here it is!

Okay, here is the story I talked about earlier (finally). Hope you like it. Please comment. Yay!
“Um… Dad? Can I talk to you for a sec?” I decided to approach my father about the trip after dinner – it’s his most complacent time of day.
“Sure.”
“There’s this chorus trip for school in three weeks, and-”
“How long will you be away?”
“Three days. It’s to New York, for this East Coast Show Choir competition, and I’m a soloist for all of our songs and-”
“How much is it?”
“It’s $800 for everything. It’d really mean a lot to me, and if I can’t go, then-”
“Will there be chaperones?”
“Yes, and-”
“It’s too expensive.”
“Dad, you could make eight hundred bucks in about two days at work. Can I please go? It would mean so much to me, really. I’m doing this really big solo that has this really high note that nobody else can hit, and I’m singing it for two songs. I’m the only one comfortable in that range in the choir. It’d really mean a lot to me, and I’ll probably never get to do it again. It’s a performance on Broadway. Please?”
“New York’s dangerous. I wouldn’t feel comfortable with you being there without me.”
“There’ll be supervision, and I won’t be there alone. I’ll even pay half and take the spending money out of my checking account, too.”
“I still don’t want you going.”
“Dad, I’ve never been out of the state more than twice. You’ve been overprotective of me since mom died. I’m eighteen. I need to be out of the house before I graduate.”
“There could be drugs and potential sex,” Dad said, rising to his feet and looking angry. “I will NOT have you coming home with the news that I’ll be a grandpa in nine months.”
“Dad, you don’t trust me not to make big mistakes,” I shouted, rising to my feet too. “No, never mind not making mistakes. You don’t trust me, period. I’m the only senior who’s not going to prom because nobody’s allowed to ASK. I’m the only senior who’s never had a date in their LIFE. I’m the only one who didn’t go to the library or a friend’s house to study for the SAT! I’m the only person whose parent doesn’t approve of their iPOD! All I’m allowed to have are a cell phone and judo lessons!”
“There is NOTHING WRONG with JUDO!” he thundered. It was scary, seeing Dad like this. He doesn’t get mad, normally.
“THERE’S NOTHING WRONG WITH SINGING IN NEW YORK, EITHER!!” I yelled back. I knew I wouldn’t win, but I wasn’t going to take this sitting down. I was sick of all the boredom and the loneliness and the lack of a nice social life.
“Neala, when your mother died, she wanted me to make sure you were safe and happy. How can I do that if I know you might get hurt or killed?”
“Mom’s idea of making sure I was safe was martial arts lessons and knowing where to run if the house burned down. Mom got me my phone for emergencies more than being able to text my friends. She KNEW I could defend myself. Now it’s time for the being happy part, Dad. And what would make me really happy is singing in New York.”
“I’ll think about it,” my dad said. I took this as a no.
Here’s the thing: my mom died when I was 12. She really enjoyed music, theater and especially musical theater. I inherited that gene. My dad’s a defense lawyer who used to like stuff like the Beatles and a few shows, but refused to enjoy either after my mom died. He started working longer and taking on Saturdays after my mother’s death, and every CD from Elvis to Queen suddenly left the living room shelf a few weeks after the funeral. So did every CD labeled “Original Broadway Cast Recording,” but that was me – I wanted to put them all onto my iTunes account before the CDs were destroyed.
Dad didn’t like the fact that I signed up for chorus the next year because of my mom. It still hurt him to go to my concerts, which she’d always enjoyed. I sang to help recall all the crazy duets we used to do – my mom was a professional actress at the local theater, and I’d ‘help’ her practice when I was little. I smiled every time we were handed a Broadway piece in chorus. Dad, on the other hand, wanted to purge the house of all the music to help forget her. It was as if all the fun had gone on an indefinitely timed cruise to the Caribbean and hadn’t returned yet.
That was why I really wanted to go on the music trip – it felt as though if I went, somehow, my mom would be there in the crowd. My dad was adamant that I stay home. It would be giving up two big dreams in one – feeling my mother’s presence again, and the fact that, due to the huge scale of the concert and competition, the East Coast Competition would be performed in a Broadway theater. I’ve always wanted to perform on Broadway, and this was as good as it would get.
The week before the trip, I found my guts and pulled $800 from my checking account to give to Mr. P, our director. The same night, my dad officially put his foot down and refused to let me go. Feeling rebellious, and knowing that it could get me into a pile of trouble (first my dad, then the law, maybe), I forged my dad’s signature onto the permission form and turned it in with the check.
I packed my duffel on Saturday, my laundry day, and made sure that it was inconspicuous in my room. I didn’t bring up the music trip again with my dad.
We left around 5:30 on Thursday morning. I’d have to be up at around 4, so I didn’t go to sleep that night, for fear that my alarm would wake my dad. I figured I could sleep on the bus.
Four am came. I changed in the dark, double-checked everything in the light of my headlamp, and left a note before departing:

Dad,
I’m going to New York. Hate me if you want to. I don’t care. I’m still going, and you can’t stop me. I know Mom told you to keep me safe, but she gave me some advice too, and it’s time I followed it.
She told me to follow my dreams.
You have done your bit, and very well. I applaud you.
Now it’s time for me to do my part.
I love you.
~ Neala
P.S. The address of our performance is on the music website. Tickets are $15. The show starts at 2:00 on Friday.

I hoped he’d take the hint and be there. I put the note on the kitchen table, slung my duffel over my shoulder and my backpack over the other, and walked the half-block to school, wondering when my cell phone will buzz with the angry call from my dad.
There’s another thing you should know: my dad doesn’t really like me, especially since Mom died. People say I look just like her – our hair’s the same sort of light auburn color, we both have sight issues (I wear contacts, she wore glasses), and our eyes are the same shade of bright green. The only thing I inherited from my dad was dogged stubbornness. Some people didn’t even realize that we’re related. Dad’s six foot four, with short, dark hair (mine’s to my waist), dark eyes, and a muscular sort of build. I’m five foot eight, but I sometimes like to think I look like a ballerina (except I don’t dance).
I was ready for the call by the time I put my backpack down in the bus at 5 am, though Dad didn’t wake up until six.
As we finally pulled out, and I started getting sleep, I began to hope that the call wouldn’t come, but I knew it was inevitable.
My phone eventually woke me up somewhere near Hartford. For some reason, sometimes my phone rings when I have a voicemail but not when the person actually calls. I pressed a few buttons sleepily and held the phone to my ear.
My dad’s voice came on. “Hi, Neala,” he said. I knew that voice. It wasn’t the disappointed, angry tone I’d been expecting, but it wasn’t good. “I just wanted to say that I’m proud of you for going for your dreams.” Surprise! “But I wish you’d told me that this was what you wanted.” I had, more than a few times over the course of the last six years. “You’ll probably be punished when you get back, depending on my mood and how well you do tomorrow. And, um… break a leg, I guess. Whatever you performers say.”
That put my mind slightly at ease, but I was still nervous. I wasn’t nervous anymore about my dad – I had his assurance, at least, that I’d survive to see the dawn after my return. Now I was nervous about the show, with the sort of weird knot you sometimes get in your stomach when you’re not sure whether you’re allowed to be happy about something.
Mr. P was my constant companion that trip, along with my fellow soloist and senior, Duncan Cambridge. We’re two of the oldest singers in the Phantom Sirens (Greek Mythology + Broadway Musicals = show choir), and I trusted Mr. P more than my own dad. He was nicer to me than my dad. I could talk to him easily because I knew he wouldn’t freak if I said I wanted to go to New York to sing on Broadway for fifteen minutes. I didn’t mind his company, because I was sort of an outcast among the choir. It probably had something to do with my excessive amount of solos that year.
After we all had sufficiently woken up on the bus, Mr. P, Duncan, and I discuss everything from the weather to my dad. Mr. P was my TA (teacher advisor), and he knew about my issues at home.
“How’s he taking it?” he asked.
“I dunno,” I replied. “He didn’t sound exactly pleased on the phone, but I definitely know I’m going to survive a few days after we get back.”
“Well, that’s good,” Duncan said.

