He cuts me with the coldest look and stalks off. He’s so touchy these days. I was trying to be nice. Self-sacrificing. Heroic. He gives me heck for every little thing they do to me. It’s not my fault. I just want to sing. And then he teases me. Flirts almost.
He still doesn’t get how much that hurts. We’re not in third grade anymore. I have feelings like any other girl. And he’s the only guy in my world. No wonder he turns me on. I’m so desperate—all these hormones really want to unload. But he’s my friend. My best friend. He won’t ever think of me as a girlfriend. I don’t want him to. Really. I don’t. His friendship means everything to me. The little snot.
My phone buzzes. Meadow. Great. She loves playing stage mom. I guess that’s what she’s been trained for all her life. Like mother, like daughter. Her mom wanted a superstar diva and all she got was Mini-Me.
My mom called hers last night. She’s not all that comfortable with this woman she hardly knows playing stage mom with her daughter. Mom started off thanking her for taking such a keen interest in me. “I’m concerned about the expense.”
We’re not rolling in cash like they are, but Mom’s a partner in her accounting firm. She does all right. I had braces like everybody else. We have insurance and stuff. Just because I choose to live in Levi’s and baggy sweatshirts, doesn’t mean I can’t afford stylish stuff if I can find it in skinny, extra-tall. I have my own car. Good old Jeanette. I don’t get a new one every couple of months like Meadow, wouldn’t dream of staying on in Europe after the Choral Olympics and going to race car driving school in Germany so I can get a Porsche for Christmas like her, but Jeanette is my own car.
Mom paused. “But—” Another pause. “Choir sponsors?”
Another longer pause. “That’s remarkable. The clothing, too? And all the girls are going to the salon? What about the cosmetic surgery? I’d be happy—”
She noticed me listening and walked down the hall. Fat chance, Mom. I followed, stood right in her face. She scowled at me.
“Well, all right then. I didn’t realize the choir had such an extensive lineup of sponsors in the beauty business.”
So much for Mom’s scruples. Meadow’s mom could have been lying. Whether Meadow’s parents bankrolled or just fund-raised my transformation doesn’t really matter. They donate tons to the choir. They are talking about using us at a couple of grand openings they’ve got coming up and recording a radio commercial. Girls’ choir and luxury cars. Guess that works. All of a sudden, I’m Bliss. They like how the engine hums, but I need a lot of bodywork. They’ll get their money out of me. I’m not worried about
them.
My cell is still buzzing. “Hey, Meadow.”
“My mom says don’t forget the fitting tonight. Be sure to wear your new bra and put some extra in it.”
Judges mark down for cleavage. I don’t need that stupid bra or the padding. That thing’s a killer. Give me my sports bra any day.
“And how are you today?”
“Oh, yeah. How’s your face?”
“It was cemented to my pillow when I woke up this morning.”
“Ick. How does it feel?”
“Right now? Mostly numb. It’ll kill when the anesthetic in the cream wears off.”
“Try some aloe.”
I laugh.
“It’ll be worth it when you’re beautiful.”
“That may not happen in my lifetime. Maybe the mortician will finally get it right. Unless they bury me with my glasses.”
“Ugh. You are so morbid. Listen, you’ll never be beautiful if you don’t believe it.”
“I just want to get to the point where I don’t scare people when we walk out onstage.”
“My mom says you need to send yourself positive reinforcing messages every day. That’s how I made it down to a size one.”
“I’ll get right on that.”
She hangs up. More calls to make. More people to boss. She’s loving this, and she doesn’t have to sing. I get all the pressure now. All the pain. All the misery. All the work. But it’s going to be worth it.
Halfway through second period my phone vibrates. I slip it out, hold it under the desk. Meadow again. 2day’s affirmation: I am a nokout. Repeat 100X. Will send nu 1 2mor0.
Knockout
? Goodness.
I make it through AP history. Everyone in class is staring at me while I present. I get in a panic that my face is oozing and mess up a little, but no one realizes that but my teammates. They know I got them their best grade of the semester, so they don’t dare complain. The joy of group projects. At least I never get stuck with guys in my group. Guys won’t work with me. I don’t mind carrying a few of the less talented girls. Even if they do sit around and talk while I do everything.
I dash down to the bathroom to try to repair whatever they’re staring at. But my face is fine. I’m actually almost okay looking today. My eyeballs are still magnified to freakish proportions, but the rest of me is presentable. My lips look especially nice. No wonder Scott got giddy like that. I’m a heck of a long way from a knockout, but not beastly. Maybe I can write a song about that.
I don’t manage a whole new song, but my old standby gets a new verse during econ.
Changes.
Why do they surprise me?
Can everyone see
Inside
That I’m still the same girl?
Now who will she be?
Can she be beautiful?
Will she be blinded, too?
Why am I anxious
To leave my old shell behind?
Can it be possible?
Will all the people love me?
No hopeful chorus yet. Stay tuned, though. Maybe hopeful is around the corner.
chapter 6
RUBY
L
eah makes me sign up for the online network they are all on. My page is pathetic. I don’t know what to do about a picture. That part is blank. Looks lame. The whole choir friended me—even Terri. That’s kind of cool.
I’m going down the list, clicking “Confirm,” and right in the middle of those smiling Bliss faces, there’s one from a guy.
It startles me. I didn’t think I’d have to deal with guys here. Maybe Scott, but not a real guy like this one. He’s beautiful. Unreal good-looking. Dark hair, pale skin, moody brown eyes a girl could get lost in. Derek. Sounds kind of phony. Maybe he’s the network host. Everybody’s first friend.
