Sing Like Nobody's Listening Read online

  Asher shakes his head back and forth ferociously, shimmying out of his sleeping bag before jumping in the air to try to snatch the cat away.

  “That’s Fluffy,” Amelia pipes up. “He’s Asher’s snuggly. Mine is Feather.” She walks to her own sleeping bag, reaches deep inside, and emerges with a dingy-looking stuffed bird.

  “His name is Mister Kitters, not Fluffy,” I tell them. “Fluffy is a dumb name.” But as I’m arguing this point, in a flash, Asher leaps onto my bed and grabs Mister Kitters out of my raised arm. “Hey!” I squawk, throwing myself on the mattress to tackle him, but he rolls off and hides behind Mom, Mister Kitters hugged securely to his chest.

  “Mom,” I say as calmly as possible. “Tell him.”

  Mom is rubbing her forehead, creating wrinkles that hadn’t been there a few seconds ago. “It sounds like this is all a misunderstanding,” she begins slowly. “Wylie, you must have left Mister Kitters at your dad’s house when you were little, and they assumed he was Asher’s.”

  “But he wasn’t,” I remind her.

  “But in the meantime,” Mom continues, ignoring me, “Asher has clearly grown attached to him. So I think it would be nice if you let this go and just be happy that Mister Kitters is being loved.”

  I can’t believe what I’m hearing. Dad, I would expect to take Asher’s side. Amy, obviously. But Mom? Mom is my mother. If there’s anyone’s side she should be taking, it’s mine.

  “For right now,” Mom continues when I don’t respond, “why don’t you let me hold on to Mister Kitters—er, Fluffy—for safe-keeping.” She looks at Asher, who examines her through narrowed eyes before eventually handing him over. “Thank you. Now, I’m making French toast, so how about we go have a good breakfast?”

  Instead of answering, I step around Mom and out of my bedroom, stomping down the hall and then the stairs. I collapse on the couch, gripping my phone and ready to text Libby to please—please—save me immediately.

  Which is when I notice the massacre on the floor in front of me.

  Next to the coffee table, surrounded by dozens of crayons, lies Jada’s and my Colby Cash scrapbook. Open, pages askew, with Amelia’s preschool writing scrawled over the plastic coverings. Multicolored squiggles decorate the entries like hideous graffiti, and I am so flabbergasted by the sight that when I open my mouth to scream, no sound escapes.

  I gather the scrapbook in my arms and step over the strewn crayons, breaking some in the process. I fly into the kitchen and nearly run into Mom, neither Asher nor Amelia in sight.

  “Look!” I manage to sputter, my lips tight with anger. “Look what she did!”

  I hold the ruined scrapbook up for her to examine, and Mom’s eyes stretch with panic. “Oh . . . dear. I didn’t know—”

  “How could you let her do this?” I screech. “Why weren’t you watching her?”

  “I was making breakfast,” Mom says. “I had given her some of your old coloring books, but I guess she spotted that on the coffee table. I’m so sorry, Wylie. It was an accident.”

  “It wasn’t an accident! She should know better than to write on someone else’s property.”

  “She’s only four,” Mom tells me, like I don’t know her age.

  “Why do you keep defending them? You should be defending me!”

  “I’m not defending anyone. I understand you’re upset. I do. But in a few years, I bet you and Jada will find this funny.”

  “It’s not funny,” I insist, my teeth chattering with fury. “It’s not funny at all.”

  Mom sighs as if I’m the one being irrational. “I think you need to keep this in perspective. No one died. No one is sick. It’s only some crayon—not the end of the world.”

  “You don’t understand,” I say more quietly, and as much as I try to push them away, I feel tears tickling the backs of my eyes. Mom doesn’t know about the fight with Jada, about how we aren’t speaking, about how I’m not even sure we’re friends anymore. This scrapbook might be the last remnant of our friendship, and now it’s filled with scribbles, dashed with lines and curves and unintelligible drawings.

  Forever stained, just like Jada and me.

  I throw the book on the floor, like a piece of trash, and I run toward the back door. Without texting her first, without even changing out of my pajamas, I storm across my backyard in the direction of Libby’s, hoping her house will be the one safe haven I have left.

