Big Time Page 5

  “Well, think about it anyway,” she says. “You too, Gerri. If anyone comes to mind thatmight be interested, let me know. They don’t even have to go to our school. They just have to be high school aged. We can push through without a bass, but we’d sound a lot fuller if we could find one.”

  I walk out of the school with Tyler. “Man,” he says. “The guys have been giving me a hard enough time about joining chorus without me trying to recruit them.”

  “It’s fun though, isn’t it?” I say.

  “Yeah,” he says. “I like it all right. I’m not telling them that though. They all think I’m only doing it because I need the extracurricular.”

  “So why are you doing it?” I ask.

  He shrugs. “Because I love to sing, I guess.”

  Sudden death is the point in every season of Big Time when all the semifinalists have to compete against one another in front of the judges. I usually love sudden death—it’s one of the most exciting and stressful parts of the show—but this year all I can think is how happy I am that I don’t have to go through it. Dealing with the judges is hard enough, but the other competitors can be even worse.

  I’ve never thought about how much of a reality show Big Time really is until now. It’s not just a talent competition; it’s a fight to the finish, based on the idea that only one person is good enough to claw their way to the top. This is never more obvious than during the sudden-death round.

  Poppy is a naturally friendly and outgoing person, but she also has an awesome voice, which makes her a target. I’m shocked when cameras catch three singers plotting to sabotage her during group survival. Group survival is the first part of sudden death. Contestants are randomly teamed up and then matched against another group, and they have to “sing to survive.” Three of the singers on the team that’s been chosen to compete against Poppy’s actually talk about putting detergent in her water bottle.

  “This is insane!” says my mother, who’s watching it with me. “It’s like The Hunger Games!”

  Fortunately, someone has enough of a conscience to report the scheme to the producers, and when they’re caught on camera, the three guilty kids are kicked off the show. Poppy isn’t filled in until after her group performs and makes it to the next round. When she does hear what happened, she loses her composure for the first time and starts crying. When she tries to go into the bathroom, the camera follows her and won’t leave her alone.

  “Music competition indeed,” says my mother, disgusted. She gets up off the couch and leaves the family room. I consider following her, but I really want to see how Poppy does in the one-on-one round. Of course, she is able to pull herself together and does a great job, easily blowing away her competitor, a short guy with what Tim Canon refers to as a “lounge-singer voice.”

  Now she’s on to the finals. It’s good news for Poppy, but for some reason I’m not all that happy for her.

  When the show ends, I turn off the TV and go upstairs to my room to practice my sight-reading one more time before the second choral rehearsal tomorrow. I’ve been practicing every night since Tuesday. At first I just sang from the music that Ms. Kogawa gave Tyler and me, but after a couple of times I knew the melody by heart and it started to feel like cheating, so I printed a bunch of other songs off the Internet and started learning them as well.

  I don’t need to be very loud when I’m practicing— I just quietly sing along to the sheet music—but I keep my door closed anyway, because I don’t really want anyone to watch or hear me. It’s really different to be approaching music this way, slowly and carefully, instead of just jumping in the way I always have in the past. I like it though. I like knowing that I’m going to work with other people to build something from the ground up. Right now, I think I prefer that to standing by myself in front of a bunch of judges, waiting for them to decide if I’m any good or not.

  Chapter Nine

  I arrive at rehearsal a bit early the next day. Ms. Kogawa isn’t there yet, and Macy and Davis are sitting on the floor outside the locked classroom. I drop my bag and sit down across from them.

  “You want some halvah?” asks Davis, handing me a Tupperware container.

  “What is it?” I ask, pulling out a piece.

  “Hippie fudge,” he says.

  “It’s actually a Middle Eastern dessert,” says Macy.

  “That hippies feed their kids instead of real fudge,” says Davis.

  “We’re vegan,” explains Macy.

  “For the time being,” says Davis. “Oh man, I am going to eat all the hamburgers when I ungraduate and leave home.”

  “Ungraduate?” I ask.

