S is for Scales
Nervous and shaking, Sandy stood in line outside the music room and fiddled with a pencil. She could hear the music teacher, Mrs Wells, barking out instructions to ‘shush’, ‘start, please’, ‘sit down’, ‘start please, for heaven’s sake’ as she hit middle C on the piano as a futile prompt. Sandy had never auditioned at school before because she was a reject. Her parents were weird, she dressed weird, she was weird. She turned the Little Shop of Horrors crib sheet over and over in her hands, folding and unfolding the softened paper. After what felt like an eternity of agony, it was her turn.
“Scales, please” said Mrs Wells.
There were sniggers from the back of the room. All the shiny popular kids were sat there staring, whispering. She dutifully sang a scale. Then she went to sing the song itself (…lift up your head, wash off that mascara…) and could only squeak her way through the first half. The other kids had known it would be this way. As they jeered she was comforted by the fact that in a little under two hours, they would all be eaten by plants. All the plays she read came alive.