Sing Like Nobody's Listening Page 6

  “I don’t like it,” Libby cuts me off. “I love it. It is beyond perfect!” She holds both hands out, and I high-ten her happily. “Now let’s get to work!” Libby returns to the floor, grabs a silver marker, and scrawls THE INTERMISSIONS in giant bubble letters across the first poster. “Get ready, Colby Cash! Here come The Intermissions!”

  Libby and I arrive at school extra-early Friday morning carrying six colorful posters and a bushel of fliers. At the bottom of each, we’ve written, “Make your own music, find your own voice!” with information about our first practice on Monday. Mrs. Nieska appears in the seventh-grade wing as we’re positioning the final poster, and she peers at it over her glasses. Her face is stoic in a way that makes me nervous, as if Libby and I have done something wrong. But then she breaks into a huge grin, nodding with approval.

  “You two did an amazing job with these,” she says. “I spotted them all over school—they’re so eye-catching!”

  “That’s Libby’s doing.” I point to her. “Have you met Libby, by the way? Libby, this is Mrs. Nieska. Mrs. Nieska, Libby.”

  “Nice to meet you!” Libby chirps. “Thank you so much for being our faculty advisor!”

  “It’s my pleasure,” Mrs. Nieska says. “As I told Wylie, a cappella holds a special place in my heart. And the name you girls have come up with? Stupendous.”

  “That was all Wylie,” Libby tells her. “I don’t see how Non-Instrumental can turn us down with a name like that.” I shoot her a look, silently shushing her. I hadn’t told Mrs. Nieska about the contest yet. I was afraid that if she figured out that our main motivation is to win a call with Colby Cash, she wouldn’t take us seriously. But unfortunately, Libby is paying no attention to the be quiet eye daggers I’m throwing her way.

  “We have to be one of the youngest groups they’ve ever seen,” she continues.

  Mrs. Nieska smiles. “Yes, who knows? If you keep this up, maybe I’ll see you on there in a few years.”

  “Or in a few weeks,” Libby responds, and it’s all I can do not to place my hand directly over her mouth.

  “You’re very ambitious, aren’t you, Libby?” Mrs. Nieska asks kindly. “I do hope that a lot of people show up on Monday.”

  “Or at least four,” Libby replies, and I roll my eyes behind their backs, giving up.

  “So on Monday,” Mrs. Nieska continues, thankfully not seeming to notice anything odd about Libby’s comment, “are we holding auditions? Or can anyone join?”

  “We’ll take whoever we can get!” Libby answers.

  “I agree, no auditions,” I say. “I think the process should be stress-free.”

  “Sounds good,” Mrs. Nieska says, turning in the direction of her classroom. “I’ll see you girls later—pleasure to meet you, Libby!”

  “You too!” Libby calls.

  As soon as Mrs. Nieska is out of earshot, I whisper-yell, “I haven’t told her about the contest yet. So keep that on the down-low.”

  “Why?” Libby asks. “That’s our big selling point for getting others to join!”

  “I didn’t want her to think we were only doing this because of Colby, or to get on TV, or whatever. We can tell her about the contest once we actually have a group.”

  “So we’re not mentioning it to the people who show up on Monday either?”

  “I don’t think we should. I say we keep the plan between us for now.” The first bell rings, opening school for the day.

  “Okay,” Libby says. “Here, give me a stack of fliers. I’ll force them on some sixth graders.” I hand her the top half of the pile.

  “Good luck,” I tell her.

  “You too!”

  I walk toward my locker, lifting the flap of my bag and trying to jam the fliers inside. SMACK. I bang into the figure in front of me, and the fliers fall from my arm and flutter down the hallway.

  “I’m so sorr—Oh, it’s you.” I begin to apologize before I spot Mason before me, his baseball cap more askew than usual.

  “Way to keep your eyes on the road,” he says, a smirk unfastening his lips.

  “I could say the same for you,” I retort, stooping down to gather the fliers before they get trampled. And to my surprise, Mason bends down to help me.

  “This is the group you were referring to yesterday?” he asks. “The Intermissions?”

