Music in My Heart: My Journey with Melody

My legs want to follow Dwayne right out the door. I can still feel the tingle from the jam session, and I want to know more about this Motown music. Mrs. Porter puts a hand on her hip, recognizing the look of a girl dreaming of a trip to Motown. I grin, relieved she’s not upset.

Melody says that’s great and tells Dwayne we’ll come with him, looking happy about it too. He nods, promising to pick us up after dinner, gives an exaggerated bow, and trots down to his old brown sedan, dented and scratched, clattering and clunking as he drives off.

Melody checks the clock and races across the living room. Her show is on. The big brown TV has buttons down one side like a microwave and two metal antenna rods like Dad’s old radio. She turns a knob, and after a wait, a black-and-white picture appears. She flips channels, then flops onto the rug, patting the spot beside her.

A man plays piano and sings, the picture spotty like watching through a snowstorm, but the music sounds good. It reminds me of shows back home where singers compete to be the next big star. Anika and I watch those and dream of making it big, though she has a better shot with her voice than I do.

Three glamorous Black women file onstage. Melody exclaims it’s The Supremes. She claps and says she’s hoping they’ll play her song. One woman steps forward to sing lead, the others join in, and Melody squeals to her feet, asking if I love it too.

The song sounds familiar, though I can’t place it. Melody sings into her fist like a microphone and tells me to join in. When I admit I don’t know the words, she says to just ooh and dance, pointing to the TV where two singers sway and circle their arms overhead. Even just oohing, I don’t want her to hear my voice and think it’s terrible.

I take a breath and sway quietly to the music anyway, grateful the TV is loud enough to drown me out. Melody darts to the fruit bowl and returns with two bananas, handing me one and holding hers like a microphone. Every time I sing into mine, it cracks me up, and by the song’s end we’re both breathless with laughter.

Melody laughs that she loves The Supremes, and mentions Dwayne actually knows Diana Ross, the lead singer. The name sounds familiar, so she must be a big star, elegant with an amazing voice. Melody corrects herself: they’re not friends exactly, but they saw Miss Ross at Hudson’s department store in February, and she waved at Dwayne.

I’m amazed. I’ve imagined meeting Zoey Gatz plenty of times, though it’ll probably never happen. Melody, naturally, has no idea who that is, though she would if she lived in my time. Zoey’s on magazine covers constantly. I explain she’s pretty new, and Mom doesn’t like her much, though I do.

When Melody asks why, I say she’s rude to reporters and gets into trouble. Mom says she “makes bad choices.” Melody laughs, and I wonder whether Zoey will stay famous as long as Diana Ross. I’m not so sure.