Sing Like Nobody's Listening

by Allison Gutknecht

  I walk into Social Studies and spot Jada across the room, her face turned toward the window, spitefully making sure we don’t make eye contact. And while I try not to let it bother me, just for a second, it does.

  Maybe even for more than a second.

  Thankfully, Mrs. Nieska is fully on board with participating in the contest: She thinks that working toward a common goal is the perfect way to help band the group together—even if it does mean practicing every day.

  Including the weekend.

  I decide that if there’s any way I’m going to get out of going to Dad’s, I’ll need Mom’s support. She has to understand that this isn’t about me avoiding Asher and Amelia, but that it’s for the good of The Intermissions, and therefore it isn’t really about me at all. I have to convince her of this so she can plead my case with Dad, especially since, as far as I’m concerned, he owes her after last weekend.

  “Hi,” I greet Mom when she trudges in after work, looking more tired than usual. “What would you like for dinner? I’ll help make it.”

  Mom looks me up and down. “What are you up to?”

  “What do you mean?” I ask innocently.

  “Wylie. I know you better than anyone—better, sometimes, than you know yourself. And if you’re volunteering for something, it means you’re looking for a favor. Spill it.”

  I drop my perky demeanor and rest my palms on the counter. “I can’t go to Dad’s this weekend. My a cappella group has to practice, so I need your help getting out of it.”

  Mom slides her jacket off. “That’s between you and your father,” she tells me slowly. “But this wouldn’t have anything to do with last weekend, would it?”

  “No, I promise.” I shake my head adamantly. “We need to practice. There’s this contest on Non-Instrumental that we want to enter, but we barely have a week to pull together a submission video. So we want to meet every day, including this weekend.”

  “I understand the conflict, but you made a commitment to your dad.”

  “I didn’t make the commitment,” I insist. “The commitment was made for me. And it was made before I was in middle school with my own life and friends and activities here.”

  Mom gives me an enormous sigh. “As I’ve told you, I know the setup isn’t ideal. But someday, you’re going to be glad that your dad and Asher and Amelia and Amy are in your life. At least, that’s my hope. So now, as hard as it is at times, I think you have to follow through. But like I said—you can take this up with your father.”

  “Ugh,” I groan, retrieving my phone and heading toward the stairs.

  “So no more helping with dinner?” Mom yells after me.

  “I have to call Dad!” But when I get to my room, I do anything I can to avoid calling Dad. I browse my phone, I rearrange my bookshelf, I straighten the Colby posters on my wall, I even read an extra chapter of our assigned reading, all to put off the conversation. I procrastinate so long that I still haven’t placed the call by the time we sit down for dinner. And Mom, to her credit, doesn’t ask about it.

  But she does ask about Jada.

  “Nothing’s changed. We’re not speaking,” I explain curtly.

  “Not at all?” Mom asks, mixing the food around on her plate.

  “It’s fine,” I say. “It is what it is.”

  “It’s not fine, Wy,” Mom says. “I can tell by your face that it’s not fine. And no amount of a cappella is going to make up for that.”

  “I thought you wanted me to try new things.”

  “I do,” she says. “And I’m proud of you for the initiative you’ve taken—for becoming a leader in this group. But that doesn’t mean you and Jada can’t be friends anymore. Friends can have different interests and different activities. That’s normal for growth and—”

  “Can we please not talk about this anymore?” I ask quietly. “You’ve told me all this. But I can’t fix it. Not right now, anyway.”

  “Okay,” Mom says. “I won’t bring it up again—as long as you promise to come to me when you’re ready to talk about it.”

  “I will.”

  “So what’s the deal with this contest?” I fill her in on the details, on the Colby-related prize, on the members of The Intermissions, on what we’ve done so far and what we need to accomplish before next Thursday. And once dinner is finished, I text Libby and tell her she can come over whenever she’s ready for our Non-Instrumental viewing.

  She arrives minutes later, and we settle on the couch, our eyes glued to the screen. But soon after Colby’s introduction, my phone begins ringing in my pocket. I pull it out and look at the screen.

  Jada.

