but then amazes everyone with her talent and fresh ideas that ultimately convince the pole-up-the-butt judges that she’s a rising star.
“What will you sing for us today?” Head Girl asks. She has perfect posture that reminds me to put my shoulders back and stand up tall. The result of this, of course is that my rib cage is open and my voice stronger, but also that my boobs look just that much bigger.
Of course I thought a ton about what song to sing — it’s the kind of thing where not only do I have to pick something that shows off some vocal range but also since the words and original artist will no doubt be subject to criticism or commendation, the song has to withstand both my rendering and the judgment of it. Looking at The Choir panel, I erase my settled on song, figuring that Jolie Holland is too obscure for them (hell, she’s somewhat obscure for me), anything from Mable’s discs is bound to be too American, and any Ella/Louie/Nina Simone/Chet Baker is too done.
Something palatable, something bland but sweet. “Ice Cream,” I say.
Your love is better than ice cream
Better than anything else that I’ve tried
Sure, it’s clichéd now, but it has decent vocal potential and doesn’t require a back-up band to sound good when singing it. To my surprise, The Choir seems to like my voice.
“Thank you,” they say and take some notes in their St. Paul’s binders. “If you just wait in the hall, we’ll give you the results soon.”
Soon=forty minutes later.
I follow Millie back into the audition room and use my useless breathing exercises from Body to try to center myself. Some girl rushes out of the room, clearly dealing with failure fallout after being told she didn’t make the cut. Dressed in crisp school uniforms are two young ladies smug enough that I know they’ve joined the ranks of The Choir. If I’m correct, that means there’s only one more spot. For me?
“Miss Bukowski,” Head Girl says. The English people who don’t know me (that’s most of them) pronounce my name the way Arabella did when she first met me, Bee-yoo-kowski. I’m getting used to it, but it’s still slightly unsettling.
“Yes,” I say.
“We are delighted…” Head Girl smiles at Millie and Millie gives me a real smile, showing me she’s on my side. My heart soars. “To offer you a place on the wait list.” My heart comes tumbling down, with my pulse still raging and my hopes dashed. “Obviously, you are very talented. We just felt, as a collective, that your sound is very…”
I decide to stand up to the task. “American?” I offer.
“Well, yes.”
Millie clears her throat and tries to console by saying, “It’s not that being American is bad — that’s not at all what we’re trying to say. It’s more…”
Head Girl, annoyed by Millie’s cavalier attitude toward her captainship butts in, “What Millicent means is that, while we welcome your audition and enthusiasm, we’re not quite sure if The Choir is the best spot for you right now, given the intense competition.”
“I understand,” I say. I don’t expect to win everything, I don’t need to have everyone’s approval for my self worth, but it’s times like this I feel like I could crumple up and slink into the corner and watch everything go by. I’m already writing all this into my journal — I can picture how I’m going to describe the whole scene.
“But take heart, Love, spaces do open up sometimes at mid-term — and we’d be happy to have you as an alternate should you accept.”
Possibly, they want me to deny the alternate place. It could be they expect me to be so crushed or conceited that I can’t deal with being second (or third or fourth) choice. But after thinking for a (Millie)second, I say, “Thanks. I’m thrilled to have made it this far. I look forward to the potential opportunity of singing with you.”
Sure, it’s the speech I’ve said aloud in the shower should I ever bump into Simon or Randy or
“What will you sing for us today?” Head Girl asks. She has perfect posture that reminds me to put my shoulders back and stand up tall. The result of this, of course is that my rib cage is open and my voice stronger, but also that my boobs look just that much bigger.
Of course I thought a ton about what song to sing — it’s the kind of thing where not only do I have to pick something that shows off some vocal range but also since the words and original artist will no doubt be subject to criticism or commendation, the song has to withstand both my rendering and the judgment of it. Looking at The Choir panel, I erase my settled on song, figuring that Jolie Holland is too obscure for them (hell, she’s somewhat obscure for me), anything from Mable’s discs is bound to be too American, and any Ella/Louie/Nina Simone/Chet Baker is too done.
Something palatable, something bland but sweet. “Ice Cream,” I say.
Your love is better than ice cream
Better than anything else that I’ve tried
Sure, it’s clichéd now, but it has decent vocal potential and doesn’t require a back-up band to sound good when singing it. To my surprise, The Choir seems to like my voice.
“Thank you,” they say and take some notes in their St. Paul’s binders. “If you just wait in the hall, we’ll give you the results soon.”
Soon=forty minutes later.
I follow Millie back into the audition room and use my useless breathing exercises from Body to try to center myself. Some girl rushes out of the room, clearly dealing with failure fallout after being told she didn’t make the cut. Dressed in crisp school uniforms are two young ladies smug enough that I know they’ve joined the ranks of The Choir. If I’m correct, that means there’s only one more spot. For me?
“Miss Bukowski,” Head Girl says. The English people who don’t know me (that’s most of them) pronounce my name the way Arabella did when she first met me, Bee-yoo-kowski. I’m getting used to it, but it’s still slightly unsettling.
“Yes,” I say.
“We are delighted…” Head Girl smiles at Millie and Millie gives me a real smile, showing me she’s on my side. My heart soars. “To offer you a place on the wait list.” My heart comes tumbling down, with my pulse still raging and my hopes dashed. “Obviously, you are very talented. We just felt, as a collective, that your sound is very…”
I decide to stand up to the task. “American?” I offer.
“Well, yes.”
Millie clears her throat and tries to console by saying, “It’s not that being American is bad — that’s not at all what we’re trying to say. It’s more…”
Head Girl, annoyed by Millie’s cavalier attitude toward her captainship butts in, “What Millicent means is that, while we welcome your audition and enthusiasm, we’re not quite sure if The Choir is the best spot for you right now, given the intense competition.”
“I understand,” I say. I don’t expect to win everything, I don’t need to have everyone’s approval for my self worth, but it’s times like this I feel like I could crumple up and slink into the corner and watch everything go by. I’m already writing all this into my journal — I can picture how I’m going to describe the whole scene.
“But take heart, Love, spaces do open up sometimes at mid-term — and we’d be happy to have you as an alternate should you accept.”
Possibly, they want me to deny the alternate place. It could be they expect me to be so crushed or conceited that I can’t deal with being second (or third or fourth) choice. But after thinking for a (Millie)second, I say, “Thanks. I’m thrilled to have made it this far. I look forward to the potential opportunity of singing with you.”
Sure, it’s the speech I’ve said aloud in the shower should I ever bump into Simon or Randy or
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