Sing Like Nobody's Listening

by Allison Gutknecht

  I nod, fearing that I’m walking into a trap. “I don’t like having to drop everything,” I explain, trying not to sound angry. “I have to miss a lot.”

  “Like what? Birthday parties and stuff?”

  “Sometimes, but that’s always been the case. It’s more the big things. Like this weekend, I needed to be home. And you wouldn’t listen to me.”

  “I’m listening now,” Dad says, his eyes gentle, open. Listening.

  “It’s just, with my a cappella group—we had a rough week. We’re on a deadline, and we needed to rehearse this weekend. And with me here, we can’t. So the whole group is in limbo.”

  “You’re in an a cappella group? I didn’t know that.”

  “My friend and I started it. There are only six of us, so if one person is missing, it’s a big deal.”

  “And what’s this deadline you’re referring to?” Dad asks.

  “The TV show Non-Instrumental—they’re having a contest. But the last day to submit a video is Thursday, and we’re definitely not ready. Though that may not even matter anymore, because we might be disqualified.”

  “Why’s that?”

  I sigh. “It’s a long story. There’s another a cappella group at our school, and the contest rules state that only one group per organization can enter. So if that group also submits a video, we’ll both be disqualified.”

  “Can’t you coordinate with that other group?” Dad asks.

  “It’s more complicated than that. No one is talking to one another. It’s a whole thing.”

  “Sounds very . . . dramatic,” Dad says, just as a deafening “I BEAT YOU!” rings through the window. Dad shakes his head. “Those two. Everything’s a competition with them.”

  “Seems to be the theme of my week.” I begin to pull my hair into a ponytail before stopping midway, halted by a new idea. “Wait, that could do it.”

  “What could do what?”

  “We could compete,” I say, “for a chance to enter the contest.”

  Dad scrunches his face, thinking. “Like a sing-off?”

  “A sing-off!” I sit up straighter. “Then judges could decide who should represent the school.”

  “You came up with all that based on their scooter race?”

  “Does it make sense?” I ask.

  “It seems like a fair way to solve the problem,” Dad agrees. “So see? Coming here wasn’t a total loss, now, was it?”

  I look at him straight-on, relaxed but firm. “I wasn’t asking to never come again. I was asking to switch weekends. But you wouldn’t hear me out. You never hear me out.” I say this last line more quietly.

  “ ‘Never’ is a big word,” Dad says. “I would hope that sometimes, I do. But from now on, I’m going to make it more than ‘sometimes.’ ” When I don’t respond, he continues, “Maybe I force things too much. Like I’m afraid if I let you skip one weekend, it will turn into a second, and then a third. And pretty soon, you’ll be graduating middle school, and then high school, and I’ll barely know you anymore. I want to know you, Wylie.”

  “But you haven’t known me that well for a while,” I tell him honestly. “Not since Asher was born, anyway. You didn’t even know about Mister Kitters.” Dad gives me a questioning look. “Fluffy,” I clarify. “Asher’s Fluffy. That was my favorite stuffed animal. I brought him everywhere. But I must have left him here one weekend when Asher was a baby, and you didn’t realize who he was. So you gave Mister Kitters to Asher. If you had known me well, you would have recognized Mister Kitters.”

  Dad’s face falls, the lines around his mouth growing deeper, and at once, I feel bad. He’s trying—truly trying—and I’m still insistent on bringing up the past.

  “I know you want to know me,” I continue, attempting to smooth things over, “but I don’t always feel like myself here. Sometimes it’s as if I’m living a double life, like I have to pretend the one at home doesn’t exist for two weekends every month.”

  Dad nods. “I know you may think that I don’t, but I do understand how this setup can be hard. As you get older and take part in more activities, I’m sure conflicts are going to come up more often. But I promise to listen so we can work something out. Okay?”

  “Okay,” I say. “Thank you.”

