“So this is the song we’re singing?” Jada asks. “Is that definite?”
“We decided at lunch that Mrs. Nieska should choose our song,” Audrey says, testiness in her voice. “You two weren’t there.” Her eyes pinball between Jada and me.
“Right. Mrs. Nieska is the a cappella expert here,” Abigail adds, glancing at her phone as if bored by the discussion. “Not you,” she adds under her breath.
“I was just asking,” Jada says, crossing her arms, haughty. “You don’t have to jump all over me.” I see Abigail and Audrey exchange a look.
A look that is definitely not Jada-friendly.
“To answer your question, I wouldn’t say it’s the final decision,” Mrs. Nieska says. “But the sooner we make a choice, the better. One week doesn’t give us time to keep switching.”
“I think we should do ‘Somebody to Love,’ ” Libby pipes up. “We’re wasting time debating it.” Oliver, Abigail, and Audrey nod their agreement.
“Okay, then,” Mrs. Nieska begins, “Mason, since you’re going to sing the first line by yourself, why don’t you stand in the center of the group?” Mason steps between Jada and me as Jada grimaces. “Now, do you remember the lyric?”
“Can anybody find me . . . ,” Mason sings, his voice strong, ringing out across the cafeteria. Mrs. Nieska cuts him off.
“Excellent, Mason,” she says, and I catch Jada rolling her eyes. “Now the rest of you are going to join him on the words ‘somebody to love.’ Again, sing as naturally as possible. Don’t try to harmonize or do anything fancy. We can tweak later.” She cues Mason to sing the line again, and then we all join in tentatively. Mrs. Nieska stops us. “Remember, this is your first impression. You don’t want Non-Instrumental to pause your video before you’ve gotten started!” We sing the line again, and then once more. Mrs. Nieska walks in front of us, listening. She rearranges our order, placing me on one end of the semicircle, and Jada on the opposite side next to Libby. And after our ninth run-through of that single phrase, she applauds, exclaiming, “Masterful! Give yourselves a pat on the back!”
“Is this next part a solo?” Jada interrupts the collective congratulations, pointing to the lyrics. “If so, can I take it?”
A hush falls over the room, and without anyone saying a word, I can feel it: annoyed exasperation. Directed at Jada.
“There’s no set rule when it comes to solos,” Mrs. Nieska explains. “Everyone who wants one can have one—it’s only a matter of figuring out where voices fit best.”
“Everyone is going to have a solo?” Jada asks, and if I weren’t standing so far away, I would be doing whatever it takes to quiet her.
“Anyone who wants one, yes,” Mrs. Nieska answers. “We certainly won’t force anyone who’s not comfortable.”
“But shouldn’t the solos go to the strongest voices?” Jada asks, and I open my eyes wide, staring at her, willing her to stop, but she never looks at me. “Wouldn’t that give us a better chance of winning?”
“I won’t take a solo,” Libby interjects, hostility in her tone, “if that’s what you’re so worried about.”
“I didn’t say . . .” Jada tries to defend herself, but the room has turned against her. “It wasn’t a personal dig against anyone specifically. I was just asking.”
“Libby should have a solo,” Oliver pipes up. “She’s the most fun performer of any of us.”
“I don’t need a solo,” Libby says. “Unlike some people, I don’t always need to be the center of attention.” She glares at Jada, and I see Jada’s eyebrows pucker. “Just because you got kicked out of the musical doesn’t mean you can come here and take over.”
“Libby, that’s enough,” Mrs. Nieska says, but Libby is on a roll.
“You’re no better than the rest of us,” she adds.
“And you’re throwing off the whole dynamic.” Abigail backs her up. “This isn’t even your group. Wylie and Libby are the ones who started it.”
“Abigail, Libby, I’ve asked you to—” Mrs. Nieska begins, but before she can continue, Jada marches away from the semicircle and storms out of the cafeteria. And if nothing else, I’m certain of one thing: In Jada’s mind, this is going to end up being my fault.
