I push back the damp strands of my hair, which has fully spiraled. “Yep.”
“Mine too. And Simmons’s.” She smiles contentedly. “We all have it! My mom’s hair is smooth, but my dad’s is curly. I think curly is good.”
I prefer mine straightened, but I doubt I’ll have time for it this summer. “I like it too.”
As we walk to dinner, she’s glued to my side, pushing her hair behind her ears when I do.
6:30–8:00 p.m.
After dinner, the evening activity is talent show prep again. In the rec room, Simmons has hauled a sewing machine from who knows where, and she’s puttering over a length of black fabric. Kids practice dance moves in every corner, and the two ninth graders elected MCs write notes in the corner as if hosting the Oscars. On the floor, a group works on a long, painted-paper banner that reads: Daybreak Talent Show.
I help the decoration committee by cutting out yellow construction paper stars. I’m half a decent constellation in when a shadow is cast over me.
“Lucy! Hi.” Rhea is looking down. “I’m sorry I’ve been so busy since your arrival. You doing okay?”
“Fine, yeah.”
“Great. Listen, I was wondering if you could stop by the meeting hall. We put together a choir for all the kids who didn’t want to sing solos for the show, and . . . they could use some backup. Of the piano variety.”
“Oh. Like accompaniment?”
“If you don’t mind.”
I don’t, but I worry that she’s imagining me as the middle-school virtuoso that I was. “Well, I’m a little rusty, but—”
“Believe me, your help will be most welcome.”
“Okay. Should I head over there now or—”
“Yes. Please, if you would. Most appreciated.”
I abandon my stars and head outside, where the real stars have yet to appear. The sky is a deep, watercolor blue swiped with thin clouds, and for a moment, I feel peace like a blanket laid across my shoulders.
It’s short-lived, because I run smack into a very tall, very solid form. Rhea’s son, who is easy to recognize—the only middle-aged guy around camp, lanky with a neatly trimmed beard.
“Sorry!” I exclaim. “I wasn’t looking.”
He takes a moment to reply, stunned by the surprise of our collision.
“No, no. My fault.” His expression goes almost foggy, as if accessing the deepest part of his memory. Trying to place me. “. . . Lucy.”
“Yeah!” The fact that he’d remember that is testament to Daybreak’s level of actually caring.
“I’m Bryan Mills. Sorry I haven’t had a chance to properly introduce myself. It’s very nice to officially meet you.”
“You too. I think my cabin girls have class with you next week. Group games?”
“Oh, yeah.” He scrubs a hand through his short hair. “That’s the phrase we use for trust exercises, word associations, drawing as expression . . . basically, psychologist tools for kids.”
“I could use some of that,” I admit, surprising myself. “So I’m looking forward to it.”
“Of course. Yes. Good.” His body language has this quality of bewilderment. It’s something I associate with my pediatrician—very smart and a little awkward. “See you then, then.”
I find the meeting hall, which is a small building off the lodge that, inside, looks like it was once a chapel. Tall, thin windows run down the sides, clear instead of stained glass. Plastic chairs instead of pews. But still, there’s a piano at the front and a section that looks meant for a choir.
There, Jones has organized the campers into four sections. He’s behind the piano, thumping on the middle C to give the altos their starting note. “That’s where you are, okay? Try it on an ah.”
I hoped I could be stealthy—ease my way in—but every head turns to look at me, and Jones follows their line of sight.
“Hey, Hansson. Come for a sneak preview?”
“Actually . . . Rhea mentioned you might like a piano player?”
He inclines his head toward me. “You play piano?”
“Yep.”
“Hallelujah!” he says, raising his arms dramatically. “Come on down. Put me outta my misery. I barely know a basic scale.”
His pleased smile flusters me as I take my place at the piano bench. Only there do I feel it—the ache in my knuckles, the longing for them to be set free.
“From the top!” Jones calls to his choir. “That means the beginning. Hansson, could you give me the first chord?”
The page in front of me is an online print of beginners’ sheet music—“With a Little Help from My Friends.” Whew. Easy—and a song I recognize.
I plink out notes for each section, then chords as they try to harmonize.
Jones conducts with his whole body, twisting at his waist, feeling it. His voice calls out encouragement even as they sing. “Yeah, tenors!”
An eighth-grade boy raises his hand. “Is this about drugs? Getting high?”
Jones opens his mouth, but not before Nadia scoffs at him. “No! It’s like swings. Like having a friend push you helps you go higher.”
The kid looks back at Jones for confirmation. “You heard her! It’s a metaphor. Let’s turn to the next page.”
He twists so only I can see his face, making an “eep” expression as he pretends to wipe his brow in relief. I’m glad for my long hair, which falls forward to hide my laugh.
By eight o’ clock, the song is . . . well, not great. But it’s much better than when we started. They’ve been taking it section by section, and Jones says, “Who wants to try it all the way through before we break for the night?”
There’s a cheer from the younger kids, but the older ones look disheartened. They want it to sound good. The little ones just want to belt it out.
“Hansson, beginning notes, if you would.” I give them all four parts, but I add chords—no more a cappella. It’s rudimentary accompaniment, but Jones’s gaze jerks over to me, stunned.
“What? Yes!” he cries, delighted. “Keep goin’, guys!”
With background notes beneath them, they stay more in tune. The added noise seems to make them feel less exposed, giving them confidence to put more breath behind their voices. Sure, it’s still a little off-key with flubbed lyrics, but at least it’s loud and proud.
“Wow,” Jones says, after the last note rings out. “This is gonna be good, guys. Okay, folders away and meet up with your cabin counselors in the lodge.”
“You,” he says, leaning against the piano, “are a godsend.”
“I’m just glad to contribute.” A day of experience has proved that I can’t reliably sustain his eye contact without blushing, so I glance down. “Do you want to do more of a Beatles sound or a Joe Cocker vibe?”
I demonstrate both quickly—Beatles with peppy quarter notes, and Joe Cocker with power chords, simpler but emotional.
His eyes widen, as if he can’t believe his good luck. “What if the first chorus was Beatles, then we switched to Joe. That’d be fun, right? We can try it tomorrow.”
“Jones!” a little voice calls from near the door. “You said you’d walk with us!”