Mr. Bassie, standing at the rear of the room.
When I stopped playing, he was looking at me. I felt like melting into the floor.
Was this it? Had he heard me singing? Did he know?
“Miss Jolly, your father is upstairs,” he said. “Don’t forget your things.”
He waited for me and ushered me out. He never mentioned hearing me. As outgoing and upfront as Mr. Bassie was, I was sure that meant he hadn’t heard me singing, only playing.
As I left the church and climbed into the car, I wasn’t sure whether not being found out was a good thing.
Or not.
At least I was enjoying poetry class. It was the one place I could go where I didn’t have to worry about all the Gospel Girl drama. No Faith. No choir. Mrs. Reddit was all business about our poems.
On Thursday, we were discussing poetry forms. Short poems. Funny poems. Nature poems. Personal ones, too.
She gave us an assignment: to shut our eyes and just think about how we were feeling. At first there were giggles and squirming. You know how kids are. Then we settled down. I felt the thoughts sitting on me, pressing into me. What was on my mind? What was troubling me? Then I began to write:
The Moon
My mother went away
One day,
Now she lives inside the moon.
I’ll take a rocket ship
Someday.
I hope to see her soon.
Then I shocked everyone by volunteering to read it aloud. Well, maybe not volunteering, but when Mrs. Reddit asked me to read it, I only turned sort of red before saying yes.
Jones quickly ran to the piano and began to play. He chose a slow melody that fit the mood of the words.
I felt proud as I stood in front of my classmates, even though my knees were shaking, and listened while they clapped, then talked about the poem.
“I’m very delighted with you, Cadence,” Mrs. Reddit said.
A tap on my shoulder made me turn around.
“Jones!” I said.
Instead of his usual goofy expression, he was staring at me. Really staring.
I felt my cheeks redden.
“What?” I asked, wrinkling my brow.
He took a step back, narrowed his eyes, then a smile started spreading across his face.
“It’s you, isn’t it?” he said. “It’s you. Ooowee, Mouse. You’re Gospel Girl!”
14
Vanishing
I felt like my life was flashing before my eyes. For sure, destiny had caught up with me.
He followed me into the hallway outside Mrs. Reddit’s room. My heart raced. My knees got soft and wobbly.
“No, I’m not!” I’d said.
But he just kept on saying I was. After lunch, when we went back to class, Miss Clayton shooed him away. At recess, Jones came up to me again. Faith saw how shaken I looked and came over. We told her what was going on. Jones said he knew it was me, but I kept denying it.
That was when Faith hissed in an angry whisper, “You don’t know anything, Jones. That wasn’t Mouse. It was… me!”
Unfortunately, Jones being Jones, he looked her up and down, then burst into laughter.
“No, it’s not! That Gospel Girl singer is not you, Faith Bettancourt.”
A super-huge nuh-uh, uh-huh battle began between them.
Is too.
Nuh-uh.
It is!
No!
Uh-huh!
Nuh-uh!
Then Faith said, “Tell him, Mouse. Tell him how you helped me make the video. Tell him how hard I’ve been working. Tell him you know it’s me!”
So I did. My voice was a shaky whisper. “Um, it is, uh, her, Faith, I mean.” I didn’t even sound convincing to myself.
Jones’s face fell. He shook his head and walked away.
Hours later, the lie replayed over and over in my head like a bad music video. Dropping onto the balcony floor, I leaned back against the wall, ignoring the cold seeping through my PJs. I whipped out my iPad and went to my saved videos.
One after another, I replayed videos of my mother at different stages of her life. Singing toward the skylight in the church, aiming her voice at the clouds above a summer festival, dressed in holiday attire and leading a small choir at Christmas. Always her voice, crystal clear and full of emotion.
I wrapped my arms around myself. Cold crept up my legs and through my clothes. Still, I sat, replaying the videos over and over. Wondering what my mother had been thinking of during each performance—those that came before and after I was born.
