“You’ll still be practicing with me and Zara, though?” I said, even though I’d been afraid to ask.
When she nodded and smiled, I felt a flood of relief. “Faith,” I said, voice dropping. I wanted to apologize. I wanted to ask why she’d gotten so angry. Before I could, however, she spun around, waving over her shoulder.
“See you when we get back,” she said, running toward the bleachers.
So I said good-bye.
The announcer’s voice cut into the stadium noise. I stood just inside the gate to the field, my hands shoved deep inside my pockets, my cheeks and nose cold. He said, “Ladies and gentlemen, as a special treat, we have a very honored guest. This evening, singing the national anthem, is newly signed gospel recording sensation Grace Pendergast!”
Cheers rang throughout the stadium. Shouts of “we love you, Grace!” rose into the night sky.
I spun around and looked for Faith. Sure enough, she was sitting next to Zara with her hands pressed to both sides of her face. Her gaze found mine, and I felt this shiver run through her and right into me. I was so happy that we’d made up. I didn’t know exactly what she’d been so upset about, but I promised myself I’d find out.
I didn’t feel so separated now. That was the kind of connection good friends shared.
On the field, standing on a wooden box, was an African American girl with curly hair pulled into a bun. She wore large hoop earrings, the thin kind, and a Penn State varsity jacket with jeans and high-top boots.
She waited until the noise died down. I’d edged my way in between several Harmony players and coaches for a better view. I wanted to see.
All the teammates from both sides stood with their hands over their hearts. So did I. Junior looked down, spotted me, then hoisted me onto his shoulders. It was like sitting on the tip of a star.
The girl, Grace Pendergast, began to sing, closing her eyes, her head tilted toward the night sky.
“Oh, say, can you see…” Her voice was honey-soft but strong. As she moved through the song, caressing the notes and adding a touch of gospel flare, I could feel the crowd in the stands, both sides, rumbling with their amens and yes, Lords and sing it, girl, sing its.
When she got to the big notes, everybody started applauding. By the time she finished, the spectators were going crazy, the football players were bouncing up and down on the balls of their feet, and I was sure Faith had passed out in the stands.
The craziest thing of all, however, was after the song’s end. When she finished, I could have sworn she looked right at me. And winked. Could she tell I was a singer in secret? She wiggled her fingers at me in a little wave, and I waved back.
She was amazing!
Junior knelt and dropped me to my feet. “Thanks, Junior,” I said, already running toward the gate.
It was urgent that I speak with Faith instantly to compare notes and see if she loved her favorite singer even more now. When I reached her, she and Zara were sharing a hug. I stood in the aisle hopping from foot to foot.
“Let her in!” cried Faith. Her including me at that moment felt like the best thing in the world.
“Oh, Faith,” I began, “I see why you love her so much. She was amazing. Absolutely amazing!”
Zara bobbed her head, making her curls twist and turn in the autumn breeze.
“Grace Pendergast is the real deal,” she said. Then she turned to me and said, “But so are you, Luna. Grace Pendergast has more experience, and she knows how to work her voice, but you have one of the prettiest-sounding voices I’ve ever heard. Right, Faith?”
We both turned to look at Faith, expecting her approval. For me, it was more wishful thinking and not so much expectation. But I could tell Zara just assumed it. Well, we were both in for a big disappointment.
Instead, Faith looked like she’d just fallen off a horse. She put her hands on her hips, and her neck got a bad case of the swivels.
“First off,” she said, holding up a gloved hand to tick off her points, “no way can you compare my girl Grace Pendergast to somebody like Mouse. I mean, Mouse sounds okay for somebody who just woke up one morning and decided to actually sing instead of whispering all the time, but still. She is not as good as Grace.
“Second of all, well, maybe that is first and second. I mean, you can’t compare her to Grace.”
Her. Like I wasn’t standing there. Like I didn’t have a name. It felt like I’d been punched in the heart.
