Part 15 (1/2)

Please, sing me to sleep-

Tonight.

If Derek knew the pre-dyed, pre-manicured, pre-made-up, pre-lasered Beth, the Beast, would he have been so happy to meet me? That's what I was when I recorded. He could be just like Colby, only smoother. A star singer instead of a star jock. Colby could be nice when he wanted to be. He managed to get all the beautiful girls at school that he wanted. If his performance at the prom is any kind of clue, maybe his brand of nice is mostly arrogance. Derek didn't seem like that. How do I know, though?

So he listened to me sing, walked us home, and touched my arm. Does that mean he isn't just as nasty as every other guy in the universe? Except Scott. But Derek isn't a short, nerdy sweetheart who's been bullied all his life. He's gorgeous, oozes talent, experience, confidence. He isn't anything like Scott. Could Derek be for real as nice as he seems-despite the drug habit? I close my eyes and find something new in my heart. A small spark of something I don't recognize.

Awake tonight,

I give up

And embrace the glow you lit

When your eyes captured mine

And I heard you whisper,

*Sing, sing me to sleep.

You can sing,

Please, sing me to sleep-

Tonight.'

All of my life

I wait for

A touch like wings brus.h.i.+ng my heart.

Is this blush on my face

All you have to give me?

Sing, sing me to sleep.

You can sing,

Please, sing me to sleep-

Tonight.

I wake up too early. My head is pounding, and I feel like I'm going to puke. Breakfast and a couple of Advils help. Warm-ups and a run through help more. We pile on our tour bus and ride uptown to the ancient church where we'll perform.

Then I have to deal with getting ready. My face is a routine by now. Meadow's mom winds my hair up and fastens it to my head with the sharpest hairpins on earth. She sh.e.l.lacs it all in place. Then I'm stepping into my ruby gown. I get nervous again-hide out in the bathroom singing my solo over and over until we're called.

We file onto the risers in our swishy ruby gowns. Eighty elegant girls. I feel okay, almost confident. I know my voice won't let me down. The venue helps my nerves. No cold auditorium. A warm chapel full of wood like we sing in back home. Should be good acoustics.

I look at the audience. The benches behind the judges' table are filled with guys in white golf s.h.i.+rts with a fancy red ”A” embroidered on the pocket. Their whole choir came to hear us. Derek is looking at me. Our eyes lock, and he smiles. At that moment I'm grateful I look so dang perfect. Drug habit or not, he's impossible to resist. I smile back at him. He gives me a thumbs-up. I take a deep breath, let it out slowly while Terri walks into the room. Polite applause. We sing the test piece. Totally nail it. More applause. We sing our technical second piece. The applause is louder for that one.

The piano starts ”Take Me Home.” I close my eyes. The music transports me back to the church in Ann Arbor. It's just the girls and me. No pressure. Derek's there, too, though, waiting for me to sing, wanting to fall in love with my song. I open my eyes at the cue. My voice pours out. I look away from Terri, find Derek watching me, hanging on every note, mesmerized. It sends a thrill through me. Somehow I keep singing, but he's stolen me. Every note, every quiet throb of pa.s.sion is for him. Take me home, take me home, take me home. I'm not sure how he's doing this, but even though I'm up here on stage with eighty girls, singing for the judges and an audience, it's way intimate between Derek and me. The intensity of it mounts when I sing, The dark boy who said he loved me / And fills my dreams at night.

He's the dark boy who filled my dreams last night. I want him there again, tonight and every night.

He is the first one on his feet when the last note fades. His choir joins him. The rest of the audience rises. No cheering. Decorum reigns at the Choral Olympics during the judging. But the clapping doesn't stop. We march out, our dresses swirling dramatically around our feet, with the audience still applauding. They don't stop until one of the judges makes them.

The chaperone moms herd us into our dressing area. We can't scream like we want. Or even hug. We make do with high-fiving and cheek-kissing.

Meadow's mom directs the others as they unzip us and help us out of our gowns. We all change into off-white capris and ballet pink blouses with puffy short sleeves and eyelet-lace accents. We even wear matching sandals. I dress automatically, thrilled by that ovation and the pleased look on the judges' faces and the way Derek's mouth trembled at the song's close. I wish I could take my hair down, but we're supposed to leave it up.