He said, “Ain’t nobody leaving, Mou—uh, Cadence. We’re all gonna be all right.”
15
Hero
One week until my birthday. One day after the ugliest, worst, most awful day of my life. Even worse than the day my mother left. But it was over. Time for church. Daddy and Junior were trying to patch up the ugly with soft words, with Sea Bear jokes, with toast and eggs.
Not perfect. Not yet. There was still so much to say.
Aunt Fannie arrived, and we loaded into the Blueberry. Driving to the Lodge. Junior in the front seat next to Aunt Fannie. Me in the back.
“Let’s put some church in this car this morning,” Aunt Fannie chirped, cranking up the stereo. Yolanda Adams, the crowned diva of gospel, her rich, beautiful voice wrapping itself around me.
She sang that many storms have passed your way, and now you feel washed out because life has rained on your parade.
Deeper and deeper I sank into the Blueberry’s seats.
Be blessed, don’t live life in distress…
The song played on, and when it finished, I asked Aunt Fannie if she’d play it again.
She looked in back at me, and a slow yet concerned smile touched her lips.
“Absolutely, honey bun. Absolutely!”
The rest of the ride, I thought about those lyrics. Not about how to sing them or how wonderful it would be to sound as amazing as Miss Adams.
What I thought about was how accurate the song felt. How when you heard gospel music that touched your soul, it was like having someone turn on a light for you.
I had prayed for God to bless Daddy with a way to buy me a fancy keyboard and microphone. I’d thought getting the instrument would be the blessing I needed, not ever considering that He had already blessed me with a voice and with passion and spirit.
Funny how I’d never really thought about what I had as a gift until Faith wanted me to hand it over to her.
I wish I could say that was the beginning of this big, cosmic turnaround, and after that life got easy-peasy.
It did not get easy-peasy.
Faith was frantic when I entered the Lodge.
“What took you so long? I’ve sent you about a million texts this morning,” she snapped.
“Why?” I asked. I’d been texting with Zara. Her grandmother was doing much better, and Zara expected to come home soon. She was telling me about a trip to an aquarium and how she was positive they had real live mermaids!
So I hadn’t answered Faith’s messages.
It was then I noticed that for so early in the morning, the Lodge was unusually packed.
“Everybody is here because they think they’re going to find out who Gospel Girl is.”
I stopped short, almost causing the old man behind me to knock into me and spill his pancakes. “Watch out there, young lady!” he said.
Faith grabbed my elbow and started leading me toward the rehearsal area in back. When we were alone, she started totally freaking out.
“I know I shouldn’t have, but I told Mr. Bassie that I was Gospel Girl,” she said. “And now the TV people are here!”
“Why would you do that?” I asked, but then I remembered DJ Biscuit and his announcement on the radio yesterday. So much had happened since our visit to State College I’d completely forgotten about the DJ’s message.
“I just had to, okay? We were at the church Friday and Saturday for a meeting. My parents were, anyway. I was just there hanging out. Then Jones came in, and you know how he can play piano a little?”
When Faith was nervous she talked very fast. I was trying to keep up.
“So Jones sat down at the piano in the rehearsal room and started to play a little of the song. You know? ‘One Sweet Day.’ And he said he still didn’t think it was me. And I told him it was but I didn’t want anybody to know yet, and he kept on saying I didn’t want anyone to know because it wasn’t true. Then Mr. Bassie came in and saw us, and Jones told him I had something to tell him.…”
She stopped, pausing long enough to draw a big breath.
“Then,” she said, “it just came out.”
“Oh, Faith. Why? Didn’t he ask you to sing for him?”
“I told him I was too nervous to do it like that. Then I sort of showed him the video you and I have been working on.”
The groan that escaped made my whole body rattle. For days Faith had been coming over to work on the video she wanted to use to scam the church into thinking she was Gospel Girl. I kept telling her I didn’t want to do it. Still, she kept pushing. Finally, we made a video that was a perfect lip sync to my singing. We even shot it on my balcony and made it look like how the original video would have looked without help from the app. But Faith had promised not to use it without my okay.