* * *
Though we had tried to continue our rehearsal, we all seemed rattled by Jada’s departure and ended up finishing early. With The Intermissions now more desperate for practice time than ever, that night I lock myself in my room and call Dad to ask about skipping the visit this weekend, but he refuses. A few minutes after I hang up, a soft knock sounds on my door.
I call out to Mom, “I don’t want to talk about it,” but she comes in anyway.
“Your dad said no?” she asks.
“Of course he did. Because no one ever cares what I want.” I pout.
“You know that’s not true. You explained the situation? About your group?”
“I tried to, but he cut me off because Amelia was throwing a fit in the background. He said, ‘We need to stick to the schedule,’ and that was the end.”
Mom sits on the edge of my bed. “I’m sorry, Wy. I know you often feel caught in the middle.”
“That might as well be my middle name,” I tell her.
“What might?”
“Caught-in-the-middle,” I say.
“Things are still dicey with Jada?” she asks.
“They were better for like a day. And now . . .” I trail off. “She joined The Intermissions, but she was being kind of bossy and the rest of the group started to push back on her. And then she quit. At least, I think she quit. I haven’t heard from her since.”
“What happened to the musical?” Mom asks.
“She quit that, too. I felt bad, so I invited her to join The Intermissions, which was clearly a mistake.”
Mom sighs. “Do you want me to make hot chocolate? We can sit on the couch and—”
“I’d rather this day just be over with,” I tell her, and Mom nods.
“Okay.” She leans over and kisses my forehead. “Sleep tight. Things are bound to look brighter in the morning.” She turns off the light as she closes the door, and I slink down in bed, throwing a pillow over my face, blocking out the world.
But unfortunately not blocking out the sound of my phone, which starts buzzing incessantly. I reach toward my nightstand.
Thanks for your support today. Really grateful to you for having my back. Jada.
I groan out loud and throw my phone toward my feet, pulling the covers over my head and squinting my eyes closed, and after what feels like hours, I fall into a fitful sleep.
The moment I spot Abigail and Audrey standing at my locker the next morning, I’m filled with dread. Are they about to quit The Intermissions too?
“Hey, so I know yesterday’s practice didn’t go as well as we hoped, but I think—” I begin before Abigail cuts me off.
“Did you hear?” she asks. “Did you hear what she’s doing?”
“Who?”
“Jada,” Audrey answers, holding up her phone, which displays a selfie of six faces crowding into the frame. “She’s starting her own group. She and some of the theatre people. One of them posted about it this morning.”
“What kind of group?” I ask, dumbfounded. “An a cappella group?”
“Yes, an a cappella group,” a voice responds behind me: Jada herself, twisting her locker combination. “One where all members are appreciated—and not scorned like outsiders.”
“We would have welcomed you if you had been a little humbler,” Abigail tells her.
“Jada,” I say quietly, wishing Abigail and Audrey would go away so we could speak privately. Alone, I could reason with Jada. This isn’t the first time I’ve seen her react too strongly to something, to let her temper flare out of control: Mason knocked her off a seesaw, and she declared him her lifelong nemesis; she was told she wasn’t a great tap dancer, and she resigned from the musical; she had one bad rehearsal with The Intermissions, and she ran off and started he
r own group. This is Jada’s pattern; it isn’t a good one, but it’s hers.
“Anything you want to say to me, you should have said yesterday,” Jada tells me, her voice calm and cold. “You know, during that time when you should have stood up for me.” With that, she slams her locker and marches into homeroom, leaving us in her dust.
I push my bangs back, thinking. “There’s no way Jada was able to pull a whole group together—plus find a faculty advisor—in one night,” I reason.
“They found a faculty advisor—the choral teacher,” Audrey says. The homeroom bell rings then, warning us to wrap things up.
“I’ll talk to Mrs. Nieska,” I tell them. “I’ll let you know at lunch what she says.” Once they’re gone, I head inside and over to Jada’s desk. “Why are you doing this?” I ask. “You’re making a big deal out of nothing.”
“It’s not nothing to me,” Jada says, refusing to match my gaze. “I left the musical to join your group, and I was ganged up on.”