  I think about not answering. About playing hard to get. About making Jada grovel for my forgiveness. But my curiosity—and truthfully, my relief at hearing from her—wins out, and I hightail it toward my room, calling, “Be right back!” over my shoulder.

  “Hello?” I answer tentatively, but I only hear loud breathing. Is this some kind of prank? “Hello?” I repeat, more hostile this time.

  “Wylie?” Jada’s voice. Only it sounds different. Faraway and sort of weak.

  “Yeah?” I respond, not sure about her intentions. Is she with her new theatre people friends? Is this some sort of setup?

  “It’s me,” Jada says, as if I don’t know. But with those two words, Jada betrays something else: tears. I hear them in her voice.

  “What’s wrong?” I ask immediately.

  “I miss you. And . . . and,” she stammers. “And I really need my best friend right now.”

  “What’s wrong?” I repeat. “What happened?”

  “It’s the musical.” She gasps for breath, trying to regain composure. “I lost my part.”

  “What do you mean? Like the script?”

  “No, the role itself,” Jada says. “I’m not playing Tallulah anymore.”

  “Why not?”

  “It’s a long story,” she begins. “Tallulah has a big tap dance number at the end of the first act. And I couldn’t get it. I tried and I tried and I practiced and I practiced—all week, constantly—and I was still terrible.”

  “So you quit?” I ask, and a part of me—the part that is mad at Jada—feels like gloating. But the other part—the part that is still Jada’s friend—hates to hear her so upset.

  “No, they assigned me a different part. In the chorus.”

  “So that’s good, right?” I ask. “It’s not like you got kicked out entirely.”

  “I have three lines in the entire show!” Jada whines. “And not a single song. What’s the point of being in a musical without any music?”

  “But you’re in the show. Isn’t that what you wanted?”

  “I don’t know. Without getting to sing, it’s not that fun anymore. I kind of want to . . . stop.” I climb onto my bed and prop myself up with pillows, sensing this conversation isn’t going to end quickly. “I didn’t expect it to be so hard.”

  “Then leave,” I suggest. “You shouldn’t do something that makes you miserable. It’s not worth it.”

  “I sort of want to. But I also don’t want to look like a quitter, like I couldn’t handle it. I’d probably be banned from future shows, and what if I want to try out for the spring musical?”

  “Then don’t quit. Not exactly,” I say. “Offer your role to someone else. Are there others who would want it?”

  “Definitely. They cut a ton of people at the auditions.”

  “Then say you’d like to give another person the opportunity to be in the show,” I begin, “because you’re joining a different musical group: The Intermissions.” I blurt out the idea before giving myself time to consider it.

  “A cappella?” Jada asks. “I’ve never done a cappella.”

  “Neither have any of the rest of us. That’s the beauty of it,” I tell her. “Come on. You wouldn’t want me to get to speak to Colby without you, would you?”

  “What are you talking about?” Jada asks suspiciously, and I tell her about the contest, convince
d that this is the perfect plan for getting us back on track. Because if Jada joins The Intermissions, it would mean that our friendship has returned to normal, that things haven’t changed, that this week has been a fluke, that we’re best friends again and always will be.

  That is, I sincerely hope that’s what it would mean.

  After I hang up the phone, I practically skip back to the living room, the relief of Jada and me being on speaking terms lightening my gait.

  “Sorry about that,” I say, flopping down beside Libby. “Jada was having a crisis.”

  “So you two are friends again?”

  “It seems that way. Fingers crossed. Did you see the Staccato Skaters?”

  “Yeah, they were good,” Libby replies glumly, rising from the couch. “I better get home.”

  “But there are still twenty minutes left,” I point out. “And you haven’t seen Colby’s closing number.”

  “I’ll watch it later,” Libby says as my phone dings with a text. I look down and find a message from Jada: Is Mason still in the group?

  Yes, I answer. But he’s been on his best behavior. Seriously. And believe it or not, he has a nice voice.

  And you really think we can get on TV?

  You mean win a call with COLBY CASH? I reply. Hello, priorities! We’ve been waiting our whole lives to talk to him! Jada doesn’t respond right away, and I stare at my screen expectantly. Well? What’s the verdict?

