Friends. She says it so easily. Like it isn’t loaded with all manner of complications.
‘Right,’ I murmur, smiling tightly before heading down the driveway.
When I get back to Dad’s and his car is missing from the driveway.
‘Hello?’ I call, taking off my shoes in the hallway.
No answer.
I touch the closest radiator.
Stone-cold.
In the kitchen, there’s a note on the counter – Ro, Izzy was starving after tap so we went straight to the restaurant. Soup in the fridge if you’re hungry. Dad x
I burst into tears. I don’t know why.
I don’t even like Pizza Express that much.
22
‘How are you feeling about your audition tomorrow?’ Tanvi asks as we leave choir on Friday afternoon.
‘I don’t know,’ I admit. ‘I’ve never been to an audition before. I’ve been practising loads though.’
‘What about your leaflets?’
‘I’ll do them before I go.’
‘But won’t that mean getting up at crazy early?’
I shrug. Before my last shift I asked Eric if I could pick up my leaflets a bit earlier than usual and he’d agreed.
‘But you’ll be knackered!’ Tanvi exclaims.
‘I’ll be all right.’
Tanvi’s eyes light up. ‘Hey, why don’t I do them for you?’
‘Don’t be silly.’
‘Why not? I know the area. And, no offence or anything, but it’s hardly rocket science. Oh, go on. You’ll be doing me a favour too.’
‘How so?’
‘You never know, if I can prove myself capable of delivering leaflets in my own neighbourhood without coming to harm, my parents might do something really radical like let me get the bus to school. And I’ll do a good job, I promise. Not one leaflet will perish on my watch!’ She salutes. ‘Please,’ she says, her expression suddenly serious. ‘You’d really be helping me out.’
I take a deep breath. ‘OK,’ I say. ‘Thank you.’
Tanvi squeaks with delight. ‘Awesome! I will not let you down, Ro Snow! Hey, why don’t you come round for dinner afterwards? Or for lunch on Sunday? Or I could come to yours if that’s easier.’
‘No,’ I say sharply.
‘No?’ she repeats.
I swallow hard. I need to cover my tracks. And fast.
‘You can’t. Come to mine, I mean. The thing is, my mum isn’t very well.’
‘Still? Wow, that’s some cold.’
‘Cold?’
‘Yeah, when I came by the launderette that time you said she had a cold.’
‘Oh! No. Um, the thing is, I sort of lied about that.’
‘OK …’ Tanvi says.
‘The thing is, my mum is ill, but it’s kind of more serious than a cold.’
‘What’s wrong with her?’
‘It’s, um, not that easy to explain.’
‘That’s OK,’ Tanvi says encouragingly.
I can feel my body getting hot. I can only hope the heat doesn’t reach my face and give me away.
‘The thing is,’ I begin, faltering a little, ‘there’s not really a name for it. She just has to rest a lot. And have total peace and quiet. That’s, um, why I do the washing at the launderette. And why I can’t really have people over …’
It’s not a complete lie, but somehow it feels almost worse to tell Tanvi a half-truth rather than telling her an out-and-out fib.
‘Shit, I’m so sorry,’ she says. ‘Do you want to talk about it? I’m an excellent listener.’
‘No, no,’ I say. ‘It’s fine. It’s always been like this so I’m kind of used to it now. I just wanted you to know why I can’t have people over.’
‘Totally understood. I won’t ask again.’
‘Thanks, Tanvi.’
My gratitude is genuine at least.
It’s still pretty dark when I drop off the leaflets at Tanvi’s house the following morning. I’m heading back down the driveway having left my trolley tucked behind the wheelie bins when I hear someone hissing my name. I turn round. Tanvi is creeping towards me wearing dolphin-print pyjamas, her wispy hair sticking up in all directions.
‘What are you doing up?’ I ask. It’s barely 7.30 a.m.
‘I wanted to wish you good luck,’ Tanvi says in a loud stage whisper. ‘How’re you feeling?’
‘OK, I think.’