Then, in one of the last videos she posted while she still lived here, I caught a glimpse of my father. He was standing off in a corner, almost completely out of the shot. I touched the screen and zoomed the image. I saw his face. Whenever I thought about Daddy and my mother together, I’d always remembered them smiling, happy, in love.
However, when I stared at the screen, my father’s face came into sharp focus. Tension tugged at his features. He chewed his lip. His gaze searched my mother’s face the same way mine searched the night sky—both of us looking for answers we’d probably never find.
One week before my birthday, Daddy had a surprise for us. He did something he practically never did—woke up Junior on a Saturday morning.
He told us to get dressed. We were driving over to State College to meet someone. It was a big secret. Junior, normally so easygoing, seemed to really not want to go. Finally Daddy yelled at him and told him to move his butt and get dressed.
What was that all about?
We were heading down the stairs together—I’d been hanging out on the second-floor landing, hoping to catch Junior before he got downstairs with Daddy.
I asked him, “What’s going on with you? Have you told him? You know? About not wanting to go to Penn State?”
He didn’t look surprised. He knew that I knew. “You tell him you’re Gospel Girl? Stay out of my business!” he yelled.
I gasped. He waggled his phone at me.
Now I was getting worried.
In all the time we’d lived together, since I was a baby, Junior had never, ever yelled at me. Not one time.
The crawly ant sensation itched at my skin. I hated to admit it, but I’d been so caught up in the whole choir thing that I hadn’t been paying much attention to Junior. It had been over a week since we’d even run together.
The ride to State College took about half an hour. The landscape whipped past like slides on a camera. Some trees had already been stripped bare, thanks to frosty air and high winds. Others sported leaves in deep shades of purple and gold and red. When we arrived at the college campus, Daddy listened to instructions from the GPS.
“In two hundred yards, make a left,” the voice directed. I was sitting up front because Junior had gotten in back. No one had spoken a word the entire ride. Still, when I glanced over my shoulder, Junior was looking at me, frowning. Daddy knew this campus inside and out. He never used the GPS. Why now?
As we were about to park, the radio announcer said, “Hey, everybody, it’s your main man, DJ Biscuit. Well, y’all, looks like we’ve got ourselves a great little mystery brewing in PA. Check this out. How many of you have heard this girl…”
That was when I heard my very own voice playing on the radio.
DJ Biscuit was saying how the local TV morning show Good Morning, Western Pennsylvania was trying to identify the young lady singing the cover of “One Sweet Day.”
Somehow I managed to slide out of the car and get to my feet without falling on my face. I felt wobbly. I glanced around and caught Junior staring at me. His expression was hard, and for a second, I felt like I saw the same look on his face as I’d seen on Jones’s. Disgust and disappointment.
I breathed a sigh of relief when Daddy shut off the car. When I looked back at Junior, he was already striding out of the parking garage, heading toward daylight.
We met with three men at brunch. One had icy blue eyes and white hair. His name was Mr. Nobl
e. He said he was the athletic director for the college. The other two men worked with Mr. Noble. It didn’t take more than a minute to realize Daddy had cooked up his own secret—a meeting between Junior and the athletic program.
We sat around talking about Junior. How he was doing in school. His social life. His hobbies. Daddy patted Junior on the back and said, “He’s a good kid, sir. Well-rounded. Plays the guitar in the church band, and he’s got more than twice the volunteer hours he needs to graduate.”
Junior smiled a lot, although he looked uncomfortable with Daddy laying on the praise. After the men finished talking with Daddy and Junior, they invited us all to walk around campus. When we got to the creamery, even though it was a chilly day, the line stretched down the street and around the corner. No one complained. Fans had arrived early for a late-afternoon football game. And no one came to State College without making a trip to the Berkey Creamery ice cream shop.
