The Sweetest Sound

by Sherri Winston

  It looked so peaceful. I sighed. At least knowing that Faith was out of town with her family was a relief. I was still upset at how she’d behaved at the football game.

  I imagined how shocked she would be one day to find out I could sing in public, without being afraid.

  Inside, we hung our coats and raced to the rehearsal room to go over our song for this week. Jones was singing lead instead of Princess Precious.

  His face was scrubbed shiny. His suit coat, complete with pocket square, made him look like a little businessman. And of course, his bow tie.

  “I see you ladies are here to sing backup for me,” he said. Honk-honk-honk-honk! See, just when you start to think he’s going to be decent, he goes and Joneses up the place.

  Zara and I rolled our eyes and walked away.

  Children’s Choir members wore white shirts or blouses over black pants or skirts. A few girls wore dresses. My skirt was black with pleats, and my white shirt had a rounded collar. I wore black tights and a pair of new black Mary Janes that Auntie had bought for me. And of course I wore my genuine imitation pearls from Sam’s.

  As pleased as I was with my Sunday choir attire, I had to admit to a bit of envy. We all did. The Youth Choir had shiny purple church robes with white collars.

  All of us longed to one day wear the bright purple robes as a sign of our maturity and utter sophistication. Not to mention, Youth Choir got to travel, compete, and sing at several functions. The Children’s Choir sang at church and the Lodge.

  My heart was beating fast, but not the frenzied snare drum pace. More like a steady conga beat—a slow, rhythmic tempo. I was so excited about what I’d done.

  It was killing me to keep quiet. But then, the whole reason for doing what I’d done had been to not draw attention to myself until the right moment. I’d even erased the video off Junior’s phone so he wouldn’t know.

  In my head I had it all worked out like a great book:

  The main character (me) would be heard singing in the video. The music teachers (Mr. Bassie and Miss Stravinski) would hear her voice and wonder who it could be. They would love her voice and decide that some girl in the choir, too shy to come forward, had sent in this video and they simply must find out who she was.

  It would be like Cinderella. Only instead of a glass slipper, it was an impressive range of octaves from C to shining C. (That’s music teacher humor, courtesy of Mrs. Reddit!) Quietly, Mr. Bassie and Miss Stravinski would sneak in girl after girl, getting them to attempt to sing the musical scale. Effortlessly. Mrs. Reddit always stressed that if one had to strain for a note, then the note was not natural for their voice.

  The idea was so wonderful that I must have been grinning like a madwoman. Zara nudged me as we shuffled into position backstage.

  “What are you smiling about?” she asked.

  I shrugged, too caught up in my plan to answer.

  However, it had never occurred to me what would happen after I—well, my character—admitted to making the recording. That they might just make me sing in front of everyone right away. How had I jumped over that part?

  As it turned out, singing for Miss Stravinski and Mr. Bassie alone would have been a lot better than what really happened.

  Mr. Bassie wanted to make an announcement.

  After that, nothing was ever the same.

  Miss Stravinski led us onto the stage. We took our places. The Children’s Choir was performing only one song, “I Believe I Can Fly,” by R. Kelly.

  There was something about the way Miss Stravinski had arranged the music. How the notes grew stronger and stronger, all the while letting Jones shine. I felt proud singing backup for him, all our voices uniting, soaring, rising. I think I might have actually sung a little louder this time. It felt good being part of the whole, even if I did feel terrified the entire time. No one around me seemed to notice, though.

  When the song ended, everyone stood. Jones received a standing ovation. Now, ordinarily I would have expected him to puff out his chest and be all honk-honk-honk-honk about it. Instead, he appeared humbled.

  We started looking around, preparing for Miss Stravinski to lead us off the risers and backstage.

  Only, Mr. Bassie walked out.

  “Brothers and sisters, can I get one more round of applause for this young man!” he said. A spotlight shined on Jones, and the audience piled on more applause. Jones took another bow.

