I glance down at the binder I’m carrying for first period. I scribbled out the words, but I know what they say:
Your words—
Why do they define me ?
Why do I believe you?
Your face,
Your lips, and your fingers—
Don’t spill them on me.
I’m bones, blood, and flesh
Not clay to be pounded,
And scorched in the fire
That seethes in the hate you feel.
I bleed when you wound me
Just like the pretty girls do.
It needs some kind of hopeful chorus. Can’t seem to squeak anything like that into the equation. No music, either. Just those thin lines that make me sound so angry. I guess I am—angry. But I don’t want everyone knowing that. I do a lot of erasing, burning, shredding, hiding, hurting. I run back to
Da-am ugly
and stay there.
The end of the year can’t come fast enough. If I tiptoe next year, I’ll be able to breathe—like when they left junior high.
Scott reads my mind. “Only three months, eight days, thirteen hours, and twenty-nine minutes until they graduate.”
“Why do you help me?” Scott and I were best friends in preschool, and then he was in my class again in third grade. He was skinny and had to go to the nurse’s office for hyper drugs at lunch. I was already taller than everyone else and wore thick, round glasses that made me look like an overgrown bush baby. My hair was short back then. Cut it now? No way. Where would I hide?
Scott doesn’t have to hide. Doesn’t have to help me and doom himself to eternal loserhood. He’s cute since his face cleared up. I don’t think he sees it. He’s still way short, Quiz Bowl captain, core nerd. Still my friend.
He grins, nonchalant, self-sacrificing, Clark Kent to the core. “I don’t take gym anymore. They can’t steal my clothes and throw them in the toilet.”
“But they could hurt you.”
“You’re worried?” He pats my shoulder. “That’s nice, Beth. See you in choir.”
Choir. School choir. Not my real choir down in Ann Arbor. Not the choir I begged Mom to let me audition for when I was thirteen. Not the competitive
all-girls
choir where I sit unobtrusively in the back and anchor the altos. Not the one I have to drive a hundred miles to, through Detroit’s rush-hour traffic down I-94 every Tuesday and Thursday to rehearsals in a freezing cold church. Not Bliss Youth Singers of Ann Arbor
.
The choir I live for. The choir that takes me away from who I am to what I long to be. Beautiful? I guess. Isn’t that what everyone wants? They all probably want love, too. I live with so much hate that I’m not even sure what love is. Neither is on my horizon.
Scott’s just talking about our struggling school choir. Kind of a joke. Marching Band is almighty here. But choir passes the time. Easy A. Music is music. Singing is singing. A respite from the madness. No jock senior boys allowed. Out of this school of nearly two thousand kids, there are only eight guys in the whole group, so I sit by Scott and sing tenor. I’ve got a decent low voice and perfect pitch so sight-reading parts come naturally. I can sing high, too. I can sing as high as anybody if I want. I help out the sopranos and altos when we run parts. They go to pieces when I go back to tenor.
Scott can’t sing, but he tries. I asked him once why he takes choir. Any guy who signs up is instantly labeled “gay” by Colby and his jocks—and the rest of the school.
Scott turned kind of pink. “So I can hear you sing.”
That was probably the nicest thing any guy had ever said to me. Not that Scott was serious.
I played along. “Be careful.” I punched his arm. “You’ll ruin your reputation.”
He got serious then. “I’m not gay, Beth.”
“Of course, you’re not.”
He was going to say something else, but he just shook his head and walked off.
I dare you to say I’m not ugly.
So, back to this morning. Scott’s halfway down the hall, but I catch up easy. Long beast legs cover ground quickly. “Thanks, Scott. I mean it. School would be hell without you.”
He puts out his arm like he’s a prom princess escort. “My pleasure, ma’am.”
A shuddery, weak laugh comes out of me. I rest my arm on top of his and let him lead me down the hall, grateful for the support.
He smiles up at me. No braces for him now, either. Teeth recently whitened. A bit dazzling. “I wonder what people think when we walk down the hall together.”