After going around some museums and Central Park, we finally checked into the hotel. We went to see Phantom of the Opera that night.
“You can see how Christine does her Act Two solo,” Mr. P says. “It could help.”
I paid attention to every solo, though almost all of Act Two is depressing.
The next day, we woke up and got into uniform immediately – call time was 1, but we were doing a Guided Tour of New York that let off right at the theater. For this show, we all wore the same red button-down shirt and black pants and shoes.
When we arrived at the theater at 1 pm, right after lunch, we were quickly ushered into a practice room to do warm-ups. Mr. P made the sopranos go way high, and I knew it was to help me avoid sounding like a dying penguin. First I had a huge solo with just a follow spot and a mic for “Wishing You Were Somehow Here Again” from Phantom of the Opera. Then was “Somebody to Love” by Queen, then “Seasons of Love” from Rent. Duncan and I split all the solos for the final two songs, and I was the one who went really high.
Once we were warmed up, we were allowed five minutes in the theater to work on the acoustics. We were singing last, so we were allowed in at 1:25 (the doors opened at 1:30).
After that, we waited in the wings, watching the other choirs perform. Duncan and I both carried water bottles.
The first choir sang ‘Seasons of Love’. Their blend was amazing, and the female soloist hit the descant perfectly. I began to get rather intimidated.
Another choir did ‘Somebody to Love’ – the exact same arrangement as ours. My fear increased.
“They’re doing it on purpose,” I muttered angrily, trying to hide my nerves. Duncan didn’t say anything, but he seemed to be as nervous as I was.
My one relief was that nobody sang the same solo that I was. There was one group that had their soloist sing ‘Music of the Night,’ and another group did ‘Popular’ from ‘Wicked,’ but there was no other group with completely solo songs.
Half an hour before we went out, Mr. P called us all into the Green Room for a pep talk.
“I know some choirs seem better than us,” he said. “I know some choirs have used the same songs as us. But no other choir has our energy. I know that and you know that. Win or lose, we’ll always be the John Adams High School Phantom Siren Show Choir. Nothing will ever change that. So go out there and give it your all. If you do that, we’ll rock the toe socks off their feet so hard that the stench will send the competition out of the state!”
We all cheered. Duncan and I went and got our individual mics.
The emcee went out after the last choir exited. I waited behind the curtain.
Deep breaths.
“May I present our last choir…”
In. Out. Focus.
“The John Adams High School for the Arts Show Choir, the Phantom Sirens, under the direction of John Paliano…”
Release tension. Tense, release – first fists, then shoulders, then toes, then abs. Good.
“Their first piece will be ‘Wishing You Were Somehow Here Again’…”
I closed my eyes and breathed. Felt the breath in my body. It was a Broadway stage, but only Mr. P is watching. Mr. P will give critique after the show. It’s no big deal.
“Their next piece will be ‘Somebody to Love’…”
Breath energy is key, I reminded myself. Relax. Breathe deeply.
“Followed by ‘Seasons of Love,’…”
Breathe deep, low breaths. Feel the energy. This will all be over in fifteen minutes. It’s Mom’s dream. It’s my dream. Win or lose, I’ll have finally sung on Broadway.
“The soloists are Duncan Cambridge and Neala White.”
Calm.
“Once again, the John Adams High School Phantom Sirens Show Choir!!”
There was applause and cheering. Adrenaline coursed through my veins as I walked onto the stage. Mr. P was in the pit watching my entrance, smiling. My mic was on.
Showtime.

Mr. P raised his baton and gave me a look. I nodded. The spotlight came on.

You were once my one companion, you were all that mattered. You were once a friend and father… then my world was shattered… Wishing you were somehow here again, wishing you were somehow near…

The weird thing was, even though I knew I was singing on Broadway, it seemed the only difference from the school stage was the name of the theater and the size of the stage.

