The Sweetest Sound

by Sherri Winston

  Then I opened my eyes.

  And found Zara and Faith standing over me. Not wearing their headphones. Both staring, mouths open.

  After keeping my secret for so long, I had finally shared it with my friends.

  “What?” I squeaked. My body went into high alert. WARNING! WARNING! Red Fire Ants of Shame heading your way! Boy, did that snare drum in my chest go crazy.

  “Moon Goddess?” Zara said. Ever since I’d told her the story about how I wished my mother had kept calling me that, Zara had started herself. So far, it hadn’t caught on, but I loved her for trying.

  Now her brow wrinkled, like she was about to ask a question. Then her face relaxed and the question wrinkles disappeared. Her pale gray-green eyes flashed with excitement.

  “Cadence Mariah Jolly! That was amazing. Wasn’t she amazing, Faith? We’ve got to all try it together!” she said.

  Faith looked positively flabbergasted. Flabbergasted was another one of those words that I absolutely adored. It meant really, really surprised. Faith looked surprised and then some.

  She remained quiet at first. She simply bobbed her head and said, “Not bad, Mouse.” Then she rushed around, pushing us into “our places” and telling us who would sing what part.

  Faith took the first verse, then all three of our voices joined together in the chorus. However, even though Faith instructed Zara to take the second verse, when it came time, Zara pointed to me.

  “You do it, Moon Goddess!” she said with a grin.

  So I did, and again we all sang the chorus.

  This time at the end I let my voice sail, and it took off like a kite to Heaven. And I was the only one who could guide it.

  I was so swept up in Zara’s enthusiasm as she burst into applause again, hugging me tight, that it took a while to realize that Faith had gone still. And quiet.

  “Faith?” I said. “Is everything all right? What did you think?”

  It was several seconds before she responded. Finally, she said, “How long?”

  Huh?

  She repeated it. “How long? I mean, how long have you known you could sing like this?”

  She looked—hurt?

  Instantly I started to chew on my lip.

  Zara was so into it, she didn’t seem to notice Faith. Or the expression on Faith’s face.

  Zara half turned. “Who cares how long she’s known. She’s amazing. Maybe we should even let her sing the lead. Oooh! Think about it, Cadence. No one would be expecting it. You could blow folks away!”

  I turned to Faith.

  She looked dazed.

  Confused.

  Heat in her stare buzzed electric.

  Her body stiff as a winter tree.

  Personification. But instead of inanimate objects becoming like people, she was a person who’d gone as stone-still as an object. I wondered if there was a word for that.

  “Faith?” I said, softly.

  “I think… think that’s enough for one day,” Faith said, onomatopoeia-style hurrying toward her coat: Zoom! Snap! Zing!

  I heard a light knock at my bedroom door, then Aunt Fannie pushed her way in before I could answer.

  “Were you girls playing the stereo? I thought I heard Mariah?”

  Zara turned to me, and with one desperate look, I silenced her. I said, “We’re just trying to figure out what to sing for Mr. Bassie by Wednesday.”

  Aunt Fannie glanced from one face to the next, her gaze resting on Faith.

  “What’s the matter?” she asked.

  Faith tossed one more look in my direction, then she rushed toward the door. “Nothing. I’m late getting home. See y’all later.” Then she was gone.

  Aunt Fannie gave us one last long look. “All right, long as you all are playing nice. I don’t know who was singing what, but downstairs you all sounded like angels.” Then she was gone, too.

  I turned to Zara. “Do you think Faith is mad?”

  Zara shrugged. “About what? The fact that you’re amazing? Girl, she’s probably just got a new idea for her own path to fame and fortune,” she joked.

  Watching Faith rush out of the room without so much as a look back, I had a feeling that Zara was wrong this time. Faith looked angry. At me.

  Now I couldn’t help wondering:

  Would keeping my promise mean losing a friend?

  7

  I Don’t Wanna Cry

  I lived through three very awkward school days. Faith was definitely not happy—at least not with me. She was a no-show for practice after school. When I tried to ask what was wrong, she kept saying nothing and I didn’t need to worry about her because I needed to be worried about trying NOT to embarrass myself when we finally did have singing practice again. Humph!