  “Hallelujah!” said Mr. Bassie, and the audience and other choir members hallelujahed him right back. The church ladies, including the Trinity, sat together, their colorful hats casting shadows yet their faces revealing the glow of shared joy. I was still applauding when Mr. Bassie continued:

  “Ladies and gentlemen, I’ve had the most wonderful experience this weekend. Sometimes you get unexpected blessings. Well, Saturday afternoon, I got such a blessing from the Internet.”

  My face froze. And I peeked between the kids in front of me, to follow Mr. Bassie with my gaze. The snare drum rhythm, with its scratchy beat, pelted against my rib cage. Pinpricks of fear danced like fire ants along my arms.

  He wasn’t about to mention what I thought he was about to mention, was he?

  Not while he was onstage.

  IN FRONT OF REAL PEOPLE!

  No. No. No. No.

  Right then, I started praying harder than I’d ever prayed before. Dear Lord, I know I’m not exactly keeping up with all the favors I’ve been asking for, but please, please, please, please do not let Mr. Bassie mention the recording I sent—

  Too late.

  Overhead screens filled. Floating swirls of pink and red replaced the images of us onstage. (As part of the renovation, flat-screen monitors had been placed throughout the church sanctuary. The Trinity had grumbled that Pastor Shepherd and some of his flock wanted a better way to watch football!)

  Next came a voice.

  Soprano. Moving effortlessly through the C scale.

  My voice.

  “… and I know you’re shining down on me from Heaven…”

  Thank you, sweet have mercy, that I wrapped a long scarf around my head before I recorded myself. The fringes made it look like I had long, thin braids. The app added the swirling colors, so no one could recognize my face—only that the singer was small, probably young, and of course, female.

  The recording ended. Gasps and whispered words tumbled around the room like a beach ball in the stands at a football game.

  Mr. Bassie rolled his eyes back like he’d just eaten the best, tastiest banana pudding in all the land. He said, “Yes, it’s a mystery all right!” Light reflecting off his deep blue suit sparkled like the ocean.

  He went on. “I came across this online. A friend of mine in Connecticut called and asked if I’d seen it. He’s a choir director, too. He told me he’d discovered this video of a truly gifted young girl singing a cappella. He noticed the You-Tube user’s location and called to ask what I knew about it.”

  For some reason, the audience saw this as reason enough to applaud. No, I wanted to yell. Do not applaud. Do Not!

  “Mouse!” Zara whispered. “Is that… you?”

  “Shhh!” I hissed.

  I must have looked sick because she asked, “Mouse? Oh, sorry, Moon Goddess. You sound amazing, but you are lookin’ kinda green. Are you all right?”

  I was not all right. Oh, goodness! What had I done?

  My chest felt tight, and my face felt hot. I pitched forward slightly. For a second, I really thought I would pass out. Zara was beside me, rubbing my hand. Panic started to bubble inside me.

  Mr. Bassie went on and on about how he’d been hoping to find a standout soprano among his young singers. And how he knew the person had to be in our group because of the location stamp.

  “My guess is that one of you tried to upload your video to my YouTube channel, but instead you set it as public. Can I get a witness? Hallelujah! Now, I have to tell you, whoever you are, my friend in Connecticut has a big mouth!” he said. Everyone laughed. Except
me. I was not laughing.

  “If he has his way, by the end of the day, the whole world will be talking about this video. So whatever reason you had for wanting to keep it a secret, whether you’re in our choir or would like to be, thank you for the beautiful gift. I’ll be looking for you after the service!”

  Things managed to get worse.

  As soon as we were backstage, voices exploded with the possibilities. Who was she? Who could she be? Was she really hiding in the Children’s Choir? Was she older than she appeared in the video? Was she in the Youth Choir?

  I felt so dizzy, I stumbled backwards. My face was sweaty. My hands itched. Bethany Joy, our pastor’s daughter, stood behind me. She and I used to be really good friends. But that was before my mother left. After that, well, I guess I had motherless-girl cooties.

  So I was truly surprised when she walked over.

  “Who do you think it is?” she whispered.

  I chewed on my lip. Hard.

  “Hey, Bethany Joy,” Zara said.

  Bethany Joy said “hey,” but continued to stare at me.

  Finally, I said I had no idea who it could be. She shrugged. “Her voice sounds familiar, but I can’t place it,” she said.

