Sing Me To Sleep Part 3

"But it's mine." Meadow clutches the wood doorframe. "You can't give it to that-"

Hideous beast. She doesn't need to say it. Everyone knows what she means.

"You can't dash out to the bathroom when we're onstage in Lausanne."

"It's not like I do it on purpose."

"We need a soloist for this piece, hon. You've tried and tried. I know that. Beth can do it. You heard her, didn't you?"

Meadow stamps her foot. "Give it up, Terri. We're not going to be on the stage in Lausanne."

Her cold words blanket the room, silence the glow of the music we welded in the midst of the night. We all remember the pathetic recording we submitted.

I can't believe Terri is finally getting real with Meadow. I'm sick of all the babying, but Meadow is right. It's way too late. It doesn't matter now. I guess we'll need this piece in Vancouver. Singing is singing. I'll be the soloist there. Maybe that trip won't be up to Meadow's standards, and she'll skip the whole thing.

Meadow glares at me. "I say we dump that stupid piece. I hate it."

"Unfortunately, Meadow, I think we'll still need it." Terri stands up on a pew so all the girls can hear her. "You're not going to believe this, ladies."

"Quiet, everybody." Leah hops on the bench and waves her hands around. "Listen. Shush."

"I heard from the Choral Olympics yesterday."

Dead silence.

Please let it be yes. Please let it be yes. Please let it be yes.

"The MP3 file I sent them with our audition performance was corrupted. They need a new copy. I was going to resend the recording we made back in January, but I got busy today. Put it off."

Somebody squeals. And then another girl. It's getting noisy. Terri has to yell to be heard. "How about we get together on Sat.u.r.day and record this again-with Beth."

"Hold on." It's Meadow. She looks even worse than before. "Who is going to tell my mother?"

I float home. Float into the house. Float up to Mom's room, totally amped that I can give her this. A fragment of "Take Me Home" runs through my head when I knock on her door. A mother breathes because she must. That's my mom. For sure. She breathes for me.

I tell her, and she flips out. "You're going to be the soloist?"

"Yeah. Me. And Terri's pretty sure that with me singing, we'll get in. You should have heard me tonight." I drop onto her bed and curl up on my side next to her, still trying to believe it's true.

"Too bad Grandma Lizzie is gone." Mom smoothes her hand over my head. "She would have loved to see this." Grandma Lizzie is where I got my voice. She was in a big band, sang for the troops in World War II. She died just after I was born.

"Maybe she did. Maybe she was there tonight. Holding my hand."

Mom gets all teary and hugs me.

I get settled for the night in my own bed but can't sleep. Stand up and stare at myself in the mirror. The girl that looks back isn't a soloist. She's the one you hide behind the floral arrangement. That would work. I can sing from anywhere. I don't want this face to wreck what they hear. I'm still that d.a.m.n ugly daughter, still defined, still believe them.

I'm floating at school next day, too, but I'm so sleepy. I keep nodding off. Finally wake up by choir. Scott sits down next to me. I'm too happy to go back to where we left off yesterday. He'll never have to cheer me up again. He can be sweet and stupid if he wants. I'm so high-nothing will hurt. At least nothing Scott can dream up. Colby could probably get through, but he's done his worst for a while. He'll have to lie low after his naked-freshmen stunt. Only a couple of guys directed crude remarks in my direction as I crept through the hall this morning. Life's good. Really good.

"What's up with you?" Scott is still grumpy. He does need to go find a cute, short girlfriend. He's starting to fill out. He has a neck now. He never used to have a guy neck. And he's letting his baby-blond hair grow out. Crew cuts no more. He's almost got locks. It goes good with the neck.

"Are you lifting weights?"

"I go to the gym with my dad."

"That must be nice."

"He needs encouragement. You want to come with us-Sat.u.r.day?"

"I'm recording on Sat.u.r.day."

"You sign with Motown when I wasn't looking?"

"Hardly. But-" I can't help breaking into a foolish, sappy, I-can't-believe-my-good-fortune smile. "I'm the new soloist for Bliss."

"The fancy chick choir? About time."

"This is huge. Is that all you can say?"

"Congratulations. When you sign with Motown, let me know."

I want to grab him by his s.e.xy new guy neck and throttle him, but cla.s.s starts and he needs it to sing.

Sat.u.r.day I'm up early. Out the door. I'm so pumped and alive. Wonder if love feels like this. Who needs it when you can have this rush, this excitement? Maybe that's why divas churn through men. What guy could match this high?

The roads are clear for once. No traffic, no slush, no construction. The sun even makes a brief appearance. I sail down the freeway, singing my solo with the practice CD cranked, coaxing Jeanette up to seventy. She shakes and vibrates, but I don't let up until the speed limit drops back to fifty-five.

I get to choir early enough to help Terri set up the recording equipment. Rental stuff. Huge microphones. A double-reel tape recorder this time to back up the digital. We get lost in the wires and don't notice Meadow and her parents when they arrive.

Her dad elegantly clears his throat. "Can I help?" He slips off his brown leather driving gloves, takes a bundle of mike cords from me, and adeptly straightens the mess. He wears a camel-colored wool coat, perfectly tailored. Really handsome. Not just the coat.

