Sing Like Nobody's Listening

by Allison Gutknecht

  No. But I’m here with one of their brothers—he’s in 6th grade, and he’s planning on joining too.

  “They’re going to try to sneak out and come to this cafeteria instead,” Oliver announces, so I send Mason another text.

  Not sure where you are, but there’s an impromptu a cappella meeting happening in the red cafeteria if you can swing by.

  Be there in a jiff, Mason replies. And for a second, I wonder what I’ve been holding against him all these years, other than the fact that Jada told me to despise him. Maybe he isn’t an evil, spying troublemaker. Maybe he’s a regular guy trying to find his place in this school, just like the rest of us.

  Maybe it was Jada who was the mean one all along.

  That afternoon, I’m the first to arrive for The Intermissions meeting, and I’m shaky with anticipation. I had assumed the concept of one’s knees knocking was a myth, but mine are proving otherwise. What do I know about a cappella? Libby and I could watch Non-Instrumental until the cows came home (her words), but that doesn’t mean we know what we’re doing.

  I jump up and down in place, hoping to steady myself. When that doesn’t work, I sit on the edge of a bench, my knees jiggling up and down.

  “There you are!” Libby darts into the red cafeteria like a puppy skidding on a wet floor. “I can’t believe this is happening. By the way, I forgot to tell you that I asked my dad if we could borrow his fancy video camera from work to tape our segment for Non-Instrumental, and he said yes, so that will look a lot better than one of us recording it on our phone—”

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa,” I say, standing up. I thought I was wound up, but I’m nothing compared to her. “Remember, no mention of Non-Instrumental. Not yet. Okay?”

  Before Libby can answer, Abigail and Audrey saunter in shoulder to shoulder, staring at their respective phones and whispering in what I recognize as best-friend talk. I feel a pang of jealousy, but I force myself to brush it aside.

  “Hi, guys,” I greet them, and Abigail and Audrey wave simultaneously without looking up from their screens. “Psst,” I whisper to Libby. “Which is which again?” It’s not that Abigail and Audrey are identical, but for the life of me, I can’t tell them apart. Both have long, wavy hair and hazel eyes and wear preppy clothes. They smile the same and talk the same and even blink the same and they’re constantly clutching their phones, which are enclosed in matching cases. At lunch, Oliver introduced them with, “This is Abigail and Audrey,” which didn’t help the situation one bit.

  “No idea,” Libby answers through clenched teeth. “Just don’t call either one by name.”

  “It’s rude to ask at this point, right?” I whisper.

  “I think so,” Libby answers. “Maybe Mrs. Nieska will have everyone introduce themselves, and then we can figure it out once and for all.”

  Mason comes bounding into the cafeteria behind Abigail/Audrey, and Oliver follows. Libby runs over to say hello to him as Mason approaches me.

  “Not a bad turnout,” he remarks. “I thought we may have scared those three away during lunch, and it would only be you, me, and Little House on the Prairie.” He points to Libby, who is thankfully too far away to hear him.

  “Hey, be nice,” I scold. “Don’t make me regret letting you in the group.”

  Mason cocks his head, a crooked smile parting his lips. “ ‘Letting me in,’ huh? I didn’t realize membership was at your discretion.”

  “You know what I mean.”

  “Well, what’s with the braids?” Mason asks. “Is this an everyday thing?”

  “So you’re a hairstylist now?” I respond, crossing my arms in Libby’s defense. My earlier good feelings toward Mason are dissipating rapidly.

  “Touchy, touchy,” Mason says. “I’m only suggesting that if she’s your new BFF, you could talk her into a matching hairdo, like the Bobbsey Twins over there.” He gestures toward Abigail and Audrey.

  “The Bobbsey Twins were a boy and a girl, not two girls,” a voice states, and I whirl around and find Libby behind me.

  “The Bobbsey Twins are a real thing?” Mason asks. “I thought it was an expression.”

  “It’s a book series. My grandmother has a bunch at her house, and unlike you, I’ve read them. So anyway, your analogy doesn’t hold up.” Libby puts her hands on her hips as if challenging Mason to continue, and I chuckle at her boldness.

