Chapter Twenty-seven
All summer long, conversations at home revolve around romance. Whether it’s the catch Gretchen has landed in Justin the Great, Ryan’s upcoming wedding, or my parents’ thirtieth anniversary, everyone is allowed—and celebrated for—their romantic diversions. Everyone, that is, except me.
Even so, the officially tabooed name of Noah Spencer seems to linger in Mom’s mind, showing itself in the restrictions continuously enforced upon me.
My computer and phone are monitored more closely than ever.
Thankfully, Mom doesn’t think to check for new apps—like the password-required one that gives me a just-for-Noah number.
But if I’m even a little late coming home from a voice lesson, my job, or an errand, I’m subjected to the third degree.
If invited to Jenna’s house, which is happening less and less frequently these days, Mom calls ahead to make sure my plans are legit .
. . and that at least one of Jenna’s parents will be home to supervise.
But even with all Mom’s meddling, Noah and I still find small, safe ways to see each other.
Shortly after I drop the free haircut coupon in the mail, Noah shows up at the Kanton Korner Salon and Spa, as Grandma’s new signage now proclaims. Even after his coupon is spent, Noah appears at least once a week—sometimes just for a shampoo.
One day, to my amusement, Noah even subjects himself to a facial, just because Lissa Reynolds is the only person with an open spot in the appointment book when he happens by.
I will never let him live that down.
Still, with his departure date drawing ever nearer, it isn’t enough.
Finally, Noah reschedules his weekly Wednesday night voice lesson for Thursday morning, meeting with Mr. Barron at the high school instead of the church, in a time slot directly before the half-hour allotted for one Faith Prescott.
He tends to linger, after those lessons. Every moment is precious and too short.
And August arrives too swiftly.
Lately, I’ve been working with Mr. Barron on the songs Ryan and Danielle asked me to sing at their wedding. Today is my final lesson before the big day. Things are going well, even though I will never understand my brother’s preference for country music.
In this isolated stretch of moments, as I stand next to Mr. Barron’s piano, singing the admittedly touching words of Keith Urban’s “Your Everything,” everything is right with the world.
Of course, I could be perfectly happy singing Sesame Street songs with Noah Spencer just a few feet away.
His smile is light. Warmth. And entirely for me.
Mr. Barron lifts his hands from the piano keys, chuckling. “It never fails to amaze me how you take this little country love song and make it sound like a Broadway ballad.”
“I think it probably helps that I’m accompanied by a solo piano without the fiddle and slide guitar.”
“I think it has very little to do with that and everything to do with the person singing the song.” He looks over the piano, at Noah. “Am I right, or am I right?”
“You are absolutely correct, Mr. Barron. Faith is an artist.”
“Thanks.”
“Oh sure,” Mr. Barron says, giving me a mock frown, “believe the soon-to-be West End sensation, but not the guy who’s been your vocal coach since seventh grade.”
He reaches for his coffee cup and tips it up. “Empty. Again.” His sigh borders on melodramatic. “Guys. I need to run up to the office and get a refill before my next lesson gets here. I simply cannot get through that one without caffeine.”
“You are so mean.” I laugh. “Poor Alex.” The lesson after mine is a seventh grade boy who is experiencing the painful vocal transition of puberty. “His mom still won’t let him quit, huh?”
“Nope. She’s convinced he’s the next Josh Groban.”
“Poor kid.” Noah chuckles. “I hope he survives the humiliation. He really had that Vienna Boys’ Choir thing going last year, but now?” Noah cringes. “Not so much.”
“You’ve got that right.” Mr. Barron laughs. “Now, it’s more like the Cheese Curd Choir. Squeak! Squoo-eek!”
We all laugh.
“You kids hang here while I get my coffee, and then we’ll do one more run through if there’s time before Alex gets here.” Mr. Barron points a gun-finger at Noah. “I trust you’ll keep your hands to yourself, Spencer?”
Noah raises his hands. “Of course. I will maintain a three-foot radius from Miss Prescott at all times.”
At the door, Mr. Barron turns back and arches an eyebrow in an attempt at mock sternness. “See that you do.” The door shuts on his laughter.
“He’s such a dork.” I shake my head, smiling toward the door.
“But a lovable dork. So . . . what’s new with my favorite vocal artist?”
“Nothing. My life is completely static.” It’s too true. But I would abandon change forever if I could just keep Noah near. “The wedding is this weekend. But you knew that.” I sigh. “Oh, I read Jane Eyre yesterday. Bet you’re sorry you missed that.” I laugh. “I know how much you love that book.”
