Chapter Thirteen

Candice doesn't know her vocal classification and it's time for vocal auditions... Can she figure it out in time?

Choir rooms are probably the least intimidating rooms in a school. It’s essentially a gutted classroom where risers with chairs on them replace the typical grid of desks. Aside from the scattered stands for sheets of music, the space is pretty bare. 

                The rows are divided up similarly to the way the bleachers in the gym were. Instead of being divided by class, they’re divided by vocal range. Altos are in the second row from the top, mezzos occupy the middle row and the sopranos are in the front. The top row is vacant except for a small cluster of freshman. It’s the ‘unknown row’ for those who don’t know their vocal classification. Care to guess where I’m sitting?

                Shannon continues to peak back at me from the mezzo row, giving me thumbs-up after thumbs-up. If she keeps doing this, I might just have to chop her thumbs off and then keep throwing them in the air so she can see how annoying it is.

                I know she’s just trying to be supportive, but there comes a point when support borderlines on obnoxious. For her, that was the day we met.

                A younger gentleman sporting a gray sweater enters the room, closing the thick wooden door behind him. His pale blond hair is combed over to the side, a short but thick beard of the same color bordering his jaw. “Hello, everyone, and welcome to the vocal auditions for the fall musical!”

                The senior girls are clapping and cheering, clearly excited and worry-free. We under-classman are less enthused. Sure we’re excited, but we’re nervous as hell too. I probably shouldn’t be speaking for everyone, but their expressions speak for themselves anyway. It’s not like they’re hiding their nerves very well.

                Between the lip biting, hair twirling and the foot tapping, it’s like a festival of nervous habits.

                I just happen to be doing all three.

                “For those of you new to this part of the building, my name is Mr. Garrison. We’re going to start by doing a few simple warm-ups. Everyone stand up! And streeeeetch your arms over your head,” the man demonstrates just how to stretch, his finger interlocking before he places his hands up in the air and stretches out his arms before leaning to the left then the right.

                We do similar stretches before the warmups transition into those dealing with the vocal chords. If it were me, that’s where we could’ve began but who am I to judge?

                The man claps his hands together, his hands moving about rather flamboyantly as he addresses us. “Repeat after me,” he begins as he saunters over to a piano in the corner of the room. He presses the same key on the piano nine times while uttering the words “Mommy made me mash my M&Ms,” before pressing two separate keys on the words “oh my!”

                I’m assuming the keys he’s pressing are somehow related to the notes we’re supposed to be singing, but I have an untrained ear. I can belt and riff and do whatever it is that I did to put Adam into that trance last night, but I can’t match pitch with a piano. I simply don’t know how.

                I play along anyway, trying my best to hit the note that’s being played. I’m not even close when I listen to the piano, but I manage to get a little bit closer by listening to the other voices in the room. It’s low, and I can hear the sopranos struggling while the altos are sailing through it like it’s nothing.

                I’m definitely struggling, but there’s no way I’m a soprano. I mean, Mariah’s a soprano and I’m no Mariah so, obviously I can’t be a soprano. Right?

                He takes it up a key or an octave or something like that, and it gets a little bit easier for me to sing. Still, I can just sense that I’m doing something wrong. His eyes scan over the entire group, but I find his eyes settling on me for longer increments of time than the rest.

                I’m about ninety-seven percent sure that he’s gay, so I don’t think he’s checking me out. Nope, I’m totally f*****g this up.

                We continue to do this warmup while shifting up the scale, and with each step up it gets harder for the altos and easier for the mezzos and sopranos until he asks the altos to stop altogether.

                That’s a whole row worth of voices that are now not contributing to drowning me out. F**k. “Mommy made me mash my M&Ms, oh my!” Each word is accented as if there were a period after them, and it’s certainly helping me with my diction if nothing else. Not sure I can say the same for my pitch.

                Again, I could be wrong, but I feel like the way he keeps looking at me when I get carried away and sing a little louder can’t be a good thing. The progression up the scale continues until I can actually hear the mezzos straining to sing along.

                It sounds painful, and it certainly can’t be good for their voices. Fortunately for them (and anyone who can hear them), he asks them to fall off. That just leaves the sopranos. Given the fact that I’m not yet straining, I guess that officially classifies me as a soprano.

                Congrats, Candy Corn. You did it. You’re Mariah. Not.

                Now there’s only six of us singing at one time, myself being the only one in the ‘unknown row’. If I was by some miracle still being drowned out before, that luxury has certainly been stripped from me. I stick out like a sore thumb. I know that’s a lame, reductive expression, but it’s still a true one.

                We get to the point where even some of the sopranos have reached the peak of their range but I, assuming I’m actually hitting the right notes, am still going strong.

                This continues until I’m the last girl singing. All eyes are on me, something that is happening more and more lately. I’m becoming okay with it, and by ‘okay with it’ I mean it doesn’t make me feel physically sick anymore. At least not all the time.

                I have to sound like a seal or some creature like that. This isn’t even singing anymore. This is a goddamn mating call. “Mommy made me mash my M&Ms, oh my!”

                He hits a key higher, and I’m actually able to tell it’s higher. I must be learning something after all. “Mommy made me mash my M&Ms, oh my!”

                He takes it up twice more before my voice finally cracks. I sigh as I bow my head and fall back into my seat, my head in my hands. “Miss Cornell, please take your golden pipes and have a seat with the sopranos.” He knows my name? When did he learn my name? I sure as hell don’t know his.

                Hold up. Did he just tell me to go sit with the sopranos? Did he just say I have ‘golden pipes’? That’s a good thing, right?  I’m still sitting here in a state of shock when Shannon snaps her fingers and points to a seat directly in front of her. I take it without hesitation, breathing deeply as I begin to sense those eyes still on me.

                “Let’s give Candice a moment to recover. So who would like to go first for their solo songs?” The question is posed, an open invitation for all of those eager seniors to step up and sing whatever show-tune they selected months ago and rehearsed non-stop for hours at a time.

                And not a single one of them stand up.

                Certainly I couldn’t have intimidated the upper-classmen… Could I?

                It would explain the two different vibes the eyes on me give. Half of them stare on in amazement. The other fifty percent are practically stabbing me with jealous glares.

                I’ve successfully pissed off the elite thespians. Way to go, Candice… Way to go.

                Even though Candy Corn is alive and well, I don’t want to seem overly eager. In timid-Candice fashion, I just barely raise my hand into the air before speaking softly. “I-I can go. I mean, if no one else wants to?” I say it questioningly even though I’m pretty sure I know that no one else wants to go right now.

                “Okay, yeah. Go on ahead,” the vocal instructor gives the go-ahead as I stand from my seat. In a rather embarrassing moment, I stand at the front of the room, my sheet music still on my former seat in the back row.

                “Oh, crap!” I shout as I run up the risers to retrieve it. It gets a laugh from almost everyone. I deliver the sheet to the man behind the piano before returning to the front of the room. I fold my hands in front of my stomach and close my eyes, waiting to hear the music being played.

                The first key on the piano is hit, and so it begins… 

Author's Note

Sorry for the delay everyone! I was trying to do a new chapter every Tuesday but felt I was running on fumes. Took a little time off and now I'm ready to give this the attention and effort it deserves. Hang in there, the mysteries and thrills ARE coming. Promise.