Sing Like Nobody's Listening Page 5

  “Well?” I ask. “What was that about?”

  “Okay,” she begins slowly. “Now don’t freak out.” Uh-oh. “We both have to be mature about this, because there’s nothing we can do, and it’ll be easier if we—”

  “Just tell me,” I interrupt her.

  Mom grips the edges of the counter, steeling herself, her face tinged pink. “That was your father,” she begins. “He was asking for a favor.”

  “Is he switching weekends? Because I don’t want to go two weekends in a row, and—”

  Mom shakes her head. “You’re not going there. Your brother and sister—”

  “They’re my half brother and half sister,” I correct her, but Mom ignores me.

  “They’re coming here.”

  I don’t say anything at first, sure that I must be hearing things, positive that Mom is messing with me. Why would Asher and Amelia ever come here, to my house? They don’t even know Mom. They barely know me. How is this appropriate?

  “I know it’s . . . not ideal,” Mom continues. “Your dad knows that too. But they’re in a bind. He and Amy have to go to a funeral overseas, and they can’t bring the kids because they don’t have passports. And any relatives who would normally watch them will also be at the funeral.”

  “So he asked you?” I ask dubiously.

  “They’re desperate,” Mom explains. “I’m not thrilled about it either, Wy, but what could I say? Leave them by themselves—I’m sure they’ll be fine?”

  “Yes!” I shout. “Anything would have been better than saying they can come here!”

  “It’s only for a couple of days,” Mom says. “Your dad will drop them off Friday afternoon and pick them up early on Sunday. Like I always tell you—we can handle anything for a couple of days.”

  “I don’t want to handle it,” I say, feeling unexpected tears welling up in the backs of my eyes, and I widen my gaze to prevent them from stumbling onto my cheeks. “Plus, I have plans this weekend. You didn’t ask me first.”

  “You can still do what you need to when your brother and sister are—”

  “They’re not my brother and sister,” I remind her.

  “Wylie,” Mom drones, a tug of impatience in her voice.

  “I have plans,” I insist. “I have things to do. I can’t be playing host to those two terrors all weekend.”

  “What plans do you have?” Mom asks, and the way she’s looking at me, I can tell she thinks I’m making them up.

  Without missing a beat, I reply, “I’m starting an a cappella group.” I state this with so much conviction that I almost believe it myself. “Libby and I are.”

  “Oh, you are, huh?” Mom asks, as if she knows this is a fib.

  “Yes. And we have a lot to do to get it off the ground. We were planning on working this weekend.”

  “Well, like I said, just because Asher and Amelia will be here doesn’t mean you have to cancel your plans. I’m sure they won’t need entertainment twenty-four hours a day.”

  “Wait until you meet them,” I grumble, turning to retreat to the living room.

  “Wylie.” Mom stops me. “I understand that this is not how you want to spend the next few days—trust me, if given the choice, I wouldn’t want it this way either. But we have to make Asher and Amelia feel welcome. No matter how hard it is. Got it?”

  I shrug my response. “I’ll be as nice as I always am,” I tell her cryptically, before turning my attention to my phone.

  We should start one, I type to Libby. An a cappella group. Let’s start one ourselves.

  After I press send, I tap my fingers against the back of my phone, anticipating Libby’s reply. She has to like the idea. She has to go along with it. She at least has to go along with it until the end of this weekend.

  Moments later, my phone begins dinging with one text after another, all from Libby. One word at a time, with an exclamation mark after each, she has sent back:

  BEST! IDEA! EVER! LET’S! DO! IT!

  DAH DAH DAH DAH!

  ALL! SING! ALONG!

  Rather than Jada in front of my locker the next morning, I find Libby, bouncing up and down like a jack-in-the-box.

  “The bathroom is around the corner if you have to go that badly,” I tease her.

  “You’re never going to believe this,” Libby says, ignoring my comment.

  “Believe what?”

  “I have the greatest news ever,” she persists, still not revealing what said news is.

  “Why didn’t you text me if you were this excited about it?”

