Sing Like Nobody's Listening

by Allison Gutknecht

  “Remember. Seven forty-five. Not a minute later,” I remind her as we shuffle into the hallway after homeroom. “I have chips and salsa and those disgusting sour gummy worms you like.”

  “Wait, what?” Jada asks absentmindedly. She stares forward, her eyes narrowed like she’s concentrating on something miles away.

  “Colby’s big debut! Our scrapbook is already on the coffee table in preparation.”

  Jada comes to a sudden stop, hooking her thumbs through the loops of her jeans as if bracing for impact. “Don’t be mad . . . .”

  A prickly feeling fills my insides, migrating from my stomach to the tips of my fingers. “You can’t back out,” I tell her definitively.

  “I’m not backing out. I’ll watch it with you. I promise. But . . . I can’t tonight. I need to practice for tomorrow, and I’m already behind.” The flow of people pushes us forward, propelling us down the hallway like a riptide. The more seconds that pass without me responding, the more Jada seems desperate to fill the air.

  “It’s just that I want to memorize the script as much as possible,” she rambles. “They didn’t say it needs to be memorized, but I figure if I’m off book—doesn’t that sound theatrical, ‘off book’?—I’ll have a better chance of getting a part. Most of these other people, they were in last year’s shows. They have a leg up on me, so I want to make sure I’m as prepared as possible or else I may be—”

  “We can’t watch it later,” I cut her off. “Colby’s posting live throughout the show. It won’t make any sense if we watch later.”

  “Watch it without me, then,” Jada offers. “And then you can have a repeat viewing. You know you’re going to want to watch him more than once anyway.” I cross my arms against my chest, considering this. Jada had always been the one to freak out if I dared watch Marquis Machine’s latest video or listen to their newest single without her. She had insisted that we experience their new material at the same time, hunched over a computer, eager with shared anticipation. Collectively, we had cooed over Colby and embraced every shred of information about him. This had been the norm for so long that I never pictured viewing his Non-Instrumental premiere alone.

  “Come on,” I plead. “Can’t you take a one-hour break?”

  “I really can’t.” Jada turns to me with a serious expression. “I want this, Wy. You understand that, right?”

  “I do,” I answer automatically, as if by reflex. “I just never thought you’d abandon Colby and me for the theatre people.” I try to say this lightly, but I can’t hide the edge in my voice.

  “Oh, please. It’s only one night. Don’t act like I’m pulling a Mister Kitters on you.” She nudges my elbow. “May he rest in eternal peace.”

  “Not funny,” I tell her as we enter first period, but the corners of my mouth curl into a smile. Mister Kitters was my favorite stuffed animal—an orange-and-white cat with floppy paws and long whiskers. I credit Mister Kitters for making Jada and me friends, since on the first day of kindergarten, Jada walked over to meet him. For the first few weeks of the year, the three of us—me, Jada, and Mister Kitters—played together. But as the months wore on, he was included less and less. And eventually, the unthinkable occurred: Mister Kitters went missing.

  To this day, I don’t know what happened to him. I can’t say if he was lost at home or school or someplace in between. And as sad as I was at the time (and honestly, part of me is still sad about it), I wasn’t nearly as upset as I would have been if I hadn’t made a new, real-life best friend, one who would never forget the shabby stuffed cat who had brought us together.

  And that’s the thing about Jada and me. We know all of each other’s references because we’ve lived through everything side by side: new schools and new siblings; bad haircuts and bad grades; missing teeth and missing cats. Nothing is a mystery or requires a backstory, because we’ve been there for each other, present for every major life milestone, from nearly the very beginning.

  So maybe the musical is it: the next big thing for us to experience together. After all, Jada was there, right beside me, the last time I’d walked onto a stage. Maybe with her next to me, I could find the courage to step onto one again.

  * * *

  Libby is perched on my front steps, waving frantically, when I arrive home after school, and I’m surprised to see her waiting for me.

  “Did you decide to do it?” she yells across the yard before I’ve pulled out my keys.

  “The musical?”

  “Of course the musical!” She scrapes her feet against the pavement as if performing a tap dance.