  “Yes.”

  “An a cappella group?”

  “Yes,” I say again. “No need to make fun of it.”

  “How many members do you have so far?” He hands me the fliers he’s gathered, keeping one for himself.

  “Why do you ask?” I’m instantly suspicious.

  “Just curious,” he says, scanning the paper as we reach our locker bank. “I think I know some people who would like to join.”

  “Oh, yeah? Who?”

  “Remember, I have my finger on the pulse of this school,” Mason says, his eyes dancing with amusement. I cross my arms and tilt my head.

  “I’m sure you think you do.”

  “You don’t believe me?” he asks.

  I push my bangs out of my face, trying to decide what he’s up to. “Why would you help? What’s in it for you?”

  “Well, I certainly can’t join a group without any members. That would be embarrassing. I have a reputation to protect.”

  “Wait, you’re joining?”

  Mason shrugs. “Seems like fun.” He strolls into homeroom without further comment.

  And I don’t know whether to be excited or horrified that The Intermissions now have three members . . . and that one of those members is Mason Swenson.

  * * *

  Jada has been so preoccupied with the musical that I’ve barely had a chance to talk to her since she was cast—or, in actuality, I’ve barely had a chance to talk to her about anything other than the musical. When we get to lunch, she mercifully sets her ever-present script binder to the side—not out of sight, but at least no longer the main focus.

  “What are you doing this weekend?” she asks in what seems like the first question she’s posed to me in days.

  “Asher and Amelia are coming,” I tell her casually as she unpacks her food, and she doesn’t react, proving she’s not paying attention. “Did you hear me?”

  “Asher and Amelia are coming,” she repeats like a robot. “Wait, what? They’re coming to your house?”

  “Yes.”

  “But why?”

  “Ugh,” I groan. “It’s a long story. One that begins and ends with ruining my weekend.”

  “Why are they coming? For how long? Where are they going to sleep?” she rattles off.

  “Not with me, that’s for sure. They’re supposed to bring sleeping bags and camp out in the living room. So I plan on barricading myself in my bedroom.”

  “How did your mom agree to this?”

  I roll my eyes. “You know how she is. She felt bad. I would have never agreed, if anyone had asked me.”

  “That’s outrageous,” Jada says. “Sorry I won’t be around to save you—we have rehearsal all weekend. When do they arrive?”

  “They’ll be there when I get home today. I’ll have no reprieve.” I start searching my bag for my water bottle.

  “What are those?” Jada asks, pointing. I follow her finger to the neon papers peeking out between my books.

  “Fliers about The Intermissions. We haven’t had a chance to talk about it yet, but I’m—”

  “Wait, the new a cappella group?” Jada asks, and I’m impressed she’s already heard about it—our marketing must be working. “You’re joining that?”

  “Kind of. I mean, I started it. With Libby, so it would be weird if I weren’t in it . . . .”

  Jada’s eyes grow wide. “You started the a cappella group? Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “It just happened,” I explain. “Libby and I came up with the idea a couple days ago. And you and I haven’t exactly had much time to chat.”

  “Who’s in the group?” Jada asks immediately. “You and Libby and w
ho else?”

  “I don’t know yet. Believe it or not, Mason mentioned that he would like to join, but it’s hard to tell if he’s being serious.”

  “Mason?!” Jada gags on his name. “You’re starting an a cappella group with Mason?”

  “I’m not starting it with him—I’m starting it with Libby,” I say evenly. “I can’t stop him from joining if he wants to.”

  “Of course you can!” Jada insists. I search her face, trying to figure out if she’s kidding, but she looks scarily intent. “I’m your best friend,” she continues. “You’re supposed to be loyal to me. Not to my sworn enemy.”

  “Oh, please. I’m always loyal to you,” I respond, growing increasingly frustrated.

  “You’re not, if you’re going to start hanging out with the person I can’t stand most in this world. You can’t be friends with me and with Mason. You need to choose.”

  “Choose?” I can barely believe what I’m hearing. “You want me to choose who I socialize with? What if I said the same thing to you?”

