How to Build a Heart Page 4

  “Mija, wait.” I hear her take a deep breath. “I don’t want us to fight.”

  “Me neither,” I agree. So why do you? I don’t add.

  “I will see if the Habitat people can come after your tryouts. What time will you be done?”

  “Probably . . . four? So I could be home by . . . five? Let me check the bus schedule.”

  “We will both check,” Mami says. “Okay?”

  “Okay,” I agree.

  Her expression relaxes. She leans over and kisses my forehead.

  I decide to ask her again. “Mami, what are the chances we’re actually going to be picked?”

  “I have no idea, Isabella. But I do know this, we should pray.” Her hand instinctively goes to her neck, and the small gold disk that hangs there. It’s her Mother Cabrini medal. Patron saint of immigrants.

  Dios mío. Time to rescue the store clerk from Jack.

  It takes me all of three seconds to locate my brother in front of the snack rack, trying to choose between Funyons and Fritos.

  “Definitely go for the onion breath,” I suggest.

  He replaces the Fritos, then bolts toward the checkout to pay. Unfortunately, that’s the precise moment the one other customer in the store turns into our aisle, and Jack crashes headfirst into him. And bounces off. Like he hit a wall.

  It turns out that Sam Shackelton is not only beautiful: he’s rock solid.

  “Whoa! Are you okay?” the Adonis of Clayton asks my hyperactive brother.

  Jack gazes up at him, dazed but grinning. Like he wants to try that again. “Fine! Sorry!” he replies, then dashes off with his Funyons and his two dollar bills.

  Leaving me. Standing in the aisle. With Hot Sam.

  Whose eyes are not sky blue, like Roz says. They’re stormy blue. Darkish, flecked with gray.

  Those eyes flit over the length of me and the brows contract. He looks puzzled.

  “Do you go to St. V’s?” he asks. Then he, unbelievably, turns red. Like he’s embarrassed. Him!

  That’s when I remember I’m still wearing my school uniform. With the knee socks. I realize this is the time to follow my mother’s advice, and pray. Dear God, please let a giant hole open in the ground beneath me right now. I struggle to think of some not-dorky response, but Sam speaks again.

  “Sorry, dumb question.” He sort of smiles. “I mean . . . obviously, right?”

  Here’s the thing about prayer: Most times, instead of getting what you want? You get what you need. So while a giant hole does not appear, a miracle does occur.

  I manage to do cute instead of dorky.

  I spin once, and the plaid pleated skirt swirls. “Can’t mistake this St. Veronica’s style.”

  His face reddens a little more. “My sister goes there,” he says. “Aubrey Shackelton?”

  Knock me down with a feather. He’s Catholic?

  “Really?” I worry I’ve just shrieked the word. “What year is she?”

  “Freshman,” Sam says. “Well, kind of. She transferred in second term. She’s really only been at St. V’s for a few months.”

  “This is my first year, too,” I say. Then stop.

  Before I slip and tell Sam Shackelton too much.

  Luckily, Jack reappears and saves me from myself.

  “Izzy! I paid and I peed! Let’s go!” he demands.

  Hot Sam smiles. “Let me guess, little brother?”

  A second miracle. People rarely get that we’re related. As much as I lean Crawford, he leans Garcia.

  I smile back. “You’re two for two.”

  “I know. Genius, right?”

  Jack heads for the door. I’m supposed to follow. I take one step in that direction.

  “I’m Sam, by the way,” he continues. “Sam Shackelton.”

  “Right. Aubrey’s brother,” I say. Another step toward the exit. “I’ll keep an eye out for her.” Jack has run outside. I really need to go.

  “Nice meeting you. Izzy. See you around!”

  I manage this half-assed goodbye wave before I peel out after Jack, but I treat myself to one last backwards look at Sam. He’s standing there with both hands jammed in his pockets, watching me, smiling with his mouth closed, head tilted. Like he’s trying to figure something out.

  It’s completely adorable. Dios mío.