  I stay at Libby’s for the rest of the day, and aside from a call to her dad confirming I’m there, Mom doesn’t contact me. At first, with me too upset to speak, Libby and I simply watch old Non-Instrumental episodes, content in the comfortable quiet. But the longer I sit in her living room, the more I start to feel like myself. And when Libby suggests we head to the basement to throw some plates at the ground, I am more than ready.

  “Just make sure you pitch it away from you,” she instructs, handing me a royal-blue one. “Nothing like blinding yourself with a shard of cheap ceramic.” I hold the plate at my hip and prepare to fling it, gripping it on the side like a Frisbee. “No, no, no,” she stops me. “No tossing. You have to throw it down forcefully to create the best mosaic pieces.” So I raise the plate over my shoulder and then launch it onto the concrete floor, its pieces splattering the room like a burst appendix. I look at the aftermath with awe, and then I turn to Libby.

  “Can I do it again?” I ask, and she claps her hands.

  “It’s addictive, right?” She gives me an orange one.

  “It seriously is. Very therapeutic.” The orange plate sails to the floor and breaks apart, creating a bright spectrum of color. As Libby and I continue to smash, I begin to unload my issues. One by one, I tell her about Mister Kitters and the scribbled scrapbook and my fight with Jada and my problems with Dad’s house and Mom’s defense of Asher and Amelia and just about everything in between.

  And Libby, who usually has an answer for everything, listens. Truly listens. She listens like she wants to know what I have to say. She concentrates on me, rather than on how she’s going to respond. And through her concerned silence, I feel heard. And I feel better. As it turns out, I don’t need Libby’s advice or words of encouragement or reminders that she, too, has had a bad week before. In this moment, all I need is her attention. And Libby, to her great credit, appears to understand this.

  In the evening, Libby’s grandmother arrives, and over dinner, I hear about the Soleils’ lives, their experiences, their stories. And after hours of focusing on me, it’s nice to take a back seat, and to think about something, and some people, outside my own head.

  “You can sleep over if you want,” Libby offers as we finish clearing the table. “You could take my bottom bunk. I’d just have to clear off . . . a few things.”

  “Aka the past eleven years of your life—I saw how much was piled on that mattress!” I tease her. “It’s okay. I should probably go home and, you know, try and be a big girl.”

  “Well, I’m here if you need to run away again. I know my dad won’t mind.”

  “Thanks,” I tell her as I walk out the door. “Really. You made my day a lot better. And I promise to restock your plate supply.”

  “Are you kidding? I can make enough mosaics to circle the block with those pieces we created today! Come back anytime.”

  And as much as I would like to stay, to not have to face Mom or Asher or Amelia, I know that I can only keep them out of sight, and more or less out of mind, for so long.

  * * *

  I enter my house hesitantly, the same familiar feeling of dread in the pit of my stomach. Once again, it’s surprisingly quiet, with only one dim light shining in the living room. As I approach, I see Mom peer around the lamp, watching me.

  “So you’ve returned,” she speaks first, the tone of her voice betraying no emotion. I glance around, searching for Asher and Amelia, but the house remains ghostly still.

  “Did they leave?” I ask, not even with hopefulness, but merely out of curiosity.

  “They went
to sleep early. I took them to that indoor jungle gym you used to like. It wore them out.”

  “Oh.” I sit gingerly on the edge of the recliner’s cushion, not sure what to say next.

  “And how was your day?” Mom asks, and I still can’t tell whether or not she’s mad.

  “It was good,” I begin, “Libby and I watched a bunch of Non-Instrumental episodes to get some ideas for our group.”

  “So the group is happening?”

  I nod. “I hope so. We put up a bunch of posters and fliers on Friday, and Mrs. Nieska agreed to be our faculty advisor. Now we have to see if anyone shows up to the first meeting.”

  “Is Jada joining?”

  “No.”

  Mom tilts her head, looking at me curiously. “Why not? She likes to sing.”

  “She’s in the musical.”

  Mom raises her eyebrows. “Jada made the musical?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you didn’t?”

