Angela Morrison - Sing Me to Sleep

Leah and I groan. She plops on my bed next to me. “Now we’ll never get in there.”

Sarah jumps on my bed, too. Her flawless skin glows.

I hate to be a downer, but I still say, “Blake seems a little wild.”

“No more than the usual guy.” She pulls a face at me. “I know you’ve never been to a party, but—really—it’s no big deal. They all drink.”

I drop my voice to a whisper. “What do you think about Derek and the drugs?”

Leah shakes her head, impatient with my persistence.

Sarah wrinkles up her nose. “I don’t know. He doesn’t fit the average stoner profile, but artsy creative geniuses do drugs, too. He is pale.”

I nod. Beautifully pale. White, white skin. Dark, dark hair. And then those brown eyes and a sensitive, fascinating mouth. It’s kind of on the tortured side of the spectrum. Maybe that’s where the drugs come in.

The whole gentleman, won’t-go-to-a-bar thing could have been a huge act to trick Meadow. Or me. Did I frown when Blake brought up the bar? Probably. Derek could be up in that bar with Blake, chugging down a cold one—no, this is Europe, a slightly chilled, kind of warm one—at this moment, laughing with Blake about how he fooled me. How his plan is evolving nicely. How I stood frozen on that hotel step, massively entranced, as he walked away. He looks perfect, sounds perfect, but what do any of us know about him? He could be hiding anything he wants behind that heart-stopping face. I know what guys who look like Derek do .

Leah leans in close. “I don’t know if Derek is a scary drug addict, but there’s one thing we all know .” She looks hard at me, a smile playing around her lips. “He’s definitely not into Meadow.”

I pull out of the cozy knot. “He was being nice. Professional.” My heart starts zooming. “Guys don’t get into me.”

Sarah puts her fingers to her lips and whispers, “They do now.”

“Get used to it.” Leah tickles my feet. “You’re hot, Beth.”

I push her away. “You’re delusional.”

Sarah tickles me from the other side. “You could get anybody you want.”

I squirm away from them. “What about Meadow?”

“Blake told me Derek only goes for girls who can sing.” Sarah pushes aside her thick bangs.

“She sang really well this morning.”

“Not like you sing that solo to him every night.”

I swallow hard, shake my head. “This isn’t me. I don’t know how to get Derek.” I put out my hands to ward them off. “I’m here to sing.”

Leah and Sarah trade glances. Sarah pats my foot. “That’s all you’ll have to do.”

I don’t sleep well. The biggest day of my life is about to dawn. No pressure.

Right. I toss and turn, get up—trip over Meadow’s bed on my way to the bathroom. I put the toilet lid down and perch on it, my legs pulled up under my chin, my arms clutched around them in an upright fetal meltdown.

I’m dying to sing. That’s how I unwind. I fake it, quietly mouth through all our pieces. When I get to the end, I go back and lie down, close my eyes. I see Derek alone in his hotel room with a razor blade and a line of white dust, or a needle in his hand and a rubber strap tied around his arm. That picture fades, replaced by the wave of emotion that went through me when he said— Sing, sing me to sleep.

You can sing,

Please, sing me to sleep—

Tonight.

If Derek knew the pre-dyed, pre-manicured, pre-made-up, pre-lasered Beth, the Beast, would he have been so happy to meet me? That’s what I was when I recorded. He could be just like Colby, only smoother. A star singer instead of a star jock. Colby could be nice when he wanted to be. He managed to get all the beautiful girls at school that he wanted. If his performance at the prom is any kind of clue, maybe his brand of nice is mostly arrogance. Derek didn’t seem like that. How do I know, though?

So he listened to me sing, walked us home, and touched my arm. Does that mean he isn’t just as nasty as every other guy in the universe? Except Scott. But Derek isn’t a short, nerdy sweetheart who’s been bullied all his life. He’s gorgeous, oozes talent, experience, confidence. He isn’t anything like Scott. Could Derek be for real as nice as he seems—despite the drug habit? I close my eyes and find something new in my heart. A small spark of something I don’t recognize. Awake tonight,

I give up

And embrace the glow you lit

When your eyes captured mine

And I heard you whisper,

‘Sing, sing me to sleep.

You can sing,

Please, sing me to sleep—

Tonight.’

All of my life

I wait for

A touch like wings brushing my heart.

Is this blush on my face

All you have to give me?

Sing, sing me to sleep.

You can sing,

Please, sing me to sleep—

Tonight.

I wake up too early. My head is pounding, and I feel like I’m going to puke. Breakfast and a couple of Advils help. Warm-ups and a run through help more. We pile on our tour bus and ride uptown to the ancient church where we’ll perform.

Then I have to deal with getting ready. My face is a routine by now. Meadow’s mom winds my hair up and fastens it to my head with the sharpest hairpins on earth. She shellacs it all in place. Then I’m stepping into my ruby gown. I get nervous again—hide out in the bathroom singing my solo over and over until we’re called.

We file onto the risers in our swishy ruby gowns. Eighty elegant girls. I feel okay, almost confident. I know my voice won’t let me down. The venue helps my nerves. No cold auditorium. A warm chapel full of wood like we sing in back home. Should be good acoustics.

I look at the audience. The benches behind the judges’ table are filled with guys in white golf shirts with a fancy red “A” embroidered on the pocket. Their whole choir came to hear us. Derek is looking at me. Our eyes lock, and he smiles. At that moment I’m grateful I look so dang perfect. Drug habit or not, he’s impossible to resist. I smile back at him. He gives me a thumbs-up. I take a deep breath, let it out slowly while Terri walks into the room. Polite applause. We sing the test piece. Totally nail it. More applause. We sing our technical second piece. The applause is louder for that one.

The piano starts “Take Me Home.” I close my eyes. The music transports me back to the church in Ann Arbor. It’s just the girls and me. No pressure. Derek’s there, too, though, waiting for me to sing, wanting to fall in love with my song. I open my eyes at the cue. My voice pours out. I look away from Terri, find Derek watching me, hanging on every note, mesmerized. It sends a thrill through me. Somehow I keep singing, but he’s stolen me. Every note, every quiet throb of passion is for him. Take me home, take me home, take me home. I’m not sure how he’s doing this, but even though I’m up here on stage with eighty girls, singing for the judges and an audience, it’s way intimate between Derek and me. The intensity of it mounts when I sing, The dark boy who said he loved me / And fills my dreams at night .

He’s the dark boy who filled my dreams last night. I want him there again, tonight and every night.

He is the first one on his feet when the last note fades. His choir joins him. The rest of the audience rises. No cheering. Decorum reigns at the Choral Olympics during the judging. But the clapping doesn’t stop. We march out, our dresses swirling dramatically around our feet, with the audience still applauding. They don’t stop until one of the judges makes them.