I laugh, stronger this time. “Beauty and the Beast. Dr. Namar did a great job on your face.” We go to the same dermatologist. So far the miracle of clear skin hasn’t happened for me. Dr. Namar keeps trying. He says the scarring will be minimal. But I have eyes.
Scott stops and turns to me. He’s got a dreamy look on his face. “Beauty and the Beast? So if we dance in the moonlight—”
“You better bring a stool.”
“One of the wheelie ones from the library?”
“Perfect. Mind if I lead?” Then I feel dumb. This giant girl dwarfing sweet, little Scott. I let go of his arm and move forward, head down, withdrawing into myself again. My shoulders round to their usual downward curve.
Scott hustles to catch up. “What I want to know is,” he grabs me by the elbow and makes me stop walking, “if I kiss you when the music stops,” he stands on his toes and whispers in my ear, “will you be my Princess Charming?”
I snort. “Dream on. No magic’s going to help this.” I pull back, deeper into my beastly cave.
Scott smiles. “I wouldn’t mind an experiment.”
I don’t like it when he gets like this. “You don’t want to waste your virgin lips on me. You could dazzle a half-decent looking freshman into making out easy.” I head for my class. “Look in the mirror.”
He scurries along beside me, scowling. “I wish you’d get over the looks thing.”
I scowl right back at him. “Look at me, Scott.” I part my hair with both hands and pull it away from my face long enough to give him a frightening glimpse. “How could I
ever
get over the looks thing? I am the Beast.”
“If you believe that, they win.”
“Wake up. Look around.” I wrap my arms across my chest, trying to control the delayed reaction that shudders through me. “They won a long time ago.”
chapter 2
UGLY IN ALTO
Scott isn’t in choir. I look for him after school. No luck. I have Bliss practice down in Ann Arbor, so I can’t dawdle. I need to talk to him, though. I know he’s trying to be sweet, but him saying stuff about kissing and dancing hurts worse than “The Beast” spray-painted in bright green across the trunk of my faded-orange Ford.
I want to be kissed as much as the next seventeen-year-old girl. The ugly genie gave me plenty of hormones. But why even go there? When I’m forty, some blind bald guy can fall in love with me. My sight is bad to awful so we’d have that in common to build a relationship on. I’m too hideous for a guy who can see to even touch. I read somewhere that women peak sexually at thirty-eight—so that should work well for me. We can get married and have ugly blind kids. I don’t even care if he’s fat.
And I like kids. It’s sad Mom didn’t marry again and have more. Sometimes I wonder if she still loves my father—after all this time, all the pain. The only thing she got out of the whole deal was me. Not much of a prize. A baby sister to look after would have been cool. I work summers at the library—tons of toddlers and frazzled moms. I tried to help with the crafts a couple times, but the tykes got scared. Blind kids would be good.
I could find a blind high school to volunteer at and make a play for love now. Or maybe I’ll just go home, slam a sandwich, and hit the road so I’m not late for practice.
I drive myself these days. Mom always hated the drive—had to leave work early every Tuesday. The whole thing was doable when Bliss practiced once a week, but last fall, Terri, our director, decided she wanted to try to get us into the Choral Olympics this year and bumped up the practices to twice a week. Mom decided my driving skills were excellent and bought me an old Ford so I could drive myself. At least the orange isn’t off-the-lot bright. Looks like a dying pumpkin. Perfect to join my ugly stepsister gig. I named her Jeannette, nice and lovely so her feelings don’t get hurt. Misery does love company. Look at Scott and me.
Slushy sleet chases me all the way through Detroit. I’m way late. I hate March weather. Spring around here is dark, cold, and nasty. Gray rotting snowbanks that hang on as long as they can. Sleet and ice instead of pure-white winter snow.
Traffic is a mess tonight, and poor old Jeannette is gutless. Everybody cuts us off. I don’t ever dare try that. This is Detroit. I may be ugly, but I still want to live to sing another song.
