Sing Like Nobody's Listening

by Allison Gutknecht

  “Fine. Mason tied Jada’s locker closed with floss and then sprinkled it with confetti, so of course, she flipped out.”

  “That boy is a piece of work,” Mom says, shaking her head.

  “I keep telling her to ignore him, but she never listens.”

  “Part of her probably enjoys the attention, despite how much she complains about it,” Mom says. “You know Jada has always thrived on an opportunity to be dramatic.”

  “That’s very true,” I say, pushing my bangs back through my hair.

  “I wish you would let me trim those,” Mom says. “You’d be a lot more comfortable if they weren’t tickling your lashes all the time.” I roll my eyes at this, purposely doing so when Mom isn’t facing me so she can’t say they’re going to get stuck up there. But before I can defend my hairstyle, my phone buzzes with a text from Dad—the same one he sends every Friday night when he’s scheduled to pick me up the next day.

  See you tomorrow morning at 8:00, Wylie! We’re all looking forward to it.

  I sigh. See you then, I write back, purposely not including an exclamation mark or a smiley face or anything that would convey excitement.

  “Who was that?” Mom asks.

  “Dad,” I answer curtly. “Reminding me of my pickup time. As if it ever changes.”

  Mom begins ladling the chili out of the pot. “It’s only one day, Wy. You can make it through one day.”

  “Just because I can doesn’t mean I want to,” I say, rising from the stool and lifting my bag from the floor. “I’m going to pack.” I retreat to my room and pull my patchwork bag out of the closet. I throw in a pair of pajamas, a toothbrush, a sweatshirt, and a magazine featuring an article on Colby which I’ve only read once so far. Even though Dad tells me I’m welcome to leave items at his house, I prefer taking them back and forth as if I’m staying overnight at a hotel, at a location that I’m only visiting.

  At a place that will never be home.

  I can’t wait until we can drive so I can get myself away from here, I text Jada the following afternoon while huddled on Dad’s couch. I stare at the phone, willing her to respond, as Asher and Amelia leap around in front of me, their latest video game blaring from the speakers.

  This is the problem with Dad’s house—well, one of many problems, but this is a big one: I have no place to myself. At my house, Mom and I have more space than we need. It’s not that we live in a mansion, but at the very least, I have my own room. Here, I sleep on a trundle that gets pulled out from under Amelia’s bed for the every other Saturday I visit. But even though my trundle resides there, hers is definitely not my room. Because any time I so much as step foot over the threshold, Amelia is on my heels, padding through the upstairs in bare feet while decked out in a rotating supply of princess dresses. And I make a point to stay as far from Asher’s room as possible, since it smells like a deadly combination of grass stains and stale cheese curls. Which officially leaves me nowhere to hide.

  Coming to Dad’s house was one thing six years ago, before Asher was born. When it was only Dad and his wife, Amy, our weekends together were nice, calm, even fun. But then Asher came along, and then Amelia two years later, and with each month that passed, it felt more and more like I was an intruder in another family’s life rather than a member of my own. It’s not that Dad and Amy aren’t still nice to me—it’s that they’re too nice. Like they’re putting on their best selves in an effort to make me feel welcome. And the more stops they pull out in an attempt to please me, the more I feel like retreating.

  “Remember—the winner of this game takes on Wylie next,” Dad says as he passes through the room. The two terrors whirl around, Asher pausing the game as he does so. His strawberry blond hair sticks out in every direction, matching Amelia’s unkempt do. For someone so insistent on looking like a princess, she sure does have a thing against hairbrushes.

  “That’s not fair!” Amelia whines loudly. “Asher always wins because he’s bigger.”

  “I win because I’m better,” Asher corrects her, matching her shrill tone. “And bigger!”

  “No, it’s okay,” I pipe up, using my quietest voice in hopes that it will encourage them to lower their own. “I don’t want to play.”

  “No, Wylie, you get to go next,” Dad insists, and I bend my neck forward until my nose is practically on my phone’s screen, trying to make myself disappear. I hate when he does this—forces them to include me. Or really, forces me to include myself. To me, these visits had become nothing more than an obligation—a custody arrangement decided a dozen years ago by a judge who I would never know and who would never ask for my opinion on the matter. If asked, I would have put the kibosh on this plan—the one that makes me leave my actual town, actual home, actual parent, and actual life.

