Colors

by Russell J. Sanders

  Orange. Red. Blue….

  Not a word of the prayer registers. Colors bathe all of the previously snow-white choir robes. I feel shaky.

  Green…. Purple…. Yellow.

  The stained glass windows are too far away. They couldn’t possibly be the cause of my panic. Yes, colors spill over the congregation, but they don’t bother me. It’s the colors on me pulling me back, back to that horrible long ago.

  Where? Where?

  I look up. In the nave of the sanctuary, above the choir loft, are two huge stained glass skylights.

  Sweat pours off my cheeks. I feel light-headed.

  Stay standing, Neil. Don’t embarrass yourself in front of all these people.

  But my knees buckle. I fall back, into my seat, brushing Melissa along the way.

  Startled, she turns.

  “What’s wrong, Neil?” she whispers.

  “Nothing,” I say, feeling my heartbeat racing. “I’ll be okay. Just a little stage fright.” Please, oh please, let her believe my lie.

  She smiles at me, then bows her head again.

  I need to get out of here. I cover my eyes with the palm of my hand. This is making me crazy. Deep breaths. Come on, Neil. But my breaths are shallow, too shallow to do any good. I open my eyes and try to stand. I can’t leave. I have a song to sing. I blink a few times to stop my head from swimming.

  No, it doesn’t matter. I’ve got to get out of here!

  Chapter 4

  BUT BEFORE I can escape, the prayer ends. Everyone sits.

  Brother Kenny steps to the pulpit to speak: “Good morning,” he shouts—is shouting the only way these people can communicate? “Isn’t it a glorious morning to praise the Lord?”

  “Amen!” The shout rings out from the congregation. What did I say?

  I close my eyes a moment, trying desperately to block out the colors. Be strong, Neil—like Satine. What a fool: calling on a reality TV persona to help.

  “This morning we are doubly blessed. Sister Melissa Watt has brought her friend Neil Darrien to honor the Lord in song. Can I get an ‘amen’ for Brother Neil?”

  “Amen!” raises the rafters. And a couple of “Praise the Lords!” are thrown in for good measure.

  My eyes spring open. Panic. This is going to happen whether I can sing this morning or not.

  “And how about another ‘amen’ for Sister Melissa?”

  Again “Amen!” fills the room. I try to distract myself. Anything to get my mind off those colors. As the amens are bellowed, some of the congregation raise their arms, swaying their hands, rapture on their faces. I’ve never seen anything like this before.

  I look at Melissa. She’s glowing. Is she happy because she’s being praised, or is she feeling the spirit, as they say? She looks at me, and I feel a little better. I’m sure I see love in her eyes.

  “And can you give me a rousing ‘amen’ for the Lord, who brought these talents to us?”

  As a third roaring “Amen!” thunders through the sanctuary, my eyes search the congregation. Maybe if I see Aunt Jenny, she can give me strength. She’s been my rock, ever since….

  But there are too many people. I know Aunt Jenny; she’ll be hiding in the back. No way I can find her in this sea of people.

  My eye, however, catches one man. Looks to be about fifty years old or so. Balding. His shiny head’s a bit red, like he has worked out in the sun too long. His face carries the wrinkles of too many worries. But his eyes sparkle, obviously happy to be in church this fine Sunday morning. This guy has set aside his cares, his worries. On this morning, he has given it all up. Trusting. Believing.

  “Okay.” I take a deep breath. “You’re just like him, Neil. You have a 9-to-5 you don’t particularly like, your daughter needs braces and you have no idea where the money is coming from, your wife nags too much, but you come here, and the amens make you forget it all. The shouting gives you strength.”

  Being someone else gives me the strength to ignore the colors, to go on. I’m an actor. Actors act. And that gets me through.

  Brother Kenny signals for the choir to stand. The orchestra members straighten, ready. Melissa and I stand, as we were instructed, step forward, and take our places in front of the choir. The familiar strains of “How Lovely” start from the orchestra. Immediately, I relax, totally at ease. This is what I was born to do, perform for a packed house. This is what it’s all about. This is my life. Whether in a church or on a stage, it’s all performing.

