When we got off the bus, I tapped her on her shoulder.
“You have a beautiful voice,” I told her.
“Was I that loud?” she asked, embarrassed to be disturbing the peace.
“No, no—not at all. I only noticed it a few blocks ago because I was sitting right behind you.”
“Oh.” She looked relieved. “Thanks.” She put away her iPod and eyed my uniform. “You go to St. Claire, too? Freshman?”
“No, I’m a new sophomore—I transferred. I’m Mia Chambers.”
“Hey, nice to meet you, Mia—I’m Bonita Johnson, a junior.” She smiled timidly.
“You’ve been here since freshman year?” I asked as we started walking up the long hill together.
“Yeah.” She looked at me as if to say, And I know all about the culture shock you’re going through.
“What school did you transfer from?” Bonita was curious.
“East Orange City High.”
“Oh.” Her eyes lit up. “My cousin just graduated from there. You must not live too far from me—I’m from the north side of Newark.”
“Really?” I was excited to meet someone from my area. “So you’ve been doing this long commute for going on three years?”
“Yup.” Something in Bonita relaxed, because she didn’t seem as self-conscious anymore. She had a sweetness about her—I could easily see it in both her personality and her appearance. Bonita struck me as the kind of girl who unsuccessfully tried to downplay her good looks. But with her high cheekbones, defined nose, clear cocoa skin, and shiny jet-black hair, it was too tough to hide the pretty. “And I’ve been walking through my neighborhood in this uniform with a heavy book bag while everyone else is rocking the hottest gear,” she said.
“I’m starting to notice the stares they give me.” I nodded.
“The kids on my block think I must be some rich nerd because I go to private school,” she admitted. “If only they knew that I’m on a scholarship.”
“That whole ‘nerd’ thing is annoying,” I agreed. “Why is it considered uncool to care about your grades?”
“At the academy, it’s uncool not to care,” Bonita explained. “Anyway, I’m tired of frontin’—I’m trying to become the first doctor in my family.” She paused to think about her declaration. “The first professional in my family,” she confessed, almost to herself.
“I hear you.” I was impressed that she already knew what she wanted to pursue as a career. Not the case with me. All I knew was that I enjoyed tutoring Stacie and others in math. Maybe being a teacher was my calling.
“Dealing with the stereotypes some folks at the academy have about you is another story,” she continued.
“Humph.” My grandma’s loaded response was all I could muster.
Bonita and I walked in silence for a few minutes.
“Hey, ever hear that nineties rap song by A Tribe Called Quest called ‘Bonita Applebum’?” I asked her playfully.
“Yes, I know that song all too well.” She smiled. “It’s still my dad’s favorite—the remix version, that is. He named me after it.”
“Your dad sounds like a cool guy,” I told her.
Bonita reached up and tucked her chin-length hair behind her ear. She suddenly looked self-conscious again. Was it something I said? I thought.
“When’s your lunch period today?” I asked once we’d walked through the school’s front double doors.
“Fourth period.”
“Me, too. I’ll be in the cafeteria having lunch with Allie Snierson. You should join us.”
“Okay, see you then,” Bonita said as she turned to make her way down the hall to her locker. I headed in the opposite direction toward mine.
Bonita and Allie were already seated together by the time I got to the cafeteria. The know-it-all Emma Bishop was also in my A-level algebra class, and her last-minute question had kept everyone a few minutes after the bell. Our stern math teacher thought her answer was worth cutting into lunchtime. I just wanted out of that class so I could privately deep-breathe through my anxiety. I was close to hyperventilating when I realized the teacher was moving faster than I was used to. And things only got worse when the class repeated a math rule I’d never heard of that she’d taught them the year before. What was worse, they sounded like they were reciting some easy nursery rhyme. It felt like everyone except me raised their hands at least once during the fifty-minute class. If I couldn’t excel at the subject that was supposed to be my best, there was little hope of academic success at St. Claire Academy. I’d be known as the dumb transfer student from the hood—which probably wouldn’t come as a surprise to most people.