  Mason lifts up his arm and sways it back and forth through the air. “Okay, okay, I surrender,” he says. “I’m officially waving the white flag.”

  “Could somebody give me a hand over here?” Mrs. Nieska calls from the cafeteria entrance, trying to push an upright piano through the opening.

  “You found us a piano?” I ask as we jog over.

  “Borrowed it,” she says. “From the band practice rooms. If some of you take the back end and swing it around, we should be able to slide it through.” Mason and I grip the front of the piano to steer, and Libby and Oliver help Mrs. Nieska push from behind. Once it’s safely inside, Mrs. Nieska positions a metal folding chair next to it. “So who would like to begin?” she asks, lowering herself onto the chair with her fingers poised over the keys.

  We stare at her, confused. She wants us to sing? Already? Without introductions, or ice breakers, or waiting to see if anyone else arrives?

  “We’re starting?” I vocalize what everyone is thinking.

  “No time like the present,” Mrs. Nieska says. “Don’t panic—nothing too complicated. I want us to try an exercise that my college a cappella group used to do. It’s a chance to hear everyone’s vocal styles. No pressure—pretend you’re singing in the shower and use the most natural part of your voice.” The six of us shift from one foot to the other, uneasy. I had thought today would be about the formalities of starting a new group—taking down names and contact information, passing out permission slips, explaining the practice schedule, stuff like that.

  Not actually, you know, singing. In front of one another.

  “Should we wait and see if anyone else shows up?” Libby asks. “It’s only a few minutes late, and—”

  “If they do, they can join in. I guarantee they’ll know the song,” Mrs. Nieska says as she begins plunking out a melody on the piano—one I swiftly recognize as “Row, Row, Row Your Boat.” “So who would like to begin?” she asks again. I look down at the floor, hoping that a lack of eye contact will signal her not to call on me.

  “You don’t have to raise your hand,” Mrs. Nieska states, and I glance up and see Abigail/Audrey standing with their left hands, still holding their phones, in the air. “Are you volunteering?” The two of them—I swear at the same time—shake their heads no.

  “We’re using a piano?” one of them asks. “I thought a cappella groups weren’t supposed to use instruments.”

  “We’ll be using a piano for practicing, absolutely,” she tells them. “Once again, I’ll ask the question: Who would like to begin?”

  “I’ll do it,” Mason pipes up beside me.

  “Excellent,” Mrs. Nieska says, standing and resting her elbows on top of the piano. “Now, don’t think too much. Just sing. Sing like you’re trying to entertain your baby cousin, but your cousin is way across the room. So sing out, and proudly, but in your natural voice.”

  Mason nods, shifting the rim of his baseball cap from one side to the other. I hear him take a breath, and then he begins, “Row, row, row your boat, gently down the stream . . .”

  At the sound of his voice, my jaw drops in shock. I hastily snap it back, causing my teeth to click together, loudly enough for Libby to hear.

  And to start giggling.

  But she’s not giggling out loud—it’s the kind of laugh that happens when you’re not supposed to be laughing at all. When you know you should stop, but the more you try to suppress it, the more it escapes. Her face grows redder, her shoulders rise, and her giggle comes out like a wheeze.

  And as much as I try to prevent it, I start laughing too. Silently at first, but then out lou
d. Mason stops singing, and the entire group gawks at Libby and me. I cover my face with my hands, willing myself to stop and feeling worse the longer it goes on. Because the thing is, Libby and I aren’t laughing because Mason has a bad voice. It’s not nasally or gravelly or remotely off-key.

  Rather, Mason’s voice is beautiful. It’s deep and lovely and powerful: one you would never expect to come out of his mouth.

  “Sorry,” Libby tries to explain. “I laugh sometimes when I get nervous. It slips out.”

  “So I make you nervous, eh?” Mason asks, and even without looking at him, I can tell he’s smirking, proud of himself.

  “You have a great voice,” Libby says sincerely. “I wasn’t expecting that. My voice isn’t good at all.”

  “There’s no such thing as a good voice and a bad voice in here,” Mrs. Nieska says. “Some voices are stronger at certain things than others, but that’s the beauty of a cappella: Everyone has a place. Now—without giggles this time, please—let’s try that again. Mason, you begin. Sing the whole verse through, and when Mason reaches the ‘merrily’ line for the second time, someone else jump in.”

