This makes me laugh. “You’re probably right. But do me a favor and don’t do anything too outrageous. I can’t take another breakup of The Intermission Overtures.”
“Deal,” Mason replies, reaching out his hand to shake mine as the opening chords of the Non-Instrumental theme song fill the den.
“It’s on!” Libby announces happily. “Mason, can you turn it up?” Mason walks away as my phone vibrates with a new photo text from Dad. Zooming in, I see Asher gripping Mister Kitters—er, Fluffy—around the neck. Wishing you luck at tomorrow’s recording! Dad has written beneath it.
“Wylie, get over here!” Jada calls. “We’re taking a group portrait.” I hurry over and jump into the shot, surrounded by the people I feel lucky to call my own. And as Abigail snaps our photo, I find my grin widening ever further, a smile framed in friendship.
For our Non-Instrumental taping, we decide to record in the place where the twelve of us came together as a group: our newly claimed cafeteria table. We stand around it, trying to figure out the best way to arrange ourselves.
“What if half of us stand on a bench, and the other half on a table?” Mason suggests.
“That’s even more terrifying than the risers,” I tell him.
“And I don’t want to be responsible for any of you cracking your noses when the table buckles,” Mrs. Nieska adds.
“Then how about we sit on the benches?” Libby offers. “Six on one side, six on the other, facing the middle?”
“It might be hard to hear one another that way,” Abigail counters.
“Wait, I have an idea,” I say, stepping onto a bench and then sitting on the table, my back toward its center. “Now someone else, sit behind me and face the other way.”
“It should be Jada,” Libby says, “since you two are singing together.”
Jada follows my directions, and once she’s in the appropriate position, I tell her to lean her back against mine. “Get it? Like ‘Lean on Me’? We’re giving them a visual.”
“Brilliant,” Jada says. “Do you think it will work on camera?”
“We can ask my dad when he gets here,” Libby says. “But it’s a great idea.”
“Why don’t the rest of you get into place so we can see how it sounds when you sing?” Mrs. Nieska suggests. The remaining ten slide onto the table beside Jada and me, five on one side and five on the other, all back-to-back. As we finish assembling, Libby’s dad walks in towing a bag of camera equipment.
“Let’s do a run-through while we wait for Mr. Soleil to set up,” Mrs. Nieska says. She cues us, and we begin, raising our voices so that they fill the massive space. With this setup, I can’t hear Jada during our duet as well as I would like, but I still think we do okay.
And clearly, so does Libby’s dad, since he bursts into passionate applause the second the song is over. The twelve of us high-five and congratulate each other, and then we look toward Mrs. Nieska expectantly, waiting for a compliment. Instead, we find her resting her chin in her hand, her brow furrowed and her glasses drooping perilously close to the tip of her nose.
“What’s wrong?” I call out as the rest of The Intermission Overtures grow silent.
“I’m just . . . thinking,” Mrs. Nieska says.
“We weren’t good?” Jada asks.
“You guys were great,” Mrs. Nieska says. “But the acoustics might be a problem. Especially with you facing two different directions.”
“We don’t have to arrange ourselves like this,” I say. “If you think we’d be better off—”
“I think it’s the room,” Mrs. Nieska interrupts. “It’s too cavernous in here, and the sound is getting lost. We might be better off on the stage.”
My stomach flips at this news, and even though Mason is sitting right beside me, when he speaks, it sounds like he’s light-years away, my ears cloudy with worry. “What about the red cafeteria?” he suggests.
“That will be the same problem,” Mrs. Nieska says. “Rooms this big absorb sound, like it’s swallowed up the second it’s released. Let me see if the musical is rehearsing on the stage today. If they’re not, that would be a better option.” She walks toward the exit, and as everyone else stands, I grab Libby’s elbow.
“No risers, right?” I whisper urgently. “Promise me you won’t let them go on the risers.”
“You’ll be fine, whatever it is,” Libby tells me. “You know why?”
“Why?”
“Because you’ve got us to lean on,” she says, and then she laughs uproariously at her own joke. With that, the nerves fluttering inside me slow their flight ever so slightly. Proof, I suppose, that sometimes, all it takes is one friend to have your back, whether or not they’re leaning against it.