  “Because I wanted to see your reaction in person,” Libby answers. “So last night, I couldn’t fall asleep because I was thinking about our a cappella group.”

  “Shhhh,” I shush her. “Let’s not spread that around yet.” I push her gently to the side so I can reach my locker. “Now can you please tell me? I could use some good news right now.”

  “Fine, but I need full eye contact,” Libby says. I keep my fingers on my locker dial but turn my face toward her, and Libby slaps her hands against her thighs in a mock drumroll.

  “Yes?”

  “Our group is going to be featured on Non-Instrumental!” she exclaims.

  I stare at Libby blankly—has she lost her mind? How does she think our group—our group, which doesn’t even exist yet—is going to be successful enough to compete in any singing competition, let alone a televised one?

  “I know what you’re thinking,” Libby continues before I can respond. “I’m not talking about competing on the show.”

  “Thank goodness,” I tell her. “I thought you had lost your marbles.”

  “Good cliché, by the way,” Libby says. “Anyway, late last night, on the Non-Instrumental website, they posted an advertisement for a contest. The show is searching the country for new a cappella groups—ones that were inspired by watching Non-Instrumental.”

  “Libby,” I say slowly. “We don’t even have a group yet. We can’t win a singing contest without actual singers.”

  “It’s not part of the competition,” Libby continues, unperturbed by my reasoning. “It’s for a promo piece about the show’s influence in the a cappella world.”

  “That’s all well and good, but it doesn’t matter if—”

  “Wait, I didn’t get to the best part,” she stops me. “Besides a feature in the promo, the groups that are picked will also get a video call with . . .” She pauses as I turn back to my locker. “Hey, I need your full attention!”

  I drop my hand and make a slow pivot to the left. “Go ahead,” I say doubtfully.

  Libby waits a few seconds for dramatic effect before thrusting her arms in the air and yelling, “Colby Cash!” All at once, I feel the skin on my face pull downward as my chin crashes toward the floor.

  “You’re making that up,” I say. “I looked at his posts this morning, and there was nothing about this contest.”

  “I swear it’s true!” Libby squeals. “It went up superlate—maybe he’s not awake yet on California time? Anyway, is that not the best news ever? It’s like the contest is meant for us!”

  “It’s pretty amazing,” I tell her, not wanting to dampen her enthusiasm. “But realistically, how can we possibly . . .” I finally pry open my locker and am greeted by an onslaught of Colby’s face.

  “Whoa,” Libby says, sticking her whole head inside to examine my work more closely. “You mean to tell me you’re creating these kinds of Colby Cash tributes, and you’re not ecstatic over the prospect of a phone call with him?”

  “Of course I want the call. But how long would we have to pull this together?”

  Libby scrunches her face to the side. “Two weeks.”

  “Two weeks?!” I exclaim. “Libby, that’s impossible.”

  “No, listen. The deadline is two full weeks from today,” she clarifies. “That’s fourteen whole days. We can do it.”

  “Stop.” I halt her. “There’s no way.”

  “We need to try,” Libby argues. “What’s t
he worst that can happen? We don’t win? No, the worst that can happen is that we don’t even attempt to win. You can’t swim without getting in the water! We need to get in the water!”

  I sigh, suddenly exhausted. “I’ll think about it.”

  “No thinking about it,” Libby insists. “Just doing about it.”

  “I don’t even know where to start. I’m not kidding. I have no idea where to begin.”

  “Do you know anyone on Student Council?” Libby asks as the homeroom bell rings. “Sixth grade hasn’t elected officers yet, but someone from yours should know how to start a new group.” With that, she takes off down the hall, calling, “Text me updates!” over her shoulder. I slump into homeroom, feeling like a gorilla is balancing on my shoulders. I don’t have the first clue about starting an a cappella group, and clearly, Libby doesn’t either. Even with the promise of Colby dangling like a golden carrot in the distance, I can’t imagine how we can pull this off. So maybe we shouldn’t do it. Maybe it would be best to give up before we’re faced with the inevitable disappointment.