  “And I think you’re right about coming here. You don’t feel as comfortable as we would all like because we don’t talk much when you’re not here. So let’s try to keep the lines of communication open—going both ways—so that these weekends feel like less of an obligation for you. When something big happens in your life—you starting your own a cappella group, for instance—I want to hear about it. But I want to hear about the little things too. Your day-to-day things. And same goes for me. It can be through texts, if that’s what’s easiest. Though you know phone calls are welcome too.”

  “I like texting. To everyone—not just you—so don’t be offended.”

  “No offense taken,” Dad says with a smile. “So would it help if I brought you back to Willow Oak today instead of tomorrow? Do you think your group could still get together?”

  “Really? I can text them and ask. Can I see what they say and let you know?”

  “Absolutely,” Dad says. “Before you leave, though, we need to do one thing: pick a date for the family Christmas card picture. You know Amy isn’t going to let that go.”

  “Let me know the date options, and I’ll make it work,” I tell him, rising from the couch. “And thank you, by the way. For understanding.”

  “And you, too,” Dad says as I retreat up the stairs. I enter Amelia’s room to text The Intermissions, but first, I rustle around in my bag until I find what I’m looking for. I head across the hall and walk over to Asher’s dresser, clearing a place between his model airplanes and toy cars. And there, facing Asher’s bed, I place Fluffy back in his rightful home.

  Unfortunately, getting The Intermissions together over the weekend proves too tough to coordinate at the last minute. Instead, we decide that on Monday I’ll ask Mrs. Nieska if she thinks holding a sing-off against The Overtures is plausible. After all, if she says no, then there’s no rush to rehearse. But if she says yes? Then we have a chance. A slim chance, but a chance nonetheless.

  “If The Overtures are also planning to submit a video, then I do think a sing-off is a good way to resolve the dilemma,” she says, studying the school calendar hanging on her board. “There’s a Student Council meeting tomorrow in the auditorium—maybe they could judge? I’m not sure we have time to get the entire school involved.”

  “Mason and Abigail are both on Student Council,” I tell her. “I can ask them.”

  “And I’ll check with their advisor,” Mrs. Nieska says. “But in the meantime, tell everyone to come prepared to work their puppy tails off at rehearsal today.”

  “Will do!” I call as I leave. And as I retreat down the hall toward homeroom, I try to ignore the one dreaded word Mrs. Nieska had mentioned: “auditorium.”

  I have good news and I have bad news, I text Libby.

  Good news first, she replies.

  Mrs. Nieska thinks the sing-off is a great idea. She suggested we do it at the Student Council meeting tomorrow.

  Amazing! We should totally have a leg up with two Council members in our group!

  Yes, fingers crossed, I reply.

  Then what’s the bad news?

  The Student Council meetings take place in the auditorium, I write.

  And?

  I stare at my screen, not believing she’s not picking up on the problem. I can’t get on that stage. Not again. Not so soon. Actually, not ever.

  Like I said, we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it, she answers.

  Libby. We are at the bridge. Crossing it is the issue.

  You have a whole day to work up to it, she responds. Plus, I’ll be there. I won’t let you fall off. The bridge OR the stage.

  I send back a smiley face, though it doesn’t reflect my own worried expression.

  * * *
>
  “I have an update,” I announce when I reach The Intermissions’ lunch table. But before I can continue, Mrs. Nieska appears out of nowhere.

  “Problem,” she announces. “No, I shouldn’t say that. Just a . . . a slight hiccup.”

  “In other words, a problem,” Mason whispers to me.

  “What is it?” I ask. “We can’t do the sing-off?”

  “Oh no, we can,” Mrs. Nieska says. “It’s only . . . well, they changed the date of the Student Council meeting.”

  “Oh, that’s not an issue. I’m going to skip it today to come to rehearsal,” Abigail pipes up. “Mason, can’t you do the same?”

  “Wait, it’s today?” I ask. “I thought it was scheduled for tomorrow.”

  “They moved this month’s,” Mason says. “Why?”

  My face falls. “The sing-off. We were going to do it at the Student Council meeting.”

  “Which is now today?” Libby screeches. The table falls silent.

  “There’s no way we can do it today,” Audrey insists.

