14

Avoiding Tanvi Shah is proving a full-time occupation. She’s clearly memorized my timetable, and as a result, I’ve had to resort to sprinting out of my lessons the second the bell rings in a bid to escape her ambushes. If Tanvi’s at all bothered by my behaviour, she shows no sign of it, playfully scolding me for my elusiveness when I see her in registration but otherwise remaining her cheerful self. I just wish I knew what it was about me she finds so appealing, because, from where I’m standing, her interest in me makes absolutely no sense.

‘Choir?’ Tanvi asks, catching up with me as I walk back to the changing rooms after Friday’s PE lesson.

OK, time to be firm.

‘I’ve had a think, like I said I would, and I’m not coming,’ I say.

‘But you’re so good!’ she cries.

I smile tightly, not wishing to point out that I don’t exactly trust Tanvi’s musical ear.

‘What will you do instead?’ she asks.

‘What I usually do. Eat my lunch outside.’

‘But it’s going to tip it down.’

As if on cue, the sky darkens and the heavens open, forcing us to break into a run to avoid getting drenched.

In the changing rooms, I dress quickly, slipping out of the door while Tanvi’s back is turned and heading straight for the seldom used disabled toilet at the far end of the maths corridor – my favoured wet-weather lunch spot. When I try the handle though, it’s locked. Frowning, I press my ear against the door. I can hear tinny music and giggling coming from inside, suggesting its occupants are not planning to vacate any time soon.

Great.

I back away and peer out of the window. The glass is streaked with fat raindrops. Maybe I can just hang out here. I perch on the windowsill and take out my sandwich. I’m unwrapping the foil when a loud ‘Oi!’ echoes down the corridor. It’s one of the sixth form lunch monitors, easily identifiable by their blue sashes and overzealous enforcement methods.

‘You know the rules,’ the boy barks, his power trip at full throttle. ‘If you want to eat your packed lunch you either go outside or to the designated social area for your year group.’

‘But it’s raining.’

‘Did you not hear what I just said? That’s what your social area is for.’

I get the feeling it’s not worth arguing with him and slope away, leaving him to hammer on the door of the disabled toilet, bellowing: ‘I know you’re in there!’

I head up to the social area and peer through the glass panel in the door. All the popular kids are lounging on the beanbags as usual, forcing everyone else onto the hard seating around the edge of the room. Jamie is amongst the crew in the middle. He’s sprawled on the biggest beanbag of them all, his legs spread, Sienna nestled between his knees. He glances up and for a few seconds our eyes meet. I pull away, my heart beating, and walk away as fast as I can.

 

The warm-up has already started by the time I slip into choir practice. Mr Milford gives me a thumbs up from behind the piano as I slide into the spare chair next to Tanvi.

‘Yay! You came!’ she whispers.

‘Only because of the rain,’ I say. ‘This is strictly a one-off.’

I’m not sure she believes me though, her smile a bit too knowing for my liking.

After the warm-up, Mr Milford announces we’re going to be working on a song from a brand-new Broadway musical.

‘You all did so well with “Lean On Me” last week, I thought we might step things up and try something a bit more advanced today. I saw this show in previews when I was in New York at the end of August and the second I heard this number, I just knew I wanted you guys to give it a go.’

He plays us a recording of the song. He’s right. It’s beautiful, and when it’s over I’m surprised to discover I’m itching to sing it.

Mr Milford breaks it down, starting in the middle, with the chorus, working through it bar by bar, before returning to the opening verse – a solo.

‘Anyone fancy having a try?’ he asks.

No one responds.

‘Oh, come on, don’t be shy!’

Tanvi sticks her hand in the air.

I raise an eyebrow. Say what you like, but there’s no denying this girl has serious guts.

‘Fantastic,’ Mr Milford says, clapping his hands together. ‘Thank you, Tanvi. Now, how about we take it from the top, nice and slow.’ He begins to make his way back to the piano.

‘Oh no, sir,’ Tanvi calls after him. ‘Sorry, I wasn’t suggesting I sing the solo.’

Mr Milford stops in his tracks and turns to frown at her. ‘You weren’t?’

‘Uh-uh,’ she says. ‘I was thinking Ro should do it.’

What??? I turn to look at her in horror. Tanvi beams back, all big brown eyes and oblivion.

‘That OK with you, Ro?’ Mr Milford asks, continuing to stride towards the piano as if it’s a done deal.

‘No!’ I yelp.

He stops walking. ‘No?’ he repeats.

‘No, thank you,’ I repeat in a quieter voice, my heart pounding.

‘Are you sure you don’t want to just give it a go?’ Mr Milford asks. ‘No pressure or anything.’

No pressure? Who is he kidding? The entire choir is gawping at me.

I nod firmly, my face hot with embarrassment and annoyance and a big dollop of anger reserved for the pint-sized interferer sitting next to me.

‘Oh, go on, Ro,’ Tanvi says, nudging me with her elbow. ‘You’ll slay it. Honestly, sir, Ro has such a nice voice.’

Oh my God, I want to kill her. Strangle her skinny little neck with my bare hands.

‘Ro?’ Mr Milford says, cocking his head to one side. ‘Anything I can do to persuade you?’

Giggles break out across the room and my face flames even hotter.

‘Quiet please,’ Mr Milford says, irritation flashing across his face. ‘Ro?’