  The work is perfection. I’ve been lifted to heaven, to a safe place. And when we finish, I am totally at peace. I smile at the audience. They sit there, totally still, like bumps on a log. Why aren’t they clapping?

  I look at Melissa. A strange look crosses her face—is it pain, hurt, disbelief? Then she bows her head.

  She knows they didn’t like it. That’s why she’s praying.

  The seconds after our number seem like an hour. Just kill me, now.

  Finally, the pastor stands up and speaks into the microphone at the pulpit. “Brothers and Sisters, do you feel blessed?”

  “Amen!” they shout. All is back to normal. They did like it.

  “Then let’s give Brother Kenny, our orchestra and choir, and especially Sister Melissa and Brother Neil a round of applause. Make a joyful noise!”

  The congregation stands en masse and applauds thunderously.

  So the look on Melissa’s face was just her “giving it up to God” as she calls it. I beam, I’m so happy. Suddenly, during the uproar, Melissa takes my hand, squeezes it. Does this handclasp mean she is sharing her God-thoughts with me, or is she telling me she loves me? What a puzzle this woman is.

  I shake my head and bask in the adoration coming our way.

  This is why I do it. It’s really not the applause, it’s what I get from making people feel this way. These people were truly moved by what I did… and yeah, Melissa, this great choir, and this amazing orchestra. But still, I was a part of it. Bringing a moment of joy. Wow.

  We make our way back to our seats, and I bask—no other word to describe it—in the glory until the service ends. I love, love, love performing.

  Back in the rehearsal room, I am crowing. Buoyed by the standing ovation and by Melissa’s surreptitious hand squeeze, I say, “They loved us. We were a big, big hit.”

  Melissa smiles and says, “The Lord spoke through us, Neil.”

  Speechless. Totally and utterly speechless—that’s what I am. Is she really so caught up in the amen corner? So much for thinking she was caught up in me.

  “You two sure brought praise to him this morning.” Brother Kenny’s hot breath sears as he leans close to my shoulder; his rich, spicy cologne is stifling. I feel trapped.

  Several of the other choir members echo Kenny’s enthusiasm. I should feel flattered, happy. Here, in this church, though, I’m trapped in another time.

  “Brother Neil,” Kenny says, “I hope you’ll think about joining the Church. We could use you every Sunday here in the choir.”

  Joining? My heart races again. I want to scream back off!

  Chapter 5

  MORNING SUNLIGHT streams through the practice room window. Dust motes dance in the sunbeams like fruit flies around a rotting banana. I pound out the bass part of a new piece on the piano. I love getting to school early so I can get a jump on choir rehearsal. Since Show Choir is first period, I can get warmed up and ready to go before anyone else is out of bed, most likely. Early riser, that’s what I am. Workout, warm-up. Get that from Aunt Jenny. Always in her workshop by the time I get downstairs.

  As I do my vocal gymnastics, I think about the term Show Choir. Hardly like Satine’s choir on Curtain Up!, but then her high school is not much like ours, stuck here in the middle of Podunk. Satine has big city ways in a big city high school with big city money backing her choir. Still, our Show Choir is fantastic, and I wouldn’t trade it for anything.

  A knock on the door breaks my concentration before I can get too wrapped up in my Satine fa
ntasy. Before I can turn the knob, Melissa comes barging in. Like the gum commercials, she is smiling so big I can almost see a gleam of sunlight bounce off her teeth. All thoughts of Satine are gone. My lovely girlfriend stands before me.

  “You’ll never believe this!” she whoops. “We are quite the success.” She smiles as she punches each word deliberately.

  Dazzled by her smile and still thinking about Ms. Walter’s Show Choir, I am baffled for a moment. We haven’t even gone to Regionals yet. But then the Church of Shelton Road jumps back into my mind. A rapid heartbeat revs. I quash it. Think of how much fun it was to perform there. Remember the praise.

  “Tell me something I don’t know,” I say. “We got a standing O.”

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah.” Melissa waves the back of her hand at me. “But you don’t know the best part.” Her grin gets bigger, if that’s possible.

  “So tell me.”

  “Well,” she begins, “Kenny says his phone didn’t stop ringing all day long yesterday.”