I click on the message attached to his request.
Good day, I’m one of the ABC soloists. Heard you on Bliss’s Web site. Welcome to the Choral Olympics. Chat with me?
ABC? Oh, crap. This guy is from the Amabile Boys’ Choir.
Stupid, Terri. She changed up Bliss’s Web site. I start singing as soon as the site launches. She must have put my name up there. Great. This babe of a guy thinks I’m some beautiful Blissette and wants to chat.
I move my mouse to “Ignore.”
I know what guys who look like this one are really like. Mean, nasty brutes. This guy sings, though. I adjust my glasses and lean forward—trying to see beyond the angel face to the demon it must hide. I need to call Sarah. She knows about guys. She’s a champion at guys.
No. She’d make me confirm, so I could pass him off to her. Too bad Meadow has her boyfriend. I owe her something like this. Her ethereal perfection matches this Derek guy exactly.
Leah? Naw. This is hardly official choir business.
I’ll just ignore. I like that feature. I click my mouse. Crap. The arrow wandered over to “Confirm” while I was ogling his picture. There’s got to be a block feature. While I’m hunting for it, the chat box pops up.
Derek: hi, Beth . . . thanks for confirming me
I type, “I didn’t mean to. Can you tell me how to block?” I erase that and send a cautious, noncommittal, What do you want?
Derek: I’m our choir’s designated spy
Beth: really?
Shoot. I should have called Leah. This is official choir business.
Derek: honest to gosh
Beth: you won’t get anything out of me
Derek: sounds like it will be fun trying
Beth: oh, please
Yuck. Now my hands are all sweaty. I dry them on my jeans while I wait for his next post.
Derek: it’s unusual for a choir to come out of nowhere like you guys did
Beth: you guys scared?
Derek: hardly
Beth: then why bother to spy?
Derek: are all your pieces as good as that one on your site?
I decide a strategic lie is necessary here—for the good of the choir.
Beth: better
Derek: hard to believe
Beth: it’s true
Derek: your vocals are beautiful on that one
Beth: really? you think so?
He’s making me blush. I’m such a wimp at this stuff. Crap. I need to concentrate.
Derek: if your other pieces are even half that strong, Bliss should do well in Lausanne
Beth: we think we can win
Derek: win? don’t get your heart set on that . . . you’re competing against us
Beth: and you don’t lose?
Derek: not lately
Beth: but you’re worried
Derek: not really
The cocky little Canadian snot.
Beth: then why spy on us?
Derek: spying on you
Me? What does he mean by that? I should just close the screen, but I don’t. I can’t help it. Nothing like this has ever happened to me before. I’ll play along. Just to see what it’s like.
Beth: that doesn’t sound like official choir business
Derek: you have such a lovely voice . . . I’m curious about the rest of you
Beth: this conversation is over!
Derek: don’t be like that . . . aren’t you curious about me?
Beth: no
Derek: really? are you serious?
Beth: why so surprised?
Derek: most girls are . . . curious
Beth: I’m not most girls.
Derek: cool. see you in Lausanne
Beth: where we’ll beat the heck out of you guys
Derek: not likely
I’ve had enough. I don’t know how to end the chat session, so I close the whole site. I don’t ever want to go back on it again. I don’t care what Sarah and Meadow say.
Great. We’re wasting half this practice trying on dresses. That cocky Amabile boy made me realize we’re nowhere near ready to compete. To even stand a chance in an international competition, we can’t sing standing in parts like a traditional choir—altos, first and second sopranos. We have to be all mixed up to get a nice blend. Judges can hear the difference. We’ll be laughed right out of Switzerland if we don’t.
It’s tough to sing that way. The altos can’t follow me. The other parts can’t follow their strongest singers. Each chorister has to be able to sing the part on her own. And it’s all got to be memorized perfectly. It’s coming, but we’re running out of time. We’re going to be competing against choirs from music schools. They practice for hours every day, not a couple nights a week. Our big spring concert is three weeks away. We need every minute of every practice. Terri’s thrown in a couple marathon Saturday sessions after school’s out, but I’m not confident we’ll be where we need to be. I don’t want to just
go
to the Choral Olympics. After all Meadow’s mom has put me through, I want gold. And that boy across the border in Ontario’s fake excuse for a London, he better watch out.
So I hang out at practice that night, steaming. I’m also mad that I gave in and wore that dumb bra. No inserts. They creep me out, wobbly rubber things still sitting in their bag. I’m not touching them. The bra is bad enough. The underwires are digging into me, and it’s just not comfortable to be pushed and squeezed like this. It’s really strange to look down and see cleavage. I’m such a coward, though. I figured I better not risk Meadow’s mom’s wrath tonight by showing up in my sports bra for her fancy fitting.
She and Meadow put their hearts and souls into these gowns. I need to keep being a good girl, and I’ll get to sing. It’s all so unreal. I’ll wake up one morning and it will have evaporated. I’ll be the Beast anchoring the alto, and we won’t be going anywhere. Each day that goes by and that’s not true makes the next day less real. Less solid. Thin fabric that will tear if I do anything wrong. The only trip I’ll be going on is whatever the hell Colby plans next for me.
I want to go back to scribbling lyrics on the back of the last song in my choir binder. I think I was getting somewhere, but Leah and Sarah, both armed with those straightener things, are ironing my hair again. “Ouch.”