Sing Like Nobody's Listening Page 4

  Are you watching????? My phone vibrates with a text from Libby.

  Yes! He’s amazing!

  I have to admit, I agree, Libby responds. This is the best season opener yet.

  I’m so proud, I answer with a smiley face. As Colby throws to the first commercial break, I click out of the text chain and dial Jada, and she answers on the third ring.

  “Mason is playing a kazoo out his bedroom window,” she says without a hello.

  “Colby is wonderful,” I tell her, ignoring her complaint. “Are you sure you don’t want to run over and watch the rest?”

  “I can’t. I’m not even halfway finished with the script, because it’s a little hard to concentrate when someone is playing a kazoo across the lawn! Where could he have found a kazoo?”

  I roll my eyes. “There’s no kazoo playing outside of my house.”

  Jada grumbles unintelligibly. “So Colby is everything you dreamed he would be?”

  “And more. I can’t wait for you to see it. He sang the opening song a cappella.”

  “Cool,” Jada says halfheartedly. “Anyway, speaking of a cappella, I really have to practice this. Talk tomorrow?”

  “Wait.” I stop her. “How about we make a deal?”

  Jada sighs. “What kind of deal?”

  “If you come watch Non-Instrumental with me right now,” I begin, “I’ll go with you to the auditions tomorrow.”

  “Hold on, you’re going to try out too? What about your stage phobia?”

  “If you watch Colby, I’ll get over it,” I say. “You’re right—the talent show was years ago. I can’t avoid the stage forever.” And as I say this out loud, I’m not sure who I’m trying to convince more: Jada or myself. “So do we have a deal?”

  “I can’t, Wy. But you should come to the auditions anyway. They’ll be fun.”

  “Ughhhhh,” I groan as the commercials end and the camera zooms toward Colby. “I have to go; he’s back on.”

  “Enjoy!” Jada hangs up, and while I try to refocus on the program, my mind keeps wandering back to the auditions. Because seeing Colby there, planted firmly in his spotlight and raising his voice for the world to hear, sends a firework of inspiration shooting through my veins. It reminds me of before: when I liked to sing, to perform, and to do so next to Jada.

  I’ll audition, I text her before I can talk myself out of it. Then I send the same message to Libby.

  YAY YAY YAY! Libby writes back immediately. Broadway, here we come! (Or not).

  Good girl, Jada answers a few minutes later.

  We’ll go together, right? I ask her. I need emotional support.

  Sure, she answers, and instantly, I feel slightly better. Who knows? Maybe the auditions will go well. Maybe we’ll both get parts in the show. Maybe it will be fun, for the first time, to be part of a larger group.

  Together, just maybe, we can do anything.

  * * *

  But after school the next day, Jada is nowhere to be found. I wait by our lockers, but she doesn’t appear, and my texts go unanswered. I hurry toward the auditorium and follow the other auditioners into the wings, where I stand on the tips of my toes, searching for her, but I don’t spot her licorice locks anywhere. Especially because I can’t seem to focus on much more than the three enormous beams of light shining onto center stage, bright and blinding.

  And terrifying.

  At once, all traces of confidence seep out of my body, spreading goose bumps up and down my arms. I cross them against my chest, trying to take deep breaths in order to calm the heavy beating of my heart. Where is she?

  I turn around and weave through the crowd, pushing my way in the opposite direction, jamming into shoulders and knees and misplaced elbows. I need to retrieve my phone so I can text her again, so I can find out where she is, so I can stand next to her. There’s no way I’ll make it onto that stage if I don’t.

  “I’ve been looking for you everywhere!” Libby is suddenly in front of me, brimming with her typical enthusiasm.

  And I have never been happier to see her.

  “So are you ready for this? When I didn’t spot you, I was afraid you bailed,” Libby says.

  “I almost did,” I confess. “I can’t find Jada, and I didn’t expect so many people to be here, and the spotlights on the stage are so bright, and I still haven’t decided what I’m sing—”

  “Whoa.” Libby holds up her hands, halting me. “Okay, I get it—you’re as nervous as a long-tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs.”