Terri's cheeks go pink when she talks to him. "After what happened to our last file, I don't quite trust digital anymore." She nods at the extra equipment.

He turns to hook the mikes into the recording system. "Yes. Meadow told me you're re-recording this morning."

"That's right. The Choral Olympics couldn't get the file we sent with our application to work. So we've got a rare chance-the girls are so much better now than they were in January."

Meadow glares in my direction. "But this is cheating. You should send the same recording."

"It's kind of messed up." I wonder what she did to it. "I called the committee and explained we need to rerecord. They said fine." She throws a look at me.

I turn away, biting the insides of my cheeks to keep my face in check.

Meadow's father turns k.n.o.bs on the soundboard, pretending to be preoccupied. "Meadow says you're giving Beth her solo." He looks meaningfully at Terri.

She sort of wilts. The man knows how to use his powers. He sells cars. Thousands of them. Terri swallows and starts shuffling through her music. "Meadow was too ill to sing it Thursday."

"Ill?" Meadow's dad glances at her mom.

She wraps the fur collar on her coat tighter around her neck. "Meadow was not ill. You bullied her into performing when she wasn't ready." She's got full-length real furs in her closet at home. She wears them to our concerts.

Terri continues. I can tell she memorized this speech. "Beth filled in. The girls feel we should record both soloists, play it back and vote on which recording to send."

Way to go, Terri. So sly. How can they object to that?

Meadow's mom stares me down. "Beth can go first. Dear," she addresses her husband, "you better stay."

I can tell that no way does Meadow's high-powered dad want to spend his Sat.u.r.day at a tedious recording session, especially if Meadow's singing, but he prepares to obey. "I can man this stuff for you." He flashes a smile made for movies at Terri. "Old hobby."

I can imagine the sound system they've got at their place and smile to myself. I bet Meadow is way into karaoke.

By 8:30 a.m. the pews are packed. Warm-up and neck rubs. Everybody's loose and spirited. It feels like a party. Recording sessions are usually stressed, but not this one. Whispers run around the room. No one seems to be able to hold her instrument still. Terri rolls with it. Normally she'd be uptight, glare down any girl who made a single unwanted noise.

All the girls are eager to see what Meadow's mom will do when she hears me sing. Sarah thinks she'll walk out and take her checkbook with her. The girl in front of me says, "No way. She's so delusional. She'll think Meadow is better."

Terri calls us to attention. Silence. She cues Meadow's dad to start recording. I should be nervous, but there's a fierce desire in me that doesn't leave room for b.u.t.terflies. I stand tall so I can pull a huge breath in with my diaphragm and close my eyes. The piano intro starts. By the time the pianist hits my cue, I'm that lonely slave girl again pleading with her Lord to take her to a better place. The choir joins me. The music swells and twists. I'm lost in it. No mikes. No digital recorder picking up every hint and color of my voice. No Meadow sitting in the choir seats with her mom, who watches with a stunned look on her face. I'm transported-lost in the words and the tragedy and quiet heroism they spell. I am this music. The celebration mounts, comes to its climax, and then it's just me, my voice throbbing with emotion, sanctifying the song as I sing: Turn my back on the muddy water,

Close my eyes to that other side . . .

Lord, I long for the other side.

My face is wet again. I don't know when the tears came.

Then silence. No one breathes. All eyes are glued on Terri's upraised hands. She nods to Meadow's dad. He pushes b.u.t.tons, and it's over. Perfect take.

First time.

That never happens.

Our eyes pivot to Meadow and her mom. They're whispering. We're still silent. Meadow's mom stands up. Hang on. Here comes the cyclone. The woman shakes her perfectly styled head sadly and helps Meadow to her feet.

"I told you they'd split," Sarah whispers. "Kiss those new outfits good-bye."

I nudge with my elbow to shut her up.

Meadow's mom guides her to the podium where the minister delivers his sermons. We're all looking up at her. Meadow's face is set, her mouth a firm line. "I really want to go to Switzerland." She licks her lip gloss off. She points at me. "We'll get in with that." Meadow glances back at her mom. "Mom says it's okay. I don't have to do the solo."

Stunned silence.

She can't be giving in. Not so easy. I guess I was counting on her leaving in a huff when she lost the vote. But she wants to stay and let me sing? I don't get it.

"What?" Meadow looks around the room. "You think it's easy to have to sing the solos all the time? You think I want that kind of pressure?" She shrugs her shoulders. "Let her do it for a change."

Pandemonium, take three.

Good thing we're not taping again with Meadow because no one has a voice left after all that screaming. Terri pa.s.ses around a big bag of honey-flavored throat lozenges, and we sit down and listen to the playback.

I've never heard myself like that before. Gives me chills. That rich, beautiful sound dancing above the choir is me? Doesn't seem real. We're sending this off to an international selection committee. Me. We're sending me off. I get lost in the fantasy. I'm singing on a stage with lights s.h.i.+ning all around.

Can this be me ?

A microphone in my hand.

Lightbulbs flas.h.i.+ng,

People screaming when I take command.

Can this be me ?

Taking the stage for gold dreams.

A true princess