Chapter Nine
On Monday, after the last school bell, I shuffle through the crowded hallway and then into the library. Esosa is getting ice cream with friends, while Adrian is attending a computer club meeting and can’t drive me home until it ends.
The elderly librarian sitting behind the front desk lowers her glasses and assesses me as if deliberating whether I’m here to be a nuisance or to actually get work done. When I smile, she does the same, then turns to her computer.
I sit by a window with a view of the parking lot, of students and teachers getting into cars and driving off. More people enter the library after a few minutes. Travis, a boy in all of my classes, walks in with a stack of books balanced against his chest. He’s the guy who raises his hand before the teacher is finished asking a question. He begs for extra credit assignments even though the semester just began. He is president of the debate team and the robotics club. His entire personality is based on his intense, competitive need to be valedictorian and get into an Ivy League university. By definition, strictly based on the facts mentioned, he is a classic nerd. But other factors, like his incredible style and Drake-esque appearance, make the title nerd less applicable to him.
He approaches the table where I’m seated alone. “Hey, Enore,” he says. “Mind if I sit here?”
“No. Go ahead.”
“Cool.” He places his stack of books on the table, slides his leather jacket off, and sits. “What are you working on?”
“Biology. You?”
“Same. Then I’ll get started on calculus, then chemistry.”
“Wait. We don’t have any chemistry homework. Do we?” I glance at my agenda, where I write all my assignments and their due dates.
“No, we don’t. I just like to read ahead, in true overachiever fashion.”
I laugh, and he does too.
“So, how are you finding it here—at Bellwood High?” Travis asks. “I mean, it’s only the second week, but all the AP classes pile on the workload quickly. You handling it?”
I arch an eyebrow. “What are you trying to do—get me to talk so you can find out my weakness, use it to eliminate me as your competition, so your path to valedictorian and an Ivy League university is clear?”
Travis stares at me blankly. “That sounds like the plot of a cliché teen movie.”
It is the plot of a teen movie. But Honor Society—which I watched last night—turned every cliché on its head for an unexpectedly wholesome movie.
I flip a page in my textbook and shrug. “It is a movie, but it could happen.”
“No, it couldn’t,” Travis counters. “I see you in class—answering questions without having to think twice, solving calculus equations without breaking a sweat. You’re smart, but I have valedictorian on lock. Been working for it since my freshman year. You’re not my competition. But maybe in another life. And as for Harvard, I’ve got a glowing letter of recommendation from a very successful, very influential alum.” He winks and grins. “Friend of the family.” After drinking from his water bottle, he clears his throat. The haughty expression leaves his face. “Besides, I was only asking out of curiosity. Wondering what it’s like to start school in a whole new country.”
“Well, my school in Nigeria was one of the best in the state. The material was just as advanced and the workload just as much. So the AP classes might be tough, but I’m used to it.” I flip another page in my textbook nonchalantly, like I’m unfazed by the complex examination of invasive species. And I am.
“Okay.” Travis smirks, impressed. “Noted.”
We turn our attention to the questions in our textbooks and work quietly.
In all of our classes, Travis and I make up a tiny percentage of Black students. It’s still so strange to look around a room and see only a handful of people who look like me. It’s still strange being so hyperaware of my Blackness for the first time in my life, knowing that in a town like Bellwood where there are more artisan coffee shops than Black people, and a country like America where the weight of its history is perpetual and suffocating, my Blackness is usually the first and sometimes the only thing people notice about me.
Since moving to Bellwood, I’ve learned to search for people who look like me whenever I enter any space, to smile when our eyes connect—a small show of solidarity. Maybe this is why Travis is sitting with me now. Solidarity.
When I’m through with my biology homework, I move on to calculus. Travis does the same, and we continue to work in silence, until the abrupt sound of Davi’s voice makes me flinch and sit up.
“Enore,” he says, panting. “I’ve literally looked everywhere for you. I thought you left, but then I ran into Adrian, and he told me you were hanging around, waiting for him.”
