Several students nearby turned to look, including two of Madison’s friends, who exchanged knowing smiles. The realisation crashed over her. Madison had forged her signature.
Zuri immediately sought out Miss Caldwell, finding her arranging sheet music in the choir room. Miss Caldwell, there’s been a mistake. I never signed up for the showcase.
The music teacher barely looked up. The deadline for entry was yesterday, Zuri. Your signature is on the form.
It’s not my signature, Zuri insisted, her voice rising, with desperation. Someone else put my name down. Miss Caldwell finally turned her expression cold.
Are you suggesting another student committed fraud? That’s a serious accusation. She shuffled through a folder and produced the form with the false signature. This looks like your handwriting to me.
If you’re having second thoughts about your commitment, I’m afraid that reflects poorly on your character. Westlake students follow through on their obligations. The implication was clear.
Backing out would reinforce the stereotype that she didn’t belong. What exactly am I supposed to perform? Zuri asked, defeat settling in her stomach like a stone. Miss Caldwell consulted the form.
An African-American spiritual of your choice. I assume you’re familiar with the genre. The casual assumption about what music should represent her culture stung like a slap.
Throughout the day, whispers followed Zuri through the hallways. During lunch, she overheard a girl from her history class tell another, Madison says the scholarship girl is telling everyone she’s the next Beyonce. Another responded, does she even know what classical training means? In English class, Mr. Barrett announced they would analyze song lyrics the following week.
Zuri can help us understand the more urban selections, he said, with what he clearly thought was inclusive enthusiasm. Casey kicked his desk, earning a stern look but making her point. By the time Zuri reached the science wing, Principal Harrington was waiting outside her biology classroom.
Miss Morgan, a word? He guided her to a nearby empty classroom, his expensive cologne overwhelming in the small space. I understand you’ll be participating in our showcase. This is quite an opportunity for someone like yourself.
He straightened his tie. I hope you understand the caliber of performance we expect. This could be a chance to prove you truly belong at Westlake.
The words, someone like yourself and truly belong, echoed in Zuri’s mind as she struggled through her remaining classes. That evening, she locked herself in the bathroom, gasping for breath as panic overtook her. The thought of standing before the entire school, the target of what was clearly intended as humiliation, sent her into spiraling anxiety.
When she finally emerged, her mother was home, sorting through bills at the kitchen table. Baby, you look pale. Are you sick? Desiree’s voice was tinged with worry as she felt Zuri’s forehead.
Zuri considered telling her everything, but saw the dark circles under her mother’s eyes, evidence of the double shifts she’d been working. Just tired from studying, she lied. I have a lot of tests this week.
Desiree nodded, understanding the pressure Zuri faced. You know, I’ve noticed you’ve been quieter lately. Is everything okay at school? Everything’s fine, Zuri said automatically, the response practised from months of hiding microaggressions and isolation.
Just the usual Westlake stress. Desiree studied her daughter’s face, clearly unconvinced, but too exhausted to press further. Well, you know you can tell me anything, right? No school is worth your happiness.
Over the next few days, Zuri withdrew, further from school activities. She skipped the newspaper club meeting where she’d been the only black student on the editorial team. She ate lunch in the library instead of the cafeteria.
Casey tried to offer support, but Madison’s group had begun targeting her too, making comments about scholarship sympathisers within earshot. The Saturday before showcase rehearsals were scheduled to begin, Zuri visited her grandmother’s grave. The simple headstone read, Eloise Morgan, her voice lifted hearts.
Zuri sat on the damp grass, tracing the letters with her fingertips. I don’t know what to do, grandma, she whispered. If I refuse to perform, they’ll say I don’t have what it takes to be at Westlake.
If I perform poorly, they’ll say the same thing. The autumn wind rustled through nearby trees, reminding Zuri of her grandmother’s words during their last conversation. Eloise had been in the hospital, her once powerful voice reduced to a whisper.
Your voice is your power, Zuri. They fear what they cannot control. That’s why they tried to silence mine.
Don’t let them silence yours. With renewed determination, Zuri returned home and searched online for African-American spirituals she could perform. If this was happening, she would at least choose her own song rather than fulfilling whatever stereotypical expectations Madison and the others held.
Monday morning brought a new complication. Ms. Caldwell cornered Zuri before homeroom, handing her a folder. Since you’re representing Westlake to our donors, I’ve selected a more appropriate piece.
Ave Maria shows proper classical training. Zuri opened the folder to find sheet music for a notoriously difficult soprano piece, clearly selected to ensure her failure. But this isn’t an African-American spiritual, Zuri pointed out.
Ms. Caldwell’s smile was thin. We decided a more traditional selection would better showcase Westlake’s standards. Rehearsals begin tomorrow.
I expect you’ll need significant practice. As Ms. Caldwell walked away, Madison appeared as if on cue, her expression a mask of false concern. Oh, did Ms. Caldwell give you Ave Maria? That’s what I suggested.
I thought you’d want to prove you can handle real classical music instead for something way simpler. The trap was complete. Madison had ensured Zuri would be set up with a piece far beyond most trained sopranos, guaranteeing her humiliation.
Zuri stood rooted to the spot, the folder clutched in trembling hands, as Madison sauntered away victorious. The Performing Arts Centre was silent after hours. The rows of empty seats witnessing Zuri’s solitary struggle with Ave Maria.
Her voice cracked on the high notes, her lungs burning with the effort to sustain the lengthy phrases. For three evenings straight, she had stayed after school using her mother’s late work hours as cover. The showcase was three weeks away, and the impossibility of mastering this piece was becoming painfully clear.
On her fourth evening of practice, frustration finally overwhelmed her. This is exactly what they want, she muttered, slamming the E sheet music down on the piano. For me to fail publicly.
Careful with that piano, it costs more than I make in a year. The voice startled Zuri. She turned to find Mr Raymond, the school’s long-time janitor, standing in the doorway with his cleaning cart.
His weathered brown face held a gentle expression despite his words. Sorry, Mr Raymond, I didn’t know anyone was here. She quickly gathered her things, embarrassed to be caught in her moment of weakness.
Don’t stop on my account, he said, moving to empty the trash can near the door. I’ve been listening to you practice all week. You’ve got a real voice there, just not for that particular piece.
His observation was so matter-of-fact that Zuri stopped mid-motion. You know music? Mr Raymond leaned on his broom, a small smile playing on his lips. I should hope so.
Taught vocal performance at Juilliard for 15 years before circumstances changed. He said, circumstances, with a weight that suggested a story too heavy for casual sharing. You’re Eloise Morgan’s granddaughter, aren’t you? I recognized her techniques in your warm-ups.
Zuri’s jaw dropped. You knew my grandmother? Knew her? Girl, your grandmother had one of the finest jazz voices in Chicago. We performed together at the Blue Note back in 68.
His eyes grew distant with memory. The world lost something special when she stepped away from music. Zuri approached him cautiously.