  “You’ve been practicing, I see,” I tease her, finishing the text I had been writing to Jada: If you change your mind and need a distraction, you know where I’ll be at 8:00! “Do you want to come inside?”

  “Do you have snacks?” Libby asks, and I look at her quizzically while unlatching the lock. “Sorry. My dad only keeps fruit in the house. ‘If you’re truly hungry, you’ll reach for a banana.’ Um, no, I will not.”

  “That is a tragedy,” I tell her. “We have corn chips and salsa. And sour gummy—”

  “You had me at ‘chips,’ ” Libby says, breezing into the house behind me like she owns the place. She plops her bag on the kitchen table before depositing herself on one of the chairs, making herself at home, and I toss her the bag of tortilla chips.

  “Yessssss,” she says, dragging out the S for at least five seconds. Then through loud crunches, she adds, “I should come here more often.”

  I laugh, amused by the level of contentment on her face, and then I settle onto another chair. “You might not have time after you’re cast as the lead in the musical.”

  “Talk about counting chickens before they’re hatched,” she says. “I don’t think you’re comprehending my level of singing ability. Or lack thereof.”

  “I’m sure it’s not that bad.”

  “All I’m saying is that if I could sing like you, I certainly wouldn’t be hemming and hawing about auditioning.” She holds out the bag. “Would you like one of your own chips?”

  I grab a handful and place them on the table in front of me. “It’s not the singing that’s the problem,” I explain. “It’s the stage.”

  “What about it?”

  I take a deep breath. “If I tell you, do you promise not to bring it up again?”

  “Cross my heart,” Libby says, drawing an imaginary X over her chest.

  “I’m not sure you remember the talent show in fourth grade . . . .” I begin. “Well, you would have been in third grade at the time, but Jada and I were performing a Marquis Machine song as a duet—”

  “And you fell off the stage,” Libby fills in.

  “Um, uh, right,” I stammer at Libby’s casual tone. This is the number one most humiliating moment of my life, and she’s acting like it’s no big deal.

  Libby waves her hand in front of her face dismissively. “Happens all the time,” she says. “I’m sure no one even remembers.”

  “You remembered.”

  “I’m the exception to the rule,” Libby says. “I’m sure no one but me, and Jada, and, well, you remember.”

  “And the music teacher. Who I landed on. She broke my fall.”

  “Still,” Libby says. “Water under the bridge. If that’s the reason you’re afraid of auditioning, I think you should forget about it, because everyone else has.”

  “But I haven’t forgotten. I haven’t been on a stage since then, at least not to perform.”

  “Then that’s the solution. The only reason the fall is so clear in your memory is because you haven’t had a positive experience onstage since then. This audition could do the trick.”

  “Or it could make things worse,” I say.

  “Or it could make things better. Always look on the bright side!”

  I sigh. “I’m thinking about it. I promise. But if you want me to help you prepare in the meantime, I’m happy to.”

  “Yes, please.” Libby rummages in her bag, eme
rging with a beat-up-looking packet of papers. “Here. I guess we’d better read these.”

  “That’s the script?” I ask. “Have you looked at it?”

  “Not yet,” Libby says with a sheepish grin. “Plenty of time.” She flips through the papers. “Oh, whoops. I think I lost the last few pages somewhere along the way.”

  I giggle under my breath. “I have to tell you, all these years, I thought you had it together. You always seemed so organized, with your neatly braided hair . . .”

  “It’s all a farce,” Libby says. “My hair is the only thing holding my life together.”

  “We may be in trouble, then,” I tell her. “Since you know more about this audition than I do, and—no offense—you don’t seem to know much.”

  “We may have bitten off more than we can chew. We’re up a creek without a paddle.”

  I smirk. “Where do you come up with these expressions?” Libby covers her mouth, as if embarrassed.

  “This is what too many afternoons at a grandmother’s house will do. You start talking in old-fashioned clichés.”

  “You’re a chip off the old block,” I reply.

  “Hey, look at you!” Libby says proudly. “I didn’t think you’d be the type to have one on the tip of your tongue.”