I finally shake free of metro traffic and zoom into sleepy Ann Arbor, upscale university town, dozing on the banks of a quiet creek. The stone church we sing in is as old as the town. I slip into the sanctuary halfway through their warm-up.
No problem. I’m already hot. I played our practice playlist the whole drive down. Sang through the drills. All the songs. I downloaded all the parts, not just my alto. I love the soprano solo in this gospel piece we used for our Choral Olympics audition—“Take Me Home.” I cranked Jeannette’s dying CD player until the speakers were popping and sang the solo. I was a total star in the car.
I love it when we get to sing gospel stuff. None of us in Bliss are purist enough to prefer the classical religious pieces. We all beg Terri for more Broadway. That’s the best stuff to sing. Most of the girls get pumped over the stupid pop pieces Terri throws in to keep the audiences happy. I admit I have my favorite contemporary divas packed in my iPod—who doesn’t? But when I’m performing, I want more than that. I want the music to have heart and soul, desolation and joy—some meaning, for gosh sake. It’s so hard to find anything that means anything.
Terri’s kind of delusional with the whole Choral Olympics thing. There’s no way we’re going to get an invitation. We nailed the classical test-piece when we recorded it for our audition recording, but “Take Me Home” is challenging. Even the alto is incredible to sing—all that great stuff about
the sweet, sweet River Jordan
. There’s this huge climax with everyone singing something else in kind of a round. Celebration and heartbreak all at the same time. Awesome. But Meadow, our soprano soloist, choked. She’s had lessons her whole life, makes the most of her breathy, pop voice. But “Take Me Home” needs power. And emotion. Terri kept trying to get Meadow to go there, take after take, until we were all angry and exhausted. Meadow was in tears and then she just disappeared. Terri had to splice something together to send to the committee.
The Choral Olympics are in Lausanne, Switzerland, this July. Terri keeps putting pictures of the Alps and lakes and castles and Swiss houses overflowing with red geraniums and flags up on the Web site. It’s going to be such a downer when we get the news. We should hear back any day now. We also applied to this festival out near Vancouver, Canada. Got into that easy. Better than nothing.
But not Switzerland.
I grab a spot at the end of the row of standing altos and fall into the rhythm of oohing and aahing, rolling higher and higher. Good. I missed the zings.
“That’s great, girls. Keep singing. Ah-ah-ah-ah-ahhhh.” The piano hits the chord for the next note up. “Everyone turn to the right. Shoulder rub the girl in front of you.”
I pivot and start massaging Sarah, the girl beside me. She has for-real, not dyed, blonde hair that hangs down her back. Silky straight. Never a hint of a wave. Hair I’d kill for. No one is behind me.
Terri steps up and rubs my neck and shoulders. “I’m glad you made it. I was getting worried about you.”
“Kind of nasty out.”
“You be careful, Beth.”
“In a few more weeks, it’ll be just rain.”
“And you can drive through anything.”
“Almost.” Mom wouldn’t let me come a couple of times last month. Bad storms. Tonight is nothing.
“It may ice up later.” I know I can stay at her place. She offers it all the time. I’ve never been brave enough to take her up on it. “Eees, girls. And I don’t want to hear any witches.” The choir keeps moving up the scale.
“I’ve got new tires. The interstate should be fine.”
Terri squeezes my shoulders one last time and bellows, “Now everybody—left.” She runs around the room to massage the girl on the other end of the line.
We sing through a couple of numbers. The first is one of those old pop song fillers. Boring. There’s this one girls’ choir in Europe that sings crazy rock songs. Sounds dumb, but they are a huge hit. I’d like to try one of those pieces.
The second song is our third competition piece. It features the altos, and we’re all over it—carry the whole performance.
“Excellent.” Terri beams over at my section. “That was gorgeous, altos. Good work.” She puts her hand up to her forehead. “Sopranos. You’re not getting the harmony right.”