I raise my eyes to meet his and shake my head. ‘No, sir,’ I say.

He holds my gaze for a few seconds. ‘Fair enough,’ he says eventually. ‘Bailey? You up for giving it a go?’

‘Are you mad with me?’ Tanvi whispers as Mr Milford goes over the tune with Bailey.

‘Yes,’ I hiss back.

‘Oh, please don’t be,’ Tanvi begs. ‘I was only trying to help.’

Help? By making me look like an idiot in front of the entire choir?

‘Please, Ro,’ she adds. ‘I wouldn’t be able to stand it if you were mad with me.’

‘Too late,’ I say, burying my head in my sheet music and keeping it in there until the rehearsal is over.

The second Mr Milford dismisses us, I leap to my feet, gathering up my things as quickly as I possibly can and doing my best to ignore Tanvi’s continued pleas for forgiveness.

I’m heading for the door when Mr Milford calls my name.

‘Can I grab you for a quick word before you go?’ he asks.

Panic sloshes in my belly. What an earth can he want?

‘Do you want me to wait for you?’ Tanvi asks.

Is she crazy? I’m so cross I can barely look at her. ‘No,’ I snap.

‘OK,’ she says in a small voice, sloping out of the room with her head down.

As the room slowly empties out, I hover awkwardly at the back of the room, trying to work out what on earth Mr Milford could want. When the last person has left, Mr Milford sits down at the piano and beckons for me to sit next to him. I do as I’m told. Without saying a word, he begins to play the introduction to the song we’ve just been working on.

‘Do you read music, Ro?’ he asks.

I nod. The house is full of sheet music. When I was little, I’d follow with my finger as Bonnie practised songs for her gigs, matching the notes and lyrics to her voice, and reminding her of the words if she forgot.

‘What do you say? Fancy giving it a go?’ he asks. ‘Just you and me.’

I look over his shoulder. The room is empty. ‘But why?’ I ask.

‘Just to see how it feels,’ Mr Milford says.

I hesitate.

‘No pressure,’ he adds softly. ‘I promise.’

He starts to play the introduction. It really is a beautiful song.

I don’t know if I’m going to sing or not until the very last moment, the first few notes that leave my mouth taking me almost entirely by surprise.

When I reach the end of the verse, I expect Mr Milford to stop playing, but instead he urges me to ‘keep going!’ and before I know it, I’ve sung the entire song.

When we’re finished, we sit side by side in silence. My palms are sweaty. I rub them on my school skirt but the scratchy polyester isn’t exactly absorbent and just seems to move the sweat about.

‘Have you sung that piece before, Ro?’ Mr Milford asks.

‘No, sir.’

‘Were you familiar with it at all? Before today’s rehearsal, I mean.’

‘No, sir.’

He pauses and looks thoughtful. ‘I’m going to try something if that’s OK, Ro. Do you think you can sing an A for me.’

I steal another glance over my shoulder. There’s definitely no one else in the room. It’s just me, Mr Milford and the piano. I take a deep breath and sing an A.

Mr Milford lets it carry for a few seconds before playing it on the piano. The notes match.

‘And a D,’ he says.

I sing a D. Again, Mr Milford plays the note on the piano. Again, they match.

Next, he tries a G, an A flat and a B sharp.

‘Ro,’ he says, resting his clasped palms on his lap. ‘Have you ever heard of something called perfect pitch?’

‘Don’t you mean Pitch Perfect? As in the film?’ I saw it at the cinema with Dad years ago. He fell asleep halfway through.

Mr Milford laughs. ‘No, not the film.’

‘Oh. Then no. I don’t think so.’

He turns to face me, tucking his right leg under his left. ‘Ro, perfect pitch is a rare auditory phenomenon, characterized by the ability of a person to identify or recreate a given musical note without the benefit of a reference tone. In plain English it means the majority of people cannot do what you did just then.’

The word ‘phenomenon’ makes my brain fizz. It just doesn’t fit. He must have got it wrong. I’m ordinary, average, unremarkable, as far from ‘phenomenal’ as you can get.

‘Are you joking, sir?’ I ask.

He smiles. ‘No, Ro. I’m pretty certain you have perfect pitch. Not to mention a very beautiful singing voice.’

I stare hard at the piano keys, my vision blurring so the black and white melt into each other.

‘You seem surprised,’ Mr Milford observes.

I shrug it off.

‘Is anyone else in your family musical?’

‘My mum,’ I answer reluctantly. ‘She’s … she’s kind of a singer.’

Mr Milford’s eyes light up. ‘Really?’

‘Just weddings and social clubs and things.’

‘Do you ever sing together?’

Once upon a time we did. Back before the house got really bad and I began to spend more and more time holed up in my room.

‘Not really,’ I say. ‘She’s pretty busy …’

‘I see.’

The bell rings for afternoon registration. I stand up.

‘It was a privilege to hear you sing today, Ro,’ Mr Milford says. ‘Truly.’

‘Thank you, sir,’ I murmur.

‘See you next week?’

I nod, scoop up my bag and hurry out of the classroom, the words ‘perfect pitch’ and ‘phenomenon’ ricocheting around my brain like the ball bearings in a pinball machine. And although I know my dominant emotion should be anger towards Tanvi and her meddling, it’s completely obliterated by the unfamiliar yet really rather pleasant sensation of pure unadulterated excitement.