Chapter 6
966words
The art festival poster was up on the school bulletin board, with a flashy design that looked like a spilled paint palette.
In previous years, such activities were, to me, like “board meetings” or “PTA fundraisers”—bustling events that belonged to some parallel universe.
But now things were different.
Back at our secret base, I wrote down the third item in my notebook.
3. Sing a song at the art festival.
Jack leaned against the window frame, sunlight outlining his silhouette in gold. He glanced at my notebook without saying anything.
“My singing… probably sounds like a duck being strangled,” I added quietly, trying to give myself an out.
“It’s fine,” he finally spoke. “Anyway, the whole school can get ear infections together—it’ll be a bonding experience.”
I couldn’t help it and burst out laughing.
The next day, he brought an old Sony Walkman with hopelessly tangled headphone wires. It took him several minutes to untangle them before he stuffed one earphone into my ear.
“Listen to this.”
A melodious prelude began to play, with the characteristic crackling of vinyl records. Then an old and hoarse, yet incredibly warm male voice sang:
“I see trees of green, red roses too…”
It was Louis Armstrong’s “What a Wonderful World.”
“Why did you choose this song?” I asked. “It’s ancient—as old as the fireplace in Grandma Williams’s living room.”
“Don’t you feel it?” he didn’t answer directly, but asked instead. “Recently, it seems like you’ve finally started to see things.”
I was stunned.
“Green trees, red roses, the orange fur of Jinjie and Fred, the warm smile on Grandma Williams’ face when she bakes cookies.” His voice was soft, blending with the music, flowing into my brain through the earphone wire.
“What you see is a beautiful world. You just need a song to sing it out.”
I began to practice.
In the empty secret base, I hummed softly to a pile of broken tables and chairs. My voice trembled like leaves in the wind.
I was afraid.
Not afraid of singing poorly, but afraid of standing on that stage. That place where everyone would be looking at me.
I had spent more than a decade trying to make myself invisible, and now I was about to push myself into the spotlight, letting everyone see me.
“Don’t overthink it.” Jack sat on that “throne,” tossing a small stone in his hand. “Just live each day as if it were your last.”
During this time, he played a lot of music he liked for me. I asked him if it was a pity that he couldn’t hear future music when he went back to 1999.
“The future isn’t that great either,” he sighed. “Especially when I know Michael is still alive now.”
He put on “The Show Must Go On.”
On the day of the arts festival, the backstage of the auditorium reeked of hairspray and cheap perfume. I hid behind the heavy curtain, my palms so sweaty they could raise fish. My heart danced wildly behind my ribs, threatening to burst out at any moment.
I was next.
I could hear the host calling my name, the voice coming through the curtain, sounding distorted.
“Emily Thompson.”
I took a deep breath, the air mixed with dust and nervousness making my throat itch.
I walked onto the stage, my arms and legs moving like a wooden puppet’s.
The stage lights were scorchingly bright. I squinted, unable to see anything in the pitch-black audience area except for the buzzing sound of whispers.
I gripped the microphone tightly, the cold metal digging into my palm.
Just then, I found him in the darkness.
Jack was sitting at the edge of the third row. He didn’t make any exaggerated encouraging gestures, just quietly looked at me, and then, very slightly, nodded once.
In that moment, all the noise in the world disappeared.
The music began.
I closed my eyes. There were no lyrics or pitch in my mind, only scenes that I “saw” again.
It was the satisfied purring of Jinjie and Fred as they ate their cat food.
It was the sincere gaze behind Mr. Smith’s glasses when he said, “I apologize to you.”
It was Grandma Williams’ wrinkled yet incredibly warm hands as she passed me lemonade.
It was Jack’s impossibly calm eyes when he said, “Leave it to me.”
“I see trees of green, red roses too…”
I began to sing.
The voice no longer trembled, clear in a way that didn’t sound like my own. It floated across the stage, past those blinding lights, toward every corner in the darkness.
“…and I think to myself, what a wonderful world.”
The last note fell.
The auditorium was completely silent.
A suffocating quiet that lasted for three full seconds.
My heart sank. I messed up. I knew it.
Just as I was about to bow and flee, the applause erupted.
Not scattered, polite clapping, but like a suddenly breached dam, surging toward me from all directions. Thunderous. Deafening.
I opened my eyes as the lights in the audience brightened. I saw Mr. Smith standing, applauding vigorously. I saw Grandma Williams, who had come at some point, wiping the corners of her eyes with a handkerchief. I saw those classmates who had once ignored me, their faces showing the same mixture of shock and disbelief as when I got the top score on the history exam.
They were all applauding for me.
After I came off stage, several girls gathered around me.
“Oh my god, Emily, you sang so wonderfully!”
“Yeah, I never knew you could sing so beautifully!”
