something that practically defined her life as a kid had crossed her mind so few times as an adult.
The trophy cases across from the cafeteria were crammed full of awards and pictures from the classes that had graced the halls long after she was gone. Her name engraved on a brass tag still hung on a cherry-wood plaque with dozens of other valedictorians, the only evidence remaining of her achievements at Sweet Ridge High. Nostalgia for high school would undoubtedly lead to more tears over Tori, so Macy picked up the pace and hurried to the choir hall.
Promising herself that she’d stay on guard and get Mr. Procter to walk her to the car if she had reason to be concerned, she pulled open the heavy metal door, took a deep breath, and stepped inside. For all her bravado, she had been sheltered and insulated since becoming famous. Sure, she knew what it was like to grow up poor, to be largely unsupervised, but her focus had always been on school and music. She’d never been involved in anything more criminal than run-of-the-mill teenage pranks.
Macy expected a ragtag group of misfits, maybe at least some gum-chewing do-nothings, but instead she found about a dozen young people standing on risers, singing. And it was glorious. Eyes cut to her, briefly noting her presence, but the tempo never slowed. Rich basses, sublime altos, and ethereal sopranos, all in perfect tune, mixed together in a ball of energy. Macy dropped onto a hard plastic chair, trying to remain as inconspicuous as possible, desperate not to pop the beautiful bubble the kids created as Mr. Procter led them through an achingly poignant arrangement of Dolly Parton’s “Little Sparrow,” a song that could knock her down on the best of days. Her eyes welled, her heart full of the painful emotion the song drew out of her.
When the song ended, the kids sat on the risers, grinning, obviously proud of their performance. She knew the feeling well. She’d put in thousands of hours of practice throughout school and her career, sometimes resulting in nothing more than time spent, but every once in a while she’d capture the magic. That golden moment when harmonies came together and singers tuned in to one another as one beating heart kept her going. With Tori gone, the magic was lost. Sure, she’d seen it in singers who competed on
America’s Next Country Star
, but she’d never captured it again for herself.
“As promised, we have a special guest joining us today,” Mr. Procter addressed the group. “Macy, want to join us?”
She swallowed her tears and snapped her practiced public mask onto her face, pasted on a bright smile, and joined her former teacher. “Hi, guys, I’m Macy Young.”
The kids burst into laughter, some saying that they knew who she was, and then watched the adults expectantly. After Gavin’s caution, she’d expected them to be disrespectful or at least unimpressed by a celebrity. But the kids sat quietly, like any group of students. Mr. Procter must have hit on something here, found the one thing bigger than any of the kids’ situations, if they were willing to focus on him instead of the usual teenage posturing and ambivalence. Before getting her big break, she had thought about becoming a teacher or a therapist, planning to use music to reach kids. Back then, it was no more than a nebulous idea born from her teenage conviction that music could change the world. Seeing it actually work, seeing that hearts could be changed, took her breath away.
“Macy was my student not too long ago, and she’s a perfect example of what you can do with hard work, dedication, and talent. I ran into her at lunch and thought it would be wonderful for y’all to have the chance to meet her and ask any questions you have about the music industry, her career, or being on television.”
For several long and awkward seconds, Macy stood facing the teens, who seemed as unsure of what to say as she was. They picked at their fingernails, untangled earbud
The trophy cases across from the cafeteria were crammed full of awards and pictures from the classes that had graced the halls long after she was gone. Her name engraved on a brass tag still hung on a cherry-wood plaque with dozens of other valedictorians, the only evidence remaining of her achievements at Sweet Ridge High. Nostalgia for high school would undoubtedly lead to more tears over Tori, so Macy picked up the pace and hurried to the choir hall.
Promising herself that she’d stay on guard and get Mr. Procter to walk her to the car if she had reason to be concerned, she pulled open the heavy metal door, took a deep breath, and stepped inside. For all her bravado, she had been sheltered and insulated since becoming famous. Sure, she knew what it was like to grow up poor, to be largely unsupervised, but her focus had always been on school and music. She’d never been involved in anything more criminal than run-of-the-mill teenage pranks.
Macy expected a ragtag group of misfits, maybe at least some gum-chewing do-nothings, but instead she found about a dozen young people standing on risers, singing. And it was glorious. Eyes cut to her, briefly noting her presence, but the tempo never slowed. Rich basses, sublime altos, and ethereal sopranos, all in perfect tune, mixed together in a ball of energy. Macy dropped onto a hard plastic chair, trying to remain as inconspicuous as possible, desperate not to pop the beautiful bubble the kids created as Mr. Procter led them through an achingly poignant arrangement of Dolly Parton’s “Little Sparrow,” a song that could knock her down on the best of days. Her eyes welled, her heart full of the painful emotion the song drew out of her.
When the song ended, the kids sat on the risers, grinning, obviously proud of their performance. She knew the feeling well. She’d put in thousands of hours of practice throughout school and her career, sometimes resulting in nothing more than time spent, but every once in a while she’d capture the magic. That golden moment when harmonies came together and singers tuned in to one another as one beating heart kept her going. With Tori gone, the magic was lost. Sure, she’d seen it in singers who competed on
America’s Next Country Star
, but she’d never captured it again for herself.
“As promised, we have a special guest joining us today,” Mr. Procter addressed the group. “Macy, want to join us?”
She swallowed her tears and snapped her practiced public mask onto her face, pasted on a bright smile, and joined her former teacher. “Hi, guys, I’m Macy Young.”
The kids burst into laughter, some saying that they knew who she was, and then watched the adults expectantly. After Gavin’s caution, she’d expected them to be disrespectful or at least unimpressed by a celebrity. But the kids sat quietly, like any group of students. Mr. Procter must have hit on something here, found the one thing bigger than any of the kids’ situations, if they were willing to focus on him instead of the usual teenage posturing and ambivalence. Before getting her big break, she had thought about becoming a teacher or a therapist, planning to use music to reach kids. Back then, it was no more than a nebulous idea born from her teenage conviction that music could change the world. Seeing it actually work, seeing that hearts could be changed, took her breath away.
“Macy was my student not too long ago, and she’s a perfect example of what you can do with hard work, dedication, and talent. I ran into her at lunch and thought it would be wonderful for y’all to have the chance to meet her and ask any questions you have about the music industry, her career, or being on television.”
For several long and awkward seconds, Macy stood facing the teens, who seemed as unsure of what to say as she was. They picked at their fingernails, untangled earbud
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