Chapter 1

“Can girls wear tuxes?”

Lane sits in the back row of the alto section. She runs her fingers through her short brown hair as she leans back in her seat, waiting patiently for an answer. It’s a normal Monday night rehearsal for the Brooklyn Heights Choir. From my seat across the stage in the first row of the soprano section, I can see the black treble clef tattoo on her wrist.

“Ladies, you can wear tuxes if you want,” Bill, our conductor, replies. “If not, then you must wear the concert dress.”

Lane is asking this question to make a point. She knows it, Bill knows it, the entire choir knows it. She keeps her gaze trained across the room on the conductor, whose white hair has billowed from its neatly combed-back style over the course of the rehearsal.

“You all know this is an inclusive choir,” Bill continues. “You have two choices: a tuxedo, or the standard concert dress. Everyone is free to choose whichever they are most comfortable with.”

Lane nods, satisfied, and exchanges a look with Kat, who’s sitting next to her. Lane has been a mainstay in the choir for the past year and a half, and when she showed up to perform in her first concert, she was wearing a pristine black tuxedo. Her gaggle of friends practically fell all over themselves at intermission taking selfies with her—it had been as if a celebrity was suddenly in our midst. She looked dapper and cool, and I was immediately self-conscious of the drapery that I was wearing. I felt hideous by comparison, and it was a small consolation that the floor length, itchy polyester-blend black uniform dress did its job of rendering me invisible in the eighty-voice choir. No one paid Lane too much mind up until that point. But now, singers and audience alike were abuzz with the news about the girl in the tux.

But it was more than just that. Apparently, no one had challenged the gender norms of our choir’s concert uniforms before, and Lane’s stunt transformed the culture of our choir virtually overnight. The mid-season audition brought a wave of people from the LGBTQ community, and all of them seemed to be able to transform their chosen choir uniform into a fashion statement.

The new choir members brought with them not only a new look but a new sound. We were suddenly armed with Max, a beatboxing transgender man who loved the opportunity to add percussion to our newer repertoire; Kat, a transgender woman with a doctor of musicology in Tuvan throat singing; Jill, a professional opera singer who specializes in vocal coaching singers through their gender transition, and many more people who are not only good singers but bring their unique talents and identities to the table.

I’ve become friendly with Lane and have been granted access by proxy to get to know our new cohort of singers. I found myself falling in love with our Monday night rehearsals, and it’s often the highlight of my week.

“Oooh,” James snickers into my ear.

I elbow him. “Stop it.”

James and I have known each other since we were in diapers. He’s been there through childhood and puberty and every awkward phase. And yet, it’s times like this that I wonder why I remain his friend.

“What’s the matter, Morgan, did I make fun of your girlfriend?” James taunts, taking special care to keep quiet enough that no one hears him but me.

I roll my eyes. In this moment, I hate Bill for seating me next to James in the front row; Bill insists that he needs me there as section leader because I have the kind of ear that could lead the sopranos when the tenors get pitchy. I don’t have the most beautiful voice, but I’m always on pitch, and I blend well, which is more important than a pretty voice in a choir setting. Bill says I’m the workhorse of the section. By the way he says it, I know he believes he’s giving me a compliment, but all I hear is that I’m strongly mediocre.

“She’s my friend. I don’t like the way you talk about her.”

“Whatever, man.” James brushes a lock of shiny black hair out of his brown eyes. “If you ask me, I think you two should get it on already.”

“You’re a dick,” I shoot back. “Go find a homophobic choir and leave me alone.”

James’s eyes darken at this. “I’m not a homophobe, I love gay people,” he glowers, and finally shuts up.

* * * *

Bill calls a break ten minutes later. I abandon my seat next to James and head toward the nearest coffee shop with Lane for tea.