Deedee pressed her nose against the tall church window. Inside, the choir practiced their Sunday hymns. Their voices rose and fell like ocean waves. She wanted that more than anything—to stand at the front microphone as lead soloist. Her fingers traced circles on the cold glass. Every week she sat in the pews with her family, mouthing the words, imagining herself up there. But only the best singer at St. Ignatius got to be lead soloist. Deedee pushed her glasses up her nose and took a deep breath. She would practice every single day until Father Murphy noticed her. This year, that microphone would be hers. The next morning, Deedee walked past the Harmony Music School sign on her way home from the market. The wooden sign swung gently in the breeze. She stopped and stared at the painted letters. Her stomach twisted. Real singers took lessons. They learned proper breathing and how to hit the high notes without cracking. Maybe that's what she needed to beat the other girls in the choir. She kept walking until she reached the town square. A microphone stood on a metal stand near the fountain. Street musicians used it on weekends to perform for people passing by. Deedee's heart thumped hard. She could practice there. She could get used to singing in front of strangers before she had to sing in front of Father Murphy. At the fountain, she sat on the stone edge and listened. Water splashed against the basin in a steady rhythm. Tap-tap-splash. Tap-tap-splash. Her foot started tapping along. Everything had a beat if you listened close enough. She hummed a few notes, matching the fountain's rhythm. A smile spread across her face. She didn't need fancy lessons yet. She just needed to practice everywhere she could.