“We were beginning to think you got lost again,” Allie teased when I took a seat at their round cafeteria table.
“Oh, if there’s one thing I could always find, it’s the place where the food is,” I said, deciding that the best cure for my anxiety was to pretend it didn’t exist. Besides, I liked that I felt comfortable enough around Allie and Bonita to crack jokes.
“Well, then, it sounds like you’re the right friend for me,” Bonita giggled. “There’s always room in my heart for a fellow greedy girl. Welcome, my sister.”
“It sounds like I need a padlock on my lunch,” Allie covered her brown paper bag with both her arms and cowered in faux fear.
“I’ll tell you right now—if you packed tuna, don’t turn your back on it for not one second.” I pretended to act serious. “I’m scary, I tell ya.”
We all busted out laughing. This drew unwanted attention from the table where celeb-clone Jennifer Octavian and her friends sat. They stared at us for a beat, then turned to each other in a gaggle of whispers.
“It looks like the tabloid staff’s daily meeting is under way.” Allie rolled her eyes.
“Tomorrow’s headline: Joker’s Wild…Because She’s From East Orange,” I added.
“You guys are so corny.” Bonita laughed harder.
“I’ll tell you what’s corny,” Allie wiped her tears of laughter as she spoke. “I’m gonna try out for the winter production this year.”
“The school year just started and there’s already talk of a winter event?” I asked, incredulous. Must everything be so intense around here? I wondered.
“Tryouts are in less than two weeks because rehearsals go through October and November,” Bonita explained. “The annual show always has a touchy-feely, self-help slash socially conscious theme in honor of the holiday season.”
“It’s a big deal,” Allie said. “St. Claire is renowned for the productions it puts on. A former student was even scouted by a Broadway producer in the audience one year.”
“Yup, I remember that.” Bonita nodded and pointed. “That was cool, because usually the guys from the Mount get all the accolades.”
“The Mount?” I was confused for the umpteenth time today.
“That’s our brother school, Mount Yeager,” Bonita said. “They’re an all-boys’ high school not too far from here.”
“Oh,” I said simply.
“And this year we’ll be staging Merry Go Round,” Allie was thrilled to announce. But the name didn’t ring a bell for either of us. “It’s the off-Broadway musical that my amazing art teacher wrote! That’s why I just have to be a part of this.”
“Are you gonna try out for a major character role?” I was curious. I couldn’t picture Allie getting into any other character but the one she was born with.
“Auditions aren’t just for actors and singers,” she informed me. “I’m trying out for a set designer.”
“Oh,” I said simply again. Then I thought, Oh!
“What about auditions for the band or orchestra or whatever you call it here?”
“That’s going down at some point, too,” Bonita told me.
This was my chance to get in where I fit in. I didn’t want to go out being the mediocre urban student. While I worked on my grades, I’d sign up to audition for the winter musical’s mini-orchestra. My academic status mig
ht not have been up to par in a private suburban school, but my piano skills were. That I was sure of.
“Okay then, I’ll audition to be a pianist,” I said proudly.
“Really?” Bonita looked impressed. “You got it like that?”
“Nice.” Allie liked where this was going, so she decided to raise the stakes. “What about you, Bonita? Care to join us?”
“I’m not an artist or a musician, so I guess that leaves me out of this.” The shy Bonita was creeping back in. “But I’ll buy an opening-night ticket to show my support.”
“Not good enough,” Allie coaxed.
“I think you’re being modest,” I chimed in. “You have an amazing voice—I heard it this morning.”
“Bonita, you sing?” Allie looked at her, then at me.
“No, Allie—this girl saangs,” I corrected her.
The twinkle in Bonita’s eyes told us all we needed to know.
“Okay then,” Allie announced, holding up her hand for a high five. “Let’s use the next two weeks to sharpen our skills.”
