“Daddy, I’m going to walk Lyra, if that’s okay,” I said.
“Don’t go far!” he said, his overprotective radar kicking in.
Miss Clayton said, “Enjoy your walk, sweetie.”
Sweetie? It felt really weird to be called “sweetie” by your teacher in your own house.
I asked Junior if he wanted to run alongside me, but he said he had stuff to do. It took only a few minutes to walk Lyra. She wasn’t enjoying the cold or the sleet that had started to fall. The storybook mist that had surrounded the mountains earlier had turned to storybook gloom. Frozen pellets of ice pricked my cheeks. Lyra and I both decided we’d rather be warm.
Upstairs in my room, I changed my socks because the pair I’d been wearing had gotten wet from the icy rain.
With that out of the way, I found myself feeling uncertain in my soothing blue room. It wasn’t even five in the evening, but already light was draining from the sky. My room was a collection of shadowy shapes in an assortment of blues.
One shape stretched along the back wall like a hulking caterpillar—my books. Collected over time from Sofine and many others in town. I sighed, walking over to the uneven stacks. Then I found my backpack and dropped So B. It onto the pile. I picked up the last book I’d gotten from Sofine—The School Story, by Andrew Clements. But I wasn’t in the mood to read just yet.
The tall, skinny lamp that stood beside my keyboard lit up the room once I twisted its knob. Then I made sure the keyboard was plugged in. The microphone, too. And I began to play. At first, nothing in particular. I pretended I was having a concert, playing a bunch of songs I knew by heart. In a show they’d call that a medley.
“Coming to you, live from the stage, it’s the one, the only, Cadence Mariah JOLLY!” I said into the microphone, my voice rising an octave with each part of my name.
Then I focused on the music. I played “Rudolph, the Red-Nosed Reindeer,” “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star,” “Jingle Bells,” and “Snakes Go for a Walk,” all songs I’d learned before kindergarten. Playing the music made me laugh out loud.
Then I moved to the middle-C songs I’d been playing for a long time, too. I thought of the first song I’d really had to practice. Couldn’t do it from memory. So I had to go to my library.
A row of three floor-to-ceiling bookshelves stood against the wall opposite the window. I turned and found the stepping stool. I kept old music on a higher shelf because I didn’t use it as often. I balanced on my tiptoes until I found what I was looking for.
When I blew the dust off, it made me cough. Lyra raised her head from my pillow, yawned, and went back to licking her paw. Gotta remember to change that pillowcase tonight!
I got the music I was looking for. Canon in D by Pachelbel, though I had learned it in C. In case you were wondering, Canon in D is a song they play at weddings. Not the “Here Comes the Bride” song, but another one that is more beautiful. At least, to me. Canon in D was a beautiful piece of music that made me feel so grown-up.
As I began to play, memories came flooding back. I’d been six when I learned this piece. For a music competition for kids over at Penn State.
Even then, I remembered Daddy talking to Junior about growing up to go to college there someday. Daddy had been singing that tune for a long time.
My fingers found the familiar notes, and the keyboard sang in a perfect harmony. I looked at the sheet of music, staring hard—so hard it was as if I were looking through it. And on the other side of the musical notes, the beautiful melody, the pride I’d felt learning this piece of music at the age of six, was my mother.
Not the mother in my imagination—the real one.
I remember her standing in the wings backstage at the competition. She was supposed to be in the audience, but she’d told them I was so shy I might not play at all if I couldn’t see her. I don’t know if that was true; I just remember feeling scared and happy and terrified and proud all at the same time.
Everyone had made such a big deal out of it.
There were nine of us little kids. We’d participated in some program or other. Gotten selected for a piano competition. Daddy told me not to think of it as a competition. He told me to just concentrate on playing the best I could.
My mother whispered, “You can do this, Cadence Mariah. You can beat these kids. Just believe in yourself!”
As I continued to play the piece on my keyboard, I shut my eyes, no longer staring through the sheet music, but instead going back inside myself. To the place where I’d had my mother and she’d had me.