  “So we’re singing it as a round?” Oliver asks.

  “Precisely,” Mrs. Nieska says. “And keep singing until everyone has joined in one by one. But again, don’t think too much—don’t attempt to harmonize, don’t try to hit a certain key. Just sing. Like you would at home. As if no one were listening.”

  She points at Mason, gesturing for him to start, and he sings. “Row, row, row your boat, gently down the stream. Merrily, merrily, merrily, merrily, life is but a dream. Row, row, row your boat, gently down the stream . . .” Mrs. Nieska raises her arm for someone else to join him, and Abigail or Audrey opens her mouth. She starts the song from the beginning, and she has a pleasant, if not very distinct voice. When it’s time for a new person, her second half follows, and not surprisingly, their voices are virtually indistinguishable. Oliver is next, and his voice is as high as Mason’s is deep, but pretty and melodic in a way that would fit in with a prestigious all-boy choir.

  This leaves only Libby and me, and she pinches the back of my arm. “I’ll go first,” she whispers. “I don’t want to be the last one singing.” On Mrs. Nieska’s cue, Libby begins. And while her voice might not be the most musically inclined, she’s certainly the most enthusiastic, swinging her arms back and forth to the beat.

  As she reaches the end of the first verse, I clear my throat and close my eyes. Forcing myself not to overthink, I open my mouth and sing. I hear my voice ring out across the cafeteria, blending in with those around me, obscured but still somehow my own all at the same time.

  The six members of The Intermissions gather the following day at the same lunch table, settling down comfortably as if we’ve eaten this way forever, and I realize that it’s the first time I’ve ever shared lunch with a group—my group—of people.

  “What are you smiling at?” Mason catches me, and I swiftly lower the corners of my lips.

  “Nothing,” I answer.

  “It had to have been something,” he says, pulling at the top of his miniature milk carton.

  “Chocolate milk, huh?” I ask, attempting to distract him. “The kindergarteners called and they want their snack back.”

  “I like to keep myself youthful,” he replies, prying two of the carton’s corners apart harshly and splashing milk over his chicken nuggets in the process.

  “Oh no, save them!” I call, throwing my napkin onto his tray while Mason watches.

  “I never realized you were so attached to nuggets,” he says, lifting the soggy napkin off his food. “Plus, chocolate milk sounds like a pretty great condiment to me.” He makes a big display of dipping one into the brown puddle. “Mmmmm.”

  “Ewwwww,” Abigail and Audrey call out simultaneously, which only encourages him.

  I glance over at Libby, who looks less than amused by Mason’s antics. She leans toward me and whispers, “We should tell them about the contest.”

  “Not now,” I reply, as the volume around us grows, forcing us to raise our voices.

  “Everyone needs to be on the same page,” Libby insists. “We have to tell them.”

  “Tell them what?” Mason asks, and our table falls suddenly quiet.

  “It’s nothing,” I maintain.

  “It’s not nothing,” Libby says. “It’s exciting.”

  “What’s exciting? What are you talking about? What’s the secret? What are you keeping from us?” The rest of The Intermissions begin speaking at once, and I raise my hand to stop them.

  “Okay, fine. Do you want to do the honors, or should I?” I ask Libby.

  “You can do it,” Libby says, drumming her fingers against the table to build suspense.

  “So you know Non-Instrumental?” I ask.

  “The TV show?” Audrey (I think) clarifies.

  “Yes,” I say. “They’re holding a contest for a cappella groups from around the country.” I look at Libby to continue.

  “Those chosen will be featured in a promo piece for the show. Annnnnnnd . . .” She drags out the final word, gesturing for me to fill in the blanks.

  “The winning groups get a video call with Colby Cash. You know, from Marquis Machine?” I explain.

  “The one you have plastered all over your locker?” Mason asks.

  “Well, yes,” I say. “He’s hosting the show this season and—”

  “So you’re using us as your means to Colby, eh?” Mason asks with a smirk. “And here I thought your a cappella intentions were so pure.”

