Kim and Matt walked home from school with me every afternoon. Matt lived in the opposite direction, but in the second week of our friendship, I let it slip that I walked through the Bronx alone, so he and Kim agreed to walk home with me every day they could manage. Kim lived a few blocks down from me so it wasn't inconvenient for her, but Matt complained about the walk he'd have to take to get home. I thought it was silly and sweet that he did all this complaining but still matched his pace to ours and never failed to show up. During our walks home, I loved admiring the old-style studio apartments and buildings that lined the cracking sidewalks. The weathered red bricks, wrought-iron railings, and limestone accents display the resilience of the structures for they are sure to have endured tumultuous weather and wear. Built decades ago, these towering buildings speak of another century in the distant past and their craftsmanship. The sewage smell and scent of dung and garbage, however, often made me miss the clean air of Frankenmuth. Since my first night in New York, from my low-rise window in the Bronx, people-watching had become a secret hobby of mine. I liked observing the little habits and faces people made when in animated conversations and the various fashions depending on culture and occasion. I liked imagining what people were discussing and where they were going looking so fancy or otherwise drab. It was interesting to me, but I could tell it often annoyed Kim when I would laugh at the little habits she displayed but didn't take much notice of.
A few days after our lunch together, Matt and I were walking home. Kim wanted to come but had to stay back because the book club was having its monthly meeting (I failed to wrap my head around how someone as hot-tempered as her could sit for hours at a time and read a novel in silence). The air was warm but the ground was foggy, casting an eerie glow along the road. I pointed it out to Matt, the scaredy-cat, and he joked, "I would rather be run over by Robert Massey's Mustang than walk home alone on this street". I chuckled at the irony of the joke and we continued walking for a few minutes in silence, allowing me to regress to the back of my mind. Back then I was often lost in thought, although it still happens today, but much more often then. I would think of things that happened many days before and wonder what someone meant by what they said, whether I said something wrong, and small things like that. That afternoon, rather than my mind racing with useless thoughts, I found myself thinking of Gene. The handsome boy that everyone admired somehow knew who I was. I thought about how he was joining the band as a bassist and for some odd reason that I couldn't put my finger on quite yet, I was fueled by some mysterious and strong force to try out as the singer. I had planned on it anyway, but this added another layer to my desperation to pass the audition. Matt patted me on the shoulder when we said goodbye at my apartment steps and I watched him disappear through the fog, a new passion kindled in my soul.
The band auditions were held a few days later and as I walked through the auditorium to the back of the stage, I was shocked by the sheer amount of girls lined up to sing. I got in line, and a good twenty or so girls were lined up in front of me and later, many more would join behind me. I tapped the shoulder of the girl in front of me. She turned around, blond hair almost whipping my face and her brown eyes pierced my soul. I realized it was Rita, the girl who cheated on and with Kim's ex.
"What?" She asked venomously.
I was taken aback by her angry attitude, but I shrugged it away.
"Why are there so many people here? I didn't know that this many girls at our school sang."
"They don't. Gene's auditioning so we are too."
Their fanaticism honestly scared me.
"Most of these girls can't even sing."
She flipped her hair sassily, earning a few groans from the other girls. I hummed in acknowledgment and watched her squint her eyes at me.
"Aren't you that bitch Kimberly's friend?"
I scrunched my eyebrows, but she continued before I could object.
"You tell that bitch to get off my back about what happened with Lawrence. I had sex with him a few times and he started calling me his girlfriend." She was speaking loud enough for the whole backstage to hear and it was beginning to embarrass me. "He was obsessed with me, but I like Gene. So Kimberly can have him; I don't want him."
She let out a huff and crossed her arms.
"Well, I don't think Kim wants him either. He did cheat on her with you," I said matter-of-factly.
She looked at me, confused.
"Oh, well, he never even told me they were together. I wouldn't have done it if he had."