  “As a what?”

  “Yeah, that’s one of my grandmother’s best ones—I only whip it out on special occasions,” Libby says. “Now buck up, champ. We can do this!” She links her arm through mine and pushes me toward the stage, leading me onto the choral risers until we come to a stop in the middle of the third row. I scan the crowd for Jada’s face, but the spotlights overhead make me feel like a tractor trailer is barreling toward me, high-beams on full blast, and I can’t see anything more than a foot in front of me.

  Anything like the edge of the stage.

  “I don’t understand how they’re going to get through everyone today,” Libby prattles on. “Maybe we’ll be delayed until tomorrow.” I nod, though I can’t imagine going through this again. I try to bend my knees, to settle into a comfortable position, but they feel locked into solid tree trunks, my toes beginning to tingle with pins and needles, followed by the tips of my fingers. I rotate my wrists in tense circles, but the movement, along with the lights above, starts to make me hot. I pull my hair off my neck, but then I’m chilled.

  Is this what it feels like before you faint?

  Where is Jada? Is she even here? I try looking around again, but my vision begins to blur. I close my eyes, but then the room starts to tilt to the right. I open them in a flash, finding that I’m clutching Libby’s shoulder to steady myself.

  “Are you okay?” she asks with a concerned look. I nod, but I don’t release my grip.

  “Welcome to auditions for the fall musical,” the theatre director’s voice booms across the stage, her heels clicking against the linoleum. “I’m pleased so many of you are interested in trying out, and I’m confident that with your help, we’ll put on the best show possible!” And though I hear the words coming from her mouth and see her lips moving to match them, something feels disjointed. Like a television with a sound delay, her sentences swim into my mind from every direction, until I can’t understand them at all.

  “I’ve got to go,” I whisper to Libby, stepping over her feet and then those of the girl next to her and so on and so on until I reach the end of the riser, where I jump onto the stage floor. Once I’m safely in the wings and out of the spotlights, my eyes sharpen, and I spot Jada staring at me from the first tier.

  “What’s going on?” Libby is suddenly next to me. “Are you okay?”

  “Everyone who wishes to audition needs to be up here,” the director calls after us. I glance at Jada, but she has turned away, her back toward me.

  Without another thought, I run behind the stage and out the exit, where for the first time in many minutes, I’m able to catch my breath.

  “What is the matter?” Libby has followed me out of the auditorium, crouching next to me as I lean against a wall, calming myself. “You went white as a marshmallow in there.”

  “Go back,” I tell her. “You’re going to blow your audition.”

  Libby waves her hand in front of her face, brushing off my instructions. “Not when you’re out here looking like a ghost. Are you okay?”

  I slide down to the floor. “I’m fine. Now go before the director doesn’t let you return.”

  “No way,” Libby insists. “I didn’t want to audition anyway. I won’t get a part over all those other people.” She joins me on the ground. “So what happened in there?”

  “I think it was the lights. I couldn’t see the edge of the stage. I just—I don’t know.”

  “It brought it back,” Libby fills in. “It reminded you of
the last time, and you freaked out. I get it. How about I go grab our bags, and then we get out of here?”

  “Best idea you’ve ever had,” I say. “Thank you.”

  Libby rises to her feet. “Now no disappearing acts while I’m gone,” she says. “Actually, don’t even try to stand. I’d rather you not have a head injury when I return.”

  I nod obediently as she vanishes through the door. And as grateful as I am for her assistance, I can’t help but think about the person who didn’t follow me off the stage, who didn’t come check on me, who didn’t seem remotely concerned.

  Who didn’t act one bit like the best friend she is supposed to be.

  * * *

  The next morning, after not receiving a single call or text from Jada, I’ve turned into a full-on mope. As last night wore on, the more time that went by without a word from her, the angrier I became. No, not even angry—hurt. She knew how anxious I was. She understood more than anyone my issues with getting back on the stage. And not only had she abandoned me, but when she saw that something was wrong, she didn’t try to help. So I decide that if she isn’t going to reach out to me, I’m not going to reach out to her either. I am stubborn in my resentment.

