Page 97 of Intermission

And August arrives too swiftly.

Lately, I’ve been working with Mr. Barron on the songs Ryan and Danielle asked me to sing at their wedding. Today is my final lesson before the big day. Things are going well, even though I will never understand my brother’s preference for country music.

In this isolated stretch of moments, as I stand next to Mr. Barron’s piano, singing the admittedly touching words of Keith Urban’s “Your Everything,” everything is right with the world. Of course, I could be perfectly happy singingSesame Streetsongs with Noah Spencer just a few feet away. His smile is light. Warmth. And entirely for me.

Mr. Barron lifts his hands from the piano keys, chuckling. “It never fails to amaze me how you take this little country love song and make it sound like a Broadway ballad.”

“I think it probably helps that I’m accompanied by a solo piano without the fiddle and slide guitar.”

“I think it has very little to do with that and everything to do with the person singing the song.” He looks over the piano, at Noah. “Am I right, or am I right?”

“You are absolutely correct, Mr. Barron. Faith is an artist.”

“Thanks.”

“Oh sure,” Mr. Barron says, giving me a mock frown, “believe the soon-to-be West End sensation, but not the guy who’s been your vocal coach since seventh grade.”

He reaches for his coffee cup and tips it up. “Empty. Again.” His sigh borders on melodramatic. “Guys. I need to run up to the office and get a refill before my next lesson gets here. I simplycannotget through that one without caffeine.”

“You are so mean.” I laugh. “Poor Alex.” The lesson after mine is a seventh grade boy who is experiencing the painful vocal transition of puberty. “His mom still won’t let him quit, huh?”

“Nope. She’s convinced he’s the next Josh Groban.”

“Poor kid.” Noah chuckles. “I hope he survives the humiliation. He really had that Vienna Boys’ Choir thing going last year, butnow?” Noah cringes. “Not so much.”

“You’ve got that right.” Mr. Barron laughs. “Now, it’s more like the Cheese Curd Choir. Squeak! Squoo-eek!”

We all laugh.

“You kids hang here while I get my coffee, and then we’ll do one more run through if there’s time before Alex gets here.” Mr. Barron points a gun-finger at Noah. “I trust you’ll keep your hands to yourself, Spencer?”

Noah raises his hands. “Of course. I will maintain a three-foot radius from Miss Prescott at all times.”

At the door, Mr. Barron turns back and arches an eyebrow in an attempt at mock sternness. “See that you do.” The door shuts on his laughter.

“He’s such a dork.” I shake my head, smiling toward the door.

“But a lovable dork. So... what’s new with my favorite vocal artist?”

“Nothing. My life is completely static.” It’s too true. But I would abandon change forever if I could just keep Noah near. “The wedding is this weekend. But you knew that.” I sigh. “Oh, I readJane Eyreyesterday. Bet you’re sorry you missed that.” I laugh. “I know how much you love that book.”

“Yesterday? As in, you read that whole book in a day?”

“It was a slow day at the salon. I also alphabetized the shampoos, painted my toenails, and memorized a new Bible verse.”

“Sweet. Which verse? Is it one I know?”

“Probably, since you missionaries’ kids are born with the whole Bible memorized.”

“Riiiiight.”

I grin. “Okay, but I’m pretty sure you know this one. John 11:35.”

Noah squints up toward the ceiling as if he might find the verse written on the leak-stained white panels. “Hmm. John eleven thirty-fi—”

His pensive look breaks off in a laugh. “Well, I hope you didn’t suffer any brain drain or anything, memorizing the shortest verse in the Bible.”

I clear my throat over-loudly and posture myself as if I’m about to readTheDeclaration of Independenceto the actual forefathers.“‘Jesus wept.’”