She plowed on. “And third, what is all this ‘Luna’ business, anyway?”
I felt myself shrinking so much that I didn’t even try to answer. When Zara spoke, her voice was very small. “Her mother once told her she’d wanted to call her Luna, like the Moon Goddess, because Cadence was so fascinated by the moon,” Zara said, not getting the story exactly right, but close enough.
Faith rolled her eyes. Then she pinned me with a harsh gaze. “Your name is Mouse. MOUSE!” she practically roared. “I’m not calling you Luna.”
I had to get out of there. The game had begun, and the Tigers were moving the ball up the field. Everyone was on their feet cheering as the Tigers quickly got in scoring range. I managed to squeeze out of the bleachers and steal a final look at my friends. Zara stared after me, looking from me to Faith in confusion. I gently shook my head at her and tried to melt away into the sea of screaming fans.
8
There’s Got to Be a Way
It was hard falling asleep when I got home. After a while, I gave up, grabbed my journal, and headed for the balcony. Lyra followed. She curled up in a blanket and slept beside my chair.
So quiet and peaceful. Hardly any sounds from cars on the mountain roads, although every now and then, I could hear trucks lumbering in the night.
Cold outside. But my insides boiled hot, and my brain was going wild.
Replay…
Grace Pendergast singing. Beautiful.
Replay…
Her voice casting a magical spell over everyone.
Could I do that?
Would I ever have the nerve?
Replay…
Faith, her words bending with cruelty.
Replay…
My insides squeezing; me feeling weak. Afraid.
Now the fear was gone.
Anger took its place. Now I wondered what it would feel like to be discovered as a singer, too. To share my special kind of magic with an audience and feel them loving me with each breath I took.
Which reminded me of our poem, the one by me and Sophie that I begged her not to read in class.
Discovery
“Hush!” said the mountain.
“Shush!” said the gloom.
“I am here,” said a girl who was up in her room.
Waiting. And waiting. And…
Waiting.
She sighed.
A mumble and grumble did stumble rumble inside.
“Whisper! Whisper!” said the night.
“I am here!” cried the girl who was hid out of sight.
Waiting for a time when she would stand in the light.
Waiting for the fluttering of her fans’
delight.
She was Waiting for a time when her soul would be free.
“Behold!” murmured the night.
A discovery!
The poem, its cadence, replayed in my mind. So did choir rehearsal. Especially the part where Miss Stravinski had explained once again about us making our own videos.
“Mr. Bassie and I want each and every one of you to record yourselves and share your recordings with this account,” she’d said, pushing her glasses back in place. She said the webpage was private, and only she and Mr. Bassie could access it.
“Also, young people,” she went on, walking from one end of the stage to the other, her tiny self trying to look stern, “remember, the winning groups will get to rerecord their videos to show as part of the Gospel Jamboree. And you’ll also perform in front of a band, just like the adults. Remember, you are artists, too. Don
’t let us down.”
Remembering made my heartbeat quite fortissimo, which is very loud indeed.
I wished I could be like the main character in A Crooked Kind of Perfect. It’s about this girl named Zoe Elias. She wished for a piano, but instead was blessed with a big, clunky organ.
The author was named Linda Urban, and she did a very good job. She helped Zoe find a way to be all right with getting an organ, rather than a sleek piano, with finding her own kind of success, rather than the success of her dreams.
If only someone would come along and do that for me. Zoe had to learn how to find joy in not getting what she wanted. I’ll bet she never imagined that getting exactly what you thought you wanted could be trouble, too.
What would Ms. Urban write in a story about me?
I sat on that thought. This stuff was almost too real. Instead, I wanted a little magic in my life.
Lyra stirred beside my chair, then, as usual, climbed into my lap. Rubbing the warm silk of her furry head, I whispered, “I need to figure out a way for Mr. Bassie to ‘discover’ me. But if I just send him a recording of me singing, wouldn’t I seem like kind of a braggy person?” And what if I’m not that good?
