I feel a little shy as I walk into registration on Monday morning. Even though I’ve gone over our conversation over and over in my mind and concluded I didn’t reveal anything too personal to Tanvi on Saturday, I’m still gripped with nerves as I approach our desk. Tanvi doesn’t seem to notice my discomfort, smiling broadly and launching straight into an energetic monologue about the rest of her weekend as I slide into my seat.
She’s recounting an argument she had with Devin when Ms Cameron calls me to the front of the class and hands me an envelope with my name printed on it in unfamiliar writing.
‘What is it?’ Tanvi asks as I return to my seat.
‘I don’t know,’ I say, angling my body away from her and slicing open the envelope with my fingernail.
I reach inside and pull out a leaflet with an orange post-it note stuck on the front. The Post-it note says the following:
I think this could be right up your street! Application deadline midnight on Friday.
Mr Milford’s signature is at the bottom.
I remove the Post-it and take a closer look at the leaflet. On the front there’s a photograph of dozens of singers wearing smart white shirts and navy blue waistcoats. They must be singing about something happy because their eyes are bright and shiny, their open mouths upturned at the corners.
‘The National Youth Choir of Great Britain,’ Tanvi reads aloud over my shoulder.
Quickly, I turn the leaflet over, placing it face down on the desk.
‘Aren’t you going to read the rest?’ Tanvi asks.
I shrug.
‘Can I, then?’
‘If you want to.’
She turns over the leaflet and spreads it open on the desk. ‘The National Youth Choir of Great Britain is one of the most prestigious youth choirs in the world,’ she recites in an overly loud and theatrical voice. ‘Fancy schmancy! Ooh, listen to this, they get to perform all over the world!’ She skims the rest of the leaflet, reading aloud the highlights – the residential rehearsals, the travel, the concerts. ‘Oh my God, it sounds amazing,’ she squeaks. ‘You have to apply, Ro, you have to!’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘But why not?’
Because girls like me don’t do things like join fancy choirs. And even if they did, who would take care of Bonnie and the house while I was off jetting around the world? With Bonnie left in charge, Social Services would be on our case within days.
‘I told you the other day,’ I say. ‘I’m not interested in getting up on stage.’
‘But this is a choir,’ she says, flapping the leaflet in front of my face. ‘You’d be singing as part of a group.’
‘Still not interested.’
Emerson chooses this moment to turn round. ‘All right, ladies?’ he says.
‘Hello, Emerson,’ Tanvi replies primly. ‘Can we help you?’
‘You talking about the National Youth Choir?’
‘We are. Why?’
‘My sister applied for that once.’
‘Oh, really?’ Tanvi says, giving me a nudge.
‘Yeah,’ Emerson continues. ‘Didn’t get in.’
‘See!’ I say triumphantly. ‘It’d be a waste of time even applying.’
‘I dunno about that,’ Emerson says. ‘I heard my sister practising and it was like listening to a cat getting strangled.’
Tanvi giggles.
‘Mr Saxby, face the front of the classroom please!’ Ms Cameron barks.
Emerson rolls his eyes and turns back round.
‘You should at least try,’ Tanvi whispers.
‘I won’t get in,’ I whisper back.
‘Mr Milford thinks you might.’
‘He’s probably just saying that.’
‘And why would he do that?’
‘I don’t know. Maybe so I’ll go back to choir on Friday?’
‘No offence, but I don’t think he needs to make up the numbers that badly. He clearly thinks you’ve got a shot.’
‘At least read the leaflet,’ she adds, pushing it towards me.
‘There’s no point,’ I say, pushing it back.
‘Oh my God, you’re stubborn.’
‘Or realistic.’
‘No, definitely stubborn.’
The bell for first period rings. I stand up, heaving my backpack onto my shoulders.
‘Hey, you forgot this,’ Tanvi says, waving the leaflet in her hand.
‘I know,’ I say over my shoulder, before heading out of the classroom.
I forget about the leaflet until later that day. I’m at home, emptying my backpack, when it falls from between the pages of my Spanish folder and flutters to the ground.
Tanvi must have put it into my bag during afternoon registration, the sneaky thing.
I let out an exasperated sigh, screw it up into a ball and throw it at the wastepaper bin, only my aim is off and it bounces off the rim. Sighing again, I peel myself off the bed and retrieve it from under my desk. It’s unfurled a little, a cluster of slightly wrinkled choir members beaming right back at me.
I intend to throw it straight in the bin but end up veering off course and heading back to the bed. Feeling self-conscious, I sit down and smooth out the creases. I look over my shoulder and immediately feel ridiculous. I blame Tanvi Shah. Thanks to her track record, the idea of her bursting out of the wardrobe or wriggling out from under the bed, crowing ‘I knew you’d read it!’ doesn’t exactly seem far-fetched right now.
I curl up on the bed, my back to the rest of the room, and begin to read.
I stare at the glossy photographs and try and fail to imagine myself slotting in at the back. Although the choir’s members come in lots of different shapes and sizes, they all share a certain neatness – from their perfectly ironed shirts to their immaculate hairstyles – that I just know is out of my reach. I’m just not like the Melanies of this world – pristine and perfect and spotlessly turned out at all times. No matter how hard I try, something – a loose thread, a scuffed shoe, an oily forehead – always seems to let me down, as if the universe can’t bear to pass up the opportunity to remind me where I come from.
For a second, I imagine filling in the online application form and attending the audition, but the pictures fail to form in my head properly. The choir simply isn’t for people like me. It’s for kids who have the sort of mums and dads who take them to ballet and piano lessons, and check their homework, and ask them questions about their day.
Kids like Izzy.
Not to mention the fact the rehearsals are residential. The last time I was away, it took Bonnie just five days to almost entirely block the route from the kitchen to the living room. I dread to think what kind of state she might get into without me around for longer.
No, the choir is definitely not for me.
And yet, here I am, reaching for my laptop and typing ‘The National Youth Choir of Great Britain’ into the YouTube search bar. I don’t know why. I mean, what exactly am I hoping to achieve here? In fact, I should probably just stop now, put my laptop away and stop being so stupid.
Only then the choir on the screen starts to sing.
And all I can do is stop and stare.
Because they’re amazing.
More than amazing.
Mind-blowing.
I turn up the volume, my eyes and ears glued to the screen.
The choir, dressed in their signature navy blue waistcoats, is assembled on the stage of what looks like a huge concert hall. The harmonies they’re singing are precise and difficult, yet playful and almost unexpected, the resulting sound almost painfully beautiful.
When they finish, the audience breaks into thunderous applause, and as the camera zooms in on the glowing faces of the choir, I feel an ache deep in my belly – a brand-new kind I’m not sure I’ve experienced before.
I watch the next video. And the next. And the next.
You can’t do this, I keep telling myself. You can’t leave her on her own, you know you can’t.
At the same time, I can’t stop watching.
The ache doesn’t go away.
If anything, it gets stronger.