  Just thinking about it made me play my invisible keyboard. Low, eerie notes. Sharp notes with lots of drama.

  In Mrs. Reddit’s class on Wednesday, she gave us a list of onomatopoeic words. Soon as she said she wanted us in pairs, everyone partnered up quickly.

  “Cadence? You want to choose a partner?” asked Mrs. Reddit, seeing that I was one of the few people left. But before I could answer, Sophie Cohen raised her hand and asked if she could be my partner.

  I saw Mei-Mei look over at her. I couldn’t tell if she was hurt or not. I did a little shrug, not liking that everyone was looking at us. Mrs. Reddit asked Lavender Winter to partner with Mei-Mei.

  It was weird at first, trying to work with someone I didn’t know anything about. However, it didn’t take long to figure out Sophie was a lot different than Mei-Mei. Talking to her was fun, and she made faces for each onomatopoeia we chose for our poem.

  While we worked, I thought about trying to be more of a Moon Goddess and less of a Mouse. I’d already chewed my poor lip until it was practically bruised purple inside. I couldn’t even deal with my shyness sometimes. Honestly!

  We had cut up tiny pieces of paper and wrote words on each. She pushed some of the pieces around on the table in front of her.

  There was an eraser beneath the table where we sat. I pressed the toe of my shoe against it and moved it around. “Sophie, why did you want to partner with me? Instead of Mei-Mei, I mean.”

  Sophie was new at our school, having arrived shortly after the school year began. She was Chinese, like Mei-Mei. Except when she talked, she wasn’t nearly as soft-spoken.

  Sophie rolled her eyes and whispered, “My parents adopted me from China when I was still a baby. When we lived in San Francisco, there were plenty of Asians around.”

  “Like, other Chinese people?” The rubber eraser had rolled away. I stretched out my leg, pointing my toe to try to reach it.

  Sophie gave me a look. “China isn’t the only country in Asia. There’s Japan and Korea, too, even Cambodia.”

  Her dark eyes looked at me hard. At first, I thought she was about to call me stupid or something wretched like that, but instead, she grinned. “Just messing with you. Yes, other Chinese people, like me. And that is where I was born. But I was raised here in America. Ever since we moved from San Francisco, my mother wants to make sure I have Chinese friends and Chinese study.”

  She shrugged. “My mother doesn’t understand. I was born in China. I don’t have to try to be Chinese. I just am. She’s always putting me with Mei-Mei and even talked to the school, telling them to pair us when possible because we are the same age. And both Chinese. But otherwise, we have nothing in common!”

  I stared at her, feeling like we definitely had something in common. We both understood what it was like to have people we loved want to fix us. I mean, honestly, how do you try to take a Chinese person and make them more Chinese?

  Anyway, by the end of the class, we were more comfortable with each other. Especially after she asked, “So you’re the one they’re giving the birthday party for at the diner, right?” And when I looked like I wanted to throw up from pure embarrassment, she added, “I bet your dad never even asked you if that’s what you wanted. Parents can be real jerks sometimes!”
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  That made us laugh again. Then we were both surprised when Mei-Mei raised her hand and asked to read the poem she and Lavender wrote together.

  Lavender cleared her throat and placed one hand behind her back in the way you stand when you’re in a spelling bee or getting up the nerve to ask your parents for a favor.

  She said, “‘A Dragon’s Kiss,’ by me and Mei-Mei.” Then she nudged Mei-Mei, whose head was down and face was covered by a curtain of jet-black hair.

  Mei-Mei read, and Lavender began acting out the words:

  Clickety-clack! Chomp, chomp, growl.

  With scaly hooves, she’s on the prowl.

  Lavender pounced toward the class. We all drew back, then giggles went round the room. Even Mei-Mei bit her lip as though in fear of unlawful giggling. She continued reading:

  She has flaming hot breath and fiery red eyes

  Then spews glowing flames into smudgy skies.

  Surprise.

  With that, Lavender jumped toward us, making her eyes bug out. More giggles. Now Mei-Mei’s voice was growing stronger, and we were all getting into the rhythm and feel of the poem.

