Jan L. Coates - The Power of Harmony

The mirror on the back of the bathroom doors allcloudy. Makes me look like an angel. A skinny,freckly angel in an itchy white dress. Ive got thevoice of an angel, too. Thats what my music teacher tellsme. Only I dont want to be in Gods heavenly choir. Not yet.Since thats just a nice way of saying somebody died.

I pull up my knee socks, then wet my fingers to flatten thecowlick in my bangs. Fold my hands together in front of mybelly and whisper-sing. But I look so silly with my eyebrowswiggling up and down and my mouth all popped open thatI burst out laughing. The kind of laughing that might meltinto crying.

Dads waiting for me in the church hallway, leaning backagainst the wall on two legs of his chair, right next to a pinkand green poster. Whistling, acting like everythings hunkydory.All set?

I try to smile, but after the bathroom door clicks closedbehind me, its quiet. Too quiet. I read the poster. Twice.Cumberland County Music Festival, 1968. Spring IntoSong! All of a sudden, the people inside the main part ofthe church start clapping. I squeeze my belly, try to settlethe butterflies. How many people are in there? I thoughtthered just be a few.

Dad shrugs, pats me on the head, then walks over to thedesk and tells the lady my name. She leans over so she cansee me hiding behind him. There are only ten girls in yourclass, dear. She smiles, but its the kind of smile that saysshe wouldnt be in my shoes for all the tea in China. Yourenumber three on the list. Did you bring your music?

Only ten girls! My music? Nobody told me to bring mymusic.

Her music teacher, Althea Dill, should be here anyminute, Dad says.

Why didnt I bring my copy of the music? Whatll I do if Iforget my words? Or if I need to pee again? My fingers creepup into my mouth, and my bad eye twitches where JuniorTattrie binged me with a rock last year after I beat him in arace. Still slams shut when I get in a tizzy.

The big wooden doors swing open and a bunch of littlegirls giggle out into the hallway. At least none of themscrying.

You can sit in the front row, dear, the desk lady says.The seats are numbered, and youre to sit in chair numberthree.

Dad squeezes my hand, then I walk up the long aisle,alone, keeping my eyes straight ahead on a round stainedglasswindow. Its a girl angel, standing on some rocks witha bird on her hand. Shes got curly red hair, like Bethys.Only longer.

The tapping of my Sunday-school shoes echoes off thehigh wooden ceiling. The lips, the teeth, the tip of the tongue Im the first one there, so I sit down in seat number three,in front of the place where the ministers supposed to stand.I wiggle around a little, straighten out my dress, then crossmy ankles together under my chair and sit on my hands. Istare up at the angel and the shiny gold organ pipes. Pull myright hand out and cram all four fingertips into my mouth.

Im so nervous! I jerk my fingers back out when SarahSaunders parks herself in the seat next to mine. Numbertwo. Arent you?

I try to smile at her but theres something wrong withmy lips. Theyre frozen and Im having trouble breathing.Whats she doing here? I manage to jerk my head up anddown, like a chicken.

I decided to come at the last minute, Sarah says. MyMother got me in.

The rest of the seats fill up fast, but I dont know any of theother girls. I peek over my shoulder and search for Miss Dillin the audience. Dad nods and gives me a wink.

Saw Dill Pickle in the halltalking to the adjudicator,Sarah says. Likely telling him how good my voice is. Sheflips her blonde hair back, then looks my dress up anddown. Frowns at the polka-dot ruffle thats trying to strangleme. I like your dresshand-me-down from your cousin?

I nod.

You like mine? I got it at Margolians on the weekend. Itsthe latest style in New York City, just like in the magazines.

My fingers crawl back up into my mouth. I look sidewaysat her orange and green dress. Tangerine orange and limegreen. Except for the colors, looks to me like most of theplaid school jumpers hanging in my closet at home. Impretty sure they didnt come from New York City.

A light flashes somewhere to my left. We all look over anda man takes our picture. Big smiles for The Record, girls,he says. Say cheese! Too late, I remember my mouths fullof fingers.

The desk lady gets up and announces, Class Number1065, Girls Vocal Solo, Ten Years and Under.

Another lady, wearing a gray dress and a pearl necklace,walks up the little stairs and sits down on the piano benchand fiddles with the handle to make it higher. The girl sittingin chair number one gets up, straightens her poofy pinkdress, and follows her. I chew on my fingers, watch, andlisten. The pianos going too fast, and shes racing to keepup. Plus I cant hardly hear her because shes whispering.Or maybe its because my hearts beating so loud.

She curtsies and everybody claps. Then Miss Dill goesup and sits down at the piano. Shes wearing her concertoutfit: a straight black skirt with a crisp white blouse andthe sparkly treble-clef brooch I gave her last year. Shes notold but shes got gray hair, all tied up in a big knot on top ofher head.

Sarah prances up the stairs and across the floor, thenclears her throat a couple of times. I clear mine, too. Sheglares down at me, then turns to the piano and gives MissDill a Queen nod. Miss Dill starts playing at just the rightspeed, not too fast, not too slow. Sarah still sounds like acrow. Does something chickeny with her neck when shesingsseems like shes hauling her words up out of a coalmine in some creaky old cart. Everybody claps anyway.

Then its my turn. Miss Dill stays at the piano and smilesout at me. She looks small and far away, and theres a fuzzycircle all around her and the piano. I clear my dry throatand swallow a bunch of times. Sarah sits back down besideme. I blink, stand up, tug on my dress, and try to tuck myhair behind my ears, which isnt that easy with a pixie cut.

But theres something wrong with my skinny stick legs.

Theyve turned into logs.

I close my eyes and try to move one foot, then the otherone. Like some kind of robot. When my toe bumps into thestairs, I open my eyes, grab onto the railing, and pull myselfup. The shiny wooden floors enormous. The middle of itlooks a hundred miles away.

When I finally get there, I stare down at my shoes for afew seconds, then look out. At all the pews. All the faces.The gawking eyes. My brain freezes up. My face gets hotand itchy, like an infected boil about to explode. I try to foldmy hands together in front of my belly, but theyre shakingso bad they cant find each other in the air. I grab onto thesides of my dress instead and hold on tight.