And I played Canon in D in the key of middle C.
And I played.
And wetness bubbled in the corners of my eyes.
And I played… and played… and played.
Tears, fat drips of them, fell onto my soft, warm sweatshirt.
I could see her so clearly. She was right there. To the side of the stage. Smiling her proud-mommy smile. And there I was, her quiet little Mouse, playing my heart out. A heart that was pounding in middle C.
Brushing tears off my cheeks with one hand as I continued playing with the other, I lifted my gaze and spotted the trophy. The one I’d been awarded at that competition.
Second Place.
I didn’t win.
I didn’t win.
Her face had fallen. She’d looked like she was the one who’d lost. Maybe she was. They were all there—Mom, Daddy, Junior. We went out for ice cream afterward. I couldn’t eat mine. It had made me sick.
Abruptly, I stopped playing.
A thought settled over me, darker than the charcoal clouds scudding across the sky. My mother left us because she didn’t want to be second best. Why be a mother wishing to become a singer when you can just go out and BE a singer? Especially if you’re raising a daughter who doesn’t talk and can’t even win a kids’ piano contest?
I stared out the window. My face felt hot.
I began to play again. Another song I knew by heart.
“O Holy Night.” This time, I leaned forward, toward the microphone, and sang, “O Holy Night, the stars are brightly shi—ning. It is the night of our dear Savior’s birth.…”
Don’t know why I chose to sing that song. But the words came out, and soon I was singing with all my heart. Pushing away thoughts of second-place trophies and mothers who leave. Pushing away thoughts of Gospel Girl and the trouble she was going to cause me.
“Fall on your knees…” I continued the verse, progressing across the do-re-mi-fa-so-la-ti-do scale, feeling the lyrics climb over my heart and pour out through my soul.
Not thinking about mothers or music competitions or children left behind.
Do you want to know how to be stronger? asked the voice in my head.
Do you want people to stop calling you Mouse?
I was almost finished when I noticed something.
On the dresser, right beside my door, sat a slice of cake on a small plate. And a glass of sweet tea.
Had Aunt Fannie come in while I was so caught up in my song that I hadn’t even heard her?
“… O night, O night divine.”
11
Fantasy
Zara was gone.
It was Monday morning and Miss Clayton had quietly commented to me about the good time she’d had at our house. Then she told Faith and me that Zara’s mom was taking her to Ohio while Zara’s grandmother recuperated. “Zara will be doing her studies long-distance for a short while,” Miss Clayton said. Zara had already told me. She texted. I’d looked up Ohio on the map app on my phone. She was 158 miles away. Might as well have been a thousand.
If only that had been the worst thing, missing Zara and hoping her grandmother was okay. But no, there was more. Much more.
It started after school. At first, I was so happy. The first thing Faith said to me when we were alone was “Sorry. I can be a real jerk-face sometimes.” Then she hugged me and said she was sorry she’d been so mean to me at the football game. And she said if I wanted her to call me Lu
na, then she would. I hadn’t really asked anyone to call me that. It was Zara who’d decided to start that because of what I’d told her.
I cleared my throat, looked straight at my friend, and even though I could feel butterflies tap-dancing in combat boots in my stomach, I said, “Yes, please. I would love for you not to call me Mouse anymore. Luna would be good. Or Cadence.”
We hugged and decided to go to the salon after school. “Mama says she needs me to help sweep up the shop. She said you could come, too. I figure if you help, we can go into the basement and sing when we’re done.”
So it was a plan. I called my Dad at work. He said he’d meet me there later and we’d go get some dinner.
Of course, when we climbed into the car, Mrs. Bettancourt twisted around in the seat to look at me. “Hey, baby, haven’t seen you in over a week,” she said.
I said, “Yes, ma’am.” I smiled. She smiled back. I looked out the window.
Still, I could feel her looking at me. Normally, I’m pretty comfortable with Faith’s family. Now, however, Mrs. B. was giving me the willies.
“I’m glad you’re coming with us to the shop today,” she said. “Wanted to ask you about your birthday present. We want to get something for your party.”