  “Are you sure you’re feeling okay?” Mom asks as our car crawls through the school drop-off line. “You don’t seem yourself.”

  “I’m fine,” I assure her. I haven’t told Mom about the audition—if I do, she’ll cart me off to a doctor and have me poked and prodded to figure out what’s wrong with me when I’m already certain I know the issue: nothing but a lingering case of stage fright.

  Well, stage fright and a missing best friend.

  I kiss Mom good-bye as I exit the car, and then I walk into school and down to the seventh-grade wing. When I turn the corner to approach homeroom, I see Jada at the end of the hall, standing in front of her locker and texting furiously.

  Which confirms that her phone isn’t broken . . . .

  I straighten my posture as I approach, deciding what to do. Should I say hi first? Should I wait for her to speak to me? Why is it so complicated to be in a fight with your best friend?

  Before I can decide, Jada glances up and catches my eye. I expect her to smile, to say something, to give me a nod of recognition.

  Instead, she looks immediately back down to her phone.

  What feels like a giant chunk of oatmeal sinks from my throat to my stomach, forming a knot of discomfort. I continue to my locker, ignoring Jada just as she dismissed me. We remain uncomfortably quiet as I begin swapping out my notebooks.

  “The audition went great, thanks for asking,” Jada eventually pipes up. I turn toward her slowly.

  “Excuse me?”

  “The audition went great,” Jada repeats, slamming her locker door. “I appreciate your support.”

  Is she for real? Is she mad at me?

  A hundred potential responses fly through my head. What can I say? How can I communicate how upset I am, how hurt I felt when she wasn’t there for me and then didn’t even check on me? How can I explain any of this when she doesn’t think she’s done anything wrong? When she has the guts to be mad at me?

  Realizing my jaw is hanging open, as if anticipating my reply, I snap my mouth closed, turn around, and walk into homeroom, leaving Jada in the hallway alone.

  Because if her current behavior calls for anything, it is a solid dose of silent treatment.

  * * *

  By lunchtime, Jada and I have not exchanged another word. I walk into the cafeteria tentatively and look toward our table, and despite myself, I’m relieved to see Jada in her usual place. I shuffle over and take my spot, keeping my eyes focused downward.

  “I didn’t know if you’d show up,” Jada says.

  “Where else would I go?”

  “Well, you didn’t seem like you’d want to eat with me.”

  “You didn’t either. I thought you’d sit with the theatre people.” I rustle in my lunch bag, continuing not to make eye contact.

  “If you keep not speaking to me, maybe I should,” Jada retorts, taking an enormous bite of her sandwich as if putting a period at the end of her statement. But instead of giving in and apologizing or whatever it is she wants me to do (whether it’s deserved or not, which it is not), I simply unwrap my own lunch, letting the sound of our chewing fill the space.

  After a few silent swallows, Jada places her food down, crosses her hands in front of her, and faces me seriously. “I hate this. Can we stop?”

  I look up and examine her face for a moment, trying to figure out if she’s making a peace offering or continuing the fight.

  “I’m not the one who started it,” I reply, deciding to let her take it from there.

  “You never asked how my audition was,” Jada says. “After running out of it and making a big scene, you didn’t think to check in with me.”

  “Check in with you?” I ask, incredulous.

  “I told you how important it was to me. You could at least pretend to be interested.” I stare at her, wide-eyed.

  “We were supposed to go to the auditions together,” I remind her, trying to stay calm. “You promised to stand next to me.”

  “I was nervous. I just wanted to get there and get started. You could’ve found me.”

  “You were nervous? How do you think I felt? The last time I was on a stage like that, I fell off of it!” I hear my voice rising.

  “You didn’t have to run away like that,” Jada says coolly. “Just because I wasn’t next to you.”