  I’d been so caught up in the commotion going on around me and the chill running through my bones that I lost sight of Zara wandering off. Soon as I spotted her, though, I knew something was wrong.

  “What’s the matter?” I asked.

  Then Zara was hugging me, and I could feel anxiousness coming from her body. Had she figured it out already? Did she know my life was ruined?

  “What?” I asked, feeling alarmed. “What is it?”

  For the first time, I realized she was holding her phone. She waggled it at me. Tears welled in her eyes.

  “Zara?” I said.

  “Mommy just called. Gran had a heart attack! We have to leave for Ohio right away!”

  I felt myself go numb. My arms pulled her tighter. I felt scared and shaken—and ashamed. Because, honestly, I wasn’t sure if I was feeling worse for Zara or my sorry self!

  10

  Heartbreaker

  At home later in the kitchen with Aunt Fannie, I hoped keeping busy would take my mind off what had happened. However, all anyone wanted to talk about was that ridiculous Gospel Girl video. Gospel Girl? Who told people they could just go and give her—me!—a name? I mean, really!

  “Oh, Mouse! Isn’t it divine? Some little diva in our midst has the voice of an angel. Pass me the carrots if you’re done, please, dear,” she said.

  “Yes, ma’am,” I said. The bright orange circles of carrots plinked across the cutting board as I pressed down with a not-quite-sharp knife. Auntie was making dinner tonight. Daddy had invited Miss Clayton over, and Aunt Fannie wouldn’t miss a chance to snoop on that for anything in the world. The kitchen smelled of roasting beef and savory blends of onions and carrots and celery.

  On Sundays, if you weren’t in the den getting ready for some football, you were in the kitchen with the good, good smells and homey atmosphere.

  Junior entered through the kitchen door carrying a large casserole dish.

  I groaned. “The ladies haven’t started after Daddy again, have they?” I asked, low enough so only he heard me. Junior grinned.

  “Nah, not unless ninety-three-year-old Miss Moses is trying to get her groove back. She stopped me when I was passing her house. Asked me to bring the old man some of her jerk chicken,” he said. Then he said his how do you dos to Aunt Fannie and rushed up the stairs. A few minutes later, the house phone rang. I answered it.

  “Junior!” I yelled. “It’s for you. It’s a man!”

  Aunt Fannie was still cooking away. “I’m grateful for the jerk chicken, because I know my baby brother has a fondness for it. However, our pot roast is going to be delicious,” she cooed. “The butcher gave me one of his best cuts of meat yesterday morning.”

  She probably scared him with one of her flourishes. Then she asked, “Who was on the phone for Junior?”

  I shrugged. “He didn’t say. The first three numbers are the area code, right? The part of the country the call’s coming from?” Aunt Fannie was the one who had taught me that.

  She nodded. “Exactly,” she said.

  The numbers 734 appeared on the caller ID. That was somewhere in Michigan. I didn’t tell Aunt Fannie, but I’d memorized most area codes. That way, if my mother called again, I’d know where she was.

  “It’s time you learn some family cooking secrets, Little Miss Mouse. And you never did say, who do you think the little singer is? From the video?”

  I tried not to shudder. Aunt Fannie was sneaky, but no way was she getting me to talk about Gospel Girl. No way!

  Over the next hour, I did my best to mumble one- or two-word answers about Gospel Girl until Aunt Fannie gave up and concentrated on her pie.

  A little while later, Miss Clayton arrived. She rapped on the kitchen door and everybody hugged and she asked how things were going. Seeing her outside of school still felt weird. But she looked happy. And Daddy looked happy. So a little weird wasn’t so bad.

  Aunt Fannie brought out the good tablecloth, white linen and lace, the one we used for Thanksgiving. We set the table and carried in serving dishes filled with steaming pot roast and homemade biscuits, potatoes that I’d personally mashed with real cream and butter, and a huge, steaming dish of macaroni and cheese, Junior’s favorite.

  “Fannie, everything looks delicious,” said Miss Clayton.

  “Oh, it looks okay,” said Daddy. His BIG friendly voice was less boomy than usual. Maybe he was on his best behavior. Perhaps the meal would not end with him and Junior wrestling each other for the last piece of cake. We did have company, after all.

