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Samantha
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“I’M ON THE phone. God!”
“You don’t have that much time,” Mom said from the other side of the door.
“Thank you for adding to my anxiety!”
“Please don’t talk to me like that,” Mom’s voice lowered. “You need to get ready.”
“Seriously? Like I don’t know that.” Samantha uncovered the mic on her phone. “Ugh. Anyway, attending one little holiday performance doesn’t make you a Christian.”
“Sorry, Sam,” Jamie said on the other end, “you know churches make me six kinds of ill. It’s not the place—”
“—It’s the people. Well, it was worth a try. Oh, great, I’m getting a bump. Thanks, Mom.” Samantha sneered into her makeup mirror, dabbing on a spot of makeup. She didn’t get normally incapacitated over performing like other kids did; this should be nothing like the vertigo she felt before a pre-calculus exam. However, she had sprouted an itchy pink spot, near her lip. “It’s like all my anxiety is stacking up on one nerve ending.” And she sensed that after the performance, she could run to the powder room mirror and the spot would be completely gone. “Is it a temporary zit, what the hell?”
“I wish I could trade all my zits for one ginormous zit,” Jamie said, “like on my thigh or something, where I could hack at it in private.”
Samantha sketched on her eyeliner, lighter than she did for school. “Did you know we’re the only primate with acne? The price we pay for dropping our fur too fast.”
“Wow, fascinating,” Jamie said dryly. “How about Zev, isn’t he coming?”
At the mention of Samantha’s latest crush, the pink spot stung. “Are you kidding? Half our congregation still think the Jews killed Jesus. Who needs that baggage?”
“Good point.”
“Besides, Brace forbids all his friends from coming within a mile of Grace Lutheran.”
“Aw, I bet he looks cute in his choral gown.”
“I’ll let the puckhead know you said that.”
“Do it and you’re dead.”
“Five minutes!” Mom called from upstairs.
“I’m coming! Jesus, that woman’s killing me.” A chill ran down Samantha’s back and her teeth chattered. “I’m kinda glad Zev isn’t coming actually. It’s entirely possible that I am indeed scared shitless.”
“You’re going to do fine, Sam. You always do.”
“But the new choir director is going to be in the audience tonight.” Mr. Sandvik, the old clueless choir director was retiring and the new one would be out there, watching, judging. “How many rehearsals before she nails me as a fraud?”
“You’re not a fraud, Sam. You don’t know the meaning of the word.”
Samantha twisted her hair into an updo. “I can’t even figure out notes without singing Do-Re-Mi in my head. That’s like doing math on your fingers.”
“Neither can I.”
“Well, you’re not going up in front of your family and half the town.” She smudged one last dab of makeup on the bump, covering the red, but the relief of it remained.
Jamie made a shuddering sound on the other line. “And that’s a good thing, trust me.”