Chapter Twenty-Two
I sip my strawberry milkshake and look at theexpanse of trees and hills stretched out beyond me. I’m sitting near the edge of a cliff, and it should be terrifying. But Davi’s presence erases the angst I would have otherwise felt. The heat emitting from his body, the soft fragrance of laundry detergent on his shirt, and his firm hold on my waist all make me calm.
“Wanna swap?” he asks, extending his chocolate milkshake to me.
“Okay.”
We exchange cups and turn back to the exceptional view.
Before Davi told me what he had planned for our date, I imagined dinner and a movie. A classic American date. And while his plan was similar to that, it varied a little. After leaving Sybil’s, he drove to Shakers, a retro diner. He placed our order in the drive-thru, and a waitress rolled out of the restaurant on roller-skates, our large order balanced in her hands. Then Davi drove to Bayer’s Cliff ten minutes away, a spot he explained has a great view.
He was right.
The lush trees spread over hills and the stream that runs through the valleys create the most stunning scenery. When we arrived, I gaped at the view while he laid a checkered blanket on a patch of grass. Then he arranged our order from Shakers—two burgers, curly fries, chicken strips, a corn dog, and two milkshakes.
“It’s good,” I say after a long sip. “But I like the strawberry one better.”
We swap milkshakes again, and I watch him through my lashes while sipping. And then a smile I can’t control forms on my lips.
“What?” he asks, matching my smile. “What’s so funny?”
I shrug. “Nothing, really. I suppose I’m just… happy.”
And I am. I didn’t think I would feel happy for a long time. And I was okay with that. I was content with my grief. What else is a girl supposed to feel when she loses her father and her life suddenly becomes a tragic before and after? My sadness was justified, and I was okay to carry it with me for a long time—years, maybe even forever. Because I couldn’t imagine ever feeling true happiness without him. But here I am, fatherless, yet sitting with a boy at the edge of a cliff—happy. The grief is still there, but it’s less potent. Maybe it will never completely go away, but maybe it will recede a little and give me room to feel other things, like the happiness I’m experiencing in this moment.
My head falls on Davi’s shoulder as the sun dips lower beneath the horizon and casts a reddish-golden hue on everything.
“Can I ask you something?” he says.
“Okay.”
After a long pause, he clears his throat. “I’ve noticed whenever you sing, you close your eyes. Why do you do that?”
My posture instantly goes rigid.
“Um… I… I’m sorry.” He must notice the way my body tenses up. “You don’t have to answer that. It’s just something I noticed at your audition and at church and when I sit in on rehearsals.”
Slowly, I lift my head from his shoulder. “You sit in on rehearsals?”
He nods.
“Why? Shouldn’t you be at football practice during that time?”
He shrugs, and his eyes wander. “Well, I don’t do it all the time. Maybe once… twice. But only for a few minutes. Then I rush off to practice or debate club, depending on the day.” He rubs the back of his neck. “Is that weird?”
I shake my head. “No. It’s sweet.”
He slowly releases a breath.
“I picture my father in the audience,” I say. “When I close my eyes, I picture him there. It helps. Though it really annoys Mr. Roland. He’s complained a few times. He says singing with my eyes closed is a hazard, since I have to move around while I sing. So unless I want to fall off the stage, I have to stop.”
“And you can’t?”
“Sing without picturing him there?” I think for a moment, then shake my head. “Back in Nigeria, I only used to sing in the choir. And he was right there, in the congregation, smiling like he couldn’t be prouder. Every time, he was right there.” Tears sting my eyes, and I blink sharply. “He isn’t in the congregation anymore. And I need him to be there. So I imagine he is. I don’t know if I can sing without doing that.”
Davi watches me closely. “Would you like to try?” he asks. “With me? You could sing to me. Eyes wide open.”
The idea is both terrifying and enticing. To sing without being grounded by the image of my father. Indisputably petrifying. But then to sing to a boy I like, whose sweet, easy smile always unwinds something taut inside me. Tempting, without a doubt.
On the more practical side, if I don’t start singing with my eyes open, Mr. Roland is going to snap. Or even worse, I’ll miscalculate my steps and fall off the stage—face flat on the floor, right in front of the first row. I might not chip a tooth, but I’ll definitely lose my dignity.
I exhale deeply and face Davi. “Okay. I’ll try.”
“Yeah?”
I nod. “Yeah. What should I sing?”
“How about your favorite song.”
“Okay.” I draw in a deep breath, then expel it slowly. On instinct, my eyes fall shut, then fly open when Davi clears his throat. “Right. Sorry.”
The first words of Paloma Faith’s “Only Love Can Hurt Like This” are a whisper. My stare is aimless, darting to the trees in the distance as I force the lyrics out. What I’m doing definitely can’t be considered singing. Maybe mumbling. Along with some slight humming. Frankly, I’m embarrassing myself, and I’m set to quit, but then Davi’s skin comes in contact with mine unexpectedly. He holds my hand, caresses it with the light movement of his thumb, and my stare shifts to meet his. He doesn’t say a thing. But his eyes, those hazel greens layered with sincerity and kindness, convey something reassuring, something that’s vital at this moment, something that’s needed to thaw the blockage in my throat.