* * *
The Intermission Overtures assemble in the wings of the stage as Mrs. Nieska and Mr. Soleil fuss with the camera equipment. I bend my knees over and over, willing myself to hold it together. You did this three days ago, I assure myself. The fear is behind you. You’ve cured yourself. But my pep talk fails to bring the jitters to a halt.
“Hey.” Libby appears next to me. “You won’t fall. We won’t let you. I promise.”
“What’s going on?” Jada approaches us, and after taking one look at me, she continues, “Oh no, not this again.” She shoves her arm around mine, forming a tight link with my elbow. “You’ve got this,” she asserts, in a tone that makes it impossible to argue. Libby grabs my other arm and fastens herself to my side, gesturing for Oliver to join us. One by one, we line up, attached in a single chain.
“Are you guys ready?” Mrs. Nieska calls from the audience, and I lift my chin high, attempting to bolster myself with newfound bravery.
“We’re ready!” I call back, and we tread to the center of the stage, swinging ourselves around until we’re facing the front, Jada and me positioned in the middle. As I look out at the rows of empty seats, the anxiety melts away, squashed by the pressure of my friends’ grips clasped around me. On Mrs. Nieska’s cue, we begin singing, the words of “Lean on Me” reverberating off the insulated walls.
Lean on me, when you’re not strong,
And I’ll be your friend. I’ll help you carry on.
With Jada on one side and Libby on the other, the meaning behind the lyrics resonates even more strongly. As Jada and I sail through our duet, I have flashbacks of the dozens of songs we’ve performed as a pair. In what feels like an instant, The Intermission Overtures reach the final measure. And as we belt the last note proudly, I’m awed by how far we’ve come, deciding that, no matter what happens with the contest, I couldn’t be more grateful that it has brought us together.
* * *
“Do you have the first two episodes of this season’s Non-Instrumental saved?” Jada asks as we make our way to Mrs. Nieska’s classroom to gather our belongings, our rendition of “Lean on Me” safely preserved on Mr. Soleil’s camera.
“Of course,” I say. “I couldn’t bring myself to delete Colby so soon.”
“I’d like to see them,” Jada says. “We could even update the scrapbook, if you want. It must be gathering dust.”
“Wait a minute.” I stop short in the middle of the hall. “I can’t believe I forgot to tell you. Remember when Asher and Amelia stayed at my house?” Jada nods. “Amelia decided to use our scrapbook as her personal coloring book. So there are now four-year-old scribbles all over Colby’s face.” Jada laughs loudly at this, which makes me laugh too. “Maybe it’s the universe’s way of saying that our Colby days really are behind us. It’s like the end of an era.”
“Wylie!” Libby screeches, and I whirl around. She runs up to us at full speed, Abigail trailing behind her. “Look, look, look!” Libby thrusts Abigail’s phone in my face, the group portrait we took at Mason’s house filling the screen.
“Yeah, it’s cute,” I say. “I’m going to print it out and hang it on my—”
“LOOK WHO LIKED IT!” Libby yells at full volume. I scroll down, where I find Colby’s screen name
staring back at me.
“No way!” I exclaim, turning the phone toward Jada. “How did he even see it?!”
“When I posted it, I added the hashtag for the Non-Instrumental contest,” Abigail explains as Audrey joins us. “He must have found it that way.”
“Maybe now he’ll look for our video!” Libby says. “Come on. We have to show the others.” She grabs Abigail’s phone from my hand and the three of them take off.
“Well,” Jada begins with a chuckle, “so much for the end of an era, huh?”
“It’s like Colby’s giving us a sign,” I agree. “That we shouldn’t give up on him yet.”
“Looks like you created another fan.” Jada points after Libby. “Maybe she’s going to want to take over the scrapbook with you. Kick me out of the equation.” I can tell that she’s trying to say this jokingly, but there’s a tinge of concern behind her words.
“No. Colby will always be our thing,” I tell her forcefully. “You, me, and Libby, we can find our own thing. As a trio.” Jada doesn’t say anything, and I’m momentarily afraid this is going to lead to another argument, and so soon after we’ve reconciled.