  Daddy slid a glance at Aunt Fannie, making his eyebrows jump up and down, being silly again. So much for good behavior. The more nervous Daddy got, the sillier he became. When he threatened to bring out Sea Bear, I shook my head. He was trying to be playful, I could see it. The way his eyes sort of twitched a little around the corners. The way he tried to control his volume, but little by little, his voice grew louder. Definitely a bit nervous about our guest.

  We got down to the meal, and talk between the grown-ups flowed like buttermilk, smooth and easy. I watched how Daddy was with Miss Clayton. She looked nervous, too. Smiling too much, trying to hide her hands in her lap. Sitting next to her, I felt her nervousness jump off her body and onto me. There was something sweet about their awkwardness. They were adorable.

  I glanced toward the hallway, down where Daddy’s room was. Thinking about his dresser. The photos on it. Pictures of him with Junior; photos of the two of us; and photos of the four of us—Daddy, Junior, me, and my mother.

  As they talked and laughed, I glanced around, taking in other reminders of my mother. The rummage-sale painting of a black man playing trumpet, a few rugs in the hallway that she always loved, and of course the coffeepot. Having Miss Clayton in the house made me really see all those little touches. And cringe. It was like we were all part of a story my mother had made up, then left incomplete.

  Made me wish they were all gone. I gave a little shudder, not expecting the sudden rush of feelings. Was it aimed at my mother? Daddy? Miss Clayton? Myself? I shook it off.

  Anyway, at least no one was talking about Gospel Girl.

  “So, Junior, are you thinking about colleges for next year yet?” asked Miss Clayton. She grasped the long-handled spoon and dipped collard greens from the dish. “Pass the cornbread, please.”

  I passed the cornbread. Junior took a big scoop of candied sweet potatoes. Dribbled juice on the fancy tablecloth. Mumbled “sorry” to Auntie and jumped up to get a wet sponge. Looking over his shoulder at Miss Clayton, he said, “Yes, ma’am. I have a few schools in mind.”

  Daddy jumped in. “Junior’s got one school on his mind: Penn State! That’s my boy!” Boom-boom-boom. Forte went his baritone—deep and LOUD. Junior seemed to wince. He came back to the table, wipi
ng up the dribbled juice and sliding back into his seat.

  Junior made his mouth laugh, but he didn’t tell his eyes. He reached for the dish with the macaroni and said, “Yeah, Pop’s got it all figured out. No need for me to do anything but show up, I guess.”

  Boom-boom-boom! Daddy went right on as if he didn’t notice Junior wasn’t laughing. Daddy boomed, “That’s right, boy. I got it all figured out. All you need to do is your job—play good football and keep your grades up. Let me worry about the rest.”

  Junior scooped his mac ’n’ cheese. His baritone matched Daddy’s, and his new laugh sounded almost scary. “Yeah, old man, I’ll just sit back and let you figure it all out.”

  I gulped my sweet tea and glanced at Miss Clayton, who was looking at me with question marks in her eyes. I wasn’t imagining it. Something was going on between Daddy and Junior. But when I looked from one to the other, I didn’t see anger. More like the faces they made when the team was staring down a huge opponent in a Friday football game.

  Daddy even called it their “game face.” He said you have to put your game face on to concentrate. Block out everything else.

  Hmm… so why were they wearing their game faces at the dinner table?

  I looked away again, and this time when I looked back, they were both making goofy faces at each other across the table. Being silly, like usual. Maybe I was imagining things. I sighed. My imagination was my best friend, but it had already led me wrong once.

  No need to imagine something between Daddy and Junior, too.

  We all took our desserts into the den. Banana cake with walnuts and banana cream frosting. My favorite. I got to make the frosting this time; Aunt Fannie had taught me how. But I hadn’t grabbed a slice of cake. My stomach felt as unsettled as Junior’s harsh laugh.

  We settled in for football and yelled at the TV for the Pittsburgh Steelers, cheering when they scored. At halftime, I felt grateful. Everybody was enjoying the game so much, no one mentioned the video or Gospel Girl.