I blinked at her, surprised by the sudden revelation of innocence. I opened my mouth to speak, but a loud "next" sounded from the judges beyond the curtains. Without realizing it, the line had moved up and it was Rita's turn to sing. She gave me a slight nod, a strange expression on her face, and left. A minute passed and then I heard her singing "I Fall to Pieces" by Patsy Cline and I thought her voice was made by God for this song. She sounded heavenly and I lost all hope of winning the audition. If someone told me that a white swan had become a person and started singing and that it was Rita I would believe them without question. Her voice rang clear and light but bold. She sang for a minute or so before she was stopped and I was called to the stage. As I walked up, Rita walked past me and to the door behind me. I steeled myself and reminded myself that I practiced for weeks for this moment and that this was one small step towards my goal of worldwide stardom. The large auditorium of empty red-cushioned seats and three professors as judges would be my first audience, the first people I had to bear my soul to. One judge might've asked if I was ready, I can't recall, but suddenly the jazzy piano riff of "Trouble in Mind" by Nina Simone (But I won't be blue always, 'Cause the sun's gonna shine In my backdoor some day) began playing and I started to sing. It was a great song choice, perfect for my vocal range. She incorporated lots of stylistic vocal quivers that I found endearing and wanted to replicate, and I lost myself in the song as I sang. Fearful of the judges' reaction, I closed my eyes as I sang and, just like Rita's turn, they stopped me after a minute or so. I panted, my vocal cords tired, but I was satisfied with my performance, and from the small smile on one of the female teachers' faces, I was optimistic about how it went.
I turned to walk backstage and was met with a dozen strange expressions on the faces of the other contestants. I slowly walked back, hearing a "next" from behind me. I walked past the line of girls, noticing several gazes, a mixture of scrutinizing and shock. I noticed Rita by the door, arms crossed and with a similar expression, so I walked over to her.
"Why is everyone looking at me strangely?" I asked, arms crossed tight around my chest.
"Nobody in their right mind sings a black song here."
"What do you mean?"
She shook her head. "Now, I don't see a problem with it, but there are lots of conservative folk at our school and they don't take kindly to people who are different. And what you just did was quite different, Shirley."
I was confused. I knew of the Civil Rights Movement advocating for the rights of African American citizens, but I didn't realize just how many white families opposed the idea. When I looked out my apartment window, I saw an array of colors with big white posters chanting for equal rights. I grew up in an accepting household with my mother being a traveling musician her whole life before she died. She experienced people from all over the world, of different sexualities and races so she imparted to me her open mind, and I always tried to be inclusive. I didn't understand why people couldn't accept someone different. Now I look back on my ignorance with disdain. The world was cruel to people who were different, and whether I wanted to or not, I would find out the hard way.
A message posted on the cork board of the main hallway was titled "Audition Winners: Main Vocalist and Background Singers" with three names listed below with their positions. "Main Vocalist: Rita Crosby; Background Singers: Deborah Mosley and Shirley Lynn". I wasn't the main vocalist, but I had made it. I comforted myself by saying that many well-known singers start slow, like Gene's beloved Elvis. After hearing the good news, Matt and Kim threw a small congratulatory party at Matt's place. A small two-bedroom, one-bath apartment for him and his mom in the downtown Bronx with a very bohemian vibe. "My mom's somewhat of a hippie," he said before we entered the door, perhaps warning us. There were many oriental rugs layered atop one another, hanging plants and vines, and lit incense sticks. He assured us that she didn't do drugs and just liked the style, but I don't think Kim nor I would have minded either way. I knew for a fact that Kim dabbled in cannabis herself, probably getting it from the same guy Robert Massey got his fix. She was by no means a druggie, but if we went to a party in Manhattan or Queens she shot up a quickie to lighten her mood for the night. She offered me and Matt some once before going to a club but I declined. Matt tried it and spent most of the evening hunched over a dirty toilet bowl. He vowed he would never do it again. I wasn't disgusted by drugs. I thought hardcore ones were distasteful and at times they smelled bad, but my father smoked tobacco as I grew up so I had grown used to it. Perhaps that was why I found comfort in the drunken hallucination songs of the junkie performers down the block and I didn't mind living in a neighborhood overrun with drug addicts.
That evening, Matt's mom, whom we affectionately nicknamed Mrs. Bun for her prominent front teeth (a name she liked so much she had the nameplate of the apartment door changed by her landlord), cooked us meatloaf and bought us a small red velvet cake from a nearby bakery to celebrate my passing of the audition. After that night, I had quite a few dreams that I was a child again in Michigan, and my father was married to Mrs. Bun. In one such dream—one of the only ones I can really remember—I was eleven or twelve years old, and it was Christmas Eve. My family was rather religious so we made it a habit of cooking a big ham or turkey dinner on Christmas. However, for a few years before we moved to the Bronx, my Christmas holidays were motherless and my father did not know how to cook. So it was nostalgic to see a woman so much like my mother make a Christmas feast for the family. We ate and decorated the Christmas tree together, and then it was time for the younger me to go to sleep. My mother tucked me into my childhood bed and kissed me on the forehead and I fell fast asleep, eager to start the next day of presents and snow. However, I opened my eyes to find a dim New York apartment and the bright morning sun shining through the blinds of my window.