another spoonful of pudding. âIn other news, have you heard thereâs going to be a school-wide talent show next month?â She pulled a flyer announcing the contest out of her backpack and slapped it onto the table. âI was thinking maybe . . .â
She trailed off, shoveling more pudding into her mouth, but Lark knew a stalling tactic when she saw one. A feeling of dread welled up in her stomach, mingling with the gooey knot of undigested grilled cheese. âYou were thinking maybe . . .Â
what
?â
âThat I could enter one of my music videos,â Mimi blurted. âAnd by that, I mean one of
your
videos.
Our
videos. I know itâs not a traditional talent show act, but filmmaking is a talent and Iâd love to be recognized for what I do. Nobody at this whole school knows Iâm an aspiring director. It would be nice to get some props for a change.â
Lark was seized by a grip of panic. âI totally get that, Meems, and I hate to have to be the one to point this out, but
you
being recognized means
I
have to be recognized, too. You know how I feel about singing in public.â
âI know, I know,â said Mimi. âIâve heard the story a million times, all about poor little nine-year-old Lark Campbell, who was picked to sing âThe Star-Spangled Bannerâ at the Nashville Fourth of July parade. But when she marched up to the stage in her adorable red, white, and blue sundress and opened her mouth to sing, she only got as far as âthe dawnâs early lightâ before her head started spinning and she passed out. And she hasnât sung in public again since.â
Automatically, Larkâs thumb went to her forehead to trace the nearly invisible scar above her left eyebrow. âIt was humiliating. I needed four stitches.â
âIt was three years ago!â Mimi put down the pudding cup and took both of Larkâs hands in hers. âPlease, Lark. If you let me use one of my . . . your . . .Â
our
videos, it wouldnât be like singing in front of a live audience. You wouldnât even have to be in the audience, although it would be cool if you were. Wonât you just please think about it? Please?â
Lark looked around the lunchroom, trying to imagine what it would feel like to have her schoolmates hear her sing one of her original songs. The jocks, the cheerleaders, the cool kids, the fashionistas, the brainiacs . . . what would they think of her? Would they judge her?
Um . . .Â
yeah
, they would. This was middle schoolâof course they would judge her!
But what if they actually
liked
her sound? Maybe theyâd say, âWow, we didnât know the new girl was so talented.â Maybe Alessandra Drakeâthe best-dressed and most popular girl in seventh gradeâwould even ask where Lark got those cool, hand-tooled western boots she wore in every single video Mimi shot. Maybe Teddy Reese would think she had the sweetest voice heâd ever heard.
Or maybe they would they all laugh and call her a bumpkin for singing country music. Sure, country-pop was more mainstream than ever before, but she was an outsider, a Southern girl from Tennessee who idolized Dolly Parton and Kenny Chesney.
âIâll think about it, Meems,â she said at last. âI swear, Iâll think about it, but I canât make any promises, okay?â
Mimi nodded, then gave Lark a serious look. âItâs not just for me, you know. Youâre such an awesome singer. You owe it to yourself to let the whole world in on the secret.â
âThanks,â said Lark, her eyes darting to where Teddy was getting up to return his lunch tray. âIâll see what I can do.â
When the bell rang, she told Mimi sheâd see her later, in history class, then dumped the remaining ninety-five percent of her lunch into the trash and headed to the music room. It
Major Dick Winters, Colonel Cole C. Kingseed