“Shh,” the librarian says, glaring at Davi. “Keep it down. Better yet, don’t talk.”
“Sorry, Ms. Mulberry,” he whispers, then turns back to my table. “Oh, hey, Travis. Didn’t see you there.”
Travis waves without a word, his lips firmly pressed together. He clearly does not appreciate Davi’s interruption.
“I sent you a bunch of texts,” Davi goes on in a whisper. “You didn’t respond.”
“My phone’s in my bag,” I explain. “On vibrate. Sorry.”
“It’s fine.” There’s a sheen of sweat on his forehead, as if his search for me involved some serious exercise.
“Why were you looking for me?”
“The audition.”
I roll my eyes. “We already talked about this at lunch. I’m not doing it.”
“I thought maybe you changed your mind.”
“No. That didn’t happen.” I look at my textbook and flip a page. “By the way, shouldn’t you be at football practice?”
“I told Coach I was sick—lied.”
“Why?”
“Thought you might need a little nudge to get you to the auditions.”
“Well, you really shouldn’t have done that, because I’m not auditioning.”
“Hmm.” Davi hunches over, rests his arms on the table, and watches me.
“What?” I ask, taken aback by his closeness to my face.
“Want to know what I think?” His stare is fixed on mine. “I think you’re scared. And maybe you don’t even realize it.”
“Scared?” I chuckle. “Of what? I’ve sung in a choir since I was ten. I’m not scared of singing.”
“You’ve been in a choir for ages, and that’s cool. But have you considered that maybe there’s more than one way to use your voice? Maybe that’s what scares you. The possibility of what you can do.”
I don’t like it—the way he acts like he, in such a short time, completely understands me, the way he acts like he knows a thought I haven’t even admitted to myself. It’s infuriating and invasive. And I want to prove him wrong.
“I’m not afraid of anything.”
“Seriously, guys,” Travis says in a clipped tone. “Can you take this somewhere else?”
“Sorry.” I stand and shove my books into my bag. After taking a few steps toward the door, I pause and turn to Davi. He hasn’t moved an inch. “Well? Are you going to show me where this audition is?”
His face brightens, and he jogs toward me, then leads the way.
We walk through the theater doors just as someone shouts, “Last call for auditions.”
Davi turns to me and smiles. “Looks like we’re just in time.”
The theater is a massive dimly lit space with spotlights on the immense stage. What in the world was I thinking? I should be studying, not auditioning for a stupid musical. This was a huge, impulsive mistake. I breathe quickly as the gravity of what I’m about to do hits me.
“I can’t do this.”
“Yeah, you can.” Davi closes the gap between us. His gaze is so strong, filled with conviction it seems he’s trying to pour into me.
“You were right before. I am scared. Okay? You win, so let’s just go.”
“Enore, this wasn’t a bet. I didn’t want to be right. I just wanted you to sing. And I think deep down, you might want that too.”
He does it again—pinpoints a thought before I’ve admitted it to myself. He’s right. If I dig deep enough, past obligations and expectations, I will unearth a part of me that wants to get on that stage. And that terrifies me—not only the possibility of what I can do, but who I can be, someone so different from who I’m expected to be.
“Do you want to go up?” Davi asks. “There’s nothing to be afraid of.”
I’m not sure what it is about him that makes my grip on my apprehensions loosen. There’s a quality I can’t identify, and I’m okay not knowing what it is. I’m okay with only knowing that with him, I feel safe. “Will you come with me?”
“Yeah. Of course.” He takes my hand and leads me to the front of the theater. “One more audition!” he shouts as we climb the stairs that ascend to the stage.
“Well, get on with it,” the bald-headed man in the front row says, tapping a pen on a clipboard. “I don’t have all day, you know.” With his air of authority and slight arrogance, I conclude he’s the director of the musical. He looks between me and Davi. “Is this a duet?”