  “We’re unschooled,” says Macy. “Most people would call us homeschooled, but that’s a different kind of thing. We don’t have classes or structured study. We just kind of learn about what interests us.”

  “And sometimes what interests our parents,” says Davis.

  “That too,” says Macy.

  “Wow,” I say, after I’ve had time to pick my jaw up off the floor. “That sounds awesome.”

  “Most of the time it’s pretty cool,” says Macy. “As long as we get to do stuff like this.”

  “Music, you mean?”

  “Music and sports and stuff that involves other people. Davis is in an amateur radio club with a bunch of middle-aged men.”

  “Hey,” he says. “It’s fun. Don’t knock it till you’ve tried it!”

  “Why are you in choral?” Macy asks me. “Have you been doing music for long?”

  “Not exactly,” I tell them. “I mean, I’ve been singing my whole life, but I’ve never done any kind of musical training. I guess the real reason I’m doing it is because I auditioned for Big Time and didn’t make it, so I thought I’d try to get some experience this way and maybe audition again next year.”

  “What’s Big Time?” asks Davis.

  “Are you serious?” I ask. They both look at me with blank faces. “It’s, like, the biggest show on TV. People sing and then judges critique them and then people at home call in and vote for their favorite and then somebody wins and gets a record deal and a car.”

  “We don’t have a TV,” explains Macy.

  “No offense,” says Davis, “but that sounds awful.”

  We turn and look as Ms. Kogawa and Bernice come around the corner and walk toward us.

  “Wow,” says Bernice. “You guys are keeners.”

  “How did your sight-reading practice go, Gerri?” asks Ms. Kogawa as she unlocks the door.

  “I think it went pretty well,” I tell her.

  Unfortunately, it hasn’t gone quite as well as I’d hoped. Ms. Kogawa wants to use today’s practice to get through four of the songs in our workbook, but after a couple of attempts at starting from scratch, it becomes obvious that neither Tyler nor I can keep up. We revert to our old method, this time with Macy at the piano, and begin to slowly work through the individual parts until we can finally do a full song all the way through.

  It’s a lot slower this way, but it works better, and eventually Tyler and I start to catch on. Still, I’m happy when Ms. Kogawa tells us to have a seat. We’ve been rehearsing for two hours and we’ve only gotten through half the songs we wanted to. I can’t help feeling that it’s at least partly because of me, and Bernice doesn’t help matters.

  “It’s too bad everyone can’t sight-read,” she says. “We’d be able to get through so much more during a rehearsal.”

  “Yeah, too bad, hey?” says Tyler.

  Bernice doesn’t pick up on his sarcasm. “It’s not your fault, guys,” she says. “It’s just that you don’t have a background in music like the rest of us.”

  I’m getting a little bit sick of hearing Bernice talk about her background.

  “We have a couple of things to consider,” says Ms. Kogawa. “We should really start thinking about developing a performance piece. We’re not there yet, but I think we will be soon, if we all work hard. It would be great to kick off our year with something
of our own ready to go.

  We should start thinking about where we might want to have our debut performance too.”

  “What kind of song are we going to do?” asks Olive.

  “Ultimately that will be up to you guys,” she says. “But I think it would be fun to do a mashup, where we take two songs and bring them together, so start thinking of some possibilities to discuss next week, and we’ll work from there.”

  “How do you know what songs will sound good together?” asks Macy.

  “A lot of it is instinct,” says Ms. Kogawa. “Some songs just sound great together—they have similar tempos and structure. Mood is important too. I think it would be really neat if we could pick songs with different musical styles, but that’s not totally necessary as long as they sound good. We should probably pick something that’s got good energy too, since we’ll hopefully be doing it for an audience.”

  “What kind of audience?” I ask.

  “I’m not sure yet.” She smiles at us. “I’ll figure something out. I know I don’t want to keep these beautiful voices all to myself. Speaking of beautiful voices, I need everyone to take one last shot at thinking of someone who can possibly step in as a bass for us. It would be great to have the low register covered. Come on, guys, one of you must know somebody who fits the bill.”

