Chapter Seven
On Thursday evenings, I have choir practice atHoly Trinity. The church is a fifteen-minute bike ride from home. Typically, practice starts at seven and lasts for an hour and thirty minutes. But sometimes, Ms. Huntington and Ms. Warner—the elderly women in soprano—bicker so much, we hit the two-hour mark. Today is one of those days. I slouch in my seat and roll my eyes as they debate who should take the solo on Sunday.
“Okay, okay,” Ms. Silva, the choir director, says. She groans, then mumbles something under her breath in a language I recently identified as Portuguese. The rhythm of that language, almost musical, laces every English word she pronounces, creating the most beautiful accent. “Thank you for your opinions, ladies. It’s appreciated.” Her fingers comb through her black hair that’s streaked with white, and she exhales deeply. “But I already decided who takes the solo.”
Ms. Huntington and Ms. Warner sit upright, waiting for the announcement. The other members of the choir, twelve women in total, do the same; they’re eager to hear the decision that will put an end to the bickering. My attention is elsewhere, on the curved wooden beams that adorn the ceiling; they make the midsized space seem smaller and more intimate. In Nigeria, many churches aim to be massive, enough that people fill every seat and overflow to the street. My family went to a church like that, and although my father hated the crowd, he pushed through every Sunday to get a seat that had a clear view of the choir. He would have loved this church. I imagine him in a pew, smiling at me as I stand in my blue choir cassock. Here, I wouldn’t have to search the crowd for him or squint, trying to catch the nod he always gave me. Here, he would be right in front of me.
“Enore, dear, did you hear a word I said?” Ms. Silva asks.
My head snaps toward her. “Yes. I mean… no. Sorry.”
“You’re taking the solo on Sunday.”
“What? Me?” I turn to Ms. Huntington, who, throughout the duration of practice, has basically been running a campaign on why she should get the solo. Now, with a stoic expression, she rubs her pearls and lifts her chin as if unfazed by Ms. Silva’s decision. But clearly, the woman is livid; the grip on her necklace makes that obvious.
“Enore, is there a problem?” Ms. Silva asks.
“It’s just that I haven’t been a part of the choir for long. Shouldn’t a more seasoned member take the solo?”
“I completely agree,” Ms. Huntington blurts out. “How can we possibly trust her to lead? What if she sings off-key or—”
“Elaine, please,” Ms. Silva says, her voice clipped. She huffs, clearly low on patience, and focuses on me. “Enore, honey.” Her voice softens. “It doesn’t matter if you’ve been a part of this choir for five years or five days. You’re our strongest soprano. Therefore, you’re the right choice. Now.” She claps her hands and motions for everyone to rise. “Let’s run through it.” She extends the lead microphone to me, and I take it hesitantly.
The band plays the first notes. The piano comes in and then the guitar and the drums. I know the lyrics to “Believe For It.” But when it’s my cue to sing, I don’t. The instruments run on, fade out, then start from the beginning. Again, I don’t sing.
“Enore.” Ms. Silva nears me and lowers her voice. “Sweetheart.” The creases around her brown eyes overlap as she squints and studies me. “Everything okay?”
I stare at the pews as if I expect him to be there, giving me that nod of encouragement that always relieved the tension in my throat and propelled me to sing.
“Enore?”
I turn to Ms. Silva.
“Honey, I don’t mean to put pressure on you. But if you don’t do this and basically kill it, Elaine will never let me live it down. And she’ll have the license to fight for every solo from now until the Lord calls her home. And I don’t have the tolerance for that. Do you?”
I shake my head.
“Okay. Good. Then, sing. I know you can do it.” She squeezes my hand tenderly and turns to the rest of the choir.
The band starts again, and I close my eyes and blow out a breath. In my head, I paint a picture, conjure a moment that could have been. He is right here, smiling proudly. The tension built inside me thaws, the flutters at the pit of my stomach stop, and I sing.
My father once described my voice as honey and thunder—sweet and bold, something that could lure you to sleep and jolt you alert, a lullaby and a battle cry. Sometimes, when I sing, I hear that description echo back at me. I hear it right now.
