Garvey's Choice (3 page)

says. The word makes me shiver.

My whispered “sorry”

floats on the air between us.

The pink-eyed boy shrugs.

“This is me. Get over it.”

Sounds like something I should say.

Tryouts behind me,

I'm suddenly feeling brave.

“My name is Garvey,”

I tell Pink Eyes next to me.

He sizes me up, then smiles.

“Emmanuel, here,

mostly Manny to my friends.”

I'm quick to accept

his casual invitation.

“Cool. Nice to meet you, Manny.”

“I made a new friend,”

I tell Joe when I see him.

“Good,” he says. “'Bout time

you had you another bud.

Only so much one can do!”

Joe gives me a wink,

making sure I get the joke.

He's right, though. I need

to spread my friendship around

so it won't get too heavy.

“Well? So how's chorus?”

asks Joe, and my words burn bright.

“Okay! First, there's scales!

You climb this mountain of sound,

and your voice reaches higher

than it's ever been—

sweet! Then we learn a new song,

And our voices meet,

and the teacher mixes these

harmonies like music stew

and it's delicious!”

“Wow!” says Joe. “So you like it?”

“You would, too,” I say.

“Yeah, but I can't sing worth spit,”

says Joe. “True,” I say. “Details.”

Manny sits with me

in the cafeteria,

opens his lunch box

as if it's a treasure chest,

and he expects to find gold.

Out comes a croissant

crammed with guacamole and

two kinds of cheeses

that are not American.

Manny sees me gawking. “What

are you staring at?”

“Nothing. I've just never seen

a sandwich like that.”

“Mmm,”
Manny hums between bites.

“You don't know what you're missing.

Here. You want a taste?”

he asks, breaking off a piece.

“I made it myself.”

I chew on Gouda and this:

Manny wants to be a chef!

Manny says his dad

thinks that cooking is for girls.

“He doesn't get me,”

moans Manny. I reach over,

squeeze my new brother's shoulder.

“How's your new friend?” asks

Joe. I don't want him thinking

Manny takes his place,

so I wrap my answer in

words dull as dust. “He's okay.”

Joe presses for more.

“Well, what's he like, exactly?”

I give him a shrug.

“He's smart, easy to talk to—

but he can't play chess like you!”

School lunch is a treat

now that Manny brings extra

eats to share with me.

He says he gets ideas from

some kid named Eliana,

a kid who's a chef !

Is that even possible?

Manny serves up a

cold dish of truth: a cookbook

with her name on the cover!

Eliana Cooks!

Recipes for Creative

Kids
. “This will be me,”

says Manny. “One day. Just wait.”

I smile, tasting his success.

The change bell always

sinks fear into me like teeth.

Ugly name-calling

leaves me with bloody bite marks:

lard butt, fatso, Mister Tubs.

“Your mama!” rests on

the tip of my tongue, today,

though I don't say it.

But when I hear, “Yo, Two-Ton!”

the words, “Yo, No-Brain!” slip out.

Later, when chorus

is done, I hang with Manny,

join him on the bus.

“Got something on your mind, G?”

I like when he calls me that.

“I was wondering

how you stand kids teasing you.”

“I'm honest,” he says.

“I've got albinism. Fact.

I look strange. No changing that.

Is there more to me?

Sure. Kids yell ‘albino boy.'

I don't turn around.

Choose the name you answer to.

No one can do that but you.”

Manny tells me he

was made in God's own image.

“God is beautiful,”

he says. “So what's that make you

and me? Do you get it, G?”

I carry his words

in the pocket of my mind.

A few times a day,

they remind me to ignore

the kids who don't know my name.

Why let Angela

call me something that I'm not?

Or let her tease me?

Bad enough the kids at school

kick my heart around for fun.

Sis falls through the door,

juggles backpack and groceries.

“Hey there, Chocolate Chunk.

“How 'bout giving me a hand?”

Call me that one more time and …

The terrible sound

of teeth grinding fills my ears.

Tears aren't far behind.

I bite my lip and whisper,

“My name is Garvey. Got it?”

Angela withers.

“I'm sorry, Garvey,” she says.

“I was just teasing.”

“Yeah? So why am I bleeding?”

Pow!
Maybe she gets it now.

Manny waves to me

'cross the cafeteria.

I pocket my coins.

Sharing Manny's scrumptious lunch

means more money for music!

Grilled portobello

with roasted peppers, onions,

sliced jalapeños,

topped with melted Havarti

makes my taste buds want to dance.