“No one ganged up on you,” I say impatiently. “You’re being dramatic. As usual.”
“Wow.” Jada crosses her arms and leans back in her chair, raising her eyes and glaring at me full-on. “Why don’t you say how you really feel?”
“You never even cared about a cappella,” I point out.
“Neither did you.”
“But Colby—”
“Exactly. The only reason you’re doing this silly group is to try to get face time with Colby Cash. It’s sad is what it is.” My eyes widen with shock. “Some of us actually care about our musicianship.” Without responding, I turn on my heel and stomp to our homeroom teacher’s desk to ask if I can go to Mrs. Nieska’s classroom, and then I hurry down the seventh-grade wing.
“I heard,” Mrs. Nieska says as soon as she sees me. “But it’s not the end of the world.” And even though her words may be accurate, she can’t persuade me into believing them.
* * *
“You’re joining us again?” Mason asks as I take a seat at The Intermissions’ cafeteria table.
“I would certainly hope so,” Abigail says, “after what Jada did.”
“Did you speak to Mrs. Nieska?” Audrey asks.
“Yeah,” I say. “She thinks we should carry on with our plans and forget about Jada’s group.”
“We can’t,” Libby says quietly, looking down at the tabletop.
“Sure we can,” Oliver tells her. “It’s an irritation, but it doesn’t affect us.”
“It does,” Libby says. “Only one a cappella group per organization can enter the contest. According to the rules.”
“What does that mean?” Oliver asks. “We both can’t enter, or we both can’t win? If we both can’t win, then I guess that makes sense. But if we can’t enter—”
“If more than one group enters from a single organization, like a school, both will be disqualified,” Libby states, as if reading from a manual. “So if Jada’s group enters, she’ll automatically kick us out.”
“But she’d kick herself out too,” Audrey says. “She wouldn’t be able to win.”
“Yes,” Libby agrees. “But that doesn’t help us.”
“So much for you wooing Colby Cash,” Mason says, and I kick him under the table.
“Can’t someone talk to her?” Oliver asks. “This seems like a lot to do about nothing.”
“Wylie?” Abigail suggests.
I shake my head. “Jada’s not exactly being reasonable right now.”
“I have a whole slew of pranks I haven’t tried yet,” Mason volunteers. “Maybe it’s time to unleash the peanut butter cup/banana peel/crusty toothpaste surprise to throw her off her game.”
I smile despite myself. “I feel like that would only end up getting us in trouble, which wouldn’t help the cause.”
“But we can’t give up yet,” Oliver says. “We have this whole weekend to practice. We can get together all day, every day if we need to. And maybe in the meantime, Mrs. Nieska will work things out with the chorus teacher and put an end to this nonsense.”
“I can’t practice this weekend,” I blurt out.
“I thought we had agreed that we would,” Abigail says.
“I know, I’m sorry. I tried, but . . .” I don’t finish.
“Are you joining Jada’s group?” Libby asks, looking accusatory.
“What? No!”
“But you might,” Libby carries on, her eyes narrowed. “If Jada walked over right now and begged you to join her group, you would.”
“I would not!” I yell back, shocked by Libby’s tone.
“Whatever,” she says, rising from the bench and throwing the remainder of her lunch in the trash. She trudges away, and I hurry to catch her, grabbing her by the elbow as she reaches the exit.
“Hey!” I call, but she pulls out of my grasp, jogging across the hall and into the girls’ bathroom. I follow her inside, but she has already barricaded herself in the largest stall. “Hey!” I call again. “What’s wrong? Why are you acting like this?” Libby doesn’t answer, and I peer underneath the other four stalls, making sure they’re empty. “Libby. Talk to me.”
After a few endless seconds, her stall door swings open, and I find Libby leaning against the wall, arms crossed and a scowl on her face.
“What is it?” I ask, looking her up and down, trying to figure out what could possibly have made her so angry at me, and so quickly.
“You really have no idea?” she asks, and her voice catches on the last word, signaling that she’s about to cry.
“Hey,” I say more gently, joining her inside and closing the door. “Please talk to me.”
