And all I’m saying is – Katy Perry’s never done that for me.

What do you do when your father wants you to change back into his idea of you? You hold your ground. Even if you have to move out of your house. Even if you’re not welcome at Christmas. Even if it puts everyone in the middle in an awkward position. After a certain point, it was not my job to make him understand. I had to hope that in the fucked-up equation of parenthood, the coefficients of disappointment and fear would eventually be overtaken by how much he missed me and how much, essentially, he loved me, or at least saw how the other people he loved could find a way to love me without any qualifiers.

Joe’s hand is inches from mine. Centimetres. This has to be what love is, to physically feel a person even though you’re not actually touching.

What I hate, Tyrone, is how excited I was to see you today.

Singing is best when it testifies. Singing is best when it shines with truth and love. Singing burns brightest when you mean the words to be heard.

I want Mr Glenn to see me now. I remember when I auditioned for him – upstart ninth-grader trying to get a spot in the high school chorus. I don’t know anything. When it’s my turn to audition, I tell him I’m going to sing Christina Aguilera’s ‘Beautiful’. He asks me if I’m sure. I tell him I’m very sure. I’ve even downloaded the sheet music from the Internet. I hand it over to him and he sits down at the piano, asking me if I’m ready. I sing along to it all the time – shower, car, bedroom – and I’m sure this will be the same. Even though it’s just a piano accompanying me, I try to hear all the instruments as I tear right into the song, trying to hit the notes just like Christina does. Mr Glenn doesn’t stop me – he plays the whole song through. And then when it’s done, he looks at me and says, “I have a question.” I ask him what. And he asks, “Why are you singing falsetto?” I don’t know what he means, and instead of pretending I do, I ask him what he’s talking about. “That’s not your real voice,” he says. “You’re probably a baritone. Not a tenor.” I tell him I still don’t understand. He’s patient. He says, “Your speaking voice is different from your singing voice. Can’t you hear that?” And I say, perfectly sure, “I know, but my speaking voice isn’t my real voice – my singing voice is.” What I don’t say, because I haven’t come close to figuring it out yet, is that I’m not even trying to be a tenor. I want to be a soprano. But maybe Mr Glenn gets that. Because he doesn’t laugh or tell me I’m wrong. He thanks me for sharing my song with him. I don’t get into the chorus, but I get to keep my voice. I start to figure things out and pave over the gravel that never should have been in my speaking voice, so now it’s smooth music instead of a rough road. While I never make it to soprano, I’m now a damn strong alto. If I auditioned now, Mr Glenn would have to let me in.