Page 107 of Go Back to December

“Come with me, and I’ll show you.”

We arrive at the pavilion as the Money Honeyville selectwoman introduces Sybil. When we sink down into two open seats in the back, Baz wrinkles his brow.

“Good evening, everyone.” Sybil addresses the audience with a velvet voice. “On behalf of the corporate sponsors, let me express our gratitude for spending your time, and of course, your cash, here tonight.”

The crowd laughs.

Baz leans in. “What’s going on?”

“Watch and see.”

“So many organizations benefit from your support at the carnival. We know many of you are curious to learn more about what they do,” Sybil continues. “Tonight, we’re proud to show you a special preview of a film series that profiles the challenges and successes of some of that work in our urban centers.”

Baz furrows his brow, but I nudge his attention toward the screen that’s lowering. The stage lights dim, and the crowd hushes. A far-off note of a piano key strikes.

“Melody—”

“Two songs,” I whisper. “You promised me two songs.”

The film opens with overtones of an angelic chorus, at odds with the rough landscape of a densely populated public housing development. Two boys clad in crisp school uniforms and bright backpacks march down the sidewalk to board a city bus. They pass through streets of boarded-up storefronts and rundown strip malls before turning onto a more developed block of brick buildings. The voiceover comes from the boys as they discuss the choir school where they study and sing. Between short narratives in their own words, the audio mixes in tracks from their wide-ranging repertoire: hymns, folk songs, electronica.

An official from the city mayor’s office talks about the school’s neighborhood. It’s transitioning slowly. They need more investment to fund programs that give kids a safe space to learn and create.

The producer asks the boys about their favorite song. They exchange cocky grins and together, in perfect harmony, sing a quintessential question about life being real, or fantasy.

Baz stiffens beside me.

The film moves to a pan of a cathedral. A lone piano plucks the first chord of Baz’s favorite song, and the choir sings a capella. There’s a purity to the chorus without accompaniment. The song is stripped down and amplified at the same time, and Baz is transfixed by it.

I’m so relieved he doesn’t hate it. And so moved by the slight awe on his face.

As the boys sing about devils and letting go, the sound swells. The screen on the stage lifts slowly, exposing a piano that replaces the audio track from the film. When the notes crescendo, the boys step out to finish the song in person, walking confidently onstage.

Baz grins like he’s one of them.

People stand up in the pavilion so they can dance and sing along with the song’s climax. We all want to be part of this performance, including Baz. He’s letting that true smile light up the night, and it’s a small miracle, given what happened here five years ago.

The music slows and fades. In the perfect hush of silence, Baz reaches for me, but the crowd thunders applause and we have to rise to our feet and join them.

From their seats up front, Luiza cranes her neck back, whispers something to Annabel. They register the delight Baz can’t hide with his enthusiastic clapping. His infectious joy rouses a giggle from me.

He snakes a gloved hand behind my neck to pull me toward him. Our lips meet like magnets.

It almost hurts, this kiss.

He pulls back and searches my face with a thousand questions in his eyes.

Another note strikes the piano.

“Two songs,” I whisper.

People settle back into their chairs. As Baz pulls me back down into our seats, he won’t relinquish his arm.

The screen descends again, leaving space for the choir to stand beneath it. The next film opens with shots of the city center cut with contrasting footage of abandoned warehouses. A narrator talks about small businesses as the lifeblood of local economies. And how often workforce education is a barrier to employment and economic development.

A lone bass pulls a succession of familiar notes.

The boy soloist repeats the melody. He’s joined by other boys using their voices to build the notes of the bass and beat of percussion before they launch into the verse of “Under Pressure.”