I know my song inside out and I’ve had three separate sight-reading tests with Mr Milford this week, all of which went well. My train tickets (purchased in advance with leftover birthday money) and a map detailing the route from the train station to the audition venue are nestled in the inside pocket of my bag along with a bottle of water, my sheet music and a hairbrush. Despite at least three careful inventories, I can’t shift the feeling that I’ve forgotten something vital.
‘That’s not the only reason I’m up so early though,’ Tanvi says. ‘I also wanted to give you this.’ She thrusts a small square package wrapped in glittery red paper into my hands.
I stare at it.
‘Open it then,’ Tanvi says.
‘What? Now?’
‘No, two weeks on Tuesday,’ Tanvi says, rolling her eyes. ‘Yes, now, you wally.’
I turn the package over and slide my index finger under the paper, easing it away to reveal a small grey box. I open it. Nestled inside is a delicate silver chain with a charm in the shape of a treble clef hanging from it.
‘It’s a good-luck present,’ Tanvi explains. ‘In case that wasn’t obvious.’ She laughs.
I continue to stare at the necklace. It’s without doubt one of the loveliest things I’ve ever seen. ‘You shouldn’t have,’ I murmur, stroking it with my fingertip.
‘Don’t be a loon,’ Tanvi says. ‘It’s not like it’s an engagement ring or anything, and it wasn’t super expensive if that’s what you’re worried about. Not that it’s tat either! It’s proper sterling silver so it’s not going to turn your neck green or anything.’
‘It’s beautiful.’
‘You’re sure it’s OK? I wasn’t sure if you really wore jewellery, but the second I saw it, I knew I had to buy it for you.’
‘No, it’s lovely,’ I say. ‘Really.’
‘Here, let me help you put it on.’
Tanvi removes the necklace from the box. I lift my plait out of the way and stoop down so Tanvi can reach to do up the clasp.
‘There,’ she says, lowering down from her tiptoes. ‘It looks great on you!’
The silver feels cold and strange against my collarbone. I’m not used to wearing jewellery.
I don’t know what else to say. No one has done anything like this for me before. ‘I should get going,’ I say eventually. ‘You sure you’re OK doing the leaflets?’
‘All under control,’ Tanvi says. ‘Now go and blow their socks off!’
I’ve never been to Birmingham before. As I make my way through the bustling train station, map in hand, it dawns on me just how few places I’ve actually been to, just how small my life in Ostborough with Bonnie truly is. The audition venue, an arts centre, is sleek and modern, all glass and sharp angles. Boys and girls my age and a little older mill about on the steps. My competition. The sight of them makes my tummy flutter. Until now, I’ve been focusing purely on getting through my performance.
Most of the other auditionees appear to be accompanied by their parents, even the older ones. My heart puckers. Quickly I scold myself for being so silly. You operate best when you’re on your own, remember?
In the foyer I’m directed to the registration table. A smiling woman wearing a red National Youth Choir of Great Britain T-shirt who introduces herself as Carla, ticks my name off on a list and gives me a number to pin to my shirt.
‘Now, where’s your parent or guardian?’ Carla asks, looking expectantly over my shoulder.
‘I’m sorry?’ I say.
‘All auditionees under the age of sixteen need to be accompanied by an adult.
’
My heart begins to beat faster. How did I not know this? I’ve read the audition letter at least twenty times. Was there some small print I’d somehow missed?
‘I-I didn’t know that,’ I stammer.
‘It’s just that it’s an official requirement. For insurance,’ Carla says. ‘We need a signature.’ She taps the list with her pen and gives me an apologetic smile.
‘Does it mean I can’t audition?’ I ask. Disappointment surges through my body; all those hours of practice flashing before my eyes.
‘I could keep an eye on her,’ a voice with a thick Birmingham accent says.
I turn round.
‘I’m here with these two anyway,’ a tall woman with long jet black hair and an expertly contoured face continues, nodding at the twin boys at her side. ‘It’ll be no bother.’
‘I’m not sure if that’s really acceptable,’ Carla says.
‘Oh go on, the poor kid’s come all the way here.’