  Okay, she finally answers. I think I want to do it.

  Leave the musical?

  And join The Intermissions. Can we talk more about it at lunch?

  Sure, I say. The group has started eating together in the red cafeteria, so you can join us.

  No, just you and me, Jada says. In our regular spot. I need some quality Wylie time.

  Okay, I respond with a smiley face. I’m glad we’re back to normal again.

  Me too. See you tomorrow.

  I place my phone on the couch, grinning with satisfaction. “Libby?” I call.

  “I heard her leave!” Mom answers from upstairs.

  “Okay.” I settle back and fast-forward to Colby’s song, feeling more content than I have in days. And it’s not until later that night, right when I’m about to fall asleep, that I realize I completely forgot to call Dad.

  * * *

  Jada stands at our locker bank before Wednesday afternoon’s rehearsal, jittery like a caffeinated poodle. “I did it. I resigned from the musical. I can’t believe it. What if it was a mistake? Do you know how many people would kill to be in the musical? Do you realize the number of people they cut? What if this was my one chance, and I blew it?”

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa.” I hold up my hands like a human stop sign. “Remember: You wanted to join the musical to sing—they weren’t going to let you sing.”

  “Yes, but maybe I should have suffered through it.” Jada begins chewing on the side of her thumb, twitchy with worry. “I still would have been in the show itself, and—”

  “Jada.” I stop her again. “You’re a fantastic singer. You’re probably the best singer I know. Well, besides Colby, obviously.” I pet one of the head shots in my locker.

  “Obviously,” Jada echoes, looking slightly more still.

  “In The Intermissions, you can sing. Which is what you wanted to do in the first place, correct?” I shut my locker and we begin making our way toward the red cafeteria.

  “Yes,” Jada says thoughtfully. “The other members, are they good singers? I know you are, but how about the rest? Will they be better than me?”

  “No,” I tell her defiantly, recognizing that she requires a boost of confidence. “You’ll be one of the best, without question. Possibly even the best.”

  “Okay, good,” Jada says as we enter. “That’s what I needed to hear.” She walks away to deposit her bags on a table.

  “You didn’t answer my text.” Libby confronts me, blocking my path. “What happened to you at lunch?”

  “Sorry. I was with Jada. I meant to tell you.”

  “Wait, is she joining the group?” Mason appears beside us, motioning in Jada’s direction.

  “I thought she was in the musical,” Libby adds.

  “She quit—sorry, resigned from—the musical,” I say, and then I turn to Mason. “No funny business. I’m begging you.”

  “I can’t make any promises,” he tells me with his typical smirk, and we assemble in front of the piano, Libby on one side of me and Mason on the other. Jada marches up and gives Mason a glaring once-over before stepping into the narrow space between Libby and me.

  “Jada,” Mrs. Nieska begins, “I didn’t realize you’d be joining us. Welcome.”

  “Thank you,” Jada says as those to our left shift over to make room.

  “I assume you know about the tight deadline we’re under?” Mrs. Nieska asks. “With the Non-Instrumental contest?”

  “Yes, I heard from Wylie,” Jada answers. “She’ll stop at nothing to get Colby Cash’s attention.” She laughs at her own remark as some of the others snicker, and I feel my face redden. I look down at the floor, trying to push aside the mocking tone I heard in Jada’s voice.

  “Okay, then,” Mrs. Nieska begins, hitting a deafening chord on the piano. “What would you say is the most important aspect of any successful a cappella group?” She looks at each of us one by one. “Yes, Oliver?”

  “Working together?” he guesses.

  “Nope. Audrey?”

  “Finding the correct harmonies?”

  “Nah. Mason?”

  “General musicianship?”

  “No,” Mrs. Nieska declares. “All of those are vital, yes. But the most important aspect of a cappella—really, of any singing—is breathing.” She comes around the piano so that she’s standing in the center of us. “And just like anything, to become a more successful breather, you need to practice. So, breathing exercises.” She lifts her arms as if conducting an orchestra. “Watch me carefully. When I expand my arms out to the sides, that’s your cue to take a breath. When I bring them back to the middle, release that breath through your mouth. Let’s try.” Slowly, she pushes her arms out on either side, and the seven of us take deep breaths.