  But then my mind flashes forward to this weekend, to Asher and Amelia running around my house, infiltrating my space, touching my things, with nowhere for me to escape. Even if our plan is unattainable, Libby is right—we have to try.

  At least, we have to try until this weekend is over.

  * * *

  As our homeroom teacher takes attendance, I pull out my phone and text Jada, Who do we know on Student Council? I look up and see her glance away from her giant black musical binder to her phone screen.

  Um, besides Mason? she writes back.

  He is?

  Treasurer, I think, she responds. I certainly didn’t vote for him.

  I need to ask him a question, I tell her. Don’t freak out about it.

  Blech, just leave me out of it, she answers, and I see her place her phone in her pocket and return her attention to the gargantuan binder. I stroll over to Mason’s desk, hoping he’ll make this as painless as possible. He watches me curiously as I approach, his lips spreading into a nosy grin.

  “Question for you,” I launch in before he can speak. “You’re the class Treasurer, right?”

  “Vice President, but thanks for demoting me,” Mason responds, the smile growing wider.

  “Even better. Do you know anything about how school activities work? Like if someone wants to start a new group, do you know how to go about that?”

  “Is this someone you?” Mason asks.

  “Do you know what the process is?” I ignore his question. “Or someone who would know?”

  “What kind of group are you starting?” he asks.

  “I never said I was—”

  “Come on—secrets are no fun.” He props his chin in his hands with a mischievous look.

  I cross my arms. “Fine. An a cappella group. My friend and I want to create one.”

  “Jada?”

  “No, another friend.”

  “You have another friend?” Mason asks in a teasing tone.

  “Can you help me or not?”

  “I can,” he says. “The first thing you need is a faculty advisor. All school-sanctioned groups require one. So if you choose a teacher to help lead the activity, he or she should be able to take it from there.”

  “Thank you,” I tell him, beginning to walk away.

  “Hey, wait a minute,” Mason says. “Keep me posted, okay?”

  “Why?”

  “Why not?” Mason responds playfully. I roll my eyes high and return to my seat, shuffling through my mental Rolodex of teachers. Choosing one of the music teachers would make the most sense, but they already have a lot of activities to run. And if we want to get this a cappella group together quickly, we need someone who isn’t in charge of any other after-school events. Someone who won’t question why, yes, we need to start immediately, and no, this isn’t only about getting me one-on-one time with Colby Cash.

  Someone like Mrs. Nieska.

  Not only does Mrs. Nieska agree to be our faculty advisor, but she looks ten times more enthusiastic about it than I’ve ever seen Mrs. Nieska look about, well, anything.

  “I can’t believe the school hasn’t had its own a cappella group before,” she says. “Some of my fondest memories are from my a cappella group in college.”

  “Wait, you were in an a cappella group?” I ask.

  Mrs. Nieska stares at me over her glasses with arched eyebrows. “Yes. I assumed that’s why you asked me.”

  “Well, now I know for sure that you’re the perfect choice!”

  She smiles. “I always thought Willow Oak should have one, but I wasn’t sure if students would want to participate.”

  “Yeah, I’m still not positive they will . . . .” I tell her sheepishly.

  “I have faith. I’ll pick up the correct forms from the office so we can get ourselves on the books. Do you have plans for how to recruit?”

  “My friend and I are going to work on it tonight and over the weekend. I guess posters and fliers? Is there anything else you can think of?”

  “If I do, I’ll let you know,” she says. “Thanks for asking me, Wylie. I’m excited.”

  “Me too. Thank you for taking it on!” I text Libby the news as soon as I leave the room.

  Awesome! she writes back. Four members to go until we’re eligible for the show.

  I read her text twice before responding, Huh?

  Groups need to have at least six members to enter the contest.

  You left out that detail, I send her.

  Oh, please. We should be able to find four people in no time!

  I look up, scanning the hallway as if searching for a potential new member. Unlike Libby, I fear recruiting four people will be incredibly hard, especially in such a short time frame.