  Mami stands outside the car, urging us to hurry, and Jack waves his Funyons over his head as he darts toward her. A breeze lifts the hair off the back of my neck as I climb into the car. Something occurs to me: I didn’t tell him my name. But he said it. Nice meeting you. Izzy. He was paying attention when Jack spoke to me.

  I shiver for the second time that evening.

  4

  Roz thinks it’s hilarious when I tell her a cappella is cool.

  But she’s never heard Veronic Convergence. And she’s not here to see this: the long line of nervousness snaking down the hallway from the choir-room door, all the way around the corner toward the gym. It’s Tryout Day and the girls are forty-deep for only two open spots. Everyone wants to be a VC girl.

  Which makes me wonder: how the hell did I, Izzy Crawford, who scores off the charts on the Dork Meter, get in?

  As I quick-step past the gauntlet of hopefuls on my way to the audition room, I can’t help feeling like a fraud. These girls eye me like I’m some sort of rock star, but it seems like yesterday I stood on this line.

  It sucks to want something this bad and know your chances of getting it are almost nonexistent.

  I remember the first time I heard Veronic Convergence. It was the opening-day-of-school assembly, and the VC girls sang the national anthem. I remember I felt a little sick.

  They were like something out of a Pitch Perfect movie. That good. That fun. And cute. Even though each girl was a different shape, size, and color, they were all some version of . . . confident. Cool. And they made it look easy.

  When they followed the anthem with a kick-ass rendition of Lorde’s “Royals,” the auditorium exploded in applause and my misery was complete. I felt like a starving person viewing a banquet from the other side of a glass wall. But when you’ve never taken voice lessons (not in Mami’s budget) and attended six different schools in six years (none of which had decent choirs), you don’t get your hopes up. No matter how much you love to sing.

  After the assembly, as I wove through the crowded halls alone with eyes glued to my schedule and a map of the school, I felt someone link an arm through mine. My new guidance counselor, Mrs. Enriques.

  “Isabella! Just the young lady I was thinking about! ¿Qué tal?” Mrs. Enriques, una puertorriqueña by way of Nueva York, had bonded with Mami big-time when we came in to register me at St. V’s. Despite my best efforts to convince her I really wouldn’t speak Spanish with her, the two of them had settled in like two old amigas while I sat there, understanding about 25 percent of their heartfelt, rapid-fire conversation.

  “I’m fine, Mrs. Enriques. How are you?”

  “Wasn’t that wonderful? The girls’ a cappella group?” she asked, tilting her head toward the auditorium we’d just exited.

  “They’re awesome,” I agreed.

  She smiled and pulled me in closer, like we were sharing a secret. “You should try out. They have auditions next week.”

  I laughed. “That would be an utter fail, Mrs. Enriques. I can’t sing like that.”

  She narrowed her eyes and smiled. “Your mami told me you are a great singer.”

  “Mami is musically challenged. Probably also tone deaf,” I informed her.

  “Still. You need some extracurriculars, Isabella,” she continued, her voice bordering on a purr. There was something Mami-like about her single-mindedness. “I put your name in for the audition list.”

  Brakes. Kids walking behind almost crashed into us.

  “Wait . . . what?” M
y voice loud in my own ears. “Mrs. Enriques, I wish you hadn’t done that!”

  She patted my hand. “I know, I should have asked first. But sometimes we need a little push, you know? To do something that scares us? Give it a try! You have nothing to lose.”

  Before I had a chance to detail the long list of my likely losses (dignity, pride, and reputation for starters), she spied another hapless student she had been “thinking about,” uncoupled from my arm, and sped off down the hall.

  That morning—and my outrage at the meddling Mrs. Enriques—comes rushing back like some post-traumatic stress trigger as I step into the audition room, where I find all the other VCs assembled. I’ve never gotten over my suspicion that some back-room-guidance-office deal had been cut to land me a spot in Veronic Convergence.

  “Miss Izz!” a few of them cry. I settle into a chair, and our leader, a senior named Min Yee, hands me a sheet. It’s got the list of auditionees, with boxes to check (or not) for various categories, plus an overall rating from 1 to 5, with 1 being “not ready for VC” and 5 for “outstanding.” As I scan the categories, Min explains to everyone how this will work.