  “You can socialize with anyone you want. Except Mason Swenson. If you were loyal to me, you would know that.”

  “Loyal to you? You’re the one who hasn’t been loyal!” I erupt, any trace of calmness vanished from my voice. “You joined the musical without me. You left me alone on the stage when you knew I was scared. You’ve barely spoken to me in days, and when you do, it’s only about your show.” My voice reaches such a crescendo that people start glancing in our direction. More quietly, I continue, “This is my a cappella group. As much as you may try to make it about you, like you love to do, it will never be true.”

  For a second, Jada looks like she’s been stung, a flash of hurt shooting across her face. I expect her to start crying, or to start apologizing, or to start insisting that we end this fight immediately. But instead, she rises to her feet, grabs her belongings, and says one word: “Fine.” With that, she marches across the cafeteria to the theatre people’s table and takes a seat at the end of the bench.

  And not once, not even for a moment, does she look back.

  Jada and I manage to avoid each other for the rest of the day, and the moment the final bell rings, I fly out the front door while texting Libby.

  Should I come over so we can brainstorm? I’m not really in the mood to work on The Intermissions, but I’m even less in the mood to deal with Asher and Amelia.

  Can’t today. Have to go to my grandmother’s, Libby writes back. Tomorrow?

  Okay, I answer with a sigh, and I wonder how many times I can circle the neighborhood before Mom sends out a search party. As slowly as possible, I drag myself home, half-guilty for leaving Mom alone with them for longer than necessary and half-debating how I can further delay my arrival. What I feel like doing right now is curling up on the couch, a blanket over my knees and the scents of Mom’s exotic Friday-night cooking wafting through the house. I don’t want to think about Jada or The Intermissions or Mason. I don’t want to think about anything. I want to be quiet, calm, and as far away from the terrors as possible.

  I reach my house entirely too soon, bracing myself for noise, chaos, and pure annoyance. I take a deep breath before turning the key, and once the door is open a crack, I consider darting upstairs to my room and locking myself in. But as irritated as I am with Mom, I can’t bring myself to abandon her completely. So I close the door softly behind me, and I listen. For a moment, it’s so quiet that I wonder if—fingers crossed—Dad found someone else to watch them, and they’re not here after all. Tentatively, I peer into the kitchen.

  “Wy? Is that you?” Mom’s voice greets me, and I’m forced to reveal myself.

  “It is.” I try to say this cheerfully but am not entirely successful. I find Mom, Asher, and Amelia gathered around the table playing one of my old board games.

  And it is quiet. Eerily, pleasantly quiet. No yelling, no whining, no screams of no fair! or my turn! or he’s cheating! The scene is almost picturesque.

  Then, without warning, Amelia leaps off her chair, runs across the kitchen, and throws her arms around my waist—tightly. Never before has Amelia looked so happy to see me—and never before, as far as I can remember, have we hugged.

  “Hi, Amelia,” I greet her, gripping her shoulders with surprise. “Hi, Asher.”

  “Hi, Wylie,” he answers politely, and though he doesn’t envelop me in a bear hug, he, too, looks more pleased than usual by my presence.

  “How was your day?” Mom asks as Amelia relinquishes her hold.

  “Okay,” I answer. “How are things around here?”

  “Great,” Mom says. “We’re thinking pizza for dinner—how does that sound?”

  “Awesome,” I answer, mildly amused that, for once, I’m getting the kind of Friday night I’ve always coveted: pizza, board games, and a bustling family.

  Even if that family includes Asher and Amelia.

  * * *

  I’m shocked that throughout dinner, the terrors remain on their best behavior. It seems that once they’re out of their element—away from their parents, their house, and their comfort zone—they’re much mellower. They’re even somewhat enjoyable.

  “They were so relieved when you arrived,” Mom whispers as we clean up. “I’m proud of you for being a good sister to them. It’s clear they love you very much.”

  “They can sleep on the floor of my room, if that will be better,” I tell her quickly, before I can think better of it. “Not in my bed—I have my limits—but if you think they’ll be more comfortable in there, that’s okay.”