Sometimes it seems, if I just dreamed, somehow you would be here… wishing I could hear your voice again, knowing that I never would…

Maybe names are the only thing that made it different. Maybe it was the actors that were the reason that JAHS wasn’t famous, and Broadway is.

Dreaming of you helped me to do all that you dreamed I could… passing bells and sculpted angels, cold and monumental, seem for you the wrong companions, you were warm and gentle… too many years, fighting back tears, why can’t the past just die?

Either way, I could feel my mom’s presence in that theater. I don’t know how to explain it, but she was there, cheering me on and singing along.

Wishing you were here again, knowing we must say goodbye. Try to forgive, teach me to live – give me the strength to try. No more memories, no more silent tears, no more gazing across the wasted years…

Mr. P nodded, smiling encouragingly. Focus...

Help me to say goodbye… I dared to look away from Mr. P for an instant. Help me to say…

My dad sat in the second row, on an aisle seat. A single tear went unhindered down his cheek. I had only seen my dad cry once – at Mom’s funeral.

Goodbye…

The note hung in the silent air for several long moments after I finished. Mr. P’s expression was unreadable. I’d never known myself to be the kind of person to make people cry. I wasn’t sure whether this was a good thing.
Mr. P and I looked at each other for a moment. I didn’t know what it meant, but I had a feeling it was good.
The applause thundered into my ears, jolting me back to reality. Mr. P grinned and wiped a tear from the corner of his eye. I bowed. I acknowledged the pit, and the applause continued. The rest of the choir filed onstage.
We lined up, heads down. Then Duncan’s voice sang… “caaan…” and the song followed…
The adrenaline rushed through my body again.
The applause for our second number was louder than the first.
‘Seasons of Love’ went even better than the other choir’s. I hit every note, even the super high one. It was an incredible feeling to be singing that on Broadway. It was as if this was the way this was meant to be.
As we bowed again, I glanced over at my dad. He was giving us a standing ovation with the rest of the audience. He was smiling from ear to ear, and winked when I catch his eye. I grin.
A nuclear power plant of human energy explodes after we left the stage for the green room. We were laughing and chattering and everyone was smiling. When Mr. Paliano entered the room, we all cheered some more. He said we’d done an amazing job, and hugged me.
“You were amazing,” he announced. I smiled.
Fifteen minutes later, we were waiting in the wings, listening to the emcee read the results.
Third place is the choir who did ‘Somebody to Love.’
Second place is the choir who sang ‘Seasons of Love.’
First place is some group from Florida.
“And the Grand Champion of the East Coast Show Choir Competition is… the John Adams Phantom Sirens!”
We raced onto the stage screaming our heads off and dancing around the stage. I was nearly in tears of happiness. Everyone hugged everyone and nobody stopped screaming for several minutes.
“Now it’s time for the individual awards,” the emcee says. “The award for best male soloist goes to Ian Samwis!” I slipped my arm around Duncan’s waist in a small hug of comfort as the guy who had sung ‘Music of the Night’ stepped forward.
“The winner of Best Director is John Paliamo!”
Mr. P walked forward, grinning from ear to ear like my dad. We cheered and slapped him on the back as he returns.
“The Best Female Soloist is Cynthia Buckley,” the emcee announced. I hung my head. I’d forgotten about the individual awards. I didn’t know what I’d have thought if I’d remembered, but it was kind of a shock all the same. I thought I’d done well.
Mr. P and Duncan seemed to notice my disappointment. Mr. P slipped an arm around my shoulder in a hug; Duncan’s arm went around my waist.
“And finally,” the emcee announces, looking at his little slip of paper. “The winner of Best All-Around Vocalist is… Neala White!”
I looked up with a start. Mr. P gave me a little push in the back and I went forward to accept my award. It wasn’t Best Female Soloist – it was better.
I glanced at my dad’s spot on my way back to choir. He wasn’t there.
“All right,” the emcee said. “This concludes today’s performance, and I hope you enjoyed yourselves. Congratulations to all the performers and directors; all of you did very well. Thank you all for coming this afternoon and supporting all these musicians. All of you have lots of potential and I look forward to seeing you perform later on in life. Once again, thanks for coming.” Everyone cheered again as the crowd rose to exit. As I entered our choir’s Green Room, I saw my dad hadn’t left.
For a long moment, we just stared at each other. Then my dad opened his arms, and I did something that I hadn’t done in years.
I ran over to him and hugged him tightly around the waist, pressing my face into his loose T-shirt. He was so tall that my ear was right below his rib cage; I felt his heartbeat. He kissed me on the head, his strong arms holding me to his chest. I couldn’t remember when I’d last hugged my dad. For the first time in almost six years, everything felt right. I was home at last.
It was a long time before he finally let me go.
“You sing like your mother,” Dad said. “It was amazing.”
“Thanks,” I muttered quietly.
“Why didn’t you tell me this was your dream?” Dad asked.
“You never asked,” I replied. “And you were all anti-music after Mom died. I didn’t feel comfortable talking about it.”
“I was out of order,” he admitted. “But this was the rude awakening I needed.”
“Rude awakening?”
“You running away to pursue this instead of listening to me holding you back. It’s what your mother would’ve done.”
“Are you going to ground me for forging your signature?”
“I can’t ground the new Best All-Around Vocalist on the East Coast,” he said, grinning. “Your mother would’ve been proud.”
“Thanks,” I murmured again.
“You know, I’ve been thinking,” Dad said, putting his arm around my shoulders as we turned to leave. “You’re an amazing singer, but would you be interested in voice lessons? Isn’t that what professional singers do?”
“I’ll talk to Mr. P about it,” I said. “But it’d be kind of cool, yeah.”
“I’ll pay,” Dad added. “And I’ll give you your 800 bucks back.”
“I’m in.”
We met Mr. P on the way back to the bus. I saw his eyes go warily to my dad’s face. Then he saw my grin, and he took it as a good sign and grinned, too.
The rest of the trip passed with relative calm. It was really nice that my dad was actually being nice to me and we weren’t arguing constantly.
And, with that, I finally got my happily ever after.

