Offertory

Becky Dennison was twenty-two and she knew it. Knew she was good, too. Best soprano in three counties, her grandma said so, and grandma had sung in church choirs since before Nixon.

The joint practice was at St. Dymphna's, which was a big stone building that smelled like old candles and older dust. Her little community choir had borrowed the space because the acoustics were famous. Isa Roach's choir would be there too, which was the whole problem.

Isa ran the choir from Our Redeemer, the big fancy church across town. Forty-three years old, tall, silver streak in her black hair, arms like she still did swim team. Everybody knew her choirs won the regional competition every single year. Everybody also knew she was kind of terrifying.

Becky was late. Not a little late. Twenty minutes late, because her car decided to die on Route 9 and she had to beg a ride off her cousin.

She slipped in the back door during the warmups, cheeks burning. The loft was packed. Both choirs standing in rows, folders up, Isa at the piano picking out the opening line of the processional.

Isa stopped mid-bar. The room went quiet. Way too quiet.

"Well. Look who finally decided to join us," Isa said, turning on the bench. She didn't yell. That was the scary part. She just looked at Becky like a teacher looks at homework she's already graded. "Miss Dennison. Section leader. Late to the one rehearsal that matters."

"I'm really sorry, my car..." Becky started.

"I didn't ask for a story." Isa tapped her pencil against the music stand. "Sopranos, listen to this. Your section leader shows up whenever she pleases, and then you wonder why you always sound mushy on entrances. You can't follow somebody who can't follow a clock."

Somebody in Isa's alto row snickered. Becky felt her face go hot all the way down her neck. Her own choir, her little ragtag group of bank tellers and retirees, stared at their shoes.

"Get in your row," Isa said. "We're starting over."

They started over. Twice. Isa worked that room like a drill sergeant with perfect pitch, and Becky sang her heart out and mostly tried to pretend she wasn't being made an example of. Brian Jonathan, Isa's assistant director, stood off to the side with his arms crossed, smiling a little too much whenever Becky got singled out. He was maybe thirty-one, thin, always looked like he was enjoying a private joke.

At the break, Becky got water and tried to breathe. That was when Isa appeared next to her, quiet as a cat.

"You have a lovely voice," Isa said. "Truly. When you're not busy being proud of it."

"Excuse me?"

"You heard me. You sing like you're doing us all a favor. Your section follows that attitude right off a cliff." Isa took a sip of her own coffee. "Stay after tonight. Sacristy. Just you and me. I'll fix what's wrong with you, if you'll let me."

"And if I don't?"

"Then you'll go home, and you'll lose the competition in two weeks, and it'll be nobody's fault but your own." Isa shrugged. "Your choice, Miss Dennison. I'm offering help. Nobody ever said help would feel good."

Isa walked away before Becky could answer. Which was probably the point.

***

Rehearsal ran another hour. By the end Becky's throat ached and her pride ached worse. Her sopranos actually sounded tighter, though, and she hated how much that mattered to her. Sid Haines, the custodian, a gray tired man of about thirty-eight, came through stacking hymnals while both choirs packed up. He nodded at Becky once, neutral as furniture.

"Lockup's at nine," he told Isa. "I'll be in the basement if anybody needs anything."

"Thank you, Sid," Isa said sweetly, and then turned to Becky. "Sacristy. Now, please!"

The sacristy was a small stone room off the chancel, all vestment cabinets and one lamp glowing amber. Isa shut the door and Becky heard the click of a lock and her stomach did something weird about that.

"Terms first," Isa said, sitting down on a plain wooden chair like a queen taking a throne. "This is private coaching, and I do it my way or not at all. You will follow every order I give you. No backtalk, no arguing, no 'but Miss Roach.' You say 'yes ma'am.' If anything is too much, you say 'canon.' That word stops everything, instantly, and we go back to being two adults and nobody's pride gets touched. Understand?"

Becky swallowed. "Yes ma'am!"

"Good girl. And just so we're clear, this isn't a game to me. Pride is a singing problem. It sits in the throat and the jaw and the spine, and I'm going to take it out of you tonight." Isa stood and picked up something from the cabinet. A wooden paddle, smooth, about the length of her forearm. Becky's mouth went dry.

"You're going to hit me?" Becky said, way too loud.

"I'm going to correct you. Bend over the altar rail. Hands flat on the top rail, feet apart, back straight." Isa's voice never went up. "Bend. Over. The rail."

Becky's brain said run. Her knees said otherwise. Twenty-two years of being the best soprano, of needing to win, and here was a woman offering her exactly what she needed if she'd just obey. She bent over the altar rail, palms flat, staring at the worn wood. Her skirt pulled tight across her backside.

"Posture," Isa said, walking a slow circle around her. "You stand like a diva. Chest thrown out, chin up, like the room owes you applause. A soprano's spine belongs to the ensemble. Straighten your back. Flatter. There."

The first spank landed and Becky yelped. Loud. It cracked against her skirt like a door slamming.

"Quiet. You'll take every one silently or we stop and your sopranos stay mushy." Isa rubbed the paddle in a small circle. "Count the next one in your head. Breathe out on impact. That's the whole trick, breath control."

The second one came harder. Becky bit her lip and breathed out through her nose, and sure enough it hurt less, or hurt different, a hot spreading sting that went somehow all the way down her spine. The third. The fourth. Isa spaced them out, patient, watching Becky's posture like a hawk.

"Your back is bowing. Again. Flat."

The fifth one made Becky's eyes water. The sixth made her gasp, and the sound that came out of her was not exactly a gasp of pain, and she prayed to whatever saint was listening that Isa hadn't noticed.

Isa noticed. Of course Isa noticed.

"Oh," Isa said, and something in it was almost gentle, which was worse somehow. "Well. Isn't that interesting. You're doing wonderfully, Miss Dennison. Most girls your age are fighting me by now."