  “I’m sure that will make them much happier,” Mom says, giving my hand a squeeze. “If you finish in here, I’ll get them settled.” She gathers their things and herds them up the steps while I finish packaging the leftover pizza. Then I search through my bag until I find my phone, hoping, more than I would like to admit, to find a text from Jada. But there’s only one message waiting for me, from a number I don’t recognize.

  Do you know Abigail and Audrey? I read. They’re in 8th grade—not sure of their last names. I spoke to them after school, and they’re interested in joining the group. They said they’re going to find you on Monday to ask some questions, but I think they’re in.

  I read the message again, trying to figure out who it could be from. Mrs. Nieska? I’m pretty sure teachers don’t text students. Is Libby texting from her dad’s phone? That seems unlikely. Who could this be?

  Sorry, I respond, but who is this?

  Mason.

  Mason?!

  Um, how did you get my number? I ask.

  You put it on the flier, Mason reminds me. Boy, you don’t trust me at all, do you?

  I feel my face grow warm with embarrassment. Whoops, forgot about that, I reply. But great news about the 8th graders. I’ll speak to them on Monday.

  Just don’t do anything weird and scare them off, Mason writes with a winking face. You know, like accuse them of gathering your personal information behind your back.

  I’ll do my best, I reply, smiling to myself. So you’re really planning on joining?

  Mason takes a second to respond and then writes, Is that okay?

  Sure, I answer. But what’s with the sudden interest in singing?

  I could ask you the same thing, Mason answers.

  Are you any good?

  I guess you’ll have to wait and see, huh? he writes cryptically. Have a good weekend.

  Perplexed, I open Libby’s text chain and send her an update. So Mason Swenson (of all people) found two 8th graders who want to join The Intermissions. They’re supposed to talk to me on Monday, but he seems confident they’re in.

  Yay! Libby writes back. How about we do a Non-Instrumental marathon tomorrow? We could use the old seasons as inspiration.

  Would love to, but may have to postpone until Sunday, I answer. Can I let you know?

  Sure. Night, night.

  Amelia appears in the kitchen then, decked out in a pair of princess pajamas. “Will you read me a book?�
�� She looks up at me innocently.

  “Sure. I’ll show you where the bookshelf is so you can pick one.” She grabs my hand, and I hear myself volunteering, “How about a piggyback ride?”

  With a gappy grin, Amelia climbs aboard and grasps her arms firmly around my neck. And when we reach my room and I deposit her in a giggling heap on my bed, it appears that, for once, neither one of us feels like whining.

  When I wake up the next morning, I’m startled by the sound of faint breathing before remembering that Asher and Amelia are here. I stretch out in bed and reach for my phone, where there’s still no word from Jada. I hate not speaking to her, but I also don’t think I’m entirely wrong. Maybe I said some things I shouldn’t have, and I would be willing to apologize for them.

  But only if she apologized first.

  I slip off my bed and walk as quietly as possible toward the door. Amelia is missing from her sleeping bag, but Asher is tightly snuggled within his, only the tips of his strawberry blond hair peeking out the top. I’m about to step over him when something catches my eye: a small fur-like tuft. I peer down for a closer look, and before I can stop myself, I gasp—loudly.

  This gasp causes Asher to sit up straight, the sleeping bag covering his form like a bloated caterpillar.

  “How did you get that?” I shriek, suddenly not able to control the volume of my voice.

  “What?” Asher asks groggily.

  “This!” I shout, reaching down to snatch Mister Kitters. “How did you get this?”

  “It’s mine,” Asher says, his eyes widening into a more alert stance. “Give him back!”

  “He is not yours! And I want to know where you found him!”

  “He’s mine!” Asher insists as Mom flies through the door, Amelia at her heels.

  “What’s wrong?” Mom asks, examining the scene, and I hold out Mister Kitters. “Wow, Mister Kitters. I haven’t seen him in ages.”

  “He’s mine!” Asher yells, now matching my rage.

  “He’s mine!” I yell back, not caring how juvenile I sound. “You stole him!”