But after a second, she responds, “That sounds good,” and I smile at her appreciatively. “But now I have a request for you,” she continues. “While we’re being inclusive, can we draw a line when it comes to Mason? I don’t want to have to deal with him any more than necessary.”
The corners of my mouth creep up into a smirk, recalling Mason’s and my conversation from last night. “I won’t invite him to join us without telling you,” I assure her. “But I can’t promise that we won’t hang out with him someday. I swear he’s not so bad. He’s kind of nice.”
“Yeah, right. I think all of this a cappella is starting to scramble your brain cells, Wy,” Jada teases me, throwing her arm around my shoulders as we enter Mrs. Nieska’s classroom, where we find the rest of The Intermission Overtures milling around, chattering about Abigail’s photo.
And as thankful as I am to have Jada back, I can’t help but think that if it hadn’t been for our fight, this brand-new group of friends may never have existed. So maybe Mom was right—that even in the closest friendships, it’s valuable, every once in a while, to step away from your best friend’s side in order to discover what you can conquer by yourself. To find your own voice before blending it back together again, this time in perfect harmony.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
A crescendo of thanks to Alyson Heller, who never fails to find the narrative melody.
A vibrato of appreciation to Charlie Olsen, who constantly knows how to bring out the harmony.
And a round of applause to Mara Anastas, Fiona Simpson, Faye Bi, Elizabeth Mims, Jessica Handelman, Cat Hayden, and the rest of the Aladdin team, for always managing to make a book SING!
If you loved Sing Like Nobody’s Listening, read on for a peek at
Allison Gutknecht
The worst thing about my sister is her smile.
It’s not that it’s a bad smile—it’s a great smile, actually. One of the best there is. It’s the kind of smile that seems ever-present, even when Arden is scowling. I would think the expression “she can light up a room” was a load of baloney, if it weren’t for Arden’s sparkle of a mouth. And the worst part is she didn’t even do anything to deserve it—not really, anyway. She was gifted with picket fence–straight teeth, with a coat of white shine to match.
I, however, have the kind of teeth that require four years of braces just for the mere hope that they might someday end up not being an abject disaster. This is the injustice of my life.
Arden is flashing one of her signature smiles toward me at the moment, all while lounging on my window seat with her feet propped up on the grids of the glass pane.
Which she knows I hate.
“Get your hooves off my window,” I tell her, scrolling absentmindedly through the PhotoReady app on my phone. “You’re smudging my view.”
“I’d hardly call this a view,” Arden argues. “A bunch of trees and a rusty old swing set.” I click out of PhotoReady and open the camera, aiming it in Arden’s direction.
“Say cheese,” I coo in a singsong voice. I pretend to snap a picture as Arden turns her head in my direction. Her feet fly off the window as she scrambles to stand.
“Don’t you dare post that.” She leaps across the room and flops onto the bed next to me. I roll in the opposite direction until my feet hit the floor, phone still in my hand, then I walk to the window and make a great display of lifting one of the throw pillows to clean her toe print off the glass. But at the last second, I snap a photo of it instead.
“Um, what are you doing?” Arden asks.
“Taking a picture of the mark your man-toes made,” I say. “It could probably be studied in the Museum of Natural History.”
Arden crosses her arms and stomps her foot against my bedspread. “Delete the photo,” she tells me in her best principal voice. “Now.”
“Oh, calm down,” I tell her, settling onto the window seat and texting the toe-print shot to my best friend, Celia, with the caption, For your heart collection, before quickly deleting it.
“Prove you erased it,” Arden says, reaching for my phone. I toss it on the bed beside her and watch her examine my albums. Satisfied, she slides it away from her. “Here’s a rule for Florida—only take good pictures of me.” I snort. “Or better yet, don’t take pictures of me at all. That’s the only way I’ll know I’m safe. I mean, the worst pictures of me ever taken are the ones from spring break.” Arden pulls at the ends of her thick, dark curls, twirling one around her finger. It is true that every single year, the second Arden steps off the plane and into the Florida humidity, her hair frizzes up like a beehive. What is not true is that this frizz results in bad pictures of her—maybe slightly worse than usual, but still not bad.