  I’m looking around at the blank faces in the room when I realize I do know somebody. The only problem is, I don’t know how to find him.

  Meg is only too eager to help me figure out how to contact Keith.

  “You didn’t even get his last name?” she asks.

  “No,” I tell her. “Except for the audition and a couple of minutes at the mall, I’ve barely even talked to the guy.”

  We’re in my room. Meg is on my laptop, trying to find him online. She does a quick Facebook search and comes up with a bunch of Keiths who go to local high schools. I stand behind her and peer over her shoulder as she scrolls through the list, but I don’t recognize any of them.

  “This is probably pointless,” I say, sitting back down on my bed. “I tried to find him on Facebook too. He’s either not on it or he has pretty tight privacy settings.”

  “Don’t be so quick to give up,” she says. “We’re just getting started. Haven’t you seen CSI? We just have to dig a little bit deeper.”

  “I don’t even know what to say if we find him,” I say.

  “I think you’re going to have to explain this to me one more time,” she says. “Why exactly are you looking for this guy?”

  “The choral group needs a bass,” I say. “A deep male voice.”

  “He’ll probably be all over that,” she says. “Guys love when girls ask them to join nerdy music clubs.”

  “Maybe you’re right,” I say. “Maybe he’ll think it’s stupid.”

  “Relax,” she says. “I’m just joking. Kind of. It’s a reason to get in touch with a cute guy, at least.”

  She closes her eyes and chews on her lip, her fingers hovering over the keyboard. Then she starts typing, quickly throwing different word combinations into the search box.

  “Is this him?” she asks after a few seconds. I come back over and look at the screen. Sure enough, it’s Keith’s face in a YouTube window.

  “That’s him!” I say.

  “He has his own channel,” she says, clicking through. Not only does he have his own channel, but he’s posted dozens of videos and has a ton of followers. Meg plays one video and we watch as Keith says hey to his audience, then picks up his guitar and begins to play and sing. It’s an old blues tune and it sounds really great. His guitar playing is excellent, and his voice is deep and smooth. I know he could easily sing the bass parts for choral. When the song ends, we start another one, then another. He plays lots of blues and folk music, some of his own stuff and even a few newer songs that he’s put his own twist on.

  “He’s good, hey?” I ask.

  “Yeah,” she says. “Now we just have to leave him a comment and tell him to get in touch with you.”

  “Do you think that’s a good idea? Maybe he’ll be embarrassed that I found him this way.”

  “He has his own online fan base, Gerri. Something tells me he isn’t a shy daisy.” She scrolls down to the comments section of his most recent video and is about to type something, but I stop her.

  “Let me do it,” I say. She gets up and I sit at my desk to write a quick message.

  Hey, Keith. This is Gerri from the Big Time auditions. I really like your videos, they’re great. I was wondering if you could get in touch with me, I have a question to ask you. About music.

  “What’s with ‘about music’?” asks Meg.

  “I don’t want him to think I’m asking him out or something,” I say.

  “Yeah, ’cause that would be awful, right? You should take that out. Leave him guessing a bit.”

  I take that part out, leave an email address and post the comment. To my surprise, he responds within ten minutes.

  Hey, Gerri, great to hear from you! Do you want to meet for coffee sometime?

  “That sounds promising,” says Meg.

  “I told you, it’s not like that. We need a bass for choral, that’s all.”

  “Suit yourself,” she says, “but I wouldn’t be so quick to assume the only thing he’s interested in is your voice.”

  Chapter Ten

  Keith and I meet for coffee after school the next day, at a place downtown called Human Bean. I’ve never been there before. It’s really cool. There’s colorful oversized artwork hanging on the exposed brick walls, funky old furniture and a raised stage at the back.