“Word.” I accepted the challenge and met Allie’s palm with mine. We held that position while waiting on Bonita’s answer.
“People are gonna think we’re playing London Bridge or something if we stay like this,” I said.
Bonita raised her hand and touched ours.
“Let’s do this.” She sounded happier than I thought she’d be.
When the day of the mini-orchestra auditions came, I walked into the crowded auditorium feeling totally prepared. I eyed the attractive piano waiting on the stage and then looked around at the coed crowd, most of them sitting with instruments and sheet music in their hands. I wondered what music they planned to perform.
My piano teacher, Nadine had helped me select the perfect audition number: Alicia Keys’s “If I Ain’t Got You.” Then she agreed to train me for it. She scheduled me in for four lessons during the two weeks before my audition.
“You’re ready,” Nadine proudly told me on the fourth meeting. Her vote of confidence made me feel ten feet tall.
Too bad that feeling didn’t last. When the three members of the casting panel began calling people up to the stage, I was instantly blown away by everyone’s incredible talent. Virtuoso violinists, badass bassists, dope drummers. My only solace was that no pianist was called before me. Until Lin hit the stage.
It was like this girl Lin had ten fingers on each hand. Her quick range on the piano put me to shame. She played an extremely tricky classical piece that had one of the casting judges panting. And maybe it was just my vantage point, but it looked to me like Lin was talking on her Bluetooth while she played. I could’ve sworn I heard her order a pepperoni pizza.
Suddenly I didn’t feel too brilliant. This is bad, I told myself. Allie and Bonita’s auditions had been held the day before, and they’d already found out that they’d made the elite cut. Allie was listed as a member of the lead production crew. Bonita nailed her audition and earned a meaty role—starring opposite Jennifer Octavian, no less! And here I was, holding sheet music that was nothing but a prelude to pure disappointment.
“Mia Chambers,” the male member of the casting panel shouted.
I thought of my mom. She had such a natural talent for performing. Give her a tough crowd and she’d tame everyone in it with her sass appeal and confidence. Why hadn’t any of her genes passed down to me? I closed my eyes and tried to channel my mom’s spunky spirit. If I can’t be her, I’ll pretend to be her, I thought.
“Act like you know,” Bibi always told me.
“Mia Chambers!” the same casting judge shouted a few seconds later when no one from the audience stirred.
Startled, I sprang from my seat, and my wobbly legs somehow ushered me up the stage steps to the piano bench.
The auditorium felt so stuffy with judgment that it was almost suffocating. I took a few deep breaths. The first notes I softly tapped pierced the silence. Everyone waited to hear what I could do. My mother would have loved having a captive audience like this. I remembered how Mom had looked in the boardroom meeting I’d once sat in on. She had dazzled everyone with the way she carried herself. Just then, I sat up straight and proud on the bench. During the meeting, Mom also had held her long arms out like the elegant wings of an angel. So, for dramatic effect as I played, my arms gracefully lifted my hands high off the keys and floated back gently.
Once I kept on form, everything else flowed naturally, until soon, I wasn’t faking it. I played with genuine tenderness and soul until each note rang with emotion. I swayed on the bench, closed my eyes with feeling for a few measures, and ended the song with a well-timed crescendo. When I walked off the stage, it hit me. For the first time in a long time, I felt like I belonged.
The next day, my name was on the list of cast musicians. I had made the cut.
CHAPTER 7
“Ready the ropes,” I playfully shouted to the Rope-a-Dope squad when I saw them grouped together next to a hot dog stand. That phrase held the magic three words. It was the cue that sent jumpers into action, so when they heard it, the Rope-a-Dopers looked up like trained soldiers hearing the call of duty. That made me smile.
I didn’t like being away from double Dutch or being left out of something I loved so much. So I attended the first community gig the squad had.
