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Samantha
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“JUST HOW AWKWARD?” Jamie asked as they walked briskly up the hill to Grace Lutheran. All around, the trees cast periwinkle shadows across the January snow.
Someone had forgot to tell Samantha one crucial thing. From the time she was thirteen, Mom had explained every possible dating scenario from how to maintain fresh breath to how to escape a rapist. The one thing the woman failed to mention was how to hold a conversation with a guy you have little in common with. But Samantha liked Zev, she honestly did. She found him gorgeous in a lanky, shy way. And he smelled like Hawaiian bread (thankfully not meat). And she liked that he was a Jewish hockey jock who wanted to date a Norwegian goth. They laughed at all the same jokes in the movie, and there was plenty of electricity just sitting next to him. If it hadn’t been for the big clanging silence between it all, things would have been perfect.
“We have no musical common ground, Jame.” Sure, having an older brother meant she could easily chat about famous hockey players and ironically recite OutKast raps, but, “Every time he asked about me I sounded insane.” Samantha mimicked baby talk, “Oh, I listen to Goldfrapp and Scissor Sisters.” And, “I’m not sure if I want to major in astronomy or primatology. Shut. Up.”
“You should be happy he even bothered to ask about you,” Jamie said. “A lot of guys don’t give a crap. Why don’t you play him some crossover music and, um, maybe even explain what’s so cool about primate behavior? I love your randomness. Just be yourself. I think that’s what he wants.”
Jamie halted and stared up at the spire of Grace Lutheran, which thrust its fine point up to the heavens. Samantha nudged her forward. It wasn’t like they were going to Church-church—as in Pastor Bob reading from scripture—but Grace Lutheran’s basement, for the first choir practice of the New Year. Brace had quit to concentrate on hockey, but there was no way Samantha was missing this season.
The first Saturday afternoon in January, Ms. Van Buren introduced the choir to the music they’d be tackling, Brahms Requiem, handing them each a copied CD and sheet music. Then she grouped the men and women by voice, had them do exercises, then some songs they’d mastered the year before. She even asked Jamie if she’d like to join the sopranos or the tenors, without any commitment of course, for something to do.
The throat clearing around the choir did not go unnoticed.
Jamie declined, her face going pink when everyone turned toward her chair in the corner. She’d only joined Samantha because one of her musical heroes had crash-landed in Wicasa Bluffs, live in the flesh. And through her squirming, it was apparent she now thought coming was a mistake. After all, they were singing about the resurrection of a man she didn’t believe existed, let alone woke from the dead and floated up to the sky, a man whose followers occasionally liked to hurl Leviticus quotes at her. Plenty of them in this very room, Samantha reckoned. It also didn’t help that Ms. Van Buren was merely dressed in grey slacks and a white button-down, a far cry from the leather stovepipes and tight tank top she wore in videos. Only the shadow of a chest tattoo peeked above her camisole.
At least she wasn’t the hard case Samantha feared. Practice only lasted forty-five minutes. But as the others left, there came this, “Brian and Samantha, can you stay for a while?”
“Actually—” Samantha eyed Jamie for assistance, “I have a—a thing.”
“Won’t take long.” Ms. Van Buren rifled through papers on her music stand. “Just want to try out a couple bits here. Everyone else, I’ll see you next week.”
“Can I go first,” good old Brian asked. “I—I have to meet my wife for Lamaze class. Thanks, Sam.”
Samantha glared at him. Why did adults constantly steamroll kids? If she’d been an adult man there’s no way he would have pulled that. But Brian seemed unrepentant and joined Ms. Van Buren at her upright piano. She drove him up and down the scales and had him recite some German, first in speaking voice then singing from sheet music.
Even though the basement was cool and damp, sweat dripped down Samantha’s scalp and into her turtleneck. The moment of truth was bearing down on her.
“Very nice,” Ms. Van Buren told him. “Next time, we’ll work on controlling those glottal stops. Are you keen on a solo then?”
Keen? That would undoubtedly be Jamie’s new word.
“Yes. Absolutely.” Maybe it was because he was happy to be done with it and get off to his pregnant wife, but Brian shook Ms. Van Buren’s hand vigorously and made for the door.