  “That’s incredible.” I can’t help the grin that blooms. And my response is a bit too loud for this tiny practice room. If a piano didn’t stand between us, I would be hugging her big time right now.

  “And what’s more,” she continues, out of breath, “Kenny told me he wants us to sing again in two weeks, but this time without the choir.”

  A lurch. Stop it, Neil. This is a chance you won’t pass up. I hear Satine’s voice in my ear. I smile.

  “Wow. What does he want us to sing?”

  “Anything we choose. He said he’d leave it up to us.”

  “Anything, huh? I heard a great rap number on the way to school today.” I love yanking her chain, as Aunt Jenny says.

  Melissa rolls her eyes. “That’s not what he meant, and you know it. We can choose anything Christian. I was thinking we could go with something a little more contemporary this time.”

  “Yeah, something a little more with it. ‘How Lovely’ is a great piece, but it’s a thousand years old.”

  Melissa nods in agreement.

  “We need something newer to show off our style,” I continue, getting more and more fired up. “Do you know any modern church music?” The excitement of getting to perform again is bubbling up, a shaken pop trying to explode its cap.

  “Sure,” Melissa says. “I’ve got tons of contemporary Christian CDs. You want to come over this afternoon to listen? I know we can find a song we like.”

  “Deal. This afternoon at 3:30.” The thought of performing gives me a rush bigger than the performance itself.

  The warning bell to begin first period sounds.

  “We’d better get in there before Ms. Walter comes looking for us.” I rush from the practice room, straight to my place on the risers, leaving Melissa in the dust. My mind is reeling with the possibilities of this newest performance opportunity.

  A flash: that church again, with the colors.

  Satine again: What are you, Neil? A wuss? Gonna let a few colors get you down?

  Luckily, immediately after the final bell, Ms. Walter bounds from her office into the choir room. Following her morning ritual, she heads straight to the piano, sounds a single note, assumes the choir director stance, and we are off, vocalizing on the tone she had just sounded. The next ten minutes are filled with mind-numbing me, may, mah, mo, moos, and ah-woo, ah-woos, and ting-a-ling-a-ling-a-ling-as. Others complain all the time: I hate vocalizing. Bo-o-o-ring. Give me a break. But I revel in it. And I love the way she just takes control of the group.

  When we finish, the Cawton County High Golden Hawk Show Choir is ready to sing.

  “Good morning,” Ms. Walter chimes.

  “Good morning,” the singers echo. Sometimes fake. We all know if we don’t show enthusiasm—feigned or real—Ms. Walter will have a do-over of the morning’s greeting. She demands complete devotion from her choir.

  “Let’s work on the Brahms first, shall we?”

  As we search for the Brahms piece in our folders—well, I don’t search, because I’ve already memorized it—there is a knock on the door. Ms. Walter turns. Mrs. Wolf, the junior counselor, stands in the doorway, a new student in tow. The kid slouches against the doorjamb, staring at the choir. I stare back. I see it. Her mouth. Satine’s mouth. I shake my head to clear this illusion from my vision. My eyes are playing tricks on me. I look again. My God… it’s definitely her mouth on this guy. Weird.

  Ms. Walter strides to the door and takes the new kid’s hand. As they talk a few seconds, I focus on him. He looks to be a little bit younger than me and Satine. But he’s a good-looking guy, tall, willowy even, like the beautiful Satine. I could tap that. Where did that come from? I’m not gay. Even if I had feelings like that, I could never go through with it. Brother Gramm saw to that. I come back to reality when Ms. Walter turns back to the group, dragging the new guy forward.

  “Choir,” she announces, a grin lighting her face, “this is Jeffrey Jacobson. He’s our newest member.”

  I raise one eyebrow, not believing what I’ve just heard. Each of the current choir members had to pass an audition to become a member, yet here is this new guy just waltzing in. Either something is up, or this guy comes with a golden résumé. And where does that leave me? Can I measure up? Should I cozy up to him to size him up, or should I just steer clear?

  “Neil,” Ms. Walter says, “could you help Jeffrey get started?” She walks over and slips her hands between me and the guy I usually stand next to, then motions for Jeffrey to move onto the riser.