  But at least I have a project to work on this weekend, an excuse to get out of the house, a good reason not to pay attention to the unwelcome visitors. And therefore, no matter what happens in the long run, for the time being, Project Colby Cash Video Call is one hundred percent a go.

  * * *

  After a full day of listening to musical updates from Jada—about people I don’t know, let alone care about—I’m grateful for Libby’s chatty a cappella–related banter as we sort through her basement’s treasure trove of craft supplies.

  “This place is insane,” I tell her. Glitters and glues and poster boards and markers and feathers and pom-poms and countless other items take up an entire wall, stacked like a do-it-yourself paradise.

  “I can’t resist a craft store,” she says.

  “Where does the plate smashing happen?”

  “My dad has relegated that to the back room,” she says, pointing. “Would you like to give it a whirl?”

  “Maybe later. We should probably get to work. Are you up for taking charge of the posters?”

  “Sure,” Libby says. “And you’ll do the fliers?”

  “Do you have a computer I can use?”

  “Yes, there’s a program on my laptop,” Libby says. “Follow me.” We carry piles of supplies upstairs and spread out in the family room, me perched on the recliner with the computer and Libby sprawled on the carpet surrounded by poster boards. I stare at the blinking cursor and Libby at the blank canvases, neither of us knowing where to begin.

  “I guess we need a name?” I start.

  “Yes, that would help. I brainstormed during the day but nothing stuck.”

  “I’ll search for a list of musical words.” I begin typing.

  “I guess ‘The Music Notes’ is too simple, huh?” Libby asks. “And corny?”

  I scrunch my nose and shake my head. “How about The Trebleizers? Then we could use the treble clef for our symbol.”

  “The Treble Tones won Non-Instrumental a few years ago. I think it’s too close to that.”

  “Okay. The Minuet Meisters?”

  “Are we singing Mozart?” Libby teases.

  I smile. “Good point. Do we even need a name? Maybe w
e should be ‘Willow Oak Middle School’s A Cappella Group.’ ”

  “Snooze. No way Non-Instrumental will pick a group with a name like that.” I drum my fingers against the keyboard, thinking, while Libby taps out a rhythm with her markers.

  “Wait, I’ve got it,” I say. “ ‘Off the Stage.’ Get it? Because we’re never going to perform on a stage.”

  “You haven’t mentioned that little tidbit.”

  “Oh, come on. You saw what happened at the auditions. We can get by with performing only on nonraised surfaces.”

  “We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it,” Libby says. “Now keep thinking.”

  We brainstorm quietly for a few more minutes before I suggest, “Maybe we should wait until we have a group to pick a name. Other people might be more creative.”

  “No one is going to join a group without a name. It’s bad marketing.”

  I look at her quizzically. “You know about marketing?”

  “It’s part of my dad’s job. I pick up a little here and there. Anyway, why are we making it so complicated? Let’s pick a word that’s related to music and pluralize it.” She stands and begins pacing the room. “The Arias? The Symphonies? The Operas?”

  “They sound very serious,” I say. “We want to give the impression that we’re fun—that joining would be a break from regular life, instead of being another obligation.” I sit back, peering at the ceiling to think. What’s a term in music that symbolizes all of that in one word? “The Rests” doesn’t have much ring to it.

  “The Finales?” Libby offers. “Like ‘Save the best for last; here come The Finales!’ ”

  “That’s not bad,” I say, typing. “It looks a little funny written out, though. It may be too close to ‘finals’—and no one wants to be reminded of finals.”

  “Definitely not.”

  “Hold on,” I say, suddenly excited. “I think I have it.” I raise a fist in the air triumphantly.

  “Spill it!” Libby hops over three poster boards until she’s in front of me.

  “The Intermissions,” I reveal grandly. “An intermission is a break in the middle of a show, and we’re a break from regular life. What do you think?” Libby stands statue still, and for a moment, I fear the name is less brilliant than I thought. “Do you like it?” I prod her. “Or no? I mean, we can keep brainstorming—”