  I sigh. “I couldn’t go through with the audition.” I decide to be honest.

  “What happened?”

  “I freaked out,” I confess. “The spotlights were shining in my eyes and I felt like I couldn’t see the edge of the stage and I just . . .” I shrug, trailing off. “I couldn’t do it.”

  “I’m proud of you for trying,” Mom says. “Even if it didn’t work out. I know how hard it was for you to try after what happened.” I nod. “So is Jada enjoying herself?”

  I shrug again. “I guess. We’re not exactly speaking right now.”

  Mom sits up straighter, a look of concern on her face. “You and Jada aren’t speaking?”

  I lean back and stare at the ceiling. “We had a fight,” I begin, “yesterday, at lunch. Ever since the auditions, she’s been wrapped up in her life. But when I try to do my own thing, she gets all possessive. Like only she can do something else and make new friends, and I’m supposed to sit here, waiting for her.” The words pour out of me like a leaky faucet.

  “So what happened?” Mom asks. “During the fight?”

  “I got mad, and I . . . I guess I snapped. And then she stormed off and went to sit with the theatre people, and we haven’t spoken since.”

  “Come here,” Mom says, patting the spot on the couch next to her. Reluctantly, I stand and cross the room, collapsing onto the cushion and letting Mom pull my head onto her shoulder.

  “Why didn’t you tell me any of this?” she whispers, running her fingers through my hair.

  I keep my eyes forward, my shoulders weighted down by Mom’s arm. “I didn’t feel like talking about it. Like if I didn’t mention it out loud, maybe it hadn’t happened. Plus . . .”

  “What?”

  “Asher and Amelia were here when I got home. You were busy.”

  Mom doesn’t say anything right away, but her fingers keep combing my hair. “You know,” she begins, “all friendships go through growing pains. And I’ve found the longer the friendship has lasted, the more changes it’s going to endure. You and Jada have always been so close, but you’re becoming your own people. And those people might turn out to be very different from each other. It’s always good to learn to stand on your own, to do things without the other—for the two of you especially. But the trick is finding the places where your lives still intersect, the parts that remind you why you became friends in the first place.”

  “I don’t know if that will ever happen,” I tell her. “It seems like it might be over.”

  “You and Jada? Never. You’re going through a rough patch, but you’ll come back around. Why don’t you contact her now? See if she wants to talk?”

  I shake my head adamantly, pulling away from Mom. “I’m mad at her. Or not mad—hurt. I don’t have anything to say.”

  “Tell her that. Explain how you’re feeling, and let her explain herself too.”

  I drop my chin toward my chest, fidgeting with my fingers. “I’m not ready.”

  “Okay,” she says. “Tomorrow, then. Or the next day. You two are going to come out on the other side of this. I know you are.”

  I push my bangs out of my eyes and tuck my hair behind my ears. “I have Libby now. So if Jada and I are never friends again, at least I have Libby.”

  Mom sighs quietly. “It’s great that you and Libby have gotten closer. But new friends don’t have to replace the old ones. You shouldn’t throw away your friendship with Jada just because a new one has come along.”

  I lean away from Mom, burying my head in a throw pillow. “Like Dad did with me?” I say this under my breath, and when Mom doesn’t reply, I’m not sure she’s heard me. And I’m certainly not going to repeat it.

  But then she pulls my feet onto her lap, resting her hands on my ankles. “Your dad didn’t throw you away, Wylie. He loves you very much.”

  “He loves them more,” I say softly. “I mean, I don’t care. It’s fine. But he does.”

  “He doesn’t.”

  “You have to say that,” I tell her. “You don’t know for sure. And you don’t know what it’s like when I go over there. How uncomfortable it is.”

  Mom rubs her eyes, looking exhausted. “You’re right. I don’t. But I do know your dad loves you. And Asher and Amelia do too.”

  “They won’t after today.”

  “Of course they will. All siblings fight—it goes with the territory. And as much as you may act like they’re not your ‘real’ brother and sister, they absolutely are. You might have a different relationship with them—different from someone like Jada, who lives with her brothers and sees them every day—but you’re still their sister. The two of them fight like cats and dogs—it’s only natural that every once in a while, they’ll fight with you, too.”

