Rose's Rush Hour.

Chapter Eight.

“You’re going to sing?” Ed asked with knitted eyebrows as we walked along the street. It was Wednesday afternoon, and we were headed to the station.

“Of course not as a solo act,” I clarified. “I’ll be singing along with the choir once they head up on stage.”

To mark the beginning of Establishment Day celebrations, the most talented voices made the very first performance where they sang different songs, starting with the country’s anthem. The designated choir for that day was open to anyone to join, but one had to go through the choir master, Gareth, first.

“Uh-huh. Uh-huh. And does Gareth the musician know about this little talent show of yours?” Ed asked, shooting me a suspicious look from the side.

I shook my head. “I’m just going to sneak up there when the choir takes the stage.”

Ed groaned.

I bumped into her, beaming. “It’s going to be fun and you should be cheering me on!”

“No fucking way, you dimwit. If Gareth spots you infiltrating his choir, he’ll slice your buttocks off with the strings of his guitar,” Ed snapped. “Or even with that little doohickey razor he uses to play the violin. What’s it called again?”

“A bow.”

“Yes. He’ll slice your buttocks off with his fucking bow.” Ed seethed.

I didn’t doubt that Gareth was capable. He was such an autocrat; he didn’t like anyone interfering with his music – or instruments. I had played around on the organ in church a long time ago and when he caught me, he’d smacked my fingers with his conductor’s baton to the point of breaking them. I couldn’t use my fingers properly for a week.

And once, when he was singing in the street, I’d chimed in because I thought it would be more fun and sound better. He’d made me shut it, and he said some pretty harsh words to me, including but not limited to my skin colour.

Ed had nearly bit off his ear when she found out about my fingers, and she’d multiplied his harsh words tenfold, added a great deal of profanities and thrown them back at him when he rubbished me for singing with him.

Needless to say, she couldn’t stand the man.

“Too many f words, Ed,” I reprimanded, but with a smile.

“It’s just I fucking hate that fucking guy,” Ed growled. “And you still want to go sing in his fucking choir.”

“It feels nice to sing a cappella.”

“I know you like singing the alpacas, Nkwanzi, but...” She sighed and turned to me, her temper cooling. “I don’t want him to slice your ass off. It’s a really nice ass.”

I laughed. “Thanks Ed. But I’ll be fine. He won’t even see me in the crowd.”

Ed stared at me in thought. She then said, “Maybe we should inform Inspector Raphael just in case, so he can cuff the maggot if he tries anything.”

I rolled my eyes, even though the idea sounded inviting. “There’s no need for Inspector Raphael to be on standby because I’ll be fine.”

Ed breathed in deep. “Okay,” she relented. “But you’re still a dimwit.”

“What? Why?” I whined.

“Because you’re thinking of suicide in Gareth’s choir on Establishment Day when you don’t even have a date to Establishment Day,” Ed pointed out. “Unless you forgot how you assured a certain someone that you had a date.”

Oh.

“I’m working on it,” I murmured.

Ed looked like she was about to have a stroke. “My sister,” she started. “You’ve got only two days left to Establishment Day.” She lifted her index and middle finger. “Two days just like this to clear the prospective date plan and you haven’t even brought the topic up with said prospective date. And yet you’re thinking to perform a little talent show which could lead to you choking to death on your own blood because fucking Gareth sliced your throat with his fucking violin stick!”