  “I almost fainted! That’s why I ran!” I exclaim. “I thought I was going to pass out!”

  Jada’s expression softens ever so slightly. “I didn’t know that,” she says, more gently this time. “I thought you were throwing some sort of tantrum, getting back at me for not watching Colby’s show or something. And then I never heard from you.”

  “And I thought you didn’t care,” I tell her honestly. “That you saw me flee the stage but never asked if I was okay.”

  Jada lets out a giant sigh. “So we’re both jerks,” she says. “And neither of us are jerks. Deal?” She holds out her hand. And though I don’t exactly agree with how she has summed up the situation, I’m also ready to stop fighting. So I reach out my hand and shake hers.

  “Deal. So how was the audition?”

  “Argh, I’ve been dying to tell you,” Jada says, her eyes dancing with delight. And though our handshake hasn’t erased my hurt from earlier, I figure that sometimes you have to forgive in order to be forgiven, whether or not you need forgiveness in the first place.

  In the middle of dinner that night, my phone begins dinging with texts, one after another. I try to ignore them, abiding by Mom’s no-phones-at-the-table rule, but after the fifth ding, my curiosity gets the best of me.

  “What if it’s an emergency?” I ask.

  “Okay, fine,” Mom relents. I sprint from my seat and grab it, and I’m greeted by a string of texts from Jada.

  I GOT A PART!!!!!! the first one reads. And then, The one I wanted! I got Tallulah! I can’t believe it! I’m so excited! Arghhhhhhh!!!!

  I look at the words, considering how to respond. I want to be happy for Jada—that’s how a best friend should react. But being happy for her means being unhappy for me.

  “Who is it?” Mom asks.

  “Jada. I’ll be right back.”

  Congratulations! I type. When can we celebrate?

  Not sure.

  Want to come watch the Non-Instrumental premiere? I offer. I saved your sour worms.

  Can’t, Jada writes back. Rehearsals start tomorrow. I have to prepare.

  Okay. Well, congratulations again. I send her a smiley face before returning to the table.

  “What was that about?” Mom asks.

  “She had a homework problem,” I lie, not ready to be on the receiving end of another barrage of questions about the musical. “I’m finished with mine, though, so okay if I watch TV?”

  “Sure,” Mom answers. “Wha
t are you going to watch?”

  “Non-Instrumental again. Or at least Colby’s parts.”

  Mom smiles. “If you would channel the energy you put toward being Colby Cash’s biggest fan into something useful, you could truly be dangerous.”

  “Hey, Colby is useful,” I insist, hightailing it for the living room. I collapse on the couch and scroll through our saved shows until I find Monday’s episode.

  I’m about to watch the premiere again, I text Libby.

  So jealous, she replies. I already have a new favorite group.

  Let me guess—the Staccato Skaters? The ones who only perform on roller skates?

  ARE THEY NOT THE BEST? Libby responds, and I grin.

  To be fair, COLBY is the best, I tell her. But they are pretty good. I tuck my phone under my thigh and press play, enjoying Colby’s opening song for a second time and then a third. When the house phone rings, I turn up the TV’s volume, but this only partially drowns out Mom’s half of the conversation. And when I hear her say, “Well, if you’re really in a pinch . . . ,” I pause the recording to listen more intently. What is she agreeing to? “Yes, I’m off on Friday, so I’ll be here when you arrive. And then Wylie will be home later.”

  Wylie will be home later for what?

  I stand and hold my arms out on either side, palms raised, silently questioning Mom. But she has a blank expression on her face, which I know can only mean one thing: trouble.

  Not me being in trouble, necessarily, but trouble in general. Something that Mom isn’t happy about. And something that I almost certainly won’t be happy about either.

  I walk over and lean my ear against the phone receiver, trying to figure out who’s on the other end, but Mom shoos me away. I roll my eyes and retrieve my own phone, where I find a new text from Libby: I wish Willow Oak had an a cappella group. I’m pretty sure I could handle just singing “dah” over and over. I hear Mom hang up, and I turn to face her.