  “We were barely going to be ready by tomorrow,” Libby agrees.

  “We don’t even know the whole song,” I point out.

  “Listen, I know it’s not ideal,” Mrs. Nieska says, “but this is the fairest way to settle the problem.”

  “The fairest way would have been for Jada to never have formed her group in the first place,” Abigail corrects her.

  “And they definitely shouldn’t be entering the contest,” Audrey adds. “She wouldn’t even know about it if not for us.”

  “But she does know, and they’re planning on submitting a video,” Mrs. Nieska says. “Their faculty advisor said they’re insistent, even after knowing the disqualification rule.”

  “Maybe we should let them do it, then,” Libby says quietly. “They’ll win anyway. They’re theatre people. They know how to sing.”

  “There’s no way we’ll beat them without another rehearsal,” I say sadly. “Maybe we’re delaying the inevitable.”

  “I would hate to let Jada win,” Mason says. “But you two might be right. I feel like we’re fighting a losing battle.”

  “Guys, stop.” Oliver pounds his palms on the table. “We need to try. What do we have to lose?”

  “Um, our dignity?” Audrey asks.

  “We can do a shortened version of ‘Somebody to Love,’ ” Oliver continues. “We’ll do the beginning, the first verse, and the first chorus. We can handle that, right? Plus, we shouldn’t let Jada’s group win by default.”

  “That’s true,” Abigail says. “At least this way, we put up a fight. And you never know—maybe Student Council will play favorites and vote for their own.”

  When no one else speaks, I turn to Mrs. Nieska. “What do you think we should do?”

  “I think you sing,” she says immediately. “You sing like nobody’s listening.”

  I nod and lift my arm. “Raise your hand if you agree we should do the sing-off today. We won’t do it unless it’s unanimous.” Oliver raises his hand first, followed by Abigail, and then Audrey. I look over at Mason, and he waves his hand high. Which leaves only Libby.

  “This was your idea,” I remind her. “The contest, even the a cappella group itself.”

  “That part was your idea,” she counters.

  “Only because you planted the seed in my head.”

  “I just don’t want to be disappointed,” Libby says softly, “when we lose.”

  “There’s only one solution to that,” Mason tells her. “We don’t lose.”

  Libby smiles. “Easier said than done. But okay—if all of you think we should do it, then I do too.” She places her own hand in the air.

  “Then it’s settled,” I announce. “Today, we’ll sing like nobody’s listening. Because for all we know, nobody will be!”

  But by the time we reach the wings of the stage, the confidence I built up during lunch melts away. The back of my neck is tingly, my hands are cold, my forehead is hot, and my feet feel as heavy as cement-filled balloons.

  “I don’t think I can do this,” I whisper to Libby urgently.

  “Sure you can,” she says. “Pretend the Student Council members are in their underwear.”

  “It’s not that. It’s the stage—the lights. I feel it happening again.”

  At this, Libby grabs my wrists and looks me squarely in the eye. “Listen to me. That was a million years ago. That stage has nothing over you.”

  “We’re not going on the risers, are we?” I ask. “We never discussed our formation. I can’t go on the risers.”

  “Then we won’t go on the risers,” Mason pipes up behind me. And while I’m mildly embarrassed he’s overheard my freak-out, I’m too relieved at the phrase “won’t go on the risers” to care. “You’ve got this.”

  I release my wrists from Libby’s grasp and shake them out. Then I wiggle my ankles and roll my head, one way and then the other, trying to calm myself. “Here they come,” Oliver whispers, and we watch The Overtures walk to the center of the stage, all with large, phony smiles plastered on their faces.

  “They look plastic,” Audrey murmurs.

  “Wait—they have props?!” Abigail squeals, pointing to their top hats and canes. “How did they have time to pull together props?”

  “They probably stole them from the musical,” Mason guesses. “Just like they stole the a cappella idea from us.”

  The choral teacher blows a single tone into her pitch pipe, and The Overtures stand up straighter. Then, simultaneously, they lift their canes and begin banging the tips on the stage, once, twice, three times, cueing their own rhythm. Jada steps out in front of the group and sings a single word: “One!”