  “You know what they say,” I begin, “about not judging a book by its cover.” Libby laughs uproariously at this, causing the freckles on her nose to crinkle like a wrinkly Dalmatian.

  “Let’s skip the boring paperwork and go straight to the fun part—songs,” Libby says. “I think we can sing whatever we want. But we either have to do it a cappella, without accompaniment, or bring our own sheet music. And I don’t suppose you have sheet music?”

  “No, but what’s wrong with a cappella?”

  “Absolutely, positively nothing is wrong with a cappella,” Libby answers emphatically. “Speaking of which, thank goodness Non-Instrumental returns tonight. I was starting to go through withdrawal.”

  “I’ve never watched it, but I’m excited to see Colby.”

  “Wait, you’ve never seen Non-Instrumental? Not one episode?” I shake my head. “No, no, no. This will never do. Fetch me a computer, please. Time waits for no man!”

  “Is that another one of your grandmother’s expressions?” I ask, grabbing the laptop from the counter and sliding it in front of her.

  “Indeed. She has a million of them.” Libby begins typing manically. “Let’s start with my favorite group—Metronome Mayhem. Or wait, maybe you should see the original winners first. The Octavgenarians.”

  “What is with these group names?”

  “Music puns,” Libby says, placing the screen between us so we can view at the same time. I watch a group of four elderly men stroll to the center of the stage.

  “How old are they?!”

  “In their eighties,” Libby answers. “They won the first season, and they also happen to be my grandmother’s favorites. Though she thought they were a little ‘long in the tooth.’ Exact quote.”

  I laugh. “Let me see your favorites.” Libby pulls up a Metronome Mayhem performance, and we both crane our faces toward the screen, me watching intently and Libby bouncing around to the beat. “You know, I never understood how this show has run for so many seasons. An a cappella group competition doesn’t exactly sound like riveting TV, but this is kind of fantastic.”

  “Oh, it’s not ‘kind of’ fantastic,” Libby says. “It is fantastic.”

  “Has anyone ever performed a Marquis Machine song?” I ask.

  “You have a one-track mind,” Libby says with a smirk. “But yes. I’ll find them. Maybe they’ll give you inspiration for your audition.”

  “Maybe,” I say innocently, and Libby widens her eyes.

  “You’re going to do it. I know you are,” she says. “And don’t worry, if you fall off the stage, I’ll roll down after you so that it looks like an avalanche.”

  “That’s comforting,” I tell her. And though I mean it sarcastically, I can’t deny the fact that in some ways, it actually is.

  Libby and I are still huddled over the laptop when Mom arrives home. “Hi, Wylie. Hi, Ja—oh hey, Libby!” she corrects herself, shooting me a questioning glance.

  “Hi, Mrs. Tennyson!” Libby says brightly.

  “So nice to see you,” Mom tells her. “How have you and your dad been? We don’t see you around the neighborhood much.”

  “We’re good, thanks,” Libby says. “And if Wylie and I both make the musical, you might be seeing more of me!”

  “The musical?” Mom asks, eyebrows raised in surprise. “What musical?”

  I open my mouth to speak, but Libby beats me to it.

  “We’re going to the fall musical auditions tomorrow,” Libby explains, a mischievous look spreading across her face.

  “That’s not exactly—” I begin, but Mom claps her hands together, cutting me off.

  “That’s so great!” she exclaims.

  “I don’t—” I start, but Mom interrupts me again.

  “I’m proud of you, Wy. I’ve been waiting for you to start singing again. Good for you for putting yourself out there!” I narrow my eyes at Libby, but my dirty look doesn’t shake the gloating expression on her face as her phone begins ringing a calypso tune.

  “One second; it’s my dad,” she says. “Hello?”

  I stand up from the table, shoving three tortilla chips in my mouth as I approach the counter. This way, when Mom whispers, “The musical, eh?” I can point to my full mouth and not answer. Instead, I retrieve my phone to see if Jada has come to her senses and agreed that viewing Colby’s show is more important than memorizing a silly script. But when I turn on the screen, rather than a barrage of messages, I find no texts, no calls, no questions. Nothing but a whole lot of silence.