Penn State is one of the few places in the country where you can go to college and major in ice cream. Imagine going to college and majoring in ice cream! The entire time we waited, Daddy and Mr. Noble continued to talk, asking Junior questions and getting him to talk about his life.
From there we got ushered into the stadium’s VIP seating, where Daddy and the other men continued to talk with Junior about what it might be like to come to school and play football.
Junior said nothing.
Nothing.
Nothing.
Until I guess he just couldn’t say nothing any longer.
“What right did you have going behind my back like that, Dad? Huh? This is supposed to be about me!” Junior was practically barking as Daddy steered the car toward our street.
My face was hot, and my insides were even hotter. Not with anger.
With fear.
Daddy had been going on and on in his jokey way about how great everything had gone, booming about what a good time we’d had. You could tell he meant it, too. It had been a long time since I’d seen Daddy so excited.
Then Junior finally said he was so glad Daddy had had a good time, because he had felt like an idiot.
We pulled into our driveway.
Daddy screeching the car.
Pointing his finger.
My heart pounding.
Junior glaring.
“I’ve never met anyone so selfish and ungrateful in my life!” Daddy yelled, twisting to point his finger at Junior. “I did this for you!”
Please stop fighting!
Please stop fighting!
Please stop fighting!
I’d never seen either of them so upset. Not even when my mother left. That had been pain and loss and hurt. We’d held one another together. This was dark and twisted, the kind of thing that rips you apart.
This was hot, red rage. Spewing like lava.
Daddy stalked off toward the house. I sat in my seat, stunned. Junior remained in his seat, too.
Jaws clenched.
Fists tight.
Darkness in his eyes.
Finally, I turned around, and said, “Junior? Maybe you should tell him.”
“What?” he snapped.
“About Michigan. About, you know, where you want to go to college.”
He reached out and jerked the handle on the door. He looked at me and snarled, “Maybe you should mind your business, Mouse. You’ve got your own little secret, right?”
Then he stalked off, too.
The heat inside our house clashed with the cold air on our skin. Tiny beads of sweat broke out instantly on Daddy’s forehead. I clawed at the scarf around my neck, feeling like I was being squeezed to death by a fuzzy python. Angry sparks flew back and forth between them like shiny knives with pointy, deadly blades.
I tried to make myself small.
“We’re not finished with this, Junior. Don’t you walk away when I’m talking to you!” Daddy turned to face Junior, who was heading for the stairs.
Junior said, “What else is there to say? You want to choose my school, choose my future, plan my life. When do I get a say?”
“I know what’s best for you!” Daddy said.
“Me? You don’t even know what’s best for you.”
“What is that supposed to mean?” Daddy said.
Junior, practically panting.
Me, shrinking.
Desperately, desperately shrinking, smaller and smaller and… smaller.
Junior’s voice turned from fire to ice.
“What about you and the teacher, Dad?” he said.
Now Daddy’s voice had turned icy, too. “What about me and the teacher?”
Junior continued, “I’m not a little kid, man. I got eyes. Three weeks ago you were driving around, smiling, whistling, wearing new clothes. Now look at you. I know you haven’t called her in about a week. I know you’ve been avoiding her calls.”
Now it was my turn to look at Daddy, mouth open.
“Daddy? Is that true? I thought you liked Miss Clayton.” How had I missed it?
“Mind your business, boy. That is none of your concern,” he said, answering Junior, but completely ignoring me.
Junior’s eyes were glassy and shiny, like when you have a fever.
“My BUSINESS? MY BUSINESS?” Now Junior was yelling something awful. Even Daddy, with his face twisting in hurt and anger, took a step back.
“You know what’s my business? Cady Cat is my business. My little sister who can’t move on from a mama who couldn’t be bothered to be a mama. At least my mama stays in touch. She left me with you because y’all agreed I’d be better off with you, right? She calls me three, four times a week, right? What about Chantel? You’re all in my business because you don’t have any business of your own. Take care of your own business! Stop waiting for someone who is never coming back. Someone you shouldn’t take back even if she did!”