In High School Musical, Troy offers to audition with Gabriella. They sing a heartwarming ballad that earns them a callback. For a moment, I hope Davi will offer to audition with me, but he shakes his head.
“No. It’s just her.” He gives me an encouraging smile. “You’ll do great. And don’t let Mr. Roland scare you. He’s all bark.” After squeezing my hand and lingering just a little, he walks to the end of the stage where the curtain falls.
“What song from the musical will you be singing?” Mr. Roland asks.
“Huh? I don’t understand.”
“Those auditioning are supposed to prepare a song from the selected musical this year. We’re doing an original script inspired by Cinderella. With music from Rodgers and Hammerstein’s Cinderella. I mentioned all this on the PA announcement. It was also on the flyer.”
“Um…” I glance at Davi, and he gestures for me to stay calm. “Sorry. I must have missed that.”
“Great. So you aren’t prepared.” He rolls his eyes. “Well, what did you plan to sing?”
“‘Into the Unknown.’”
“Do you have sheet music for the pianist or a track?”
“I’ll sing it a cappella.”
“And your name?”
“Enore Adesuwa.”
“Spelling.”
He scribbles on his clipboard as I spell out my name, then looks at me. “Well, go ahead. We’re all waiting.”
It’s only at that moment I notice the crowd in the theater—the people dispersed all around, looking at me. But when I close my eyes, they aren’t there. Only my father is, and I sing.
The first verse is a whisper that echoes in the quiet space. As I repeat the series of ahs, my voice gets stronger. The second verse is louder, and then I hit the high keys in the chorus. The lyrics take on a significance they didn’t have before; they resonate with me and seem as true as if I wrote them.
“‘Are you here to distract me, so I make a big mistake? Or are you someone out there who’s a little bit like me? Who knows deep down I’m not where I’m meant to be?’” I sing to this thing inside me that’s been silenced by obligation and expectations and dreams that aren’t mine—this thing I’m so afraid to claim, to call mine because I don’t know where it will lead me and what it will demand from me. I blurt out each note, sing like I’ve never sung before, and then it’s over.
There’s a rowdy eruption of whistles and applause. I blink against the sharp stage lights, clearing my eyes until I see people standing, including Mr. Roland, who has traded his aloof expression for a delighted one.
I’m about to faint from the adrenaline rush. My knees wobble, but I manage to hurry backstage. Davi pulls me into a hug, and I wrap my arms around him and hold on tight.
“Enore, you were…” He sighs. “Transcendent.”
I lift my head from his chest and look at him. “That song.”
“What about it?”
I want to tell him it was magic and therapy, a miracle and hope mixed together and poured into me like a potion, stirring something awake. But I say, “Thank you for choosing it. I have never sung like that before.”
“Not even in the choir?”
“No. Never. That—out there—was different.”
It felt like I accessed another dimension of myself, one I never knew existed.
“Enore?” Mr. Roland calls out. “Is she still here?”
“Yeah! She’s right here!” Davi replies and steers me toward the stage.
“You.” Mr. Roland taps a pen against his chin and watches me. “You’re the lead.”
“What?”
“I’m going against protocol here by disregarding the fact that you didn’t do a reading and giving you the lead. I mean, with a voice like that, how can I not?” He places a hand on his chest, breathes deeply, and nods as if agreeing with voices in his head. “Yeah. Mhm. You’ve got the lead role—Cassandra, a.k.a. Cinderella.”
My mouth falls open. “Um… I… I didn’t audition for the lead role.”
“Then what role did you audition for?”
“Um… well, none. I didn’t really think past singing.”
The crowd in the theater laughs.
“Well, then I did the thinking, and I decided. You’re the lead. Rehearsals are Mondays to Thursdays at three o’clock sharp. I suggest you make a lot of room in your schedule. I take my musicals very seriously. See you for the first rehearsal tomorrow.” He gathers his things and leaves the theater without another word.
It takes a moment for me to process everything that just happened, to come to terms with it all.
But once I do, I don’t regret a thing.