People join community choirs for all kinds of reasons.
Some want an escape from the grind of daily life, some love the stage, and some just want to sing with friends.
Me? I joined because I needed to remember what it felt like to create something beautiful, to find my voice again.
What I didn’t expect was Angela.
If the choir was a symphony of personalities, Angela was a trumpet that refused to blend. She was loud, blaring, and always in the spotlight.
It didn’t take long to realize she didn’t just thrive on the attention—she demanded it.
At first, I thought I could just keep my head down and sing, but Angela had a way of making sure everyone knew their place.
And in her eyes, mine was firmly in the background.
What Angela didn’t know—what I didn’t even know yet—was that music, like life, has a funny way of proving that no single note is louder than the harmony of a group.
Welcome to the Choir
I showed up to my first rehearsal fifteen minutes early. My usual habit of overthinking had kicked in, and I was worried about being late or sitting in the wrong place or—God forbid—singing off-key.
The choir met in the back room of the town library, a cozy space with stacks of sheet music piled on every available surface. It smelled faintly of coffee and old books, and for a moment, I felt my nerves settle.
“Newbie?” a voice called from behind me.
I turned to see a woman with an enormous bag slung over one shoulder and a smile that was almost too wide to be real. She wore a scarf in a shade of red that seemed too bold for the otherwise subdued room.
“Uh, yeah,” I said, clutching my folder of sheet music. “I’m Ella.”
“Angela,” she said, with the kind of confidence that didn’t need a last name. She sized me up quickly, her smile tightening slightly. “You’re a soprano, I’m guessing?”
I nodded.
“Well, welcome,” she said. “We can always use more sopranos—though the trick, of course, is making sure the section stays balanced. Too many voices competing for the same notes can get… messy.”
The way she said “messy” made my stomach twist, though I couldn’t quite put my finger on why.
The rest of the choir began trickling in, chatting like old friends as they settled into their chairs. A few members introduced themselves to me, kind and welcoming, but Angela seemed to dominate the room without even trying.
“Let’s warm up,” the director said once everyone had arrived. He was a wiry man named Mr. Baker with a voice as rich and smooth as velvet. “Start with scales.”
As we worked through the exercises, I began to relax