Frosty night air turned my question into cold mist. Lyra looked up at me with sleepy, warm, brown eyes. She told me the proper word was braggadocio. Miss Lyra had a very advanced vocabulary. She also reminded me that I was more afraid of… being afraid! She settled into me, satisfied. I sank back against the chair, wondering what to do.
I grabbed my tablet and switched it on. When it came to life, I swiped quickly to my video account.
A familiar page opened, showing music videos I had saved. The kind of recordings made during church services or at festivals by family members or proud friends and neighbors.
I felt the familiar catch in my throat.
My mother’s face came into view.
She was maybe twelve or thirteen. In church—the old one, before the renovation. Standing on the stage, a colorful headband around her short, spunky hair.
The pastor back then is now retired. He introduced her and said, “This young lady is going places, church! A talent like hers comes around once in a blue moon.”
Hallelujahs chorused.
She began to sing “I Go to the Rock” by Whitney Houston and the Georgia Mass Choir. Voices from the adult choir members enveloped my mother’s in harmony like protective wings. Her voice was steady and commanding. She did sound so much like Miss Whitney Houston.
I got the usual lump in my throat as I felt her singing move me.
One after the other, I watched videos of my mother. We used to watch them together. She’d been so proud. Sharing her past. Drawing me into it. Maybe hoping someday I’d have the same gift. Maybe praying that someday, I’d have my own videos.
Then an idea slammed home.
Sudden. Unexpected. It made me gasp. Lyra sat up, more alert than before. I told her my idea. She gave me her best doggie smile. Wagged her tail and sang in her most perfect high C.
Good girl, Lyra. Good girl!
Daddy let me sleep in past our normal Saturday cleaning routine, and when he tried to wake me for breakfast, I told him no, thank you.
Well, of course, he couldn’t just take my word that I was tired. He had to lumber over and feel my forehead. Was I feeling well? Was I coming down with some rare disease that only quiet, motherless girls get? Oh, Daddy.
Naturally, I could not tell him the truth. That I’d been up late watching videos of my mother and planning a little discovery of my own.
He forced me to drink orange juice and take two baby aspirins and some vitamins. Then he brought me a cup of mint tea and some toast.
“I’ll bring you something back from the diner a little later,” he told me. Then he was off to the workshop he shared with a friend to rehab some broken instruments. Daddy really liked that shop. And the funny thing was, ever since he’d fixed up the Takahashi 3000x for me, business had picked up.
Soon as he was gone, I sprang out of bed. Lyra and I twirled.
“We did it, Lyra! We did it!”
Milky daylight washed through the blue plaid curtains and over the calm blue walls. Lyra cast a dark blue shadow against the cool blue rug. I sank onto the floor, pulled the quilt down around my shoulders, and lifted my teacup from the nightstand.
Last night while I was on the balcony listening to my mother’s voice, I’d gotten an idea. The videos reminded me of Grace Pendergast and how she’d been discovered—by posting videos of herself online.
Faith was always talking about how much she wanted to upload her own videos and get discovered, too.
Soooooo…
Maybe it would work for me, as well.
Only, instead of just posting a recording of me singing, I had something else in mind.
I could post a video on the private YouTube channel Mr. Bassie and Miss Stravinski gave us.
Last night on the balcony, I’d remembered Junior’s silly phone app. The one he and his friends used when they dressed up like girls. I sneaked into Junior’s room, stole his phone off the charger, then took it outside on my balcony.
I chose the first song that came to mind—“One Sweet Day” by Mariah and Boyz II Men.
It took several tries before I decided I was ready. That was when I began playing around with the phone and accidentally opened Junior’s text messages.
Snooping was never my thing. But I happened to see something that caught my attention. It was a message from someone called 99Wolverine. It read:
Dude, let me know. I’ll help if I can
Junior answered:
JR_Hit_emUp: Yeah, man. Let’s make it happen.