It was a sunny Saturday afternoon at East Orange’s annual street fair, the Community Appreciation Day. A live jazz band was performing on the makeshift platform temporarily built in front of the city hall building. On the plaza below, kids were running around with cotton candy. Elders sat on lawn chairs, and a group of men and women crowded around a dominoes game going down on a folding card table. When I showed up, the Rope-a-Dope girls, dressed in coordinating baby blue T-shirts, looked excited to see me, but a bit surprised.
“Whatchu doing here, Mia?” Kendra asked when she saw me. “Don’t you have equestrian practice or something?”
Sometimes I wondered how Kendra knew so much about the elite lifestyle. Maybe she was an undercover “trustafarian” or something. I ignored her.
“Hey, M-I-A,” Stacie called out. I was beginning to despise that greeting. Especially because she was the one who was missing in action. Stacie hadn’t been returning my calls or texts for the past week.
Stacie and all the jumpers—except Kendra—threw their arms around me, offering me one warm hug after another.
“It’s been a while, girl,” said one.
“Great to see you, ma,” another jumper greeted me.
“Come on, y’all, we’re next.” Kendra interrupted the reunion. “The jazz band is almost finished.”
Stacie looked apologetic.
“That’s okay—go, go, go!” I encouraged. “I’ll be down here cheering y’all on.”
Because practices were held too early for me to attend, my role was reduced to being the team’s hype man. But no matter how small the role, I was determined to take it on.
At least there was one rehearsal where I was expected and would be welcomed. The first mini-orchestra rehearsal for the winter musical was coming up. And I couldn’t wait for that.
There were so many activities happening after school these days that the school building stayed populated long after the last bell. I had never noticed this before, because my usual after-school plan was to dash for the 2:44 bus. I used to be eager to get home at a decent time so that I could catch Stacie and the double-Dutch squad. But today was the first day of our mini-orchestra rehearsals, so I planned to stick around, too.
On my way to the music room in the annex building, I stopped at my locker to drop off my heavy book bag.
While I was there, I checked my hair in my mirror magnet. Over the weekend, I had gotten it cut into a layered pixie. Playful wisps of hair hung near my eyebrows. Toward the back of my head, the stylist had applied subtle flips to the ends. This hairstyle made my almond-shaped eyes stand out even more. My chin seemed a little pointier, too. I smiled to make sure nothing was
in my teeth, which caused my dimples to deepen. Standing under the sun at the weekend’s street festival had given my dark brown skin a nice glow. It was the perfect look for my new image as campus pianist.
The jangling keys Mr. Rick the custodian carried always announced his arrival.
“Hi, Mr. Rick,” I greeted him as he made his way down the hallway carrying a heavy toolbox. His tired eyes twinkled when he saw me.
“How you settling in, little lady?” he asked, genuinely interested.
“Just fine,” I lied.
“Now, I wanna see your name on that honor roll at least once this year, you hear me?” He reached the utility room at the end of the locker area.
“Yes, sir. I’ll try my best.”
“That’s the spirit. Keep it up,” he said before closing the door behind him.
Now I had to add Mr. Rick to the list of folks who’d be disappointed when I got my report card. Hopefully my piano performance would balance all that out.
“Excuse me.” The male voice was coming from behind me.
I turned around to face the person.
“Is this the annex?” a teenage guy holding a black leather guitar case asked me. “I’m looking for the music room.”
“No, it’s on the other side of the building,” I told him, trying to hide my surprise that there was a boy—and an African-American boy, at that!—wandering our halls. Man, was this what I’ve been missing as I race to the bus stop each afternoon? “I’m on my way there right now—I can show you.”
“Oh great—thanks,” he said, checking me out for the first time. His eyes glided over the features of my face as if he was suddenly aware that I was a girl his age. “This building is like a maze.” He tried to make small talk as we headed for the staircase.
“Oh, believe me, I know,” I said, nervously rolling my loose sheet music into a tube. “Are you from Mount Yeager?”
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