“Oh, one more thing,” she said.
Brian halted, his smile wavering.
“Next time, let Samantha go first.”
He balked a little at her brazenness, then, “Sure thing.”
After he’d gone Ms. Van Buren turned to Samantha and smiled warmly. Then she chuckled a low easy sound; the generous laughter of a woman who’s dealt with all kinds.
Samantha died. Then she came back to life and died again. Like, five times.
“You’re nervous.”
Samantha gulped. “Yeah.”
Ms. Van Buren turned to Jamie. “You girls sing together?”
Jamie laughed. “All the time.”
“Well, come on up. Both of you. I don’t bite.”
They joined her and leaned on the back of the upright piano.
“What do you like to sing the most? When you’re just hanging out?”
“Like when no one else can hear?” Jamie asked.
—Oh, please don’t. Please don’t—
“Cake for Horses.”
Ms. Van Buren grinned and nodded. “Well, believe it or not, that emo stuff is not the most challenging. What else?”
“ABBA?”
“Oh my God, you are so embarrassing.” Samantha covered her face with her hands.
Jamie nudged her. “Well, we do. Sam’s mom listens to it when she cleans the house.”
Ms. Van Buren smiled even broader and shook her head. “I’ll bet she does. All right, let’s give it a try.” She leaned down to the piano and tinkled the first tiptoeing notes of “Mamma Mia.” The three sang the first verse together then she let them finish. Next they tried “S.O.S.”
Ms. Van Buren sat down on the piano bench for a moment, quiet, working the side of her mouth. “You two harmonize really well. And there might be something we can do with that in the future. But, Samantha, I’d like to try you out Movement Five. I know we’ve only just listened to it today. But would you be willing to take it home and think about it?”
“Um. Well . . .”
“Sam can’t read music,” Jamie blurted.
“Wow.” Samantha glared at her. “Just put that out there for me why don’t ya?”
Ms. Van Buren shrugged. “I couldn’t at your age either.” She reached in her knapsack and pulled out a recorder, like the kind the girls had learned to play “Hot Cross Buns” on when they were in third grade. “This little guy is pitch perfect. I want you to pick a new note every night, close your eyes, picture it on the staff and sing it. The point is, keep it simple until you’re comfortable with each note. It’s the basics of language really.”
Jamie elbowed Samantha. “Like when apes first learned to talk.”
“Uh, sure, sort of,” Ms. Van Buren said. “Now I don’t want you running the full scale together yet though, that just encourages sliding around.”
That couldn’t be all there was to it, could it? “Sounds easy enough.”
“It will be, for you. Your pitch is tight. Teenage vocal cords are usually flat and sharp like bagpipes. So, try that and if you have time, listen to Movement Five. Okay?”
“Okay. Wow. Thank you.” Jamie and Samantha shuffled to the stairs.
“Oh, and Jamie?” Ms. Van Buren called after them. “You need to talk to the school choir director.”
“Believe me,” Samantha said. “I’ve tried.”
“Yeh,” Jamie leaned into the wall as they walked up, “I dunno . . .”
“Mrs. Reynolds is pretty cool,” Ms. Van Buren said. “The glee club would welcome a voice like yours. Maybe she’d even arrange an ABBA duet for you two.” Her low chuckles followed them up the stairs, reverberating like a panther somewhere deep in a forest.
The walk home was non-stop song and dance.
Unclear as to the date and exact circumstances of their big moment, they nevertheless were convinced it would be jam-packed awesomeness.
“Okay, okay.” Jamie nodded. “Maybe I will talk to Miss Reynolds.”
“Dude, forget that. Lame, lame, lame. You just get stuck doing cheesy songs and have to go to contests and sell candy bars and junk. Come to the play tryouts with me next week. Nothing’s been decided yet. I guarantee, we will kick arse.”
Jamie chewed her lip.
“Are you keen,” Samantha asked in a muddled accent.
“I’m keen,” Jamie returned, like over-stuffed royalty.
“You are so keen.”
“We are both very keen, I’ve noticed.”
On it went.