  I get there first and order a chai latte, then grab a table in the corner and try to figure out how to bring up choral club with Keith. I haven’t mentioned anything to Ms. Kogawa about the possibility of him joining us, because I honestly have no idea what he’ll think of it. In the meantime, I need to figure out how to explain it to him.

  I don’t have much time to think about it, because he shows up shortly after my drink arrives. He’s got his guitar slung across his back, and he orders a coffee before scanning the café. I catch his eye, and he waves and heads to the table.

  “Hey, Gerri!” he says, carefully placing his coffee on the table before leaning the guitar in the corner.

  “You take your guitar everywhere, don’t you?” I ask.

  “Pretty much,” he says. “I do some busking, and I’m in a couple of groups with some people from school. Nothing serious, but we try to practice at school during lunch hour and stuff. Lately I’ve been trying to hit up open mics with some of those guys.”

  “Wow,” I say. “You’re busy.”

  “Yeah,” he says, smiling. “Music’s everything. I try to play as much as I can.”

  I turn to glance at the stage in the corner of the coffee shop. “Is this one of the places where you do open mic?”

  “Yeah,” he says. “Human Bean is pretty cool, hey? The owners are really great. They love to give local musicians a place to play.”

  “That’s great,” I say. I’m beginning to think that Keith’s scene is a lot cooler than anything I have to offer. A choral group at another school is probably the last thing he’s interested in.

  “So what did you want to ask me?” he says.

  “Oh, it seems kind of stupid now,” I say.

  “Try me,” he says.

  “I’m in a choral club, at my school,” I say.

  “Cool,” he says. “You mean like multiple harmonies, a cappella stuff?”

  “Yeah,” I say. “I’m a soprano. It’s kind of a new thing for me. Anyway, we need a guy who can sing bass, and I know you have a deep voice and all, and I was watching your videos and…”

  “I’d love to, if I have time,” he says. “That sounds awesome.”

  “What?” I say. “I haven’t even asked you anything yet.”

  “You’re wondering if I’ll try out for your choral group, right? I think it sounds cool.”

  “Are you seriou
s?” I ask him.

  “Totally,” he says. “I told you, I love music. Any chance I have to try something new, bring it on. I don’t have a lot of experience singing with other people, and this sounds like it would be a great way to learn.”

  I’m so surprised he’s up for it that I don’t really know what to say. “We practice on Sundays,” I say. “We don’t even have any performances lined up or anything. Right now we’re just doing show tunes and stuff. You might not like it.”

  He laughs. “Are you trying to convince me not to do it? At least let me give it a shot before you talk me out of it.”

  “Sorry,” I say. “I’m just surprised that you agreed to do it.”

  “You know,” he says, “the group could do a performance here sometime. Open mic means open to anyone who wants to get up and do a song or two.”

  “Really?” I say. “Don’t you think that kind of thing might not, I don’t know, fit in?”

  “You’d be surprised,” he says. “Pretty much any kind of musical act you can imagine plays here for open mic. On one of the nights I played with my friends, there was an old-time banjo player and later an opera singer did an aria. The variety is what makes it fun.”

  I’ve never imagined that singing in choral could lead to performances in places like this. I’d kind of expected we’d be more likely to sing at school assemblies and ribbon-cutting ceremonies.

  “You should mention that to Ms. Kogawa,” I tell him. “She’s the choir director.”

  “So what made you join choral?” he asks.

  “I wasn’t planning on it,” I tell him. “I was pretty bummed out when I got rejected by Big Time, and I was thinking that I’d never try out again, and then Ms. Kogawa asked if I wanted to join. The more I thought about it, the more I realized that I could actually learn something and be better prepared for my audition next year.”

  “So you think you’ll go back and try out again?” he asks.

  “Yeah,” I say. “I’ve wanted to be on Big Time for years. If I can be better prepared next time, why not? Won’t you? Try out again, I mean.”

  “I doubt it,” he says. “I wasn’t doing it for the show. Not really. I don’t really care about Big Time. I just like to try out any new opportunity to play and perform.” He shrugs. “It was just one more place to sing.”