After a sharp breath, I sing—project every note with clarity and conviction and in perfect pitch while never breaking focus from him. I smile, stunned I’m doing something that, minutes ago, seemed impossible.
Davi helped me get here. I’m grateful, but also a little confused by him. How can someone say nothing and at the same time say just enough? How can he, without an extensive speech or a spirited pep talk, help me overcome a hurdle that seemed huge? I try to understand it, but I’m at a loss. This connection between Davi and me is a mystery. One that doesn’t need to be poked and dissected by curiosity. It’s best left alone.
“That was…” He beams after I sing the last note. His mouth hangs open like he’s waiting for the right word to fall into it. “Incredible,” he says finally.
“Thank you.” I look him over and chuckle. “You know, nearly every teen movie paints you as an asshole.”
“What? Me?”
“Well, not you exactly. Just guys like you. You know, the handsome jock. Mr. Popular.”
He laughs.
“Seriously. Your kind are hardly ever nice. And when they are nice, it’s because they have an ulterior motive.”
“Ulterior motive?”
“Yeah. Like in Never Been Kissed and Carrie.”
He watches me blankly, clueless about my references.
“Never mind. The point I’m trying to make is, there’s a lot more to you than meets the eye. Debate club, for example. Not a very cliché jock move.”
He laughs again. “Well, I want to get into politics down the road. So debate makes sense.”
“You? A politician?” I squint and study him for a moment. “Okay. Yes. I see it.”
“And is that because of the whole Mr. Popular thing?”
“Yes. And other attributes too. Good attributes. You could be one of those rare politicians that is actually honest.”
“That’s the dream. But Blake won’t want to hear none of that.” He sighs. “He wants us to pursue a football career—play college football, get drafted into the NFL and all that.”
“You don’t love football as much as he does, do you?” It was easy to spot that the first time I had lunch with Davi and his friends—Blake’s passion for the sport and Davi’s lukewarm excitement that Blake didn’t notice.
“I mean, I loved football at first—during freshman and sophomore year. But I have other interests now.”
“Then why are you still on the team?”
“For Blake. It means a lot to him we’re both on the team. But after this year, I’m done with football.” He shakes his head and huffs. “Anyway, I could totally see you becoming some kind of singer.”
I snort. “There’s no way that is ever going to happen.”
“Why not?”
“I’m going to be a doctor.”
Now he squints and studies me. “Yeah. I don’t see that at all.”
“Well, my mom sees it perfectly.”
“So, she wants you to become a doctor?”
I nod.
“Well, what about you? What do you want to be?”
“A doctor.”
“No. You only want to be a doctor because it’s what your mom wants.”
“And what’s wrong with that?”
“What if doing what your mom wants doesn’t make you happy?”
I think about that possibility, but it doesn’t faze me. The only thing that could faze me is disappointing my mother.
“Enore.” Davi stares brazenly into my eyes. “What makes you happy?”
I bite my lip and think. “Singing, I guess. In the choir. And especially onstage during rehearsals.”
“Well, there you go.” He claps his hands. “That’s what you’ve gotta do.”
“Sing?”
“Well, yeah. You could make an entire career from being a singer.”
“Like Olivia Rodrigo?”
“Yeah. Sure. Like Olivia. But you could consider a career in musical theater too. Like on Broadway.”
“My mom doesn’t even know I’m in the school musical. If she finds out, she’ll be livid. And I’ll definitely have to quit. So a career in musical theater?” I scoff. “That isn’t an option.”
“And being a doctor is?”
I nod. “It’s the only option.”
“But it isn’t what you really want. Can’t you just tell your mom no?”
“Nigerian kids can’t just tell their parents no.”
“Why not?”
“It’s considered disrespectful.”
“Oh,” he says.
It’s clear Davi doesn’t understand how, in my culture, disobedience is tied to being disrespectful. Skipping school or going on a secret date is nothing compared to looking my mom in the eyes and telling her I won’t be a doctor. That blatant level of defiance isn’t something I’m equipped for. But Davi doesn’t understand this, and for the first time since we met, I see how different we are and how our backgrounds have made us expect different things out of life.
He was born in America, the land of dreams, where happiness means following your bliss, and the path to success can mean becoming an actress or a singer or even a dancer. But Nigeria is all about hustling, starting a business, or having a solid career that ensures you are fed and housed. In Nigeria, if you fail, you go hungry and become homeless. Most Nigerians have a survival mindset that doesn’t permit them to follow their bliss. They choose careers in medicine or law—practical options that presents no risk and guarantees financial stability. A career in the arts is not only impractical, but it doesn’t always provide security or guarantee success. Therefore, it can never be an option for me, especially when I have a mother who is determined to see me become a doctor.
“Enore, listen,” Davi says. “You’re amazing. Your voice. Every single time you sing, I just… I just…” He smiles and watches me with so much admiration, my heart flutters.
I want to disregard the major difference I just spotted between Davi and myself. I want to disregard the fact that he might never truly understand me. If I can do that, being with him will be easy. This first date I lied to make happen will end on a good note. So I disregard everything. I push my discovery aside, lean forward, and press my lips to his.