Saturday morning arrived with a mix of excitement and nerves.
Nate stood in front of the community center, clutching his water bottle like a lifeline. His hoodie was zipped all the way up even though it was a mild spring morning. Around him, other kids and their parents trickled in through the glass doors—some skipping, some clinging tightly to their mums' hands, and a few looking just as nervous as he felt.
Claire knelt down to straighten the strap on his backpack. "You sure you packed your lyric sheet?"
"Yep," he said, though he double-checked anyway. He could feel the telltale fidget of nerves kicking in—his fingers twisting the water bottle cap open and shut with a quiet click, clack.
Claire gave his shoulder a light squeeze. "Don't worry about being good. Just have fun, alright?"
Nate nodded. He wasn't worried about being good. Well—maybe just a little. But it wasn't the spotlight or impressing anyone that had his stomach doing flips. It was the thought of being ordinary.
Inside, the community center was buzzing with activity. Kids' footsteps echoed off the tiled floors. Somewhere nearby, a basketball thudded against a gym wall. The music room was on the second floor, tucked between a library corner and a crafts room that smelled faintly of glue and glitter.
The music room itself was a kaleidoscope of colors. Posters of musical notes danced across the walls, joined by cheerful cartoon instruments and rainbow-colored sound waves. A whiteboard at the front had "Welcome to Singing Stars!" written in curly letters, surrounded by doodles of microphones and stars. There was a piano in the corner with worn keys and chipped wood—old, but clearly loved.
Children were already finding their places on a mismatched circle of beanbags and low stools. Nate scanned the room. Some kids were chatting animatedly, some were clearly sizing each other up, and one was curled up in a beanbag playing a game on a Game Boy.
He slipped quietly onto a blue cushion in the middle row. To his left was a girl with tight pigtails who was humming confidently. To his right, a boy with spiky hair was tapping out rhythms on his knees and mouthing what looked like rap lyrics. A pair of identical twins near the front were whispering and giggling over something on a notepad.
Nate folded his hands in his lap and waited.
The door burst open suddenly, and in swept Miss Talia, their instructor.
She looked like a musical fairy godmother—dressed in a flowing skirt covered in treble clefs, a bright scarf with glittering tassels, and a cascade of silver bangles that jingled every time she moved. Her curly hair bounced with each step.
"Good morning, future rockstars!" she beamed, arms thrown wide. "I'm Miss Talia, and I am beyond thrilled to be on this musical journey with all of you!"
A few kids whooped. One girl clapped. Nate just smiled and sat up a little straighter.
"Now before we make beautiful music together," Miss Talia said, twirling once, "we warm up! Because a singer's body is their instrument."
She led them through an energetic warm-up: wiggling fingers, swinging arms, rolling shoulders. Then came the vocal stretches—silly sounds and exaggerated faces as they mimicked sirens and "lip buzzes" and things that sounded suspiciously like exaggerated yawns.
Some kids went all out, giggling with every sound. Others, like Nate, followed along a little more cautiously, unsure how ridiculous he was allowed to be.
Then came the scales.
"Let's go up the ladder—Do, Re, Mi, Fa, So—"
"—La, Ti, Do!" the twins shouted out with grins.
Miss Talia grinned. "You're ready for the sequel to The Sound of Music, I see."
They sang up and down the scale, voices all over the place. A few hit the notes perfectly. Others wandered wildly, crashing into the wrong pitch like dodgy bumper cars. Nate's voice was somewhere in the middle—not sharp, not flat, just... average.
That wasn't necessarily a bad thing. But it wasn't a "main character moment" either.
"Alright, alright," Miss Talia clapped. "Time for our first official song together—one of my all-time favorites—Sunshine and Rainbows!"
The sheet music was passed around, though most kids just looked at the lyrics. It was a bright, bouncy tune with a chorus that involved clapping and spinning, and a verse about dancing in puddles and smiling at worms. It was clearly written for kids, and yet it was strangely catchy.
Nate joined in, moving with the others. His timing was okay. He remembered the lyrics well enough. But some kids—especially the girl with pigtails, who turned out to be named Daisy—belted the song with the kind of confidence that made it hard not to look at them. Another boy, Ollie, added extra flair with hand gestures and dramatic eyebrows.
Meanwhile, Nate just... sang. He was keeping up. He liked the melody. But he didn't feel particularly sparkly or exceptional. And that, in some quiet part of him, stung.
Wasn't this supposed to be easier?
Miss Talia clapped at the end. "Wonderful start, everyone! Don't worry about hitting every note today—we're just planting seeds. With time and care, you'll grow into brilliant musical sunflowers!"
During the short break, kids milled about with juice boxes and biscuits. Nate took his bottle over to the craft shelf, pretending to examine a poster while eavesdropping on some nearby conversations.
"I already did a solo in our school's nativity play," Daisy was saying. "They told me I have a 'natural vibrato.'"
"What's a vibrato?" asked someone.
"It means your voice wobbles in a cool way," she said proudly.
"Mine wobbles when I'm nervous," another kid said, earning a few laughs.
Nate sat down near a window and sipped his water. He didn't mind not being the center of attention. But he felt like a background character today—like he was just... there.
Still, something about the music had felt good. Something deep and still and warm. Even if he wasn't good yet, it made him want to get better. Slowly. Quietly.
He was okay with that.
The class ended with another round of the song, this time with improvised harmonies and a few kids volunteering to try small solo parts. Nate didn't raise his hand. Not yet. But he sang with more confidence this time, letting his voice rise and fall with the melody. Just being part of something felt nice.
Miss Talia gathered them all in a circle at the end.
"Remember," she said, "singing isn't about being perfect. It's about telling stories. Expressing your heart. The more you practice, the more your voice becomes your own. So sing in the shower, hum while you do homework, and most importantly, have fun!"
Parents waited just outside, and one by one, the kids were collected. Claire waved when she spotted him, her eyes scanning his face for any signs of how it went.
"How was it?" she asked as he stepped into the corridor.
Nate gave her a lopsided grin. "It was fun! I'm not the best, but I like it."
Claire smiled and bent to adjust the strap of his bag. "That's what matters most."
As they walked home under a pale afternoon sun, Nate started humming Sunshine and Rainbows under his breath, barely realizing he was doing it. Claire didn't say anything, just looked over with a soft smile.
Maybe he wouldn't be a prodigy. Maybe he'd never be the loudest singer in the room. But that wasn't the point.
He had time.
Time to practice.
Time to grow.
Time to chase something he wasn't even sure had a name yet.
And in that quiet space between notes and nerves, he was ready to begin.