It was playing out like a story in a book.
Daddy. Back rigid with anger.
“I know about life, son. I know about sacrifice. I did everything. Everything, to give you and your sister a home. I’ve done the best I could. I’m not waiting on nobody. I’m not looking at the past. I’m only thinking about the future.”
Junior spun around to face Daddy. “Then it’s time to let this go!” he said. He grabbed the coffeepot off the counter and slammed it against the kitchen floor. Shards of pointy glass spread out like jagged tears.
Daddy, grabbing Junior by both arms.
Staring him down.
Junior standing his ground. Tears dangling above his cheeks.
Then Daddy, letting go. Sagging like all the air had been let out of him. Even his face sagged.
One minute he was Daddy. The next, he looked as old and tired as his own daddy had before he died and went to Heaven.
A minute passed. The two of them standing there, looking at each other. Daddy turning away, swiping at his face.
Tears?
Not Daddy.
Finally, he said, “Boy, I only meant what was best for you. You and your sister.”
Then Junior, voice more plea than rage, said, “You’ve been waiting on her since she left. Chantel, I mean. You need to move on. Stop living in the past, Pop. Penn State? That was your dream. Chantel coming back, that’s your dream, too.”
Daddy kept his back to us. When he finally spoke, his voice was as far down the musical scale as you could go. The lowest note of the low.
Gruff. Gravelly.
“A girl needs a mama,” he said, nodding toward me.
Junior heaved a big sigh.
“Cady Cat don’t need Chantel, Pop. Not when she has me. And you and Fannie and half of Harmony looking out for her,” Junior said. He walked around the table until he was face-to-face with Daddy again.
Junior shook his head and said softly, “Let it go. Chantel, the Penn State dream, the memory of what you thought was supposed to happen when you got out of high school, all of it. Let the past go.”
Daddy. “What’s wrong with Mouse? She’s
just fine.”
Junior. Sounding tired. Not angry. Just tired. “Why do you still call her Mouse?”
Daddy. “’Cause that’s what her mama called her. That’s her name.”
Junior. “Her name is Cadence. She’s not a mouse. She hates that name.”
Then:
Daddy. “Baby? Is that true? You really hate it when I call you Mouse?”
Me. “Daddy, it’s okay. I… It’s okay. If that’s what you want to call me.”
Junior. Shaking his head. Disappointment stretching across his mocha skin.
Daddy. “See? She likes it.”
Junior. “Only because she thinks you like it. And you only like it because it gives you one more way to hang on to Chantel.”
Then I was no longer among the stars. I was a meteor. Racing. Burning. Shooting across the sky.
Junior staring. Daddy staring. Me crash-landing into my own universe. Me afraid and tired, and tired of being afraid.
“He’s right, Daddy,” I said. “I hate being called Mouse. Hate it. Hate it, hate it, hate it.” The words tumbled out and landed on the floor at my feet, scattering like embers. Or pointy shards of coffeepot glass.
And then…
I drew a breath. Earth continued its orbit. Nothing bad happened. I’d said how I was really feeling, and the Earth continued to orbit the sun.
I kept going. “And the birthday party at the diner? That is not for me. Because I don’t want a party at the diner. I want to eat at Chin’s with my friends and my family. A real party. Like we used to.”
Daddy. “But I thought you loved the diner party. Mouse, really?”
Me. “Daddy, I’ve only told you like a million times.” I went over and hugged him. Tight. I said, “Daddy, Junior, please don’t fight anymore. Please?”
All of us. Tired. Feeling bent. Twisted up. But not broken.
Junior, in the kitchen sweeping up the glass shards.
“Sorry, Dad,” he said. “I’ll replace it.”
Daddy. “Don’t worry ’bout it, boy. Maybe it is time for a new coffeepot.”
I glanced toward the front hall. Daddy saw.
The Sweetest Sound Page 12