‘You’re sure you’re happy signing for her?’
‘I think I’ll manage.’ The woman winks at me and scribbles her signature.
‘Thank you,’ I say once she’s registered her two sons.
‘Don’t mention it,’ she replies with a wave of her hand. ‘It’s a daft rule anyway. How old are you?’
‘Fourteen.’
‘Exactly, you’re not a little kid. And it’s a choir audition, not an illegal rave.’
I smile gratefully.
‘Well, good luck,’ the woman adds. ‘C’mon, lads.’
She struts off, the boys trotting after her. I watch them go, resisting the urge to follow.
For the next little while, I mill about, trying not to feel intimidated by the unmistakeable confidence of the other auditionees warming up around me. With their straight backs and self-assured faces, they remind me of the singers on the front of the leaflet. As I quietly siren up and down the scale, I hope beyond hope that someone might think the same of me.
While I’m waiting, I get a message form Noah asking what I’m up to today. I lie and tell him I’m hanging out with friends, scared I’ll jinx things if I mention the audition. I’ll tell him if I get through, I decide.
After about half an hour, my name is called along with nine others.
I hover by the door while they say goodbye to their parents, averting my eyes as they’re showered with kisses and enveloped in ‘good luck’ hugs. En masse, we follow a woman with a clipboard out of the room, down a maze of corridors and up a set of stairs. As we walk, the other auditionees chat away, the girls in front of me exchanging audition anecdotes like veterans. I hang back, the nerves that have been steadily building all morning coursing their way down my legs, making them tremble like jelly.
Outside the audition room there are ten chairs. The woman tells us what order to sit in. I’m fourth in line, sandwiched between a confident-looking redhead and a boy wearing a tuxedo. Although most people are dressed casually like me, in my jeans and flannel shirt, some are much more formal, wearing suits and dresses, like they’re about to perform a solo concert at the Royal Albert Hall.
The girl to my right takes out her phone and plugs in a pair of headphones.
‘You don’t want to get psyched out by the competition,’ she says knowingly.
‘Right,’ I say, swallowing hard.
A skinny Asian boy wearing little round glasses is called in. About a minute passes before his voice, clear and self-assured, leaks through the walls. Everyone pretends not to react, suddenly engrossed in their sheet music or fingernails or shoes, but it’s impossible not to be unnerved, not to sit up that little bit straighter at his obvious talent. The redhead, her eyes closed and volume turned up to maximum, is blissfully unaware. Maybe she’s on to something.
A girl with curly blonde hair is up next. When her voice cracks on a high note, the boy wearing the tuxedo screws up his face like he’s just been force-fed something disgusting.
‘Far too ambitious,’ he says to no one in particular. ‘That’s the golden rule of auditioning. Never ever pick a song that exposes your weaknesses.’ He turns towards me. ‘What are you singing?’ he asks.
I show him my sheet music.
‘A pop song,’ he says. ‘Interesting.’
It doesn’t sound like a compliment.
The girl emerges from the audition room, her face as red as a tomato. I take a small mirror out of my bag and check my reflection. My cheeks are pink and my forehead is covered with a fine sheen of sweat. I don’t have any powder so I have to make do with a tissue, blotting my forehead and nose. I’m thrown by the sight of the necklace from Tanvi hanging round my usually bare neck, the silver treble clef glinting at my throat. I stroke the cool metal with my finger and feel a bit calmer.
The boy in the tuxedo is up next. From what I can hear through the wall, his audition is technically perfect – clean and crisp.
When he comes out, he looks pretty pleased with himself.
‘Best of luck, everyone,’ he says. ‘Hopefully I’ll see some of you in London.’ He does a little bow and struts down the corridor with the confidence of someone used to getting what they want.
‘Number one-two-five-four,’ the lady with the clipboard says. ‘Ro Snow.’
I stand up. My bottom has left behind a sweaty imprint on the plastic chair I just vacated and I’m glad the girl next to me still has her eyes closed.