um...

Okay, I lied. The story isn't going to be posted for a while. I just noticed that the most recent version of the story isn't saved on this computer. I'll post it as soon as I can.
Anyway, moving on to an UPDATE, I had a show (it went well, aside from the part where Aslan's bald cap didn't stay on when we were supposed to be killing him in the last show (It was 'Lion, Witch, and the Wardrobe')), passed all my SOLs, and now I'm just doing some last-minute stuff. And by that I mean last-week stuff. And by that I mean last two-week stuff. We don't let out until the 23rd. It's REALLY annoying. But today was also Youth Sunday at church. I think it went rather well.
In other news, I might start posting here whenever I have something to show you, as in stories. It's kind of a hassle to log on to do an online diary, so I'm going to post stuff that people might actually want to see. Hooray! I'm also doing a lot more creative writing, so I'll also actually have stuff to show you. YAY!!!!
So... yeah. Hooray!

I'm BACK!

I know I only posted seven times last month. I know that I haven't posted for three weeks. But whatever. I am back! And I am HAPPY!! And I actually finished a story!!! HOORAY!!!!
The story will be posted in the next post. Enjoy and comment please :D

Oh, and by the way....

Today was bike to work day... er... to school, in my case, I guess. I did bike to school. But my dad wouldn't let me bring my backpack on my back on my bike. Why? Because my dad apparently thinks it's too heavy. 3 five subject notebooks, an overstuffed binder, 2 normal journals, one 3 subject journal, a graphing calculator, and my wallet is NOT heavy. Well it is, I guess. But still. It isn't THAT heavy. Anyway, point is, I biked to school and got my doughnut in chemistry (he was bribing us with them, and I felt like it anyway), and I'm not allowed to bike home from school on account of my bike being in the back of the car (I forgot my bike lock and there's the whole backpack issue, or lack thereof.) along with my helmet. But I'm probably going to go biking at some point today. Or at least walk to Starbucks. Or go home and find my bike and bike to Starbucks. Or something. Anyway, I still have my dad's ratty old bike gloves, because they're awesome and I love them. He's probably going to kill me for keeping them for seven hours. Or however long it's been. Anyway, I probably should go... it's the end of the day, after all. But I don't care. I have to be back here at 6:15 anyway for the show - it's the call time for the show. And it's going to ROCK. And you should see it. Because it's awesome. And if you don't... oh well. Your loss.

this needs no title

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By the way....

