In the Key of Us: Prelude–Week One

The chorus of robins grows stronger
The trees yawn and stretch their branches green

Someone comes to open all the windows
To remove the cobwebs from each corner
To sweep sweep sweep the dark cherry floors
A quartet of light playing on each cabin’s wall
A familiar rhythm thrumming

I open my grounds to all of them
I listen I listen I listen
Until my listening becomes a prayer
I creak and sag and hold the weight of their dreams
Until their music is everywhere—
In the concrete of each foundation
In the nails holding up rafters
In the soft dirt of each pathway
Until I am so full of harmonies

“This is one of the most prestigious music camps in the country!”

Aunt Janine throws Uncle Mark one of those looks that adults like to throw over kids’ heads, one of those looks that means STOP UNDERMINING ME!

Sometimes those nights made me feel proud to be her daughter; other times, I bit my tongue and glared as she spent hours talking with some stranger about her inspiration, telling them things she never told me.

“We’re happy to have you. Once you grab all your stuff, you can stand in line over there by the main lodge entrance to get your cabin assignment and name lanyard.”

When Mama and I used to go camping, the lodge was a dingy little cabin where we paid our twenty-five-dollar fee.

Channing looks down at me with flushed cheeks and waves.

On the top bunk next to me, an athletic-looking girl with long blond hair is setting up an elaborate pillow and stuffed-animal display on top of her floral comforter cover, which I guess is taking the place of any kind of sleeping bag.

It’s a friendly wave, but I see her green eyes quickly assess my minimalist bunk decor and my all-black outfit.

“Don’t forget to be back here by four o’clock. That’s when we have our first official cabin four orientation. You’ll need to be in your uniform by then too.”

We make a beeline for the dining hall, which is in a stone building across from the main lodge.

“How are you really doing, Andi? I mean, that last week of school was rough.”
Understatement of the year. The last week of school was a nightmare.

“Soooo delectable, so gour-met!” he says, pronouncing the hard T in gourmet and air-kissing his fingers like a chef as he crunches down.

I add mine to the plastic tub without much fanfare, because I’m distracted by something on my collared shirt stabbing me in the back of my neck.

I twist my arm around to try to reach it and jostle Julie, who is sitting next to me.

“It can be anything, Andi,” Joanna coaxes. “A hobby, something you did this past year. Of course you can always pass, but I bet you have something unique to share with us.”

In the evenings, before dinner, you’ll get some free time, and that’s when you can opt in to elective classes, the Craft Shack, waterfront sports, or quiet cabin time.

It’s like a whole social event. It’s fun! You’ll see. And you don’t have to dance—they have other activities too, like Ping-Pong or soccer or croquet.

I sleep so hard my first night of camp that I barely hear the morning reveille sound. Reveille, I learned, just means “to awaken,” and it's normally delivered on a bugle, which is like a trumpet except it doesn’t have valves and the tone it produces is lower, darker.

“Welcome to Junior Orchestra meeting. We’ve got quite a challenging repertoire planned, normally played by high-school-level musicians, but this is Harmony Music Camp, and you all are some of the brightest and most talented musicians from around the country. I have no doubt you can pull this off, with focus, practice, and collaboration.”

“Your presumption is incorrect” is all I say, my fists balled at my sides.

My heart feels like it’s in my ears, and my skin feels like it has a million itchy welts all over it.

Mr. London and Mr. Wright are strict, and more than a couple of times in rehearsal I get called out for not reading the music and adding my own flair.

It feels like you’re forcing it, and I’ve never practiced so hard in my life. I’m utterly exhausted.

“What’s halo-halo?”
“Oh, it’s divine. It’s a colorful dessert that is layered with a mix of ingredients, including fruit, shaved ice, and condensed milk. My favorite way to eat it is topped with ube halaya, which is purple yam paste. It’s soooo delicious. I wish we had some right now, Andi. It’s so refreshing and just mwah!”

“He’s Kylo Ren to my Rey, Zora. The force is strong between us. I can just tell,” Beks swoons.

I listen in horror as Aubrey explains that at the first mixer of the summer, each cabin gets one minute to do a short intro dance or cheer as an icebreaker before the actual dance part of the mixer begins.

Channing scoffs. “Of course you don’t. It’s not a big deal. You can be in the back—just follow along the best you can. It’s more about the energy than being good.”

“I don’t know when you got so uppity, Janine. You act like we didn’t grow up poor.”

“Chain, chain, chain,” Aretha’s voice crooned as Mama threw her head back and began singing into a wooden spoon.

I shook my head and continued my tentative two-step, but Mama came over and grabbed my hand with her floury ones.

“Andi,” Mama said, after we got back into her bed with our plates and stuffed our faces with waffles and fruit, “as long as you are being your most true, most authentic self, that’s all that matters. You don’t dance to impress other people. You dance because something inside needs to be set free, because it makes you feel alive. Didn’t that make you feel alive?”

But I close my eyes again, and then finally, I end with all the power I can muster.

The room cheers, and I open my eyes to a partial standing ovation.