“Faith! How could you?”
She looked around wildly.
“We don’t have time for that now. I have an idea. I just need your help.”
“Faith! I told you. I’m not going to tell everyone that’s really you.”
“After all I’ve done for you over the years, I ask you for one thing, and you’re saying no? Please, Mouse? Cadence, please. I’m begging you. Don’t let me get humiliated by the TV people. I’ll never forgive you if you do!”
“You want me to lie to an entire congregation. In a church,” I cried.
“Technically, it’s not a church. It’s a church brunch. It’s entertainment. All I’m asking is for you to help me, um, entertain some folks. Now, come on. Mr. Bassie isn’t playing around. He means to have me perform today, and I want to be ready.”
Faith’s big idea. I mean, really. What was she thinking?
She had found this little nook right off the stage. An area you can’t see from the audience and don’t really look at if you’re onstage. She wanted me to hide in there with a microphone, and we would perform the song just like we’d done on my balcony. Miss Stravinski was going to have the Youth Choir sing backup.
“Faith,” I said, after she’d practically run herself crazy, “you have to stop this. I can’t do this. Really. I can’t.”
She moved closer. “You. Have. To. Period!” she growled.
It was official. My very good friend, Faith Bettancourt, had gone insane. I wished with all my heart Zara was with us.
Faith, racing away in a frenzy, reached for a note, but her throat gurgled and her tone snagged like Cinderella’s glass slipper after the ball.
Watching her run off, I felt someone standing nearby. I turned to find Jones.
“You don’t have to do it, you know,” he said. Today his bow tie was candy-apple red with gold-and-green plaid. He wore one of those old-fashioned caps that paperboys used to wear in olden days. His white shirt nearly glowed in the backstage light. I knew the next time I saw him on stage, he’d officially be with the Youth Choir, purple robe and all.
I looked away, smoothing the fabric of my black skirt. “She’s my friend,” I whispered. “She needs me.”
“What about what you need? Don’t let her steal your sunshine, girl. Go ahead and be you!”
“But…” I tried to protest.
“But what? C’mon, Mouse.”
I looked at him. “I am telling everyone to stop calling me that. I don’t like it very much,” I said.
“Well, it’s about time, Caaaaaaay-dence!” he said, stressing the syllables in my name. I laughed, then got serious again.
“This means so much to her, though. And she did make a good point. I’d be pretty hurt if she wrote a bestseller before I did,” I said.
Jones looked at me for a minute. He tilted his head to one side and said, “You know I have a reputation for being hard to handle sometimes, right?”
I rolled my eyes, but smiled. “You have a reputation for being a crazy person.”
He nodded, smiled back. “Yep! But I’m okay with that. I’m hyper. I jump around a lot. I take medication. Everybody in town knows I’m in foster care. When I was real little and getting bounced around from home to home,
I got pitied a lot, too. I got tired of it. Decided if people were going to remember me, it was going to be for something else.”
“So you started laughing like a seal?”
He shrugged. “I get good grades. I figured out later on that I could sing. But at the time, acting wild was all I had.”
“And now?”
He grinned. “Now I do it because it amuses me! Look, it’s good you care about your friends so much. But don’t forget to care about you, too.”
“But becoming a singing superstar is her big dream. Writing books has always been mine.”
In his best Jones fashion, he put both hands on his hips and scowled at me from beneath the brim of his plaid hat and said, “Oh? And you can’t have TWO dreams?”
Just then, Miss Stravinski started calling for places.
Jones shrugged. “Gotta go. I’m singing the duet with her. I mean, with Gospel Girl. See you onstage.” He winked and dashed off.
Mr. Bassie was in rare form. The scent of fresh-baked waffles and coffee and cream filled the room. Anticipation was thicker than maple syrup.
