Molly's Promise (8 page)
When Molly got home, her dad was sitting in his favorite chair, watching the news. She flopped on the sofa across from him.
“You missed some kind of crazy event at Grandma's house this afternoon,” she said, covering herself with a blanket. “How come you didn't come?”
“I couldn't get off work early enough,” he said, not taking his eyes off the
TV
.
“Even Danny's mom was there,” she said. “Uncle Maynard gave me some money. I'm going shopping with Celia Saturday morning. She said she'd chip in and that I should scrounge something from you as well.” Molly couldn't believe how brave she was being. She usually didn't like asking for money.
“Of course, honey,” he said as he pulled out his wallet and looked at her.
“I wish you'd been there,” she said. “At Grandma's.”
“I'm sorry, Moll,” he said, leafing through the bills in his wallet. “I support you, I really do, it's just that⦔
“It's just that what?”
“It's just that I've been really tied up with work. I've got a lot of things on my mind. But here.” He passed her five twenty-dollar bills. “Is that enough?”
“It's plenty,” she said. “I wish Mom had been there today.”
He swiveled his chair so that they were face to face. “Molly, we've talked about this. Why do you keep torturing yourself with dreams that one day she's going to show up?”
Molly stared out the window at the budding tree in the front yard. “I made a promise when I was little.”
“And?” he prodded. “What promise?”
“I promised myself that Mom would be the first person to hear me sing. That's why I only sang in my head, to myself. Then you heard me, and then Murphy, and now everyone on the reserve,” Molly said. “Pretty soon everyone will have heard me sing
except
Mom. I broke my promise. But my voice couldn't wait for her. I just had to sing.”
He said, “I'm sorry, baby. I really am. But I'm glad you decided to break your promise and finally sing.”
Molly sat up. “I've made a new promise though,” she said. “When I finally see my mom, I'm going to sing just for her. It's going to be the first thing I do when I see her. My voiceâit's still a present for her.”
Her dad looked confused.
“Thanks for the money, Dad,” Molly said, changing the subject.
“Get something that makes you feel great.”
She put the money into her pocket. “I've never gone shopping like this before.”
“I'm sure you'll get the hang of it,” he said.
Murphy's mom arrived at nine o'clock on Saturday.
“Trev, we'll be back around three, if that's okay,” she said. “Unless, of course, you want to come with us.”
Molly's dad laughed. “No, you two go ahead. I'll sit this one out,” he said. “Happily.”
“Your girl is going to be a star,” Celia said, pulling a chair out and sitting down at the kitchen table. “Can you believe how she sings?”
Molly's dad said simply, “Yeah, I can.”
He and Celia stared at each other for a moment in a way that made Molly realize she was missing something, something being said without words.
Molly stood in the change room, glaring at herself in the yellow dress Celia had picked out. She looked like a daffodil. She tore it off and looked at her scrawny feet, her thin, tube-like torso and the space between her teeth. She was nothing but a scruffy little kid. Her hair hung in strings over her flat chest. Her butt didn't even fill out her baggy undies. Her knees stuck out like giant knobs on her bruised legs. And, worst of all, hair had begun to grow under her arms, a pathetic announcement that one day she would be an adult. There were no other hints of maturing taking place, other than the greasy skin she had begun to notice around her nose. She got dressed, leaving the dress crumpled on the change-room floor, and tramped out of the store. “I hate shopping.”
“Don't give up so soon,” Celia said. “You have to get good at shopping. It's like anything elseâyou have to practice.”
“Practice, practice, practice,” Molly said. “I don't want to practice.”
“Okay, then,” Celia said. “How about we quit shopping for a while and find someone to do your hair?”
“I've never had my hair done at a salon,” Molly said.
“You'll love it.”