I lean against the partition and wait for her to respond. For a moment, I’m afraid she’s going to ignore me, to run out and stop speaking to me completely, just like Jada. But then she says, more quietly than I’ve ever heard Libby speak, “I’m always second choice.”
“Huh? What do you mean?”
Libby takes a deep breath before facing me. “It’s like I’m your backup friend,” she explains. “You only want to hang out with me when you and Jada are fighting. But the second you two make up, I disappear.”
I shake my head. “That’s not what—” I begin, but Libby cuts me off.
“It’s how you make me feel. Whether you mean to or not. I’m like the leftovers.”
“You’re not,” I promise her. “I’m sorry I made you feel like that. I truly am.”
“But if Jada walked in right now, and she apologized to you, you’d walk out with her,” Libby says, not even angry anymore, but sad. “I know this isn’t your fault, but I’ve never had a best friend before. Not like you and Jada have always had each other. I’m not trying to be your new best friend, but . . .”
“You felt like a replacement,” I fill in. “I’m sorry.”
“Okay,” Libby says, and after a beat, she continues, “And I’m sorry I blew up back there in front of everyone.” She unrolls some toilet paper and blows her nose before offering the wad to me. “Want some snotty tissue?” she asks, which makes us both laugh, breaking the tension.
“Let’s promise each other one thing,” I tell her, unlocking the stall door. “No more heart-to-hearts over a school toilet.”
“Or over any toilet would be even better.”
“Good point,” I tell her, pausing as we reach the sinks. I catch her eye in the mirror’s reflection. “I really am sorry. I hope you know that. And I’m so glad we’re friends.”
“I am too,” Libby says. “But you know what would make me gladder?”
“What?”
“Winning!” she exclaims, skipping toward the bathroom door. “Now hurry up—we need a game plan, and fast!” I run after her, and though I’m relieved that we’re back on track, I can’t help but think that in less than a week, I’ve nearly lost not one friend, but two.
Which means that maybe it isn’t my friends’ behavior at all. Maybe it’s mine. I’m the common denominator of the fights this week. Maybe I have to stop
blaming everyone else for what’s going wrong and start taking responsibility for myself.
But then I step into the hall, and there in front of me is a glittery poster proclaiming, THE OVERTURES: WILLOW OAK’S HOTTEST A CAPPELLA GROUP!
And in a snap, I decide that in this particular case, the blame lies squarely with none other than Jada Emmett.
By the time we leave school for the weekend, The Intermissions are more stressed than ever. The motivation that we had earlier in the week has vanished, and our Non-Instrumental goal hardly seems worth it anymore. We have less than a week left—we’re never going to pull it together. And even if we do, we aren’t going to win. I’m never going to get a call with Colby. We aren’t going to make the promo spot. It’s over. It’s impossible.
And it’s my fault. I’m the one who encouraged Jada to join The Intermissions, which means I’m responsible for her turning around and betraying us. And I have no idea how to fix it.
By Saturday, the last place I feel like being is Dad’s, with Asher and Amelia tearing around, whining at full volume, and Dad constantly suggesting some sort of “family entertainment” (which I shoot down each time). If he insists I come here, I will come.
But I don’t have to act happy about it.
Thankfully, Amy eventually shoos Asher and Amelia outside with their scooters, but their voices float through the window as they fight over who’s winning. I lift a throw pillow and smash it against my face, silencing a groan.
“Scooters weren’t such a big thing when you were their age, huh?” I hear Dad’s voice, and I lower the pillow to my lap.
“I never had one,” I answer shortly, pretending to be suddenly fascinated by my phone.
Not taking the hint, Dad settles on the other end of the couch, and I instinctively lean in the opposite direction, as if distancing myself from whatever conversation is about to take place.
“So,” he begins, sounding almost as uncomfortable as I feel. “Your mom said we should talk.” I squint, simultaneously annoyed with Mom for forcing this exchange on me, and irritated with Dad for needing Mom to instruct him to speak to me. “She said this setup is getting hard for you, now that you’re older,” Dad continues. “Having to leave your activities and come here every other weekend. Is that true?”
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