99Wolverine: Man this ain’t no joke at Michigan they go hard for sure/be glad to have you
JR_Hit_emUp: Dad stuck on P State but U-M for Life is whatsup
99Wolverine: Maize and Blue for Life fo sho, will have QB coach call you
I felt a little shudder. So I wasn’t the only one with a secret. Junior was hiding something, too. He wanted to play football for the University of Michigan.
My mind flashed to the huge poster on his wall. Some guy named Desmond Howard holding a football tucked in one arm, his opposite arm outstretched. Every Friday, part of Junior’s game-day ritual was to fist-bump that poster on his way out the door.
He told me Desmond Howard once played for the University of Michigan. He’d pointed him out one Saturday while he was scarfing down cornflakes, watching one of those talk shows that come on before football games. Desmond Howard was now an announcer on his and Daddy’s favorite channel, ESPN.
Junior leaving Pennsylvania to play football? The thought left me panicky. I didn’t want him to go. And what about Daddy? I didn’t even want to think about his reaction if he ever found out Junior didn’t want to play for Penn State.
But of course, I couldn’t say anything. Otherwise he’d know I’d been snooping through his phone.
Better to concentrate on one thing at a time.
So I flipped through his screens until I found the right app. Then I tucked the phone itself into a planter, propping it up so it could record me.
I’d stood there, underneath the stars, praying my voice would sound as silky as honey, and began to sing. The first time, I’d made it all the way to the end before Lyra decided to add her two cents. I usually loved her high C, but not right then.
It took several more tries before it was perfect.
I spent another hour figuring out how to use the filter on Junior’s app so that it would hide my identity.
My plan was simple:
1. I’d share the recording to Mr. Bassie’s private YouTube channel.
2. He’d see it and be blown away by the amazingness of it all.
3. He’d have to know the identity of the singer!
4. At rehearsal, when he asked who had posted the video, I’d come forward and tell him it was me, Cadence Mariah Jolly. I would tell him I’d accidentally sent it to him
. A little white lie.
After watching Internet sensation Grace Pendergast move the crowd the way she did on Friday, then feeling humiliated when Faith sneered at me, I was on a mission. I didn’t want to feel like a downright loser anymore. I wanted to be strong, like Heidi in So B. It. A girl who takes action.
I wasn’t ordinarily a sneaky person. Part of me, a little, itty-bitty speck of me, thought it would be great if I could just go up to Mr. Bassie and Miss Stravinski and say, “Excuse me, I’d like you to hear me sing.”
But I couldn’t. Really.
So what harm was there in letting them “discover” me?
I was sure if I revealed that I made the recording, I’d somehow, right in that moment, get the nerve to sing for Mr. Bassie. And he’d help me build up my confidence before singing for everyone. I was really, really sure it would work that way.
Time to walk the dog. I got dressed, leashed Lyra, and headed out into the overcast morning. And I sang. Not just soft, sweet falsetto, either. But big, round, curling notes that sailed off into the sky.
And I didn’t care who heard.
Okay, maybe the not caring part was in my mind.
But I did sing.
And it did feel good!
9
One Sweet Day
Sunday. “You sure seem to be in a good mood,” Zara commented as we arrived at church. Instead of the Lodge, we were having our usual Sunday service. Aunt Fannie was doing her fast-walk-in-heels dash. Click-clack. Click-clack. Click-clack went the pointy high-heeled boots across the icy-cold pavement. I was beginning to hear onomatopoeias everywhere.
“You girls don’t dally,” she said. Her voice was a girlish singsong. Her tone dolce soprano, sweet and high. “Get inside. The calendar might say October, but these here mountains are saying winter!”
Beyond the pitched wooden beams of the roof, mountains rose in staggered heights. They wore halos of mist, giving the entire building and the background a storybook feeling.
The Sweetest Sound Page 8