“Yesterday? As in, you read that whole book in a day?”
“It was a slow day at the salon. I also alphabetized the shampoos, painted my toenails, and memorized a new Bible verse.”
“Sweet. Which verse? Is it one I know?”
“Probably, since you missionaries’ kids are born with the whole Bible memorized.”
“Riiiiight.”
I grin. “Okay, but I’m pretty sure you know this one. John 11:35.”
Noah squints up toward the ceiling as if he might find the verse written on the leak-stained white panels. “Hmm. John eleven thirty-fi—”
His pensive look breaks off in a laugh. “Well, I hope you didn’t suffer any brain drain or anything, memorizing the shortest verse in the Bible.”
I clear my throat over-loudly and posture myself as if I’m about to read The Declaration of Independence to the actual forefathers. “‘Jesus wept.’”
“Brava!” He grins, adding a little snooty, half-handed, operatic applause. “Now that you have it hidden in your head, you can work at hiding it in your heart.”
“What’s the difference?”
“The difference is somewhere between memorization and application. I mean, you had to memorize the Pledge of Allegiance as a kid, right?”
“Sure.”
Noah leans back in the metal chair and crosses his feet at the ankles.
“We memorize stuff like that because our teachers—or in my case, my parents—make us, and it gets stuck in our brain. But I’d bet my great-grandfather, who volunteered to fight in World War II, had that pledge hidden in his heart.
Its meaning sank through to the core of who he was and what he was willing to die for.
He was willing to go down in a plane in the south Pacific to help provide liberty and justice for all. ”
Nodding, I move to the chair beside him. “Okay, but—”
“Ah-ah-ah.” Noah waggles a finger at me. “Three feet, if you please, Miss Prescott.”
“Right.” I scoot over, leaving two chairs between us.
“But how do you say, ‘Jesus wept’ in the same way? It’s too .
. . simplistic, isn’t it? When I think of ‘liberty and justice for all’ it’s so majestic sounding.
Saying ‘Jesus wept’ is like saying ‘Noah sang.’ It’s a proper noun and a verb. Not anything really descriptive.”
“But did you read it in context? Or did you just look up the verse?”
“I looked up the verse then went back and read the whole chapter. It’s about Lazarus dying and being raised from the dead.”
“Yeah.” Noah uncrosses his ankles and leans forward with his elbows on his knees. “But did you know Lazarus was Jesus’s very good friend? When Jesus saw that Lazarus was dead, he didn’t say, ‘Abracadabra, come back to life, Laz, ol’ buddy ol’ pal!’ did he?”
I laugh. “He most certainly did not.”
“No, Jesus wept.”
Excitement sparks in Noah’s eyes. “Jesus didn’t just shed a few tears, blow his nose, and get on with his day. He grieved. Jesus knew he was separated, albeit temporarily, from his good friend, and it broke his heart.”
This is hitting a little too close to home, all things considered. But if Noah notices my sudden difficulty breathing, he doesn’t let it show.
“That little verse shows us that Jesus, and through his experience, the whole Trinity, understands grief and pain on our measly human level. For two little words, it’s pretty profound.
And . . .” Noah pauses to clear his throat, “it’s kind of .
. . comforting to know that when we’re grieving and—and lonely, we’re not abandoned. ”
I nod through the tears gathering in my eyes and the fist clamped around my heart. “Got it.” My voice is barely above a whisper. “Jesus wept.”
“Yeah.” Noah looks down at the floor and clears his throat. Again. When he looks up, his smile warms me to the core. “Jesus wept. But it was only after he acknowledged his grief that he reached beyond his humanness and into that giant God-ness of his to whip out a miracle and bring his buddy back.”
“Cool.” I stare at the carpet for a minute, tossing the two words around in my mind, grappling with the idea of the Creator of the Universe being saddened—no, grieved—enough by one person’s loss to weep.
“I really like that.” I meet Noah’s eyes. “It makes him more, you know, real.”
“Yeah. It does.” We’re quiet for several moments before he speaks again. “You have no idea how badly I want to come over there and hug you right now.”
“I might.”
The hinges on the choir room door squeak, announcing Mr. Barron’s return.
“You ready to go through it one more time before Alex gets here?” He raps his knuckles on the top of the piano. “Hello? Uh, guys? Yoo-hoo! Music, remember? Wedding this weekend? This is our last chance before it’s go-time.”
Noah flinches. I cringe at Mr. Barron’s choice of words. Our last chance.
A chill moves across my shoulders. Go-time. In a few days, Noah will board a plane for London.
“Music.” I swallow hard. “Music. Right.”