  I sit up. “Do you like them?”

  “I do. More than I thought I would, based on your ‘charming’ description of them.” She pinches my big toe. “But I’m glad that you’re my daughter.”

  I smile meekly. “What time are they getting picked up tomorrow?”

  “Early,” Mom says. “Your dad and Amy are taking an overnight flight and coming straight from the airport, so you won’t have to deal with them for long.”

  I nod. “I’m going to bed, then. I’ll try not to wake them.”

  Mom gives me a good-night kiss. “Listen, you,” she says, holding on to my wrist. “Next time, talk to me. If I had known what was going on with Jada, it would have explained a lot about what happened this morning. I’m always here for you—and you first. Got it?”

  “Got it. Good night.” I tiptoe upstairs and crawl into my unmade bed. As I snuggle into the sheets, my ear brushes against something furry and worn. I sit up and right there, perched in the middle of my pillow, is Mister Kitters. I clutch him against my chest, as if to make up for the six years we’ve spent apart. I want to text Jada with the news that he’s returned, but I can’t. Not unless I want to be the one to give in first.

  So do I?

  If I don’t make any mention of our fight, maybe it will go away. Maybe neither of us will talk about it again, and we can move on as if nothing happened. If that was the case, I’d relent in order to put an end to this. So I snap a photo of Mister Kitters and forward it to Jada with the caption, Look who’s back.

  But by the following morning, Jada still hasn’t replied.

  The good news is that Dad and Amy pick up Asher and Amelia incredibly early on Sunday so that Mom and I can spend the rest of the weekend in peace. The bad news is that not only is Jada continuing to give me the silent treatment, but once we arrive at school on Monday, she’s refusing to even look in my direction. After a full morning of being ignored, and with no idea who I will sit with in the cafeteria, I text Libby, Do you happen to have lunch next period?

  I do! In the red cafeteria. Willow Oak divides its lunches between the building’s two cafeterias, and while you’re supposed to go to the one where you’re assigned, the aides rarely check such things.

  Can I meet you there? I ask.

  Absolutely. Fo
urth table on the right at the end of the bench.

  Got it.

  I might have a surprise for you, Libby writes with a smiley face.

  I could use one.

  As soon as the end-of-period bell rings, I dart to the red cafeteria, where I find Libby waving at me frantically. I’m barely within earshot when she starts talking.

  “Ta-da!” she calls out, gesturing to the person sitting across from her. “I hereby present another member of The Intermissions!” He stands, revealing himself to be shorter than Libby, with white-blond hair and rectangular glasses. He’s adorable, in a little-boy sort of way.

  “Hi!” I greet him. “I’m Wylie.”

  “Oliver,” he responds. “My sister and her friend are joining the group too—that’s how I found out about it.”

  “Wow, really? That’s great!” I say. “What are their names?”

  “Abigail is my sister,” Oliver tells me. “Her best friend is Audrey.”

  “Oh, I heard about them!” I settle beside Libby. “From Mason Swenson.”

  “Yeah, Abigail and Mason are on Student Council together,” Oliver says. “She mentioned the group to me, and then I saw Libby passing out fliers this morning. I didn’t realize you two were the founders.”

  “We only dreamed it up last week, so it’s been kind of a whirlwind,” I tell him. “But hopefully, it will be fun.”

  “And hopefully, we’ll get on Non-Instrumental,” Libby pipes up, and I kick her under the table. “Oh, whoops!”

  “Non-Instrumental, the TV show?” Oliver asks. “My sister watches it. Well, I may or may not watch it, too . . . .”

  “It’s the best show ever,” Libby replies. “So where is this mysterious sister of yours? Is she in this lunch?” I smile at her gratefully for changing the subject.

  “She usually goes to the blue cafeteria,” Oliver says. “I’ll ask if they want to come meet you guys.” As he texts Abigail, I send one to Mason.

  Are you still coming to The Intermissions meeting this afternoon? I ask.

  Was planning on it, he responds instantly. Did you ever hear from the 8th graders?