1. I did not get into a good choir.
2. I got into cabaret.
3. I have to change my song for cabaret.
4. I was going to sing "think of me" from "phantom of the opera."
5. Now I'm going to sing "wouldn't it be lovely" from "my fair lady."
6. With a Cockney accent.
7. Our show goes up this week.
8. You should come see it.
9. Our drama department rocks.

yay!

My Gold Award project got passed!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! YAY!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Now comes the part where I actually have to do stuff..... great.....
but I don't have to actually work until August, so that's good. :D

:D

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heh... heh... heh...

I know, I'm officially The World's Worst Poster. I'm also the World's Worst At Taking Hits, because I spent two hours crying yesterday because I didn't get into a good choir, and all of my friends (AND some kids who are going to be freshmen next year) got into better choirs than I did, and I thought I had a chance of getting into an upper choir. But I didn't. And it made me very, very, very mad. So I spent two hours crying about it. And it didn't help that I actually KNOW the current eighth grader who's going to be in a better chorus than I will.
I also have my gold award panel today, to get my project passed. I hope it will get passed, just so I can get it over with until August, when I'm actually due to do the thing. I also have rehearsal that ends an hour before. And the panel place is half an hour away. Great.
Anyway, I also need to start posting WAY more often, because this is the second time I have posted in the whole month of May, because high school is the worst invention since man invented math and the most stressful thing since excessive snow. Except for math. And auditions. And unfairness. And not being able to get into a good choir when someone younger than me did. Not that it matters, or anything. I just really wanted to get into a better choir than the one I'm in. And I also thought I was a lot better at singing than it seems to appear that I am. So that just sucks. And it doesn't help that I'm probably not going to be able to audition for Cabaret, either. It's official. The music department hates me.

stupidness...

It's stupid how I haven't posted in a long time. Sorry about that... I'll try to post more often, but please forgive me if I don't. It's very stressful, this school thing. And since I post kind of rarely now, I often forget I even HAVE a blog, which is kind of stupid as well. Anyway, moving on with life, here is a list of important stuff that has happened since I last posted (When was that, anyway?):

1. Choir audition. It went all right, I guess.

2. Brother got his eagle award. Hooray! I remembered the names of ALL of the Eagle scouts because they were ALL in the same den in second grade and I was always tagging along with them (and because their names were printed in the program thing). And now they're eagle scouts. YAY!

3. We're singing Queen in chorus. I think I've said that several times before now, but it's SO AWESOME that I'm saying it again. I'm PSYCHED!

4. We're also singing a Beatles medley with all the rest of the choirs. There are seriously like fifteen songs in that entire thing. It's awesome.

5. I get to die in the epic fight in the all-grades show. It's kind of annoying and kind of funny at the same time. And painful. Have YOU ever gotten jabbed in the ribs, had your wrist broken, got kneed in the head, fallen over, and gotten "kicked in the face" twenty times during a single rehearsal? Yeah, thought so. But it is still kind of fun. Except for the whole dying thing.

And it's stage fighting, so the only thing that really hurts is when I fall over, and it minorly hurts when my fighting partner kicks me in the hands (NOT the face. It's a cool stage fighting trick thing. Keep the hands in front of the face and react when their foot makes contact with your hands. If you do it right, it'll make a noise and everyone will be surprised when you stand up without a big bruise on your chin).

Well, I have to go to creative writing now. We watched Spirited Away, which happens to be my new favorite movie (apart from Lord of the Rings and Pirates of the Caribbean). And now we're doing random stuff.

Goodbye for now.

HAHAHA!!

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this is SUCH a win it's crazy...

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