Black and Blue Ivy

Chants

As hungry and miserable as I was, I did manage to perk up when Tuesday rolled around, and Mrs. Langley held her music class of about forty girls. From the sour notes I heard from the alto section, it was apparent singing talent wasn't required.

Because I had missed the soloist auditions, I was relegated to the back row of the soprano section. We were packed tightly into the choir loft, and I had to peer around the tall girl blocking me. Unlike those dismal Catholic hymns we sang at mass, Mrs. Langley's musical selections were beautiful. She was also a gifted organist, and when I could steal a glance, I would gaze longingly as her fingers swept effortlessly over the keys.

We were learning a Gregorian chant Mrs. Langley had transposed to accommodate female voices. Earlier in the hall that day, I'd overheard the ancient Sister Perpetua clucking her disapproval about Mrs. Langley's musical choices to anyone who would listen and how the gates of hell had been flung open once women were allowed on the altar.

Whatever.

I loved the music, and I sang out my soprano part with pride. I learned from my previous choir singing class that it was necessary, as part of the choir, not to stand out but to have your voice blend in with the others. My voice is naturally loud, especially compared to the breathy sopranos surrounding me.

"Naomi's notes are as flat as her ass," I muttered to Joelle, who stood next to me.

Joelle concealed her giggle behind the sheet music clutched in her hand while Mrs. Langley tapped her baton on a music stand to get our attention.

After Mrs. Langley gave us a brief lesson on the proper pronunciation of our Latin vowels, we began working on a section in the chant where only the sopranos sing. Mrs. Langley had brought a CD of prerecorded organ music for us to sing along with while she stood on a small stand with baton lifted lightly in the air. Mrs. Langley looked in her mid-thirties, petite and pretty, with a prim, ladylike appearance that barely concealed her evident passion for music. I never saw her in anything but a wool skirt cut to just below her knees over sheer stockings and black pumps. She had two of these skirts, one navy and one dark brown, which she would rotate along with silk blouses, ivory, and pale pink, paired with a gray or navy cardigan. A gold cross dangled from a chain around her neck, and she wore a plain gold wedding band. I'd often wonder what Mr. Langley looked like, and sometimes I'd imagine them in bed together.

The music, the Gregorian chants especially, had that effect on me. My mind would float into clouds of pleasure, often involving sex when I knew I should be thinking of God. Did God really know the count of every hair on my head, and could He read my mind? If He could, would he forgive my occasional transgressions into forbidden thoughts? Sometimes, when I lay on my cold cot at night, I would have fantasies that my secret boyfriend (he changed on a nightly basis) would climb the drainpipe outside the window of my ward and carry me off into the night in his strong arms. We would make love in a forest somewhere beneath a misty full moon. Not exactly triple X, hard-core stuff.

I don't know why I felt so guilty about it. Maybe it's because I knew it was a crock, a rip-off. Morningstar's life and endless strings of "boyfriends" taught me that much.

The music continued, and I tried to focus on my singing, not my "sinful sexual daydreams." There was a particular soprano section where the notes were high, and many singers around me struggled to reach them. Joelle, I noticed, wasn't even trying and was just mouthing the words. Mrs. Langley cocked her head toward our section as if listening carefully and then tapped her baton against the music stand.

We stopped singing. Mrs. Langley clicked off the cassette tape.

"Someone is not hitting that B sharp on the fourth measure." She paused and smiled. "I know it's a very high note. If It's beyond your range, I can cut this section."

There was a rustle among the girls as if to sniff out the guilty party.

"But," Mrs. Langley continued. "It sounds like someone in your section is hitting it, so I'd like to take it row by row." She lifted her baton in the air. "We'll do it a cappella, okay? One, two, three, and—"

The first row rang the section. One or two of the girls hit the B#, but the sound was breathy, like the dying notes of a winded flutist.

Mrs. Langley punched her baton in the air. "Almost there," she said encouragingly, "but try to get a bit more air beneath it. Remember, support the breath with your diaphragm."

"Now, next row. Let's hear it. One, two, three, and—"

The high note collapsed in a painful squawk. Mrs. Langley made a face.

"Naomi," Mrs. Langley said kindly. "You're singing a complete octave down. I may have to move you to the alto section."

Some of the girls giggled. Naomi's earlobes, poking through her thin, wispy hair, turned bright scarlet.

Naomi twisted her thin neck to dart a sinister glance at me. I shrugged to communicate that I wasn't the one who laughed, and it wasn't my fault if she sucked when Mrs. Langley addressed the last row. "All right, girls. Now you try it."

I knew Joelle wasn't singing at all, and the two girls to my right sounded breathy and off-pitch. Thinking it would be a shame to forfeit one of the most beautiful sections in the composition, I thrust back my shoulders, sucked in a deep breath, and blasted out "Gloria in Excelsis Deo" with all my strength, sustaining the B sharp on the O sound and letting it float up to the chapel's knave where it reverberated among the domed ceiling depicting Saint Vincent's selfless works.

No one spoke as the echo of my voice slowly faded. Mrs. Langley smiled, and her eyes shimmered as she tucked her baton under her arm and began to clap. Soon, every girl had turned to gape at me and clap as well—everyone except Naomi.

"It looks like we've been hiding a virtuoso," exclaimed Mrs. Langley. "Ivy, come down here, please."

The girls in my row shifted to let me pass.

"Everyone else, please take your seats," commanded Mrs. Langley.

If there was one thing I knew about girls is that their envy could sometimes get the better of them. This was certainly evident when Naomi thrust out one of her big feet to trip me on my way down the choir stall steps. Luckily I spotted her ruse and stepped over her size twelve dogs. Somehow I knew that I would have to pay a high price for being singled out this way, which is probably why my knees shook when I reached Mrs. Langley, who now stood behind the portable piano keyboard she brought to every class.

While the girls grumbled among themselves, Mrs. Langley focused he warm brown eyes on me as she played a few scales to check my range. Her eyes widened as she moved her fingers up the scales, poking the high F sharp on the piano, the highest note I could hit.

I could tell she was impressed when she asked, "How long have you been singing, Ivy?"

I shrugged, feeling very exposed all of a sudden. "I took a choir class at my old school," I muttered. I didn't tell her how I used to practice hitting high notes from watching Morningstar's old Mariah Carey concert DVDs.

Mrs. Langley rubbed a finger between her arched eyebrows for a moment as if lost in thought and then asked, "How do you feel about doing this section as a solo, Ivy?"

I was struck dumb for a moment. This was something I had dreamed about.

"But aren't the solo parts already set, Mrs. Langley?"

Mrs. Langley swept her gaze over the heads of the girls. "Yes, Naomi, but we've never had a singer at St. Vincent's with Ivy's gifts." She shifted her eyes back to me with a smile. "We will make an exception."

Being singled out like that was a double-edged sword. As much as it made me happy to sing, only because it was the only real escape I'd ever known, the only praise I'd ever received. I knew the attention would rile the envy of the other girls. I could tell one person, at least, was happy about my achievement. When I returned to my spot to finish our rehearsal, Joelle gave me a big high-five, which caused Naomi and her surrounding minions to turn and silence us with fingers pressed to their lips. Their eyes shot daggers at me.

Perhaps I had committed the sin of pride by letting success go to my head. I did have a little spring in my step for a while afterward, but that was cut short when it was time for our outdoor rec period.

Of course, Naomi was there, but this time linebacker Dolores, who had opted for the cooking class for obvious reasons, was beside her.