Don’t let me catch you wasting your time, dwelling on that man.

  But now, all these years later, people were talking as if my father had reached out from the Louisiana State Penitentiary to push me off the risers.

  Didn’t make any sense.

  I opened my eyes, squinting a bit, and saw wooden giraffes hovering over my face—Ms. Evette’s big old dangling earrings.

  “Tia,” she said, stroking my hair. “Thank goodness you’re awake.”

  I lifted my head, and Ms. Evette breathed out a long, loud sigh of relief. “That’s right. Lift it up to the Lord,” she said, as if I were praying instead of lying in a heap.

  Beside her, Mary-Kate’s mom waved a fan over me, and I could see her daughter scowling from the risers. Kenny was making his way to the front row, his face creased with worry, and I wondered why he seemed to care so much.

  Something hot and sticky trickled down my cheek and without thinking, I reached up to wipe it away, only now there was blood on my hand and that nearly made me faint again. I’ve always hated the sight of blood. Even a drop can make my vision narrow to black and my breath catch until I think I might suffocate.

  Ms. Marion turned. “Someone get a wet paper towel for Tia’s cut.”

  Kenny bolted off the risers, and I tried hard to keep my bearings.

  “That was quite a spill you took,” Ms. Marion said, bustling me into a sitting position. “I’m so sorry. I never should have pushed you to sing. I thought it would help, but—”

  “I’m okay,” I lied.

  Ms. Marion frowned. “We should take you to the emergency room.”

  I shook my head. Emergency room visits cost money Ma and I didn’t have. “I’m fine,” I said, clearing my throat. “I should’ve told you I wasn’t ready, that’s all.”

  Right then Kenny came back with a wet wad of paper towels. “H-here,” he said, and his eyes were so worried, I had to look away.

  “I’m a nurse,” Mary-Kate’s mom told me. “I can check for a concussion.”

  Old Nana Whiskers launched into a stream of gibberish. “Went to the hospital and never came out! Those doctors just ate her up! Guns, sirens, and hospitals gonna eat Tia up.”

  I felt all the kids in choir gaping at me, and my cheeks burned in humiliation. Amber Allen and Faith Evans were snickering, whispering behind their hands. I gave Keisha a look that begged her to save me, but she just shrugged helplessly as Mary-Kate’s mom shined a penlight in my eyes and asked me tons of questions. Finally, she nodded.

  “You look okay, sweetie,” she said, pushing her blond hair behind her ears, “but you’ll want to get checked out just in case. Have your mother drive you to a clinic once you get home, all right?”

  I managed a fake smile. “I will,” I said. “I’m sure I just got overheated from running up and down the stairs.”

  Ms. Marion and Ms. Evette exchanged glances, and there was something hidden in the corner of their eyes. None of it made sense, but I suddenly felt cold even though the sanctuary had to be a hundred deg
rees. I hugged my arms tight around my body.

  “I’m fine,” I whispered again even though this time no one had asked.

  Ms. Marion pinched the bridge of her nose the way she did when she was upset. More parents were starting to arrive, bursting in full of panic, and the pastor was calming them, but I knew Ms. Marion wanted to be there too.

  “Go ahead,” I told her.

  Ms. Evette nodded toward the doors. “Go. I’ll stay with Tia.”

  Ms. Marion paused, wiping the sweat from her brow, but then she sighed and made her way up front. A police officer stepped inside the church and I could see the relief on everyone’s faces when he said we could go home.

  “Okay, children,” Ms. Marion shouted over the noise. “If your guardians are here, you may leave. I’ll wait with anyone who needs to stay. If June Fest is canceled I’ll activate our phone tree, otherwise I’ll see you all tomorrow night. This community will need your voices now more than ever, so be prepared to sing!”

  Keisha jumped down from the risers and took her baby brother, Jerome, from Mrs. Chen, who’d been holding him while Ms. Evette took care of me. Jerome tugged at her braids. “Let’s get out of here,” Keisha said. “This was the worst night ever.”

  My heart panged. Was it horrible to feel disappointed about choir being cut short? Someone had just gotten shot, maybe even killed, and I was unhappy to lose an hour of rehearsal? But I couldn’t help the surge of sadness.

  “What do you think happened?” I asked Keisha, brushing myself off as I stood. “Do you think . . .” I couldn’t bring myself to say it. “I mean, do you think it was . . .”

  “A robbery gone bad? Like your dad?” Keisha shook her head. “No. I’m sure that wasn’t it. I bet you anything this was gang related. You know those fools are always shooting at each other. Serves them right if one of ’em gets hit.”

  I wanted to believe that was true. I even thought about those men who’d taunted me on my way to rehearsal, but something about the pastor’s face and the woman’s scream made me sure this hadn’t been the kind of violence anyone could shrug off.