I've always wanted to sing, and in my heart, when I do, I hit notes true. Yet, when Mr. Vincent, the only male teacher in our all-girls private school, whom all the girls have a massive crush on, though he knows I know he has a crush on Sasha, on one of the male ballet dancers at Les Grand Ballet Canadiens where I study dance "seriously", and therefore, he kind likes me more than any of the other frivolous girls with their insipid emotions, listens to me sing, and instead of letting me sing one of the solos, or in the choir during our Christmas concert, we are giving in the beautiful Saint James church down the street, he gives me bells to jingle and a leather strap to snap, which I foolishly interpret as a kind of solo, until my friend Ann jokingly expounds about my tone deafness, many years later, to my teenage kids, as we rest at the top of Mount Royal Park looking down at the city, and while everyone laughs, I shrink inward because I had never been on the joke, even back then.
No comments:
Post a Comment