  The smoke clears—Poof!

  Her skittering tail slithers upon the roof.

  Up on the chimney another does grace.

  A rattle, then rumble; a fiery embrace.

  What you see brings terror.

  Monsters lost in their own smoky mist.

  Dragons with talons that clatter,

  With lips that kiss.

  Beware.

  When they were finished, we all stood and applauded. Mei-Mei’s cheeks reddened, but Lavender, with her blond pigtails and blue plastic glasses, stood tall and proud.

  Next was Jones, and he had the funniest poem. He called it “Lunch!”

  Slurp, slurp, slurp.

  Burp.

  “Jones! Stop making rude noises,” the lunch lady yelled.

  Chew, chew. Chomp! Chomp! Chomp!

  Chicken nugget day in the cafeteria swamp.

  “See you later, Alligator.” I smacked my lips.

  The alligator lunch lady put her hands

  on her alligator hips.

  “Be good, you hear!” she did say. I yelled,

  “See you next time on chicken nugget day!”

  Mrs. Reddit threatened that the next time he acted up in class, she would share the poem with Mrs. Koogle, our lunch lady. Who, by the way, did sort of remind you of an alligator.

  Of course, I’d written a poem with Sophie. But when she looked at me, I quickly shook my head to keep her from raising her hand.

  I don’t know exactly how the story of my life would be in a book or a poem, but if it were a song, it would be in the key of whyyyyyyyyyyyyy. As in, why does everything have to be so hard?

  On Wednesday evening, Zara and I rode to choir practice together.

  Practice was at the church in the basement. The congregation had raised money to build a new church, and now we had cool practice spaces throughout the lower level. Zara and I took off for the stairs.

  At the bottom step, she reached back and took my hand. “You’ll see,” she said. “Faith is just… She just needs to get used to the fact that you’re a terrific singer. I can’t wait till you show Mr. Bassie and Miss Stravinski.”

  I grabbed her sleeve. “No! Zara, you can’t tell anybody. Not yet. I’m not ready. And Faith… I don’t know. Please don’t say anything. Please?”

  Zara bunched up her features. Then she slowly nodded, her long, thick hair moving like a curly curtain. “Okay, Cadence. I promise. I won’t say a word.”

  Since my accidental singing demonstration, Faith had barely made eye contact with me. And she’d had almost nothing to say.

  I was nervous about seeing her at church choir rehearsal, but hopeful, too. Maybe we’ll work it out.

  Mr. Bassie led both the Youth and Children’s Choirs into the larger practice room. Miss Stravinski was already inside, standing on the stage. To my utter horror, they started sending us onstage in groups.

  I looked around, surprised. Still no Faith. Zara turned around, realized what I was thinking, then shrugged. I chewed the inside of my lip. This was definitely history making. Faith didn’t miss choir practice.

  Mr. Bassie interrupted my worrying thoughts. He said, “Don’t panic, young people. This isn’t an audition or anything. It’s simply a get-to-know-you session. We’re putting you in groups, and Miss Stravinski is going to lead you through a couple songs and get a feel for the talent and glory of your voices.”

  Joya was among the singers in the first group. Her voice, unlike so many others up there, came from deep inside her diaphragm. Her belly. It sounded rich, and the words were as hopeful as church bells. So many other kids were singing from their throats. Mrs. Reddit hated that. “Dig deep,” she’d say. “Dig that tone all the way out of your souls.”

  Miss Stravinski’s directing was like nothing we’d ever before seen. She was a small woman, but when the music began to play, she transformed. Facing the singers, her arms flew wide, then snapped shut to the rhythm of the piece.

  Swoop!

  Swap!

  Zip!

  She grabbed notes out of the air, tossing signals to the singers, leading their voices up, down. Side to side.

  Swoop!

  Swap!

  Zip!

  Her hands flew. Fists pumped. Some kids giggled; other kids hushed them. No one wanted the moment to end—not Joya’s singing, not the energetic way Miss Stravinski seemed to tug on the notes and toss them around. You could see Joya’s eyes and the eyes of the four other singers onstage with her following the director’s assistant, their tones shifting with the sway of Miss Stravinski’s body.