  “Singular sensation,” the rest of The Overtures join in.

  “They’re doing ‘One’ from A Chorus Line,” I whisper to Libby.

  “Is that a musical?” she asks, and I nod. “Of course.” She twirls the end of her braid around her finger as we turn our attention back to the stage. Besides singing—convincingly and in tune—The Overtures perform perfectly rehearsed choreography. They lift their top hats, they move about the stage in coordinated motions, and toward the end, they even form a kick line.

  “We might be in trouble,” Abigail says, not bothering to lower her voice as The Overtures come to a crescendo.

  “Yeah, there’s no way we can beat that,” Audrey agrees sadly.

  “We don’t have to beat that,” Oliver counters as the Student Council applauds. “We’re completely different from them. They’re all show, all razzmatazz. We have heart.”

  “Are we going on the risers?” Abigail asks. “Maybe that will make us look more professional, since we don’t have any choreography or props or—”

  “No! No risers!” I call out. “I’m begging you.”

  “I have a different idea,” Libby says, and she grabs Oliver with one hand and me with the other. “Mason, take Wylie’s hand. Audrey, take Mason’s. Abigail, Audrey’s.” We follow her directions as I hear Mrs. Nieska introducing us. “Now let’s go!” Libby calls excitedly, pushing Oliver onto the stage with a jolt. The two of them take off running toward the center, dragging the rest of us behind them like a tail. When we reach the middle, Libby drops my hand and places her right arm around my waist and her left around Oliver’s.

  “Now hold on to each other,” she hisses, and we do so obediently. I close my eyes and reopen them slowly, and the room before me remains steady, the faces of the Student Council members coming into sharper focus. My feet feel solid on the ground, my body stable with the arms of my friends gripping me securely.

  Libby nudges me. “See? You can’t fall off the stage with us holding on to you.” I smile widely, beyond grateful to have her—and the rest of The Intermissions—by my side. We turn to the front and watch for Mrs. Nieska’s cue. She leads us in taking a few deep breaths, and then she gives Mason the signal.

  “Can anybody find me . . . ,” he belts, his voice rising over the crowd an
d filling the auditorium. The rest of us open our mouths to join him. And though we may not have costumes or dance moves or one bit of polish, we sound strong. We’re not the most musical or the most prepared or the most well trained, but we are definitely in sync with one another. We’re one unit, six individual voices blending to create a singular sound, unique in its particular melody.

  * * *

  The Intermissions stand opposite The Overtures on stage to wait for the results, the chain of arms encircling our waists still unbroken.

  “They have to vote for us, don’t they?” Oliver whispers. “Is anyone from their group on Student Council?”

  “I’m not optimistic,” Abigail says quietly. “If they choose us, they might be afraid that The Overtures will protest on account of favoritism.”

  “Nothing like a rigged election,” Mason says wryly as the eighth-grade president approaches the microphone. The Intermissions seem to inhale as one as Mrs. Nieska gives us an encouraging thumbs-up.

  “After careful consideration,” the eighth grader begins, “the Student Council of Willow Oak Middle School has come to a vote. It was a tight race, a hard decision. But ultimately . . .”

  “Spit it out already,” Audrey mutters.

  “. . . we’ve reached the conclusion that the a cappella group who should represent our school in the Non-Instrumental contest is . . .” Our grips tighten around one another, tense with anticipation.

  “. . . The Overtures!”

  Jada’s group erupts in a chorus of whoops and cheers, and at Mrs. Nieska’s insistence, we clap halfheartedly. Without a word, we retreat offstage with Mrs. Nieska, who is insisting that we did a great job. And while I know she means it, I can’t help but be bothered that, in the end, it didn’t matter. Our hard work didn’t pay off. The Overtures won.

  Jada won.

  I look over to where they’re celebrating. Or at least, where five members of The Overtures are celebrating, as Jada stoops off to the side gathering her things. And while her licorice strands are mostly hiding her face, I can tell one thing: Jada looks miserable.