The choir enters at the chorus, their harmony seamless even as the key goes higher and falls again. When I sing the last note, the instruments fade out, and then a single round of applause erupts. My eyes fly open and shift in the direction of the noise.
“Whoa! That. Was. Amazing!” Davi shouts from the back of the church.
Startled, my heart thumps fast. What in the world is he doing here?
“That was incredible,” he goes on, his eyes on me. “Damn. Those pipes.”
“Okay. That’s enough,” Ms. Silva says, glaring at him. “Settle down. This isn’t a concert hall.”
“Right.” He stops clapping and clears his throat. “Sorry. Go on.”
Ms. Silva turns to the choir. “Excellent job, everyone.” She smiles in my direction. “That was truly incredible. Now, that’s it for today. See you all on Sunday. Please arrive promptly—thirty minutes before the service begins. Enjoy the rest of the week.”
The moment we’re dismissed, the sopranos, tenors, and altos leave their designated spots and mingle. I say goodbye to the rowdy crowd and meet Davi at the entryway.
“Hey. What are you doing here?”
“I didn’t know you could sing.” He blinks sharply. “Or sing like that. You were freakin’ incredible, Enore.”
I love the way he says my name. He’s so careful with the syllables, like he’s trying to protect them from being mispronounced. He takes extra precaution, catching the rhythm I emphasized in calculus on Monday. The fact that he’s careful with my name makes me believe he’ll be just as careful and protective with other parts of me.
“I didn’t even know you were in the church choir. Why didn’t you tell me?”
“It never came up. Besides, I wasn’t sure you went to church.”
“I do… sometimes. Just not lately.”
There’s more to his response, a lot more. I feel the weight of everything he doesn’t say in the air that’s suddenly dense. I’m curious, but not brave enough to ask.
“I still don’t know what you’re doing here. Are you stalking me?”
“First, I’m a burglar and, now, a stalker. Is there a reason you always think the worst of me?”
“Well, the circumstances never seem to be in your favor.”
He laughs. “For your information, I’m here to pick up my grandma. My dad usually picks her up, but he’s working late tonight.”
“Your grandmother is in the choir?”
“Yeah.” He nods. “But on another note, I’m still not over your singing. You’re incredible.”
“Um… thank you.” I look away and focus on the slight opening in the door. It’s difficult to accept his compliment while keeping eye contact, especially since lately my eyes seem set on tracing the shape of his lips.
“You know, Bellwood High has a musical every year,” he says. “It’s kind of a huge deal. Auditions start on Monday. You should go.”
“Yeah. I heard something about that.”
“So? Are you going to audition?”
A few days ago, when I saw the flyer, I briefly entertained the idea of the musical—the possibility of a new avenue to sing. But for someone who has only ever sung in a church choir, a musical seems too big, too complex.
“I don’t think musicals are my thing,” I tell Davi.
“Oh. Okay. Then what is?”
“What do you mean?”
“You said musicals aren’t your thing, then what is? What are you into? What’s your passion?”
I open my mouth, but the answer doesn’t come. The answer doesn’t exist, because no one has ever asked me that question, and I have never asked myself. It never occurred to me to ask, to search myself for the same motivation that makes Esosa watch countless makeup tutorials on YouTube and spend hours perfecting techniques and building a client list. Nothing drives me but my mother’s expectations. She wants me to become a medical doctor. Preferably, a surgeon. Nothing compares to the title and prestige of a surgeon. The decision she’s made for me is so imposing, everything else seems muted, silenced by it, including the answer to Davi’s question.
“Hey.” He squeezes my arm gently. “You okay?”
“Um… yes.” I push the wooden door completely open, and we step outside, onto the walkway that’s lined with trimmed hedges. The cool night air hits my bare arms, and I unwrap the sweater around my waist and pull it over my head.
“You should really consider auditioning on Monday,” Davi says. “I think you would be… exceptional.”
He searches my eyes in a way that is completely invasive. I should look away. But I don’t. Pressure builds in my chest as we stay fixated on each other. Despite the breeze ruffling the hedges, my skin turns warm. When he gently pulls my hair from inside my turtleneck and places it over my shoulders, my spine straightens. His fingers brush my neck while pulling out one last lock, and I inhale sharply.