  “To be fair, Libby and I dreamed this up before we found out about the contest,” I defend myself. “The Colby piece is a bonus.”

  “Sure it is,” Mason says in a singsong voice. “So what do you want us to do to win you a call?”

  “That’s the thing,” I begin, “if we want to enter the contest, our timeline becomes much more urgent.”

  “What’s urgent?” Abigail (maybe?) asks. “I mean, I love Non-Instrumental. I’d like to get featured on it if we can. But what kind of timeline are we looking at?”

  I turn to Libby, and she answers, “The deadline for submitting an audition video is next Thursday. So—”

  “Next Thursday?!” Abigail or Audrey interrupts her. “How is that even possible?”

  “I guess they figure that most groups who will enter are already established,” Libby says, “and they won’t need that much time to prepare.”

  “What would we even sing?” Mason asks. “Because I don’t think ‘Row, Row, Row Your Boat’ is going to cut it.”

  “We only need to learn one song,” I tell them. “That’s doable, right?” But even as I say it, my tone sounds as skeptical as the group’s faces look.

  “We could totally do that,” Libby pipes up. “Come on, guys. What’s the harm in trying?”

  I see Abigail and Audrey exchange a doubtful glance, and I recognize how crazy our plan must sound. “Listen, if you don’t want to—” I begin, but Oliver stops me.

  “I agree with Libby. We should try. This is our chance to get on TV!”

  “But we only have one more rehearsal scheduled before next Thursday,” Mason points out.

  “Then we practice more,” Libby says. “Every day if we have to.”

  “Exactly,” Oliver concurs. “We can even practice this weekend. Right, Abigail?” I snap my head so fast to see which one replies that I nearly give myself whiplash.

  Abigail and Audrey look at each other again, as if asking permission to answer, before Abigail (finally! I know for sure!) replies, “My brother’s right. We should give it a shot. Mrs. Nieska can help us.”

  “She doesn’t know about the contest yet,” I reveal. “But I can talk to her about it today, if we’re ready to move forward. So . . . are we?”

  “Let’s take a vote,” Libby suggests. “All in favor say ‘Colby Cash!’ ”

  “Um, can we say something else?” Mason whines. “I don’t want to ruin my street
cred.”

  “You have street cred?” I cock my head at him.

  “All in favor,” Mason begins with a grin, “say ‘Here goes nothing.’ ”

  “Such a pessimist,” I whisper jokingly, as on a count of three, we all call out a resounding “Here goes nothing!” Libby bursts into animated applause.

  “Great,” I say. “I’ll speak to Mrs. Nieska. It’s probably too late to set up a practice for today, but let’s plan on having daily after-school rehearsals starting tomorrow?”

  Everyone nods as the end-of-lunch bell rings, and Mason dips his last nugget into the chocolate milk with a flourish.

  “You’re kind of gross, you know that?” I ask him as I clean up.

  “I kind of do,” he says, and I shake my head, smiling.

  Libby pulls on my wrist. “Text me how it goes with Mrs. Nieska.”

  “I will.”

  “Want to watch last night’s Non-Instrumental with me tonight?” she asks.

  “You haven’t watched yet? I did think it was strange that you weren’t texting me every fifteen seconds during Staccato Skaters’ performance.”

  “Hey, no spoilers!” she yells.

  “Well, I’m always up for a repeat Colby viewing. Tell me when you want to come over.”

  “Will do!” Libby calls as she skips toward the door. “Toodle-oo!”

  “Who says that?” I shout after her.

  “Me and seventy-seven-year-old women!”

  As I make my way into the hallway, my head swims with thoughts about the contest: What if we did win? Would Jada really let me call Colby Cash without her? Never. She would insist on joining, on “meeting” him at the same time. Which means that winning could be the way to bring us back together, to break the tension that has fallen between us. Winning could repair everything.

  So how could The Intermissions give ourselves the best chance? What song could we learn—and perfect—in one week? Should I ask Mom if the group can come to our house this weekend?

  This weekend—wait a minute. This is the “other” weekend—the “every other weekend” that I have to go to Dad’s. I had almost forgotten, since I just saw Asher and Amelia. Could I get out of it?