I catch my foot on the doorframe and stumble into the audition room, regaining my balance just in time to present myself in front of the panel. There’s four of them in total (two men and two women), crowded around a table covered with mugs and paperwork. They all look very posh.
‘If you’d like to give your music to Sean,’ the skinnier of the two men says. ‘He’ll be your accompanist today.’
My wobbly legs somehow carry me across the room to Sean. Although they look nothing alike, with his twinkly eyes and encouraging smile he reminds me a little of Mr Milford.
I hand over my sheet music and make my way back to the centre of the room.
‘And who do we have here?’ one of the women asks in a deep husky voice.
‘Ro Snow,’ I say, my voice wafer thin.
‘And where do you go to school, Ro?’ the second man asks.
‘Ostborough Academy.’
They nod as if they’ve heard of it.
‘Very good,’ the man continues. ‘And how old are you?’
‘Fourteen.’
‘Super,’ the second woman says. ‘OK then, we’re going to start with some scales, just to get a sense of your range. Then we’ll go into the sight-reading section, followed by your chosen piece.’
I nod. Can the panel see how badly my legs are trembling? They must. The quaking feels almost cartoon-like.
For the scales, I sing at a spot on the wall far above the panel’s heads. When it’s time to sight-read, I hide behind my sheet music.
‘We’d really love to see your face, Ro,’ the husky-voiced woman says gently.
‘Sorry,’ I stammer, lowering the piece of paper and wishing I possessed even an eighth of the self-confidence the tuxedo boy exuded.
‘Not to worry, Ro,’ the woman says, smiling. ‘Let’s take it from the top.’
I take a deep breath and make it through the rest of the piece with my head up.
‘Perfect pitch?’ the skinny man asks.
‘Er, yes.’
‘Thought so. It’s a very useful thing for a singer to have.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘And what piece have you brought with you, Ro?’ the second woman asks.
‘“Rainy Days and Mondays” by The Carpenters.’
‘Lovely,’ the woman says, giving absolutely nothing away with her bland smile. ‘Whenever you’re ready.’
Sean gives me an encouraging smile and begins to play the introduction. I choose a new spot on the wall, half a metre or so above the panel’s heads and open my mouth to sing.
It takes a few bars to register th
at the voice coming out of my mouth and filling every cubic centimetre of the room actually belongs to me. The proficient voice that sang scales and carefully sight-read a few minutes ago has been replaced by something big and gutsy, full of longing and passion and soul. Just like that time in Mr Milford’s classroom, I lose myself in the lyrics, singing every word like it’s coming straight from the heart.
The song comes to an end. I realize my legs aren’t shaking any more.
I drop my gaze and look at the panel. They’re smiling, only these are different kinds of smiles to the fixed sort they’ve been wearing up to this point. They aren’t big toothy grins or anything like that, rather small private smiles that tug that tiniest bit at the sides of their mouths.
‘How old did you say you were again, Ro?’ the husky-voiced woman asks.
‘Fourteen, miss. Fifteen in February.’
She nods and makes a note on her pad of paper.
‘Thank you, Ro,’ the skinny man says. ‘I think I’m probably speaking for the rest of the panel when I say I enjoyed your audition very much.’
The rest of the panel nod in agreement.
‘Thank you,’ I croak.
I scurry to collect my music from Sean. As he hands it over he grins and winks, making my heart balloon.
‘Bye,’ I say.
‘Bye,’ the plumper of the two women says. ‘And see you soon, Ro.’
See you soon.
I fall out in the corridor in a daze. The waiting auditionees turn to look and it dawns on me that they would have heard my audition, just like I heard the others. To my surprise, I realize I didn’t mind. More than that, I feel proud that they heard me.
As I push open the double doors, I catch sight of my reflection in the glass panels.
And for once, my eyes don’t look sad at all.
23
I feel different. Lighter somehow. Like one of the knotty balls of anxiety that seems to sit permanently in my belly has been shrunk to almost nothing overnight.
When I arrive at school on Monday morning, Tanvi is waiting at the gates, her hands clasped together in anticipation.
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