lalalai
lalalai
I will follow the signs
’cause I know when I reach the end it’s you I’ll see
But we can’t waste the time here, it’s now or never
The relentless force of nature
The visage of our future
Sometimes I know it feels like fate is never on our side
But as I stand inside the vortex
I wanna have you here beside me
It’s all I need to leap into a perfect sky!
Stand up, the party’s over here
Come one, come all, jump into the fire
Keep up, let go of your fears
Stand proud and tall, we will never grow tired
Line up; the party’s right here
Come one, come all, let’s follow the north star
Step in, you are whatever you wanna be,
you are free, just like all of us are
Dance away a world you never loved from the start
It’s our ride to the future, are you ready to depart?
“It’s Bell!”
“Bell!!”
The ASes gazed up at her, screaming her name.
Bell is our new diva.
Don’t you think she should spell her name Belle?
Belle?
It means beautiful in French
It’s perfect for her, because she’s not perfect.
It’s an amazing name, to put it mildly!
The cheers of millions of ASes echoed between the skyscrapers.
“Belle!”
“Belle!!”
“Belle!”
“Belle!!”
“Belle!!”
Belle crossed her arms over her chest and flung them open. Graphical images of flowers burst from her body, drifting down on the city from above the placid floating whale. She belted out her song as if she was blessing all people, all things, all life.
Faced with a presence this strong, the power of the critical speech bubbles wilted. They sounded like mere jealousy and resentment.
As a professional music critic, I say two thumbs down.
She’s so fake
Overproduced and sloppy
I don’t get why everyone loves her
On her private channel, Peggie Sue flipped her hair and ranted.
“You’ve gotta be kidding! She’s outranking me?! Get serious!”
But her window was soon crowded with biting comments:
Oh, it’s Peggie Sue.
So yesterday.
idk her
She’s still around?
What a hag.
She went pale and tried beating back the proliferating bubbles.
“What the? Hey! I’m drowning! Stop! Gahhh!!”
But her resistance was in vain. In seconds, her window was obliterated by bubbles.
“Stay jealous, you ignorant saps!” Hiro’s AS screamed victoriously, laughing so hard you could see her tonsils. “Belle changed the world!! Give it up for Belle! Go, go, go!! Belle is awesoooome!!”
The real Hiro was cackling uncontrollably in front of her computer monitor.
“Hiroka, what are you laughing about?!” her father interrupted furiously, his arms crossed as he towered behind her. Her mother was standing next to him, looking upset.
“He told me you can’t use this room anymore,” she said defeatedly.
The boisterous voices of the women’s choir echoed through the school building.
I graduated from this elementary school, but it’s not used anymore. The weedy playground has been turned into a parking lot; it’s now full of cars. The shelves where we used to leave our shoes are empty. In the hallway, long meeting tables are stacked on top of each other, and maps of the Niyodo River drawn by kids are peeling from the wall. The desks are gone from the classrooms, replaced by a jumble of triangular rulers, computer monitors, disaster-response helmets, and other junk.
The word “Graduation” was still written on a blackboard, as if time had stopped. The gym had become a storage vault full of discarded instruments, folding chairs, and benches. A wooden plaque carved with the faces of graduates hung on the wall. In the 1990s, there were several in each class, but by the early 2010s, there were only two or three students graduating each year. Then there were a few years with just one student (me), and that was where the carvings ended.
Five women were standing on the stage in the gym, singing.
“Alle psallite cum luya.” We sing and play our lyres.
Alle psallite cum luya
Alle concrepando psallite cum luya
Alle corde voto Deo toto, psallite cum luya
Alleluya
This choral group was made up of five feisty women in their forties through their seventies, all with various backgrounds and careers. They called themselves the Choir Squad. The gym’s rafters echoed with their voices like it was a church.
When they finished their hymn, they caught their breath and began examining their sheet music. Today’s practice was being observed by a group of visitors from some other town, who began to clap hesitantly.
The local government employee who was leading their tour said awkwardly, “As you can see, we’ve been working to find creative community uses for our old school buildings. Now if you’ll just follow me…”
With that, he herded the visitors toward the exit. Ms. Kita, who was wearing a tie-dyed dress, fanned her face as if to pull herself together.
“It’s hard to get excited about practicing Christmas songs with all the cicadas making such a racket,” she said.
That made their schedule sound easygoing, but the fact was, they had just finished a summer concert and had music festivals or senior center performances lined up nearly every month. They all had full-time jobs, too. Ms. Kita was talking about their next major concert at the end of the year.
Mom used to belong to this choir. After she died, I joined in her place. Or to put it more honestly, they felt bad for me and invited me to join them whenever they practiced. I would hide behind a column and watch them, secretly singing along under my breath. That was the sort of “member” I’d been since I was little. Today, as usual, I had burrowed under the marimba and was whispering along to their songs.