HOME ONE My chest is tight. I clutch Mr. Grey's guitar like it's going to fly away. This is it. My final chance to get on the Brown & Jolly Stage and knock 'em dead. I can do this. I can really do this. I peek out from the wings. My entire school faces me. I see Mrs. Doherty, the principal, sitting in the front row, her expression terse. Dread feels like Antarctica on a winter's day. I can do this. I have to do this. This is the furthest I have ever made it. Usually, I chicken out before signing up for the concert. But this year, Mr. Grey gave me the guilt treatment in epic proportions. "Queenie, I have been teaching you now for nearly seven years. You're the best guitarist I've ever taught. Yet you're the only kid I've ever taught who refuses to perform. Do you want to make my entire teaching experience pointless? This is it, kiddo. After this, there is no end-of-year school concert. Just the upper school. And you know what that's like." I don't know what it's like. But I do know what it's like to carry Mr. Grey's guilt. It's a weighty object, and he's been putting it on my shoulders every year since I made him cry by fingerpicking "Moonlight Sonata." So I did it. I told Mr. Grey I'd play a song at the end-of-year concert. Mr. Grey had already printed the posters. So he had to go out and do a reprint especially for me. Quadruple guilt. Max Rawling is currently belting out the final bit of "Bohemian Rhapsody" on melodeon. It's awful. But the kid's so confident. You've got to give him that. "Good luck, Queenie," says Sparrow Hawkins, poking me in the ribs. "Thanks," I mutter. Thank goodness Sparrow is on after me. If you looked at Sparrow, you wouldn't straightaway think she had the potential to be an archrival. She's so friendly-looking, with her oversize mouth and shiny dark skin. Anyone who wears that many colorful beads in her hair should not be an archrival. But ever since Sparrow and I stopped being best friends in kindergarten, when she told me she could sing better than me, I've done my best to keep out of her spotlight. Sparrow the Fabulous. The Voice of Destiny. Sparrow the Spotlight Stealer. Sparrow will sing after me, and she'll be better than me. But for a moment, I'll own the spotlight, and I'll sing my favorite song, and Mr. Grey's guilt will slip off my shoulders, and I can proceed to the upper school weightless and victorious. I, Queenie Jean Anderson, performed at Curlew Point's end-of-year concert. Mrs. Fig, head of the PTA and yearbook committee, is emceeing the annual concert. When Max finally departs the stage, Mrs. Fig strides on in cowboy boots. "Thank you, Max. Marvelous. Simply marvelous. Aren't all our kids talented?" There's a polite clap and murmur from the students and supportive parents. Mum's not out there today. Not because she's not supportive. But because she's at Diamonds, the senior care village where she works. She probably could have gotten out of her shift if she knew about the concert. But I decided to save her the hassle. Having Mum in the audience might have been more than my nerves could handle. "And now for our next performance," Mrs. Fig reads from the little square of paper in her hand. She has to squint. My tummy rolls over. This is it. No escaping things now. "Sparrow Hawkins." What? My throat tightens. I should call out. I should let Mrs. Fig know that she's wrong. It's supposed to be me, then Sparrow. But Mrs. Fig is marching offstage and Sparrow is skipping on, her brand-new black guitar strapped to her back. She positions herself center stage, feet hip-width apart. She flicks her braids from her face with an almighty whip. "Go, Sparrow!" someone calls out. Sparrow's everyone's favorite sixth grader. She's been shining on this stage since kindergarten. Following Sparrow Hawkins is like being the overcooked peas served after ice cream. Disgusting and inferior. I'm not even a palate cleanser. Sparrow strikes a few chords. People cheer. The notes sink into me. I want to disappear. Evaporate. She's singing "Ocean Eyes." She's singing my song. My favorite song. The song I am about to play straight after her in a less impressive way. The first verse wraps around me, holding me hostage. By the chorus, I'm out of there. I slip out the side door and carry Mr. Grey's guitar back to the music room. Leaving is so ridiculously easy. I spend the rest of the end-of-year concert by myself in the library, reading Asterix and Obelix, trying to distract myself from the hopeless case of pathetic I know I am right now. Excerpted from Queenie in Seven Moves by Zanni Louise All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.