  “Each girl will tell us a little about herself and why she wants to be in a cappella,” Min begins. “Then she’ll sing one verse and the chorus from a song of her choice. She’ll exit, and before the next comes in, I want you all to do your ratings. Right away, gut reaction. Questions?”

  I raise my hand. “This last box, ‘Presence.’ What exactly is that?”

  “Great question,” she says. “Anyone want to explain?”

  Jamila Hooper, who is also the pitcher on the St. Veronica’s softball team, dives in.

  “Demeanor,” she explains. “How she projects. Not just her voice but her personality. We’re performing up there, so is she having fun? Do we want to watch her?” Jamila looks around the group. “Do y’all want to add to that?”

  “Don’t confuse it with looks. This is not a beauty contest,” someone adds.

  “Hell no! I wouldn’t be here.”

  Laughter and snaps.

  “Gotcha,” I tell them. It occurs to me that it’s a good thing I had no clue about this scoring system when I auditioned in the fall. I was too busy trying to sing in tune and keep breathing.

  As if reading my mind, Min offers one last comment as she walks to the door to admit the first girl. “And just so you know, Miss Izz?” She pauses, hand on knob. “You scored a perfect five for Presence.”

  Snaps.

  Hold on. Izzy Crawford has presence?

  Before I can wrap my mind around this concept, the first girl enters.

  Here’s what I quickly learn about auditions: they are as excruciating for the auditioners as for the auditionees. Everyone is so nervous. The stress and desire, even from the confident-seeming girls, is exhausting. You can’t help but feel all the feels right along with them.

  What makes it worse: most aren’t very good. After the sixth pitchy rendition of “Let It Go” (mental note: future auditionees will be forbidden from singing Disney tunes), the smile muscles in my face ache from too much bright, friendly encouragement. Three becomes my new favorite number as each girl fades into the next, and more than a few of their answers to why they want to be in a cappella are fairly stupid. (“I couldn’t decide between this and volleyball, so I tossed a coin and this won!”) Plus the clock is running. I glance at my watch.

  I need to be home for the Habitat people by five, which means getting on the late bus by four. Which, judging from the way this is going, isn’t happening. I have two choices: ditch the rest of the auditions or call in reinforcements.

  Since ditching isn’t an attractive option, I text Roz as Girl #33 enters.

  Me: SOS!

  Roz: Sup?

  Me: Need a ride home from school. Got the car?

  Roz: I can make that happen

  Me: 430 out front?

  Roz: k

  Me: You’re the best luv you!

  Roz: I rock

  When I look up from my phone, Girl #33 is standing at the front of the room. She’s a knobby-kneed blonde with a sprinkling of acne on her forehead. Her shoulders slump in that bad-posture way from growing too fast and not knowing what to do with your weird new body. She still has braces. Her cheeks flame with two bright red patches.

  I glance down at my sheet, pencil already hovering between “1” and “2” next to “Presence.” Which is when I notice her name. My head snaps up.

  “Hi, I’m Aubrey Shackelton,” she says.

  “Hi, Aubrey,” everyone sing-says.

  Her cheeks burn brighter. “Um, today I’m going to sing—”

  Min cuts her off. “Ooh, before that, Aubrey, could you tell us a little about yourself and why you want to be in a cappella?”

  Aubrey looks mortified. Like she’s already blown it. She takes a deep breath. “Right. Sorry. Okay. Well, I’m a freshman. I’m from East Clayton and just transferred here from Clayton County High School. I was in chorus there. I love to sing.” She stops.

  I see Min’s eyes widen, her head tilt forward in encouragement.

  “And . . . were you in a cappella at your old school?” she presses.

  Aubrey shakes her head. “They don’t have it. I’ve never sung a cappella. I’m not sure I even like a cappella.”

  Every eye in the room widens. The thirty-two girls who preceded her proclaimed their undying love for a cappella. Aubrey is not doing herself any favors.

  “But I do know I need to sing with all of you.”

  There’s a pause, broken by Min. “Could you expand on that?”