I count the hours

until chorus meets again.

Now “fat boy” insults

glide right off me like raindrops.

I dance in the pool they make.

It doesn't matter

how wide I am when I sing.

Like Goldilocks, I

have finally found what fits:

my high tenor is just right.

I'm just beginning

to learn what I am made of,

to pay attention

to the kid in my own eyes,

starting to like what I see.

I feel unwritten

like that song says, in chorus,

my story untold.

I can't wait to sing the song,

croon my own untold story.

When I sing, my heart

floats full and light, as if I'm

a balloon of song,

rising with every lyric,

reaching the edges of space.

My chocolate stash

is lasting me much longer.

These days, nothing tastes

sweet as four-part harmony.

Somehow, music makes me full.

Angela crashes

chorus practice, hears me sing.

After my solo,

her eyes are wet pools of pride.

“Dad needs to hear you, Garvey.

You. Have. To. Tell. Him.”

Angela insists. Her words

grind my doubt to dust.

She's right. This isn't football,

but here, I'm the quarterback.

That night, I announce

that I sing in the chorus,

have my own solo,

say it like it's no big deal,

then leap inside when Dad smiles.

“You should audition

for that television show:

MasterChef Junior
.”

“Yeah?” asks Manny. “I don't know.”

He shrugs, so I let it go.

“Practice makes perfect,”

the chorus teacher tells me.

My voice won't listen.

Why can't I hit the high note?

I sigh, start the song again.

I fall into bed,

Have Space Suit—Will Travel
propped

up on my nightstand.

Read? Sleep? The story spools out

spider silk and captures me.

Our first recital!

Dad proudly takes me shopping

for a brand new suit.

Just wait until he hears me

split the air with waves of song!

“You know, Son,” Dad says,

“I used to sing solo, too—

a long time ago.”

His words stir memory: an

old friend, whispers of a band …

Each night, I run scales,

looking into my mirror,

making sure my mouth

matches the shapes teacher taught.

Who knew singing could be work?

I do like Manny,

crank up the inside volume,

listen to my dreams

as I walk through the school halls.

I choose what words to let in.

Leaving rehearsal,

word bombs explode behind me:

a girl yells “Dump Truck,”

trying to shatter my joy.

I almost let her. Almost.

I'm missing Joe, but

I escape a lonely lunch

'cause Manny joins me.

“There goes Garvey and the Ghost!”

some kids tease, but I like it.

We talk between bites.

Me: “Wish I could wake up thin.”

Manny: “My mom says,

‘Shine your light, no one will care

what size candle holds the flame.'

Take your man, Luther.

I've almost never heard folks

laugh about his weight.

I've just heard them praising him

for his smooth-as-velvet voice.”

I chew on his words,

wash them down with chocolate milk.

Maybe someday I'll

lift my voice to the heavens

and have praise rain down on me.

My waist a stranger

I haven't seen in ages,

I grit my teeth, speak

the truth: My body's chunky.

Who cares? It's just the spaceship

the real me rides in.

Right? So I dress for the day,

give my cap a tilt,

and fire up the engines,

set to face a new morning.

Single file, we march

on stage for our recital.

Louder than a zoo,

the kids watching point and laugh,

hyenas in human skin.

Teachers hiss and shush,

quieting the animals

until they become

an audience of students

squirming in their seats and bored.

Like water ripples,

our first notes spread harmony

from front row to back.

I see my classmates floating

in sound, and I stand taller.

Manny nudges me

when it's time for my solo.

Legs like spaghetti,

I worry that I might faint.

Eyes closed, I wait for courage.

A whisper at first,

the music in me rises.

Live inside the song
,

I tell myself. And I do.

Then comes the hush, and applause.

During the applause,

I search for him in the crowd,

catch him with head bowed,

cringe, certain I've failed again

till I see Dad wipe his eyes.

Like hard candy, “thanks”

sticks in my throat, melts slowly.

Waiting for the words,

I jab Manny in the arm,

mimicking movie tough guys.

Sis bounces up, flings

an arm across my shoulder,

staking out her claim.

“This is my brother, Garvey,”

she says, leaving me speechless.

Dad stands to the side

beaming pride like a nova,

lighting up my year.

Mom's crushing hugs, expected.

The nod from Dad, like Christmas.

Joe comes—no surprise—

pats me on the back. “Garvey!

My man, you killed it!”