  It takes me a beat to realize Dad is speaking to me. “What’s that?” I ask him, glancing up from my phone.

  “Would you rather do something else? We could go to the movies or miniature golfing? Or maybe—”

  “No thanks,” I stop him. “You don’t have to entertain me.” A crease appears across Dad’s forehead, and for a second, I feel bad. “Thanks, though,” I add quickly, even though what I want to say is I wish he would stop acting like I’m an out-of-towner to whom he is desperate to play tour guide. Rather than, you know, his daughter.

  “We’re planning on ordering Vietnamese food for dinner,” Dad says. “Amy discovered a new place recently. Is that okay with you?”

  “Sure,” I answer. Ever since I mentioned that Mom is quite the experimental chef, Dad seems determined to compete, ordering a brand-new cuisine whenever I’m around, no matter Asher’s and Amelia’s protests. It’s as if once Dad learned that I enjoyed tasting new foods, he had attached himself to this news like a barnacle. And while I know he means well, the more he tries to relate to me, the more I push him away. Even when I don’t mean to, I can’t seem to help myself.

  “So you haven’t?” I realize Dad is still talking.

  “What’s that?” I ask again.

  “Have you tried pho?”

  “Fah?” I repeat what he said. “Um, I don’t think so. I don’t know what that is.”

  “It’s like a Vietnamese ramen soup,” Dad says. “It’s spelled P-H-O, even though it’s pronounced ‘fah.’ That’s what we’re planning on ordering tonight.”

  “Sounds good.” I force a smile. And while I’m mildly interested in trying pho, I also wish Dad would pull some boxed macaroni and cheese out of the pantry and slop it onto a paper plate with a hot dog and some wilted broccoli. That he would choose something that the four of them eat the rest of the week, on the days I’m not here.

  Something that would make me feel a little less like a stranger at their kitchen table.

  * * *

  That evening, I take my seat between Asher and Amelia, a giant bowl of steaming soup waiting on each of our place mats. I examine it curiously: long spaghetti-type noodles wind their way through the broth, with thin pieces of chicken and vegetables sprinkled on top. I pull out my phone and snap a picture of the concoction before sending it to Jada, captioning it Pho, or today’s attempt to bond with the extra daughter.

  “Wylie, no phones at the table,” Dad says as he sits next to Asher.

  “I was sending Jada a picture,” I say defensively, shoving the phone in my pocket.

  “Looks good, doesn’t it?” Amy asks. Her seat is next to Amelia and across from Dad. I sit at the head of the table, making clear that on nights I’m not here, the four of them sit in a perfect square. Boys on one side, girls on the other, the ideal family.

  And then there’s me, stuck onto the end like a mismatched extension cord.

  “Why do we always have to eat weird stuff?” Asher asks, crossing his arms and slouching while poking the tip of his tongue through his missing front teeth. “I want pizza.”

  “I want pizza too,” Amelia whines, which is her main mode of speaking.

  “Soup is stupid!” Asher yells, his voice d
eafening.

  “If you don’t try it, you’ll never know if you like it,” Amy tells them calmly, in a much nicer tone than Mom would have greeted this kind of complaining. “See, Wylie is eating it.”

  Asher and Amelia both turn to me expectantly as I swoop the first spoonful into my mouth. And though I don’t appreciate being watched like this, I smile and nod obediently, proclaiming the pho “delicious” before opening my mouth wide for another taste, allowing the broth to drip down my chin.

  At the sight of this, Asher and Amelia both dunk their own spoons into the pho, and without any more whining, they begin to eat. Dad and Amy watch them with pleased smiles, and I think I deserve a thank-you for convincing them that it’s edible.

  “We’re going to have to start thinking about our Christmas card picture for this year,” Amy says between slurps.

  “It’s barely October,” I point out.

  “Yes, but we should schedule time with the photographer for the next time you’re here or the weekend after that,” Amy says. “We probably should have booked him already—we don’t have many Saturdays together before the holiday rush begins.”

