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grove. I notice that each poplar is spaced exactly the same distance apart from each other. They
reminded me of spires, stretching up as if in homage to the heavens. Smaller quaking aspens and
laurel trees fill in the center of the grove, creating a thick canopy of darkness even in daytime that
must have been what kept others away. Normally, I am not keen on dark places, but the grove draws
me in. I m sure other people wouldn t avoid this place if they could hear what I hear. Each tree has its
own little melody emanating from its trunk. Each little leaf titters with its own little sound. All mixing
together into a beautiful song. Even the sunbeams that break through the canopy of leaves, looking like
streams of ghostly light, add their own soft melody to the mix.
I leave my bike propped against one of the poplars and then settle onto the ground with my guitar. I
lean my back against a strangely shaped laurel tree that reminds me of a tuning fork: the way its trunk
is split in the middle so it grows upward in two separate curves. I pull my guitar from its case and run
through a few bars without singing. I need three songs for the audition this afternoon. Two of them, I
am sure about, but I am still wavering on what to do for the third. Should I choose one of my own
songs so the music director would see that I m interested in songwriting, in addition to singing? Or
should I stick with popular songs that everyone will know and feel connected to?
I guess I could sing Joe s star song, since it would cover both options. That bitter thought trickles
through my mind before I can stop it. I shake away a flood of additional thoughts that try to break
through the floodgates. I ve already lost too much time to Joe today, and I need to focus on rehearsing.
I run through several voice warm-up exercises, and then after some thought, I pick a song I wrote for
my mother. I play it a couple of times on my guitar, and then start it again. This time, I join in with my
voice after the intro.
The laurel tree I lean against seems to tremble at the sound of my voice. Its vibrating hum joins my
song. It feels as though the grove comes to even greater life as I sing, sending the echo bouncing
against the branches and leaves of the trees. The aspens create a quaking, clattering rhythm that keeps
up with the melody of the song. Birds chirp, dragonflies buzz, and even the wind feels as though it is
keeping harmony with me as it swirls my long hair around my face while I sing. I d known there was
something extra-special about this place before I d entered. I could tell by the way it had called out to
me. I ve always loved singing with nature as my audience, but I d never had nature join in with me
like this before.
Perhaps this experience really is a symptom of a dysfunction in my brain but there s no way I would
classify it as a disorder.
I stop playing the guitar abruptly. The grove quiets in a way that reminds me of the intake of a breath,
anticipating the next note. I sing the last line of the song without the guitar accompaniment, while the
trees reverberate around me. The vibration of the tuning fork shaped tree tingles up my spine and into
my arms. When I finish the song, the grove falls silent again. Followed by the sound of very real gasp
. . .
I jump up, almost dropping Gibby. Somebody else is here. I can feel someone s presence, even
though I can t see anyone, and I know I hadn t imagined that human-sounding gasp. The grove is still
quiet too quiet. Shouldn t it have taken up its own song again by now? What is it waiting for?
 Who s there? I ask.
Only silence answers, but I know I m not alone.
Perhaps there is some paparazzo lurking in the bushes. Marta said that they couldn t get past the
security gates, but I m sure someone unscrupulous and crafty enough can figure out how to sneak past
the guards. Maybe this one had gotten wind of Joe Vince s prodigal daughter and was looking for a
photo op?
 I know you re there, I say.  So you might as well show yourself, get your picture, and get lost.
The air grows warmer around me, as if I can feel someone coming closer. I shiver despite the
budding heat.
 How did you do that? a strangely accented voice asks from somewhere in the dark of the grove.
 What? I look in the direction of the voice, but I can t see anyone.  Who s there?
 What was that you did with your voice? It sounds as though the questioner has moved even closer.
 Just now. I heard you.
I put a hand to my throat.  You mean my singing? I reply to the darkness.
 Singing. Is that what you call that?
 Excuse me? My cheeks flush with heat. I step closer to the location of the voice.  Listen, jerk, I
don t know who you are. But if you came here to make fun of my singing, you can go . . .
The leaves of one of the aspen trees silently quiver, and someone appears out of the shadows
almost as if he materialized from the darkness.
I step back, uncomfortable with the seclusion of the grove for the first time. The person is cloaked in
shadows but I can tell he s a man. Or perhaps a boy. But definitely male. He steps closer and his [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]