Molly concentrated on her face in the hairdresser's mirror. Her fine, straw-colored hair was parted in the middle and straggled down the sides of her face and over her shoulders. Her eyes were so pale, it was hard to tell if they were blue or green. Her skin was light, but compared to the woman in the chair beside her, Molly realized, she looked tanned. Boringâthat's the best word to describe me, thought Molly.
“So, sweetie,” the hairdresser said cheerily. She was a tall, lanky young woman with hair as black as shoe leather except for a shock of pink on top. “My name's Reggi. What do we want to do today?”
Molly shrugged.
Reggi turned to Celia. “What does Mom think?”
“She's not my mom,” Molly quickly said, and then, worried that she had sounded snappy, added, “I mean, she's my friend's mom.”
“Okay, friend's mom. What do you think?” Reggi asked.
Celia told Reggi about the competition. “So we need a winning haircut.”
“Wow, cool!” Reggi said. “I've got a great cut for you.” She explained that she was going to cut bangs, layer the body and blunt the ends. “How does that sound?” she asked.
Molly said, “Anything will be better than the haircuts Dad does.”
When Reggi was finished, Molly swung her head from side to side. Her hair didn't only look great. It also felt great.
“Thanks,” Molly said. “I don't look boring anymore.”
Reggi stepped back and looked Molly up and down. “Girl,” she said, “you are not even close to boring. You got something inside you that most of us only dream about. You go get it, do it, love it, feel it. Just sing, girl, sing.”
Molly brushed a few hairs off her shirt and felt something changing inside. She flicked her head again and watched her hair slither and glimmer.
It wasn't easy, but finally Molly found clothes that were rightâa pair of high leather boots, jeans and a red T-shirt. She and Celia found a screen printer, and on the front of the T-shirt they had
Sing Girl Sing
printed in black letters.
On Sunday, Murphy showed up at Molly's house after breakfast, carrying his notepad. “Less than a week to go,” he said. “We have to rehearse.”
“Morning, Murph,” Molly's dad said.
“Ya, hi, Mr. J,” he said, checking his list. “We haven't even decided what song Molly's going to sing.”
“I think we all know she has to sing âSummertime,'” her dad said. “The judges won't believe it.”
“That works for me,” Murphy said. “What do you think, Moll?”
“It works for me, too,” she said. She felt good that her dad was taking an interest.
“And we haven't decided if she's going to sing a cappella or use music. What do you think?” Murphy asked.
“Let's go without music. No one else is going to sing that way,” said Molly.
“Okay, no music,” Murphy said firmly.
Molly's dad and Murphy sat on the sofa.
“We're ready,” her dad said.
After Molly had sung, Murphy said, “Good. That was really good. Next time, think of us as the judges.”
She sang it again, wincing slightly at the thought of competing.
“You didn't look as happy that time,” her dad said.
Molly scrunched up her nose. “I wasn't,” she said. “I don't like being judged.”
Murphy said, “Get used to it. That's what this is all about.”
“For you, maybe,” she said.
“Okay. This time pretend we're the audience,” he said.
Molly imagined hundreds of people watching her. She felt them breathing. No one made a sound in her imagination. No one moved. The more she sang, the closer they listened, until in the end they erupted like a flock of geese taking to the sky.
“Wow, Moll,” her dad said. “I think you're ready. What do you think, Mr. Manager? How can she do better than that?”
“You're right, Mr. J. And I think she likes an audience better than judges.” Murphy read his notes. “We need to check a few things. Clothing. Do you have something comfortable? Hair. It's awesome, Moll. Tickets. Mr. J, do you have a ticket?”
“Not yet,” her dad said.
“No worries,” Murphy said, digging in his pocket. He handed Molly's dad a rumpled ticket. “Grandma thought you might need one. She bought twenty tickets, or something like that. Everyone is coming early to get front-row seats. Molly's going to have the biggest cheering section there.”
Molly stood next to Albert on the sidelines of the soccer field on Sunday afternoon.
“So, Moll,” Albert said, tapping a ball with the toe of his boots. “Are we going to win?”