Page 29 of His Holy Chaos

"It's better."

The silence in the room is spectacular. Mrs. Reyes covers her mouth. One of the basses lets out a low whistle. Mrs. Patterson is laughing again.

“You’re going to get yourself a whooping, young man,” she says, having fun. I almost say ‘I hope so’.

Ford sets his baton down on the music stand. He does it slowly. He walks toward me and the choir parts like the Red Sea. He stops about a foot from me, close enough that I can smell his cologne, close enough that I have to tilt my chin up to meet his eyes.

"Outside," he says. One word. Quiet. "Now."

My stomach flips. Every nerve in my body fires at once. I hold his gaze for one more second, two, three, letting the room watch, letting them see that I'm not afraid, even though my heart is trying to escape through my ribs. Then I smile.

"Yes, sir," I say, and I walk toward the door, feeling every pair of eyes on my back and Ford's gaze burning hottest of all. Everybody looks amused, at least, and that only feeds on my show.

Outside, Ford scowls at me. "What are you doing, you little brat? Do you think this is funny?"

"The altos are getting everything wrong and it's sooooo boring," I say, leaning against the stone wall like I haven't just disrupted an entire rehearsal. "I was providing entertainment. A public service, really."

"You were undermining my authority in front of my choir."

"I was harmonizing. Beautifully, I might add."

"That's not the point and you know it." He steps closer, and I can see the vein in his temple that only appears when I've really gotten under his skin. I love that vein. I want to name it.

"Okay, okay," I say, raising my hands in surrender. "I'll behave."

"You say that every time."

"And I mean it every time. For at least five minutes." I flash him my best smile. He doesn't smile back, but the vein retreats slightly, which I count as progress.

"Jude, I'm serious. This is my choir. These people trust me to lead them. When you act like that, it doesn't just reflect on you. It reflects on me."

That lands harder than I expect. The playfulness drains from my chest and something heavier replaces it. He's right. I know he's right. These aren't club people who expect chaos. These are church ladies and retired men who show up every morning because they love music and they love Ford's direction. And I just turned their rehearsal into a circus.

"You're right," I say, and I mean it. No joke attached, no deflection. "I'm sorry. I won't do it again."

He studies me, searching for the punchline. When he doesn't find one, his posture relaxes a fraction.

"Here's what I think," I say, before he can respond. "I think you're wrong about me being a problem in there. Give me the rest of practice. I'll be so good you won't recognize me. I'll follow every direction. I'll be the best tenor you've ever had. And by the end, your choir will thank you for having me there."

"That's a bold claim."

"I'm a bold person. But if I'm right, you have to admit that I’m right and then admit I belong in your choir."

Ford crosses his arms. "And if you're wrong?"

"Then you can kick me out. No hard feelings," I say it lightly, but my heart seizes at the thought. I don't want to lose this. Any of it.

He considers me for a long moment. "Deal," he says.

We walk back in. Every head turns. I ignore them all, take my place with the tenors, and I become invisible.

Not invisible like I don't exist. I blend into the tenor section so seamlessly that my voice becomes indistinguishable from the whole, supporting without dominating, lifting without drawing attention. When Ford cues us, I follow his baton like it's the only thing in the room. When he adjusts tempo, I adjust with him, half a breath ahead of the others because I'm watching his hands. I don't improvise. I don't embellish. I don't sigh, tap, or conduct. I just sing, exactly what's written, exactly when it's needed.

The Sanctus sounds different. Better. The tenors find a cohesion they didn't have before, because I'm quietly anchoring the pitch from the center of the section, giving the weaker singers something to lean into without realizing they're leaning. Ford notices. I can tell because his left hand, the one that shapes dynamics, starts asking for more from us, drawing out phrases he normally rushes through because the tenors can't sustain them. Today, we can. Today, I make sure we can.

When we move to the Agnus Dei, the same section the altos kept dragging, I do something subtle. I breathe with the altos' timing instead of against it, and the tenors around me unconsciously follow. The drag corrects itself, not because anyone told the altos to fix it, but because the support beneath them shifted. Ford's eyebrows rise by a millimeter. He knows exactly what I've done.

The final run-through is the best the choir has sounded since I've been coming. I can feel it in the room, that electric stillness when music transcends rehearsal and becomes something real. Even Mrs. Patterson has her eyes closed, lost in it.