Page 22 of The Black Flamingo
at my audition.
Mrs. Evans is strict now.
“We’re not here to talk,
just to sing,” she says.
Mr. Evans doesn’t use sheet music:
he knows all the songs. But
in between playing piano, he just stares
straight ahead in silence.
Emotionless.
No one at my school knows
that it’s my birthday today.
In the toilets at lunch, I eat
the whole batch of Skittles cookies
mum made for me to share with my friends.
Mum doesn’t know I don’t have any friends.
I know if I keep my head down
then I can look forward to stargazing,
peacefully, with Uncle B this evening.
After school, I’m walking behind Alistair
out of the school gates.
“Hey, choirboys!” comes a shout
from one of two bigger boys behind us.
Their gray blazers fit them better
than my oversized one that Mum says
I’ll grow into.
Alistair is a soprano and sings solos
when we perform in school assembly.
But outside choir he is quiet.
He has long hair that covers
half of his face.