  When it was time for our group, Zara and I exchanged looks. I did not want to go up on that stage, but I had no reason why I couldn’t. I took one last glance behind me, hoping Faith had slipped inside. She hadn’t.

  Miss Stravinski, only a little taller than Zara and me, wore huge round glasses and had rounded bangs that hung over her face. Still, I could feel her peeking at me. She moved us around, making room, she said, for our voices.

  However, soon as we got started, she realized she was one voice short.

  Halfway through the song, she stopped Mr. Bassie, who was on piano.

  Smiling, she walked toward the risers. Toward me. She said, “Baby, what’s your name?”

  I thought I said “Cadence,” but an explosion of laughter from a group of kids who hadn’t been called yet told me I’d said it in my head.

  “She don’t talk, Miss Lady,” said one of the Newton brothers. The one who liked yanking at the back of my coat and making sounds like his lips were glued shut. I would’ve liked to glue them shut for real.

  When Miss Stravinski looked back at me, my face had turned red. I could feel it. I tried to swallow, but my mouth felt like it was the one that had been glued. Now everyone was staring. A tingle, then the burn of a gazillion hot, pointy needles made me want to crawl out of the room. I tried clearing my throat. Tried taking a breath. I must’ve looked like I was having a heart attack. The Newton brothers, both of them this time, laughed loud, and several other kids looked down at their shoes like they were embarrassed for me.

  And that included little bitty kids in the Children’s Choir. It’s a sad day when you’ve embarrassed a bunch of kindergarteners.

  If Faith were here, she’d ask everybody what was so funny. She wasn’t afraid, not ever. Nothing scared Faith. But I didn’t have Faith. Not this time.

  Miss Stravinski took a step back. “I didn’t mean to alarm you, baby girl. It’s fine. You jump in when you’re ready,” she said.

  After that, no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t shake the feeling that everyone was looking at me. Laughing at me. It hurt. Like being stung by wasps. Or stepping on a nail. Or maybe even losing a friend.

  By the time Friday rolled around, I was happy to have the weekend to look forward to. I could spend as much time alone in my
calm blue room as I wanted. I was going to nap and play with Lyra and listen to music. Mrs. Reddit had let me borrow a book by Jack Prelutsky called My Dog May Be a Genius. Reading the poems in it had been the only time I’d smiled since being humiliated at choir practice. Faith had made excuses about why she skipped the session. Then she skipped practicing with Zara and me on Thursday, too.

  “Maybe we’ll have to do it without her,” Zara had said, all matter-of-fact.

  For some weird reason, the idea of Faith leaving me was like thinking about my mother leaving me. It hurt in a way I couldn’t explain. Even if she had been bossy, she looked out for me.

  Who was going to stand up for me without Faith?

  When the time came for kickoff at Junior’s football game Friday night, I was beginning to feel better.

  It was, after all, the Harmony High School Tigers against the visiting Saints of Bunker West.

  The stands were packed. The Bunker West High School band was in the stands across the field. “When the Saints Go Marching In” blared from horns and trumpets. Several of our fans booed cheerfully. Then our band began playing “Eye of the Tiger” and that other song from Rocky. I stood at the entrance gate to the field and inhaled the scene.

  One of my favorite things to write about was football. I loved almost everything about it. The smell of hot dogs on the grill wafted in the air—air that was chilly and tasted slightly of snow, even though no snow had fallen. Then there were the lights. High above the field. And the way the grass smelled and how the leaves, dry and rough, sounded when a gust of wind sent them jumping along the fence’s edge.

  “You’re going down on the field with your dad?” a voice asked from my side. I spun around, surprised out of my mind to see Faith. I was so happy that she was actually talking to me, my heart almost burst.

  “Yes!” I said. “Wanna come?”

  Faith shook her head. “Nah, the bands are going to be jumping tonight. I want to be in the stands with our side,” she said. Then we both stared at each other, silent as the moon.

  She said, “I can’t practice this weekend. Really. Mom and Granny June want me to go with them to a craft show in New Castle. We’re staying the night. I probably won’t be back in time for church. Maybe I’ll see you Monday. Okay?”