Read an Excerpt
“We’re the Warblers,” the tuning fork woman said. She was wearing suspenders over her lumberjack shirt. She was probably often mistaken for a man until she spoke. Her stockiness didn’t match her voice.
“Is that your band?” I asked.
The redhead stiffened and adjusted her lime cuffs, which glared brightly against her white arms. “We’re a registered organization dating back to 1950. During our heyday, we had over two hundred members.”
“We’re what’s left,” the old man added, toasting a cookie at me. He ate from a box in his lap.
“Why whistling?” I asked.
They stared. I stared back.
“Because it feels good,” the wrestler said. “And it’s free.” He gave a wide smile and shoved his hands under his armpits.
“Whistling’s not my profession,” I told them.
“We know you sang.” The teenager grinned.
“I still do,” I replied.
They shot each other knowing looks before turning back to me.
“We thought you could counsel us for our upcoming Biennial,” the old man said.
I asked for clarification.
“There are local chapters like ours across the country.” The redhead spoke slowly, as if I were a child. “We meet up every second year. There’s a competition and we need help winning. Because Jojo here, despite her family connections, never pulls through.”
“I thought you did this to feel good,” I said.
The redhead folded her arms. “I want my trophy. Everyone steers clear of opera for the classical component of the contest. That’s our in.”
“Why would they avoid opera?” I asked.
“Well, it’s so . . .”
“So what?”
“Loud,” the teenager said.
“He means over the top,” the old man added.
“It’s the acting that’s unfortunate,” the redhead said. “Do they not equip you lot with lessons?”
