Angela Morrison - Sing Me to Sleep

Derek: don’t be stupid

Beth: you write it

Derek: I already did my part . . . it’s your turn

I can’t. I can’t. No way. I can’t. I’m not hot anymore. Suddenly I’m really cold. Freezing cold. I start typing.

Beth: I’ve got midterms and a big project due . . . our CD-release concert is coming up

Derek: this is important

Beth: I can’t do it . . . all I’ve ever written is bits and pieces . . . fragments . . . and most of it’s hideous and sappy

Derek: apply yourself . . . you’re wasting your talent

Just because he can write, doesn’t mean I can. He talks about music flowing out of him. I have to squeeze out every word. And it’s still bad.

Beth: what talent? I’d ruin your song

Derek: no you won’t . . . you’ve got plenty of time . . . if it stinks, I’ll tell you and you can try again

Beth: that sounds like great fun

Derek: that’s how it works . . . I can’t remember the date, but it’s after your Thanksgiving . . . the second weekend of December I think

Am I relieved? Disappointed? A mixture of emotions surge in choppy confusion.

Beth: that’s when our concert is . . . we’re doubling it for our Christmas concert

Derek: shoot . . . you did that on purpose

I need to give him something. I flip to the calendar. Sunday’s free—totally.

Beth: how about I take the train up to Toronto on Sunday and watch your broadcast? that would be cool

Derek: come Sunday and sing with me

Beth: please, just let me hide out in the crowd . . . I’d love to be your groupie

Derek: NO . . . I’ll email you the music

Beth: I can’t

He ignores that last post—I’m sure of it. Within three minutes there’s an email in my inbox with an attachment.

I hit reply and type, “There’s absolutely no way on earth I can do this.”

It’s late. I’m whipped, and his hyper-confidence in me makes me angry. It sounds cool—him and me singing a song we wrote on the radio. What I wouldn’t give to do that. But that song is too beautiful, means too much. My words would clunk against his music. I don’t have beauty inside me like he does. I’m the Beast. Ugly. That’s all I can write.

Since that night when I told him I couldn’t leave Bliss and we fought in the park, I’ve been patient and understanding. Crap. I haven’t even met his mom. I’ve let him get away with it. It’s all exactly how he wants. He’s not going to make me do this.

Next morning I get a text from Derek on my way to my locker to dump my backpack: try 2 lines

I chuck my bag into the locker. “Crap.” I key in: 0 lines and mash the send button.

Scott arrives in time for that performance. “I don’t like the way he treats you.”

“It’s none of your business.”

“I have to see you like this every day.”

“Like what?” I jerk my head around and glare at him. “I’m fine .”

He frowns and leans against his locker. “Uptight. On edge. Isolated—even from me.”

I scowl at him. “I’m really happy with Derek.”

“Deliriously. I can see that.” Scott folds his arms across his chest.

“When we’re together—”

“Doesn’t seem to happen much.” He leans toward me. “What’s with that guy?”

“We’re both really busy.”

“Too bad. Maybe you should look closer to home.”

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

Scott’s surprised. I haven’t given him an opening like that for weeks. He steps closer. “We’d be together whenever we want. At school and after. Weekends.” His dark blue eyes get intense. “If you would just let me in.”

“I’m busy, though. My choir and the CD. Not to mention all these AP classes I’m taking this year.”

“We study well together. Don’t you miss that?”

I can’t lie. I do.

“How about I come over this afternoon, and we can study for that econ exam we’ve got Thursday?”

“Maybe that’s not such a good idea.”

“Come on, Beth. He doesn’t own you. You’re not his puppet.”

Exactly. “This is just to study?”

“Like old times.”

“You know, Scottie.” My old name for him slips easily out. “That would be nice. I have missed you.”

“I’m here. Every day. I’m here.”

The bell rings, and we head off to different classes. It’s nice to have Scott acting like a friend again. I’m actually looking forward to seeing him in choir today. And he’s a lot better at econ than me. I could use his help. My phone buzzes as I sit down. Derek.

1 line?

I painstakingly type, I’m not your puppet out in full and send it back to him.

After school, Scott and I walk out to my car together. “How is your history project going?” I ask to fill the nervous silence.

“So-so. It’s kind of a dumb project.”

We’re supposed to look at how politics or governments were influenced by art or vice versa. “I like it. I’m studying how jazz influenced politics during the Depression.”

Scott opens my door for me. “I got stuck with Stalinist-era Soviet art.” He slams the door and goes around to the passenger side.

“Stalinist art sounds cool to me.” I adjust my mirror while he gets settled. “You could tie it in with communist propaganda.”

“Boring. It’s not fair. You get to do music. You’re an expert.”

“Jazz?” I start Jeannette’s engine and back her up. “Are you kidding? I sing choir music.”

He laughs. “Some of it’s jazzy.”

“A gospel spiritual isn’t jazz.” I drive out of the parking lot.

“Want to trade topics?”

“No way.”

“I rest my case.”

When we pull up to the house, oh, crap, Derek is sitting in the driveway on his bike. Scott whips an accusing look at me.

“I didn’t know he’d be here. I don’t want to—”

“Rub my face in it?”

Derek’s at my door before I can answer, opening it, pulling me up, and kissing me.

Scott is out of his side fast. “Are we still going to study?” He’s got his backpack in his hand, looks ready to bail.

I twist around to face Scott. Derek keeps his arms around me. “Of course.” I pat Derek’s arm. “Scott and I have a big econ exam we need to cram for.”

Scott glares at Derek. “You any good at econ?”

“Nope. Must be why I’m always broke.” He squeezes me. “If you’re busy, I’ll take off.”

“No.”

Scott’s face falls. Great. I can spend the next three hours studying with Scott or making out with Derek. And they both know it.

Derek reaches inside his jacket. “I’m just dropping this off.” He pulls out some white pages folded in half. “I don’t have to stay.” He looks from me to Scott. “I don’t want to get in your way.”

He’s taking this so wrong. “That’s stupid. We’re just studying.” I lead the way into the house. “Come on, Scott. We’re wasting time.”

We spread out our notes and books on the kitchen table and get to work.

Derek wanders into the living room and sits down at the piano. He messes around, improvising jazz—slow, seductive stuff that makes it incredibly difficult to concentrate on econ.

Scott looks up from his notes. “Jazz, huh?”

I get pink and flip to the back of the chapter, hunting for review questions. “Ask me these.”

Derek keeps playing. After a while, he comes into the kitchen. “When is your mum home tonight?” He glances at the clock.

“She’s got a late meeting.”

Derek opens the cupboard under the stove, pulls out a tall pot. “How about pasta then?”

Scott can’t like seeing how comfortable Derek is in our kitchen.

“Sure.” I turn to Scott. “Do you want to stay? Derek’s pasta is pretty good.”