While Miss Stravinski had been collecting us all to take the stage, I’d hidden in the tiny alcove Faith had picked out. The microphone was clipped to the collar of my white shirt. It was like this movie I saw a couple years ago called The Parent Trap, about twins who were separated when they were little and play a trick on their divorced parents.
Only instead of twins and summer camp and California and England, you’ve got a scaredy-mouse and a superstar!
“How’s everybody doing this morning?” Mr. Bassie asked. He wore a beautiful navy blue suit with a white, blue, and purple pocket square sticking out of his front pocket. A pale lavender shirt with a navy-and-white tie made the whole look stand out. When I glanced across the stage, I spotted Aunt Fannie. She wore her robe and was looking longingly at Mr. Bassie.
I felt a sudden heart pang for her. I had no idea how the Husband Pageant was going. Was she in the lead, or had she been forced to drop out?
Aunt Fannie was so different from my mother. The ugly words that had spilled on our kitchen floor and made our house feel foreign, Junior calling my mother selfish, kept replaying in my mind.
I had tried to never think of my mother that way. Never. Yet, I knew, somewhere deep down, that was exactly how I saw her. She’d left us. Just walked out. Part of me wanted to understand that she did it for her “art.”
But, honestly, when I grow up, if I have a little girl—or even a boy—I hope I never have to leave their side. I hope to be there, loving them and caring for them. Just like my daddy.
Then I thought of Aunt Fannie again. No matter how she was doing in the Husband Pageant, she wouldn’t just leave us. Or me.
Like Auntie, I didn’t want to be selfish. But I didn’t want to be pushed around, either.
The music started. I caught Faith staring in my direction. Mr. Bassie stood center stage. His smile was an ocean. His eyes twinkled. He rapped the microphone with his long fingers and said, “Let’s put our hands together for Harmony’s own Gospel Girl, Miss Faith Bettancourt!”
The whole thing unfolded in slow motion.
Jones went to stand beside Faith as the applause was dying down.
How had I let this happen?
Why hadn’t I flat-out refused?
Faith looked worse than afraid. She looked wretched. She had to know this was a crazy idea.
How had I let things get so out of control?
Jones began:
Sorry, I never told you
All I wanted to say.…
His voice was rich, controlled, full of emotion. He made each note believable, each syllable necessary. His verse finished, and the music swirled around him.
Faith’s eyes darted side to side. She looked frantic. Trapped.
I couldn’t lie anymore.
I’d made a promise. I promised God if He made my wish come true, I’d be better. Stronger. My prayer, I realized, hadn’t just been about getting a fancy keyboard or having the confidence to sing in front of others. I’d made a deal to use the blessing He’d given me and share it to shine a light on those who needed it. It was my deal with the Almighty. Not Faith’s. Not anyone else’s.
And it was something I needed to do for me, too.
People in the audience had begun to look around.
Miss Stravinski played on.
Mr. Bassie looked… at me. Soon as our gazes touched, it was clear.
He knew.
I ran onto the stage, beside Faith. I put her between Jones and me.
“Ladies and gentlemen, I believe we’ve got someone here with something to tell us. Is that right, Miss Jolly?” Mr. Bassie said with a wink. What was with all the winking? First, Jones. Now Mr. Bassie. Honestly!
Even in the glare from the lights, I could see Junior standing at the edge of the stage.
And beside him was Daddy.
He looked so confused. Oh, boy!
Daddy hadn’t been to the Lodge on a Sunday since my mother left. Well, at least this would save me the trouble of having to break it to him later.
“Hi, everybody,” I mumbled into the microphone on the stand.
“SPEAK UP!” shouted the crowd. I did something wrong with the mic, and it squawked.
I cringed. My heart was beating far too fast. The lights felt too warm. The walls were pushing together, and I feared I was going to get squished.
Jones reached over, grabbed one hand. He said, “You can do it, girl!”
Faith chewed her lip. She looked close to tears. “I’m sorry, Mou… Cadence.”
The thumping in my chest threatened to push me off the stage. But I’d gone too far to turn around now.