  “Now hold it,” Mrs. Nieska calls, “until I bring my arms back to the center.” Silence fills the cafeteria, our lungs struggling not to breathe, until Mason lets out a sputtering belch, causing a domino effect of cascading laughter.

  “Sorry, sorry,” he says. “I swear that wasn’t on purpose.”

  “Yeah, right,” Jada jeers, the only one, including Mrs. Nieska, who doesn’t look remotely amused by Mason’s accidental outburst.

  “Let’s try again,” Mrs. Nieska instructs once we’ve calmed down, and she extends her arms out. Without incident this time, we hold our collective breath until she collapses them at her sides, signaling us to release. “Excellent,” she says. “Now let’s do it again, and make sure you’re paying attention—I’m going to vary how long you have to hold it.” We go through the exercise multiple times, at faster paces, slower paces, with shorter breaths and longer breaths. Until the seven members of The Intermissions are eventually breathing as one.

  * * *

  “So are we actually going to sing today?” Jada asks as we walk to Thursday’s rehearsal. “There’s only so long I can learn to breathe.”

  “We sang yesterday,” I remind her.

  “One note at a time so we could follow Mrs. Nieska’s hand movements? I wouldn’t exactly call that singing. I literally did more in the musical, and I was cut from every song.”

  “We have to start somewhere,” I say defensively. “And Mrs. Nieska knows what she’s doing—she did a cappella in college.”

  “Yeah, but that was decades ago,” Jada says. “I don’t think 1980s college a cappella is the same as Non-Instrumental national television a cappella.”

  “Shhh.” I shush her as we enter the red cafeteria. “I think she’s doing a great job.”

  “We have—what?—one week left to
pull together a video?” Jada asks. “Do you truly think you’re going to get your Colby call by learning how to breathe for two hours?” With that, she gallops ahead to the piano and asks Mrs. Nieska, “So are we going to sing a song today?”

  “Perhaps,” Mrs. Nieska answers. “One step at a time. But speaking of which, I’d like to hear your voice on its own to get an idea of your style. I had a chance to experience everyone else’s on the first day.”

  “Sure. What do you want me to sing?” Jada asks, and I settle onto a bench as the rest of the group filters in. “I could do ‘Somewhere Over the Rainbow,’ or a song from Wicked—‘Defying Gravity,’ maybe?”

  “ ‘Row, Row, Row Your Boat,’ ” Mrs. Nieska answers. “Like everyone else did.”

  “Seriously?” Jada asks.

  “Serious as a heart attack,” Mrs. Nieska answers, and I hear Mason snort. “But follow my conducting. Stay on my rhythm.” She raises her arms to guide Jada, expanding them to signal that Jada should take a breath. Jada does so obediently, and when Mrs. Nieska begins waving her arms down, in, out, and up, cueing the beats of the song, Jada sings, “Row, row, row your boat . . . ,” following Mrs. Nieska perfectly. Her tone is strong, dynamic, and a tad higher than mine. She has an excellent voice, definitely. She always has.

  And from the way she’s singing—shoulders back, chin in the air, feet square on the ground—I get an uneasy feeling that she knows it, that the insecurity she expressed only yesterday has vanished, replaced by an overt confidence.

  The confidence of a solo artist in a room full of people meant to sing as one.

  “Okay, I need some volunteers,” Mrs. Nieska announces later during rehearsal while distributing lyric sheets. “Who wants to take the first line?” Jada shoots her hand in the air, but Mrs. Nieska calls on Mason. “Mason, terrific. I think you’ll be perfect to start this off.” We have just listened to the song Mrs. Nieska chose for us—“Somebody to Love”—three times so we could get a sense of the melody. “Now look,” she continues. “Think of this as an experiment. I expect it to be a mess today, tomorrow, maybe even after that. But if we stick with it, and we focus specifically on this song, I believe we will nail a performance successful enough to submit to Non-Instrumental.”