At this point, I can’t say I like Davi as just a friend. A collection of moments—some sweet, some quiet, some filled with laughter—nurtured romantic feelings I can’t shake.
In my head, I draw a line through another rule.
Rule #2: Control your heart and your hormones. No crushes. And absolutely no boyfriends..
Now my heart, which I’ve officially lost control of, thumps fast as Davi and I inch closer to each other. Though when someone forcefully clears their throat, we step apart.
“Enore, I see you’re getting acquainted with your biggest fan,” Ms. Silva says.
I nod and force out a weak chuckle. “Um… yeah. Yes.”
“The way he was clapping and hooting, you would think he was at a concert.” She glares at Davi. “Weren’t you supposed to wait in the car?”
He shrugs. “I got bored.”
With an arched eyebrow, I look between Ms. Silva and Davi.
“My grandma,” he says.
“Really?”
“I know. It’s hard to believe someone with my figure is a grandmother.” She perches a hand on her slender hip and poses.
With her flattering and stylish clothes, tasteful makeup, and youthful exuberance, it’s clear Ms. Silva isn’t ready to conform to the stereotypical image of a grandmother. Though it seems like Davi, cringing at her exaggerated poses, would prefer she did.
“You know, I can be a grandma and still be an attractive woman with a vigor for life.”
“You gotta stop saying the word vigor, Grams. It just sounds dirty.”
Ms. Silva rolls her eyes. “Anyway, you two seem friendly. Know each other?”
“Davi and I go to the same school.”
Ms. Silva looks from me to her grandson thoughtfully. “You’re the girl I’ve been cooking for all week, aren’t you?”
“Yes. That would be me.”
“Davi came home on Tuesday and said, ‘Grams, there’s a pretty girl at school who’s never tried a pastel. Could you make some?’”
It takes a lot of restraint, but I succeed at not reacting to the word pretty. My lips stay firm and straight—not a smile or a giggle or the slightest indication that I’m flattered.
“Well, the pastels were delicious,” I say. “And so were the acarajés. Thank you.”
“Don’t mention it, dear. Thank you for killing that solo and completely silencing Elaine. Trust me, that is no small accomplishment.” She squeezes my shoulder. “Have a good night. See you on Sunday.” She walks to a silver Toyota, leaving Davi and me alone.
“Want a ride home?” he asks.
“It’s okay.” I glance at Adrian’s bike that’s chained to the bicycle rack steps away. “I’ve got a ride.”
“You could put it in the trunk.”
“Don’t worry about it. I’ll see you at school tomorrow.”
“Okay. Cool. Good night.” He takes a few steps toward the car, then pauses and turns to me. “So what song are you singing for your audition on Monday?”
“I’m not auditioning, Davi. I already told you.”
“What? I didn’t get that,” he shouts, acting like he can’t hear a word I’m saying. “You want to talk about the audition some more? Cool. I’ll text you.”
“That isn’t what I said, and you know it.”
“Okay. Talk later.” He enters the car, grinning like he’s just gotten away with something.
Later that night, while working on my biology homework, my phone buzzes with an incoming text message.
DAVI:I’ve got an idea for your audition song. Ever seen the movie Frozen?
I laugh, then type a response.
ME:I’m not auditioning. And even if I was, I would never sing Let It Go. NEVER.
DAVI:Wow. All caps. Seems a little harsh. What do you have against it?
ME:I think the entire human race is tired of that song.
DAVI:True. But I wasn’t gonna suggest it.
ME:What song then?
I really shouldn’t be entertaining him, but I’m curious.
DAVI:Into the Unknown from Frozen 2.
ME:OMG. You’ve seen the second movie too? LOL
ME:Didn’t know you were such a fan of Disney princesses.
DAVI:My sister is eight. I’m a fan by association. Here’s the song. Just listen.
I click the link he sends me, and for the rest of the night, I listen to the song on repeat. Not because I’m preparing for the audition, but because the song is surprisingly good.