I hugged Faith and said into the microphone, “Everybody, first let me say thank you to my friend, Faith. She just did this because she knew I was the one who…”
Deep breath. This was it. God, I sure hope this counts as keeping my promise.
“I was the one who recorded the Gospel Girl video. She knew I was too shy to ever come out on my own. Faith is a real friend!”
Applause. Jones nudged me; Faith gave me a hug.
I continued, my voice breaking, “I—I made the video thinking only Mr. Bassie and Miss Stravinski would see it. But, like he said a few weeks ago, it accidentally went viral. But sometimes I guess things happen for a reason.”
“AMEN!” shouted the room.
I leaned over and whispered a question to Jones. He nodded his head in agreement. I said, “I know you all are expecting me to do the song that got me into this mess.” Everyone laughed. I went on. “But I’d like to do a song my aunt sang a few weeks ago. And I’d like her to join me. Aunt Fannie, would you please help me out?”
She came onto the stage, with a flourish, of course. I’d asked Jones if he’d mind letting me sing with Auntie. “As long as I get to sing with you next time,” he’d whispered back, before running, doing a leap and a twirl to a chorus of “JONES!” before getting off the stage.
Aunt Fannie was beaming. She gave me a big hug. “Oh, sugar pie. I’ve been waiting for this day for so long. The day when I could sing with my perfect little angel. My niece!”
That brought a tear to my eye.
How long had I been waiting and hoping to write a perfect ending for the story of me, center stage and sharing the moment with the woman who’d loved me for so many years? In the story I’d wanted to write, that woman had been my mother. Yet, here was someone I loved deeply, who’d been here the whole time.
Aunt Fannie stood opposite Faith, and Miss Stravinski gave the piano bench to Mr. Bassie. He began the opening chords to “Anytime You Need a Friend,” the song Aunt Fannie had brought down the house with a few weeks back.
She began, singing flawlessly. When she turned to me, I could feel every person in the room sucking in air.
I exhaled and released the next line. It sounded off, like the notes were leaning to one side. Aunt Fannie moved closer, placed her arm around
me, and I felt her warmth through the robe.
“Anytime you need a friend,” we sang together in the chorus, our words blossoming together like prize roses in the sunshine. I couldn’t believe I was doing it, either. Singing. At some point, I stopped thinking altogether. I just closed my eyes, and I sang. And the words went round-trip, from Earth to Heaven, from Heaven to Earth.
And I thought about the keyboard that had meant so much to me. The instrument I was sure I needed to get the confidence to stand tall and sing. Musical notes rolled out, climbing the scale, higher and higher. People stood, cheered. Gave me love, and I gave it right back. And I knew that I’d possessed the instrument I needed all along.
I had the voice God gave me.
Applause grew frenzied, pierced with shrieks and whistles, sending my soul higher than my voice as the notes and scales carried us. Aunt Fannie, whose voice was magically powerful, allowed me to shine, supporting me when I needed it, pulling back when I was ready to stand on my own.
I could not have asked for anything else.
It was the best day ever.
And I did NOT have to make it up!
16
Butterfly
And we lived happily ever after!
Well, not exactly. After church that day, Daddy, Aunt Fannie, Junior, and I came back to the house and sat down and talked.
Really talked.
Daddy asked once again if I’d really hated being called Mouse. Oh, Daddy. Of course I hate it. I told him in the most delicate way that Mouse was the absolute worst, most miserable nickname a future girl of power and ambition could ever have.
“No one wants a book autographed by a writer named Mouse. They really, truly don’t,” I said.
He held out his hand and said, “Pleasure to make your acquaintance, Cadence.”
I gave him a punch in the arm. The kind of thing he and Junior did to each other. I’d never really punched anyone. It kinda hurt my knuckles. But I didn’t even say ouch. I wanted Daddy to start thinking of me as a girl who could be strong.
“My… I mean, Mom, she had another nickname for me. She said she wanted to call me Moon Goddess or Luna, Goddess of the Moon. I like that,” I said.
The Sweetest Sound Page 13
