Fire with Fire

THE CHORAL PRACTICE ROOM IS A WINDOWLESS ROOM directly behind our auditorium. The walls are bright white and completely soundproof, and the door makes a funny suction sound when it closes. As we file in, it’s so bright it’s like artificial sunshine.

Mr. Mayurnik, the high school choral director, sits behind his upright piano. As the students walk through the door, he plays some jazzy, foot-stomping tune, pounding on the keys so hard the air feels like it’s vibrating.

“Welcome back, turkeys!” he calls out as we take our seats. “You survived the slaughter!”

He means it as a joke, but that’s exactly how Thanksgiving felt. one hundred percent.

It seems like everyone has been dragging their feet today, our first day back at school after Thanksgiving break. I know I’ve been. But for me it’s not shaking off that happy, overstuffed feeling of too much food and too much sleep. The truth is that I feel empty. Drained. I guess that’s why my book bag feels extra heavy on my back, even though I’m carrying the same textbooks as always.

I spent the rest of the holiday weekend practicing. Seeing what I could do. Can I roll that pencil off that desk? Yes, barely. Can I make the wind blow? No. How about the curtains in my bedroom? Can I make them flutter without touching them?

Sometimes.

It feels crazy to be doing this sort of thing, and then to also be here now, back at school, like everyone else.

I am so not everyone else.

A thick packet of photocopied songs has been placed on every other chair. They have green paper covers with holiday clip art on them—holly leaves, a snowman, presents wrapped with bows, candy canes. Pretty much all my favorite things. I think about seeing if I can’t discreetly ruffle the pages or something, but I fight the urge. I have to be careful with this secret. Nobody can know. Not even Kat and Lillia.

Especially not Kat and Lillia.

What would they say if I told them? Would they still want to be my friends? If that’s how it’s going to be, I’ll keep it a secret forever. My friendship with Kat and Lillia is the only thing going right in my life these days. But I will tell them what I saw. Reeve and Rennie together.

I take a seat where I normally do, in the last row. Alex Lind comes in a few seconds before the bell rings and sits in the front. When the semester first started and I realized that Alex was taking this class too, I thought about dropping, to be on the safe side. But I don’t think he knows who I am, beyond a girl he sees hanging around Kat or chatting with Lillia every once in a while. He’s never spoken to me.

After the bell Mr. Mayurnik stands up and speaks to us over his piano. He’s tall and broad-shouldered with a shiny bald head and a silver walrus mustache. His ties are always musically themed—piano keys, violin strings, clef notes.

He says, “Okay, ladies and gentleman. From this day forward, you are no longer turkeys. You’re little elves now. Not Christmas elves, mind you, because this is a court-ordered nondenominational, secular celebration.” He sighs deeply. “We should have been rehearsing these songs for weeks already, but the town elders wanted to approve the song booklet, and you know how fast things move in politics.” Mr. Mayurnik bangs out a slow scale to show what he means. Do. Re. Mi.

I have to share a booklet with the girl sitting next to me. I lean over her shoulder as she flips through the pages. My favorite classics, like “The Little Drummer Boy” and “Joy to the World,” are nowhere to be found. Instead, it’s mostly “Winter Wonderland,” “Frosty the Snowman.” Generic holiday songs. Which is fine. I like those kind, too.

“As always, our class will be singing on Main Street during the Jar Island holiday tree lighting next Tuesday, which means we have a week to get these numbers in tip-top shape. So let’s dive right in!”

He tinkles a few keys and we begin our standard warm-ups. It feels good to use my throat, to hear my voice blend into everyone else’s.

Afterward Mr. Mayurnik says, “Great. Now that we’re good and warm, we need to figure out who will be singing our solos. Can all the sopranos come to the front of the room?”

I’m a soprano, so I stand up. As I squeeze through the rows, I get nervous. Instantly nervous. I do okay singing in the back of the class, but here, with everyone looking up at us, I feel my throat close up. My dad pops into my head, because he always says that I have a pretty voice. So pretty he makes me sing “Happy Birthday” twice before he’ll blow out his candles. He doesn’t even care that the cake gets covered in melted wax.

But that memory doesn’t make me feel better. It makes me feel worse.

I take a spot around the piano and end up standing directly in front of Alex Lind.

Mr. Mayurnik starts playing “Baby, It’s Cold Outside.” I forgot to take the booklet with me, but I know the words. I try my best to do a good job. Some of the other sopranos, I know they’ve been in chorus longer. And a few of them are in drama club. They’re already practicing songs for the spring musical. Hello, Dolly! I would love to be in the spring musical. I can’t compete with their voices, so I just try not to mess up.

For most of the song, I stare at the ceiling. But toward the end I look down at Alex. He has his eyes closed and a smile on his face, like we sound really good.

He’s nice. Alex Lind is genuinely nice. I know it.

When we finish, everyone in the room applauds. Alex even whistles. Mr. Mayurnik picks Jess Salzar to do the solo, and I’m okay with it. I’m actually kind of relieved. And anyway, she does have a pretty voice.

“Okay, boys. Let’s hear it.”

Alex and the other guys stand at the front of the room. There are only four of them. Mr. Mayurnik makes Jess stay up at the piano to sing the girl part, and when the boys sing, he listens closely.

I do too.

Alex has an amazing voice. He’s not like some of the musical-theater guys in the class, who you know are bound for Broadway. His voice isn’t big like that, but you can still pick his out from the lineup of guys. It’s just . . . sweet. Earnest. And it’s perfect for the song.

And I’m happy for Alex, genuinely happy for him, when Mr. Mayurnik picks him for the solo.

Alex looks shocked. “Me?”

Mr. Mayurnik bangs on his piano. “Yes, you! And a little birdie told me that you’re pretty good at playing the guitar, too. Can you read music?” Alex nods. “Great. Bring it with you to school tomorrow and we’ll get started on you playing along.”

“I don’t know . . . I’ve never played in front of an audience before.”

“You’ll make all the ladies in the crowd faint! Won’t he, girls?”

As if we’re all on cue, every girl in the class screams for Alex like he’s a pop star or a teen idol or something. Even me. Alex turns redder than a holly berry.

It’s a reminder that nice things do happen to good people, every so often.