Sunblind by Michael Griffo

a horrible actress, and she’s unable to make her voice sound as humble as she intended.
    â€œYes, you!” I add.
    â€œWhat did I do?” she asks. “I mean, I don’t even know what your problem is or why you needed a time-out.”
    Sometimes you don’t have to scramble to think of something to say; it just spills out of your mouth naturally. Maybe because the truth is more powerful than any fib.
    â€œI just needed to hear somebody else’s voice for a little bit so I could turn off my own.”
    The smallest sopranoesque note pops out of Gwen’s mouth. “And I did that for you?”
    Before I can reply, Gwen’s arms fly around me and wrap me in what can only be described as a very intense bear hug that threatens to suffocate me and sends the books I’m holding falling to the floor. A few kids scramble into the room, presumably songbirds like Gwen hurrying into rehearsal, and either they are so excited because they’re going to get to sing in a few minutes or super hugging is a common occurrence at choir practice, because no one raises an eyebrow at our embrace. My eyebrows, however, practically fly off of my face when Mr. Dice bursts into the room.
    â€œDominy,” he says. “Jess never mentioned that you like to sing.”
    What did he say?!
    â€œYou never mentioned that you like to sing,” he repeats.
    Okay, that makes a little more sense. Less sense than the math teacher also being a choir instructor, but more sense than his mentioning Jess’s name.
    â€œI don’t,” I reply, picking up my books from the floor.
    â€œAre you sure you don’t want to give it a try?” he asks. “Finding your voice can be very liberating.”
    The only way I’m going to feel liberated is if I can get out of this room. Suddenly the walls feel as if they’re inching closer toward me every second. Gwen’s hulking body contact, Mr. Dice’s sudden appearance, me thinking I heard Jess’s name—all signs that I have overstayed my welcome. Guess it serves me right for trying to duck out of the way instead of just ramming into the oncoming traffic of my boyfriend and best friend. That’s the last time I do that.
    â€œI think if I freed my voice you’d all want to lock it back up,” I joke. “My father used to say I couldn’t carry a tune if someone gave me the handle.”
    The way Mr. Dice looks at me and the hush that comes over the choir room is startling, because it takes a few seconds for me to understand that I’m the cause. I crossed the line into Taboo Land by mentioning my father’s name, effectively reminding everyone in earshot that I’ve been legally orphaned. And since everyone in this room aspires to tap into his or her sensitive side, they’re even more affected by my comment than if I were surrounded by the more analytical minds that make up the debate team.
    â€œSorry, I didn’t mean to put a bummer on the music fest before the music even begins,” I mutter.
    This time Mr. Dice’s expression is startling, but in a positive, uplifting way.
    â€œNever apologize for remembering something or someone who brings you joy,” he says, his features softening into a kind smile.
    Too bad I have absolutely no musical talent whatsoever, because I think this room would be a comforting place to spend some after-school quiet time.
    On my way home the good energy stays with me, clinging to me like a crocheted poncho, light and flowing and warm. Sometimes it’s necessary to take a detour to get back on track, and standing next to The Weeping Lady I know I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be. Looking up I can see that The Lady is in full bloom. Her body is covered with thick leaves; most are a deep green, but some have already started to turn yellow and that interesting shade in between that I’m not sure really has a name other than the not-so-original