  So much for steering clear. And, of course, I’m once again singled out. So this new guy now knows I’m the teacher’s pet. She’s forcing me to make nice with him and putting me in a bad light all at the same time. Ms. Walter, if you really like me, don’t do this to me all the time.

  I don’t say anything, but I hold my folder over, quickly pulling out the Brahms, so Jeffrey can look on. Rattled by previous thoughts, I don’t lean toward him, don’t step a step closer.

  “Brahms, huh?” Jeffrey whispers. “I just love Brahms!”

  I nod. Nothing shy about this guy.

  Ms. Walter gives the pitches for us to start.

  TRAY IN hand, I emerge from the fiesta line. Today, Monday, is taco day—or Fiesta Mexicana Day. ¡Arriba, Arriba! ¡Olé! Every day is a different fiesta. Tuesdays are Fiesta Italiana—Ciao, bambino, have-a spaghet and meatballas; Wednesday, Asian Fiesta—food in, food out, Grasshoppa, egg rolls and rice; Thursdays bring Fiesta Mexicana back for an encore, this time with taco salad; and Fridays are, yummy, yummy, yummy, leftovers—or Fiesta Garbagina, I’ve overheard some of my more creative classmates dub it. There are other lunch lines, but I like the fiesta line the best—maybe because it feeds my need to quote ancient movies. I’m drawn to them like I’m drawn to the fiesta line.

  A stop at the condiments bar lets me spoon on salsa, get a dollop of imitation fat-free sour cream, and load up with the always popular shredded Federal surplus cheese. Slowly, slowly, Federal guidelines are kicking in and things are changing in the old lunch lines. But it’s still garbage in, garbage out. Just doesn’t taste quite as good as the old fat-laden days. And the lunch ladies still keep the lines festive—big smiles and Mexican paper flowers on Mexican days, Chinese lanterns on Asian days, etc. Gotta love it.

  The din of humanity, courtesy of fifteen- to eighteen-year-olds, assaults me as usual. There’s not a seat to be had, but then again, I have no intention of sitting in here. Too close, too cozy. Can’t stand the thought of mixing food smells with the perfumes and body odors of cheerleaders and jocks.

  I head out to the wide-open spaces of the patio. Not a breeze stirring, but at least it’s quiet and almost deserted… just a few nerds, seeking serenity so they can eat in peace while devouring a chapter of the latest zombie apocalypse novel. It sounds like I’m putting them down, but I guess I sort of identify with them. They wrap themselves in fantasy, I in musical theater. Pretty much alike are we.

  There’s a totally empty tab
le off to the side. I make a beeline to it to stake out my little acre of lunchtime heaven. As I sit, I say a tiny prayer to the gods that the table will stay deserted.

  But alas, as they say in Shakespeare, the serenity is not to be. I’m focusing on my taco when a voice wafts above me.

  “Hey. Neil, isn’t it? Mind if I sit here?” I look up to see the new guy with Satine’s mouth, Jeffrey, a curious black curl swinging across his forehead. I stare at that curl. It’s distinctive, sets him apart. He plops down next to me, not waiting for my reply. Which would have reluctantly been okay, since Aunt Jenny would not approve of my being rude. This Jeffrey guy rips open the paper on his burger, that curl dancing away all the while. He picks up a french fry, slathers it with ketchup, and pops it into his mouth.

  I try to ignore him, ignore that curl, concentrate on my fiesta. I want to scream move over—Aunt Jenny be damned—but the guy is at the other end of the table as it is. Maybe I really want to scream go away, but Aunt Jenny whispers in my ear. Always the whispering whenever I even consider being the bad, little boy.

  “You don’t talk much, do you?” Jeffrey says, ketchup ringing her—his—lips. That damn curl doing its strange little dance.

  “Not much,” I say, wishing this guy were anywhere but here, wishing he’d take his curl and go. All I need is for one of the other choir guys to see me with him. They already hate me. They don’t need for me to cozy up to the new guy who just waltzed in and got a place in the choir without even trying out. I can hear them adding traitor to their list of names for me, a list that already includes stuck-up butthole and swish.

  Jeffrey swipes his fingers on a paper napkin. “This is so overwhelming. My lovely parents didn’t even tell me we were moving until two weeks ago. I guess I’m still in shock.”