  “I don’t have to be in the card,” I announce. “Seriously, I don’t mind.”

  “Of course you’re in the card,” Amy says matter-of-factly. “We would never send the card without you.”

  “You can just put my name on it, then,” I say. “I don’t need to be in the picture. I promise it’s okay.”

  I see Dad and Amy glance at each other, and I wonder if this has been discussed before. After all, I don’t fit their theme. All of their names—Andrew, Amy, Asher, and Amelia—begin with A, and every year, they shift my placement in the signature. Sometimes I’m listed before Asher as the oldest kid, sometimes at the end as the “leftover.” But no matter where my name falls, it sticks out from the rest. Compared to names like “Asher” and “Amelia,” “Wylie” looks like it belongs to the family dog.

  Though if they had a dog, no doubt it would be named Atticus or Abraham or something appropriately A-like. And he would most likely have strawberry blond fur, slightly gappy teeth, and his own permanent bed, which doesn’t get hidden away whenever he’s not around.

  “You’re in the card, Wylie,” Dad says definitively. “It wouldn’t be complete without our whole family.” And while I understand that this is what he believes, it doesn’t convince me that it’s true.

  That night, I sprawl out—or rather, I sprawl out as much as anyone can sprawl in a trundle bed—below Amelia’s sleeping form. I lie on my stomach, my phone hidden beneath my pillow so the light doesn’t wake her, and I open my text chain with Jada.

  Hello??? I type. I’m dying here. Where are you?

  After a few seconds, I see the dots that indicate she’s writing back. Finally.

  Sorry, she answers. What’s up?

  Did you see my Vietnamese dinner?

  Oh, yeah, she replies. I assume you hated it.

  The soup was good. But pizza also would have been good. Why does dinner always have to be such a production when I’m here?

  Your dad’s just trying to make you happy, right? she writes, and I wince at her defense.

  I know that, I begin, but it makes me sooooo uncomfortable. It’s like the more they try to make me feel included, the more I feel excluded. Like they’re constantly calling attention to how I’m not here all the time by trying to be “welcoming.” Plus, with the nonstop noise, it’s like coming to a bimonthly torture chamber.

  No offense, Wy, Jada starts, but don’t you think that’s a little dramatic?

  I smirk. YOU’RE calling ME dramatic?

  Shut it, Jada says. And speaking of dramatic . . .

  Mason?

  No, thank goodness. Actually, this might be better over the phone. Can you talk?

  I’m lying next to a four-year-old, so no, I say. What’s going on?

  The reply dots pop on and off my screen over and over, and I can’t imagine what Jada is typing. Spit it out already, I tell her.

  I have an idea, she responds eventually.

  Oh?

  Remember what I was saying at lunch yesterday? About getting more involved in middle school life?

  Yes? The back of my neck grows warm, and I drum my fingers against the back of the phone, oddly nervous. What exactly does Jada have in mind?

  I want to audition for the musical, she writes. And I think you should too.

  Absolutely not, I reply without giving it a second thought.

  Oh, come on! You love to sing!

  Correction: loved, I tell her. I told you, I’m not getting back on a stage. Not unless 100% necessary. Like graduation. Even picturing ascending a stage makes my lips pinch against my teeth, a pang of unpleasantness forming in my throat.

  Wylie. That was THREE years ago. You need to get over it.

  Says who? I ask, and I can almost hear Jada sighing through the phone.

  You’re being impossible, she says. But even if you won’t, I’d like to audition.

  Be my guest, I say, attempting to sound casual. When are they?

  Tuesday after school.

  Do you want me to come over tomorrow? I can help you prepare and pick songs or whatever, I volunteer.

  We’re going to my cousins’ house, Jada responds. So I guess I’ll see you Monday?

  Otherwise known as COLBY’S PREMIERE DAY!!! I remind her.

  How could I forget? And listen, if you change your mind about the auditions . . .