After all, she has that smile.
In contrast to Arden’s mane, my hair only seems to grow limper in the Florida heat. Really, between our teeth and our hair, no one would ever believe Arden and I were sisters. As wild and unruly as Arden’s hair is, mine is equally as fine and straight. “Strawberry blond” is what everyone calls it, though in the wrong light, it tends to look baby pink, like the color of a newborn girl’s nursery.
And for some reason, the Florida sun is definitely the “wrong light” for my hair.
“Well, I’m sure the Backgammon Bandits and the Pinochle Posse won’t mind me taking their pictures,” I say.
Arden sighs. “What’s the point of living in Florida if you don’t live on the beach?” she asks. “Or at least near a beach.”
“Or near Disney World,” I add. “I’d settle for Disney World.” Our grandparents have managed to pick the only place in Florida that is far from a beach, far from Disney World, and far from anything but their own retirement community. When Arden and I were little, the place seemed like a giant adventure. Our grandparents’ home became our private village for the week, complete with pools and tennis courts and mysterious games like croquet and shuffleboard. But after twelve years of this annual spring break trip, I had had about all I could handle of backgammon and pinochle.
I walk across the room to retrieve my phone, and then I open PhotoReady again. At the very top of my feed is Arden’s toe print—Celia has posted it with the label #CeliaHeartsNYC, courtesy of @AvalonByTheC. I smirk, more grateful than ever that Arden doesn’t have a PhotoReady account. I’m sure she wouldn’t be pleased to know that her enormous feet marks got a featured mention in Celia’s photography project.
“What’re you smiling at?” Arden asks.
“Celia’s comment on my picture of Jelly,” I lie.
Arden rolls her eyes. “You two and your dumb cat photos . . . ,” she says, sliding herself off my bed. “I’ll leave you alone to be weird by yourself.” I climb onto my mattress the second Arden is gone, lying on my back with my knees bent. I hold my phone over my face, flipping through people’s pictures. Without Arden, my ro
om is so quiet that when my phone dings with a new e-mail, I nearly drop it on my nose.
I sit up to open my inbox, and three words catch my eye instantly: Congratulations from PhotoReady! Suddenly anxious, my fingers seem to move in slow motion as I open the body of the e-mail:
Dear Avalon Kelly,
Congratulations! You have been selected to take part in this year’s junior high PhotoReady retreat (the “PhotoRetreat”) in New York City!
My eyes only land on every third word as I read, the entire e-mail beginning to swim together into a gigantic blur. I start pacing the floor in a semicircle, around my bed, from one wall to the other, and then back. I hold my phone in front of me, hoping that with every lap, I’ll be better able to concentrate on its contents, but I only seem to grow more nervous.
Celia and I had applied to this PhotoRetreat—a one-week getaway to New York for seventh- and eighth-grade PhotoReady users—a few months ago. For consideration, you had to use the app to create your own photo project, which is how #CeliaHeartsNYC came to be. Celia had made it her mission to photograph hearts she found “in the wild”—those created by the cream in our science teacher’s coffee, or by two perfectly folded book pages, or in the snow or with sidewalk chalk, or from a bent toilet paper roll. Celia was determined for us to both get accepted into the PhotoRetreat, because “how much fun would it be to spend a week in New York City together?” And while the retreat sounded exciting in theory, in practice, the whole thing made me uneasy. A week away from home, in a new city, with new people, and completely foreign routines? As much as I loved PhotoReady, did I really love it enough to justify five full days away from my comfort zone?
When Celia and I were both wait-listed a few weeks ago, part of me had been relieved. After all, Celia couldn’t say I hadn’t tried—I had created my own photo project just like she had. Mine was called #IfYouJustSmile, and I had taken close-ups of different parts of my face and then posted two pictures side by side: one where I hadn’t been smiling, and another where I had. It showed the squint of my eyes, the crinkles along the sides of my nose, the indentations around my mouth, all of which formed the second I smiled. But in the pictures, I had never actually shown my mouth. Because we already know the problem there.
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