  Aubrey hesitates. She glances at the door as if she’s considering making a run for it. “Last Christmas I saw you all singing at the mall,” she begins. “I was shopping with my mom. We could hear you from the food court.”

  Everyone laughs. I remember that day. It was my first time performing with the VCs. We’d been invited to sing carols alongside this pathetic fake Santa. (Not only was the dude thin, but kids kept snapping the elastic on his beard.)

  “Anyway, you all looked like you were having so much fun. I wasn’t having any fun at my high school at the time. I actually sort of hated it.” Aubrey pauses, her eyes widening in surprise. As if she hadn’t intended to say that. She clears her throat. “So. Here I am.”

  A long awkward silence signals that Aubrey is finished.

  Min steps into the breach. “Excellent! Thanks. So, what are you going to sing for us today?”

  “‘Stand by You,’” Aubrey says. “I love Rachel Platten.”

  Oh god no, I manage not to say. I glance at the sheet again. She’s a Soprano I. But you’d have to be a Super Soprano I to pull off Platten-esque high notes. Disastrous choice. I press my lips in a tight, clenched smile. I want to stop her, beg her to sing something—anything—else.

  Aubrey Shackelton is about to flush her audition. I don’t know why I particularly care. But I don’t want to see her fail.

  “Can I have a C?” she asks.

  She’s the first to ask for the pitch pipe. Min gives her the note. Aubrey begins.

  And within five seconds, it’s obvious that we’re in the company of an extraordinary talent. It’s not just that Aubrey lures us in with the husky low notes of the opening. She convinces us that whatever pain inspired Rachel Platten to write this song is her pain, too. As the song grows louder and the notes climb higher, becoming, finally, a victory anthem, we forget that Aubrey was only supposed to sing one verse and the chorus. She sings the whole thing and we don’t stop her. Not only that: near the end, where Platten’s instrumentation backs down and it’s just singing and clapping, all of us start clapping along.

  Aubrey has just turned her audition into a performance.

  When she’s done, there’s another long silence. But nothing like the first. We look around the room
at each other, eyes round, until Jamila breaks the stalemate with an explosive “Hot damn!” Everyone laughs, a few whoop, and we all applaud. It’s hard not to stand, give the girl an ovation or something. But Min is frowning, making the slashing “cut” gesture at us across her throat because we are supposed to be fair and not indicate, one way or another, how we feel.

  Too late for that.

  Aubrey, meanwhile, has blushed herself into a shade approaching purple. But there’s a hint of relief on her face. And more than relief from the barely suppressed smiles throughout the room: People are pumped. Veronic Convergence is about to add one kick-ass soprano. And she’s only a freshman.

  Aubrey hustles out, and the rest of the girls blow by in a whirl. There are three more “Let It Go”s (unbelievable) and a really sweet “Over the Rainbow,” but otherwise no one stands out for me. I’ve scribbled in all my ratings, and it’s pretty clear who will fill our two spots: Aubrey and Rainbow Girl. I glance at my watch: 4:15. Phew. This will definitely wrap in fifteen minutes.

  “Okay,” Min begins. “Anybody want to start?”

  Lindsey jumps in. “Am I wrong or do we have a three-way tie?”

  “Shoot. I thought it was just me,” says Simone.

  “Uh, me three,” adds Jamila.

  Other heads nod. My surprise feels bright, almost comical. What—or rather, who—did I miss?

  Min steps up to the whiteboard at the front of the room. “Okay, let’s each of us name our top five, and their scores. I’ll total them here, we’ll see what we’ve got, then talk.”

  As the VCs call out their picks, a pattern emerges. Rainbow Girl (#38) and Aubrey (#33) are clear front-runners. But so is #24. A girl named Sarah. I scan my ratings: next to #24 I’ve scrawled gahhhhh and a line of exclamation points. Which nudges my memory. Sarah was the fourth “Let It Go.”

  After we’ve all reported in, Min does the addition, and sure enough: Aubrey, Sarah, and Rainbow Girl (whose name is Ann) each have 210 points. The closest score after that is 191.

  We have a three-way tie.

  Min sighs and settles herself into the choir director’s chair up front. Like she’s in it for the long haul. Not good.