  I won’t, I insist. Good night. I drop my phone onto the thin mattress as my wrists grow limp, deflated like a pinpricked balloon. Jada and I have gone through so much of our school lives as a pair that it’s strange to imagine her doing something without me. Strange and a little bit scary. Because if Jada is about to become one of the theatre people, to join her own table in the cafeteria, then where will that leave me?

  I exhale as I flip onto my back and stare at the glow-in-the-dark stars on Amelia’s ceiling, wishing for the cozy comfort of my own bed. Because few things are lonelier than lying awake in a room that is not your own, in a house that could not feel farther from home.

  * * *

  When I reach our lockers Monday morning, Jada is nowhere to be found. I lean against them, watching the bustle of the hallway pass while pulling out my phone to text her.

  Where are you?

  I wait a minute, then two, with no response. This isn’t like Jada. She usually arrives before me. And if she’s running late, she tells me, but I haven’t heard a peep from her.

  I wander down the seventh-grade wing, waving at Mrs. Nieska as I pass her door. I turn toward the front of the school, where I spot Jada’s long licorice locks ahead of me.

  Standing with the theatre people. At least eight of them. Maybe twelve.

  I walk past their circle quickly and make a left, where I see Libby coming my way. And at this moment, I’m grateful to have someone—anyone—to talk to. As if to prove to myself that if Jada now has other friends, then I do too.

  “Hi, Wylie!” Libby calls brightly, brushing the strands of her French braid back and forth over her fingers like a tiny broom. “Have a good weekend?”

  “I did,” I lie. “How about you? Did your grandmother like her mailbox?”

  “She loved it. Then I was supposed to spend the rest of the time preparing for the fall musical auditions, but I kept getting distracted.”

  “You’re auditioning for the musical?” I ask, trying to shield the surprise in my voice. Is everyone auditioning for the musical?

  “Shocking, I know,” Libby says, wrinkling the freckles on her nose. “My dad thinks it would be good for me to join a group to ‘find my niche’ in middle school.” She forms her fingers into quotation marks as she says this. “I figure I’ll get cut immediately, but maybe they’ll need someone to help with sets. I think I could handle painting a backdrop.”

  “Jada is auditioning too,” I reveal.

  “Does that mean you’re auditioning?”
<
br />   “No way.” I shake my head adamantly.

  “But what if she gets a part?”

  “What do you mean?” I ask, even though in truth, I know exactly what Libby means. That Jada and I usually do everything together. And if she’s in the musical, then what will I do?

  “You should audition,” Libby declares instead of answering my question. “That way, you’ll be there for moral support when I look like a deer caught in headlights up there.”

  I shake my head again. “I’m definitely not auditioning.”

  “Why not? It could be fun.”

  “Trust me, it wouldn’t be,” I tell her. “Not for me. I’m someone who’s meant to be in the audience, not onstage.”

  “I don’t believe that,” Libby says. “I remember when you and Jada sang Marquis Machine songs at school talent shows. You two were great.”

  At the mention of the talent shows, my toes curl in my shoes, as if they’re trying to grip the floor more tightly. “I haven’t sung in front of people since then,” I say, not explaining the details as to why and hoping Libby doesn’t recall.

  “Then it’s time to rip off the bandage! Come to my house later and we can prepare together. Or we can turn on the premiere of Non-Instrumental and say we prepared.”

  “Wait, you’re watching that too?” I ask. “You know, I’m obsessed with Colby Cash.”

  “Oh, I remember,” Libby says, but the morning bell rings before she can elaborate. We take off in opposite directions, calling a fast good-bye, and my thoughts swirl like merging schools of fish. Maybe I should do it—audition for the musical. The stage incident, well, it was three years ago. Maybe I should get over it, move on, put it behind me. And then, if Jada and I are both cast, we could be in the show together. I could be friends with the theatre people too. We could all sit at the same table in the cafeteria, like the groups I’ve always admired. It could be ideal.

  That is, of course, if I manage to stay on the stage.

  I decide not to mention my thoughts about auditioning to Jada, because if I do, she’ll pressure me to follow through, and I’m not yet ready to commit. Plus, it’s not like I have much opportunity to bring it up, since Jada’s face is perpetually buried in a large black binder of musical materials.