  * * *

  The moment Libby returns home for dinner, Mom is on me. “Ready to explain?” she asks as she ladles soup into bowls. I grab silverware and napkins, salt and pepper, and milk, purposely skirting around her so as to not make eye contact.

  “About what?” I ask sweetly.

  “Wylie,” Mom begins.

  “Yes?” I sit with a thump and immediately raise a spoonful of soup. “Ouch!” I yelp as it burns my top lip, too hot for me to pretend that my mouth is full again.

  Mom settles across from me. “You’re auditioning for the musical?”

  “Maybe. I haven’t decided yet.”

  “I think you should.” Mom stirs her own soup, the thick steam giving her face a blurry texture. “You’ve always liked to sing.”

  “I’m thinking about it.”

  “And it’s good for you to get involved in activities.”

  “I said, I’m thinking about it,” I repeat, breaking off a hunk of bread and dipping it into the broth, hoping to keep my teeth occupied until the soup cools.

  Mom puts her spoon down, focusing her attention on me. “Is something wrong?”

  “Nope.”

  “Wylie.”

  “It’s not!” I insist. “Nothing is wrong. Can we talk about something else?”

  Mom retrieves her spoon. “Is Jada coming over tonight? Isn’t it the big premiere?”

  I shake my head. “She can’t.”

  “Really? I thought you two have been waiting for this for weeks.”

  “She’s getting ready for her audition,” I tell her.

  Mom puckers her brow. “For the musical?”

  “Mm-hmmm.” A trickle of soup sloshes over my bowl, and I use my pinkie to catch it.

  “Jada’s trying out too?” Mom asks.

  “Yep.”

  “Is that why you’re trying out?”

  “I haven’t decided if—”

  “Why you’re thinking of trying out?” Mom corrects herself.

  I nod, and Mom looks down into her bowl as if studying a magic eight ball. “Well, I think it would be great for you to try something new,” she begins, “but I’m sure there are lots of activities for you to get involved
in, with or without Jada.”

  “What’s wrong with Jada?”

  “Nothing’s wrong with Jada. I love Jada. You know that. But I also know how she is, how she can sometimes, you know, take over a bit. I just don’t think it would be a bad thing for you to broaden your horizons. You don’t always have to get sucked into what Jada wants to do.”

  “So you don’t want me to audition for the musical?”

  “If you want to, then I think it’s a fabulous idea,” Mom says. “I’m only trying to make sure that you’d do it for the right reasons. And not because Jada told you to.”

  “She didn’t tell me to,” I say testily.

  “Okay, then,” Mom says. “For the record, I don’t think auditioning could ever be a bad thing. It would be a good experience, no matter the outcome.” She lifts a gigantic spoonful to her mouth and blows on it gingerly. “And believe me, I hope you and Jada are friends for the rest of your lives. It’s just that you two often act like each other’s safety nets—like you cling to one another so tightly that you’re afraid of making a move without the other. And sometimes, it’s good for friends to stand on their own.”

  I nod, pretending like I agree, but my mind is a flurry with one thought: that standing on her own, without me, is exactly what Jada is doing. She’s auditioning whether or not I do. She’s moving forward whether or not I follow her. And as my blank phone screen reminds me, it’s hard to cling to someone who is already acting like she’s forgotten you.

  That night, I sit cross-legged on the couch, my phone balanced on my knee and Jada’s unopened package of gummy worms sitting on the coffee table beside the scrapbook. My toes twitch anxiously, waiting for Colby’s appearance, and I straighten my shoulders the moment he fills my screen. He’s decked out in a blue velvet tuxedo with his hair combed into a high pompadour, and he would look mildly ridiculous if he weren’t so exceptionally cute.

  I lean forward to concentrate, grinning as he opens his mouth to speak. But instead of an introductory monologue, Colby launches into song. No instruments, no music, no accompaniment—only his voice soaring across the studio. And no matter Jada’s doubts about his potential as a solo artist, he sounds unbelievable.