I tried not to cringe.
Then she reached into her big purse and pulled out a plastic shopping bag.
“Almost forgot!” she said, thrusting the bag toward me. I looked at Faith. She shrugged.
A book.
The Magician’s Elephant, by Kate DiCamillo. I had heard of her. She wrote Because of Winn-Dixie. I loved that book.
“Thank you,” I whispered, but she had already turned away, looking at the road, wearing a big ol’ smile. It was the smile I saw each time someone did a good deed for me—helping the poor little motherless girl. Sometimes that smile by itself was enough to weigh down my spirit.
Once we got to the salon, Faith asked if I’d heard the news. I asked her what news and she got all excited.
“Gospel Girl! You are getting a lot of attention. Mama said she heard them mention it on the morning show. On TV.” When Faith said “TV,” her eyes started to glow. Honestly! Glowing eyes because of a thing like TV.
Reality came back and hit me square between the eyes once Faith’s words sank into my brain. I whispered, “You didn’t tell her, did you? That it’s me, I mean! And, wait, how did you know it was me, anyway?” We were alone in the back of the salon, but she was being so loud. For Heaven’s sake!
“Of course I didn’t tell Mama, Mouse—uh, Luna. Sorry. That’s gonna take some practice. Anyway, I’ve seen the video. Heard the singing. I could tell it was you. And it gave me this great idea. Really great!” she said.
She had the broom. I had the dustpan. Sweep, sweep, sweep. Low A, A, A. Low G, G, G.
“What’s your idea?” I asked. Background noises filtered from the front of the shop. Mrs. Bettancourt was talking and laughing with someone. On Mondays the shop was closed. Her grandmother came, along with a few of Faith’s aunts and cousins, and helped give the place a good scrubbing. Every week. No matter what.
Faith swept up the last of the trash, grabbed the scooper from me, tossed the trash in the can, and yanked out the garbage bag.
“Mama, me and Cadence are taking out the garbage!” she yelled through the curtain that separated the front of the shop from the back.
“Wear coats!” her mother yelled back.
The dumpster was half a block down, in the alley. The temperature was so cold it felt like the Ice Age, even though it was still October. Of course we were going to wear our coats. Maybe it wasn’t just my dad.… Maybe there was some parent thing that made them treat perfectly smart ten- and eleven-year-old girls like tiny babies.
Faith looked around like we were being trailed by trash can spies while we walked to the large green bin, and said, “We should tell everybody that the person singing in the video… is ME!”
I stared at her. What? Huh? Who? Whaaaaat?
When the school year first began, Mrs. Reddit would have us do warm-ups for our voices. One was to sing animal sounds. It was soooooo embarrassing at first. Then it got kind of fun.
I stared at Faith. In my mind, I was a confused gorilla, moving up the octave scale:
Whoo, hoo-hoo!
“Faith, that won’t work,” I said, leaving my gorilla behind.
We had arrived at the big trash bin in the alley. She flung the bag over the top, then she grabbed my hand.
“Look, Mouse…”
I did look at her, then realized she’d already forgotten not to call me Mouse. I wanted so badly to say something to her, but I didn’t.
Faith rushed on, “Look. You know I’ve wanted to be a superstar singer forever, right?”
Many mumbling mice, making mighty music in the moonlight, mighty nice!
That was another warming-up exercise we did. I just knew she was about to cover me in crazy.
Whoo-hoo-hoo.
Many mumbling mice, making mighty music in the moonlight, mighty nice!
She went on:
“So this whole getting-discovered thing means way more to me than it does to you. How would you feel if I turned in some dumb ol’ book report in Miss Clayton’s class, then she came and told me this book company was going to print it and turn it into a big bestseller?”
I froze. The very idea of Faith as a No. 1 Bestselling Author of Amazing Stories when she didn’t even like to read—well—I would die. I would simply die!
She gave me a look that said, Thank you!
Then she said, “And in the video, you must’ve had something on your head, because instead of seeing your short hair, it looks like you have long hair. Long braids. Like me.”
It made me ache, knowing my reasons for doing what I did. All of a sudden, I thought of the little story I’d been building in my head earlier, the one about being onstage, as well as the story I’d been building for much longer. The one about singing with my mother.
Would they ever be more than that?
I wiggled my scarf at her. The fringes danced in the wind. “I’m wearing this around my head in the video. The fringes are really long,” I said.
Just then, her mother stuck her head out the door, gripping a long sweater tight around her body.
“Whatever girl gossip you need to do, come and do it inside, my darlings!” her mother said, the wind kicking up, throwing dried leaves and twigs like daggers. She looked out past us at the swirling autumn and said, “Snow is coming.”
As we passed her in the doorway, she planted a warm kiss on each of our faces. When I saw how she looked at Faith, I could feel the love and pride and honor. Then she looked at me and had a different smile. Not the pity smile, though. Something else.
Lifting one eyebrow, she said, “How about you let me do your hair for your birthday party? Something sassy. Your payment for helping out! My gift to you!”
She always did my hair for free. I sighed. My cheeks flushed pink and warm. I said, “Yes, ma’am. Thank you!”
“We’re going in the basement. Um, to fold towels,” said Faith, yanking me toward the stairwell before I could say another word.
Once we were down there amid baskets of unfolded towels, salon capes, and dust bunnies, Faith swung around and said, “So, anyway, my idea!”
For the next hour and a half, we set about trying to figure out how to make her idea work.
Faith figured out I’d used a phone app to create the illusions that hid my identity. She figured we could reshoot the video without a filter, but this time she’d lip sync those parts and make it look like I’d been in the background while she sang.
I tried telling her it was nuts. It wouldn’t work. Everyone knew she couldn’t move up and down the scale or hold her high notes. Only, Faith insisted that she’d been practicing and had a secret of her own. Then she let loose an earsplitting collection of notes that rose higher and higher until she rested at the low soprano range.
“Fai
th, I don’t know about this,” I finally said.
“But Mouse, this is my dream. The kind of attention you’re getting. Or would be getting if you weren’t hiding. I’ve always wanted that.”
Luna. Call me Luna. Or Cadence. Or Miss Adventure. Anything other than Mouse.
Whoo-hoo-hoo!
Many mumbling mice, making mighty music in the moonlight, mighty nice!
No way did I want anything to do with her scheme, but she was so sincere. And she’d made a good point about how I would feel if she were the author and not me, I guess. Although, she made it sound like having two dreams would make me greedy.
I looked at the ground, not knowing what to say.
“Please!” she said.
I felt something in my soul start to crack.
Maybe she was right.
Was I a bad friend to have a talent that my friend wanted for herself?
Or was fate trying to tell us something else?
12
Don’t Forget About Us
Daddy picked me up at the beauty salon right on time. We were going out to eat before he dropped me at choir rehearsal, where I was meeting Faith. I could tell that Daddy noticed something was going on with me. I caught him giving me the side-eye stare in the car. “Feel like Chinese?” he asked. I shrugged, because he knew I always felt like eating Chinese food. He zoomed past the Big Orange Diner and went down the block to Chin’s.
“Are you going to tell me what’s wrong?” he finally asked when we were inside the restaurant, seated at a booth with red vinyl seat covers. Tiny candles flickered from each of the tabletops. Shadows danced around the room like ghosts.
I shrugged again, and he said, not in a joking voice but a Daddy voice, “Please stop doing that. Could you answer the question?”
This time he got a sigh instead of a shrug. Finally, I decided if I couldn’t tell him what was really on my mind at the moment, I’d settle for the next best thing:
“Daddy, do we have to have a big community birthday party this year?” My face felt hot and tingly just asking. And the minute I saw the hurt expression in his eyes, I wanted to tell him I didn’t mean it. It was like the time I’d broken a fancy-looking perfume bottle my mother left behind. While we swept up the glass together, he’d told me he didn’t mind, it didn’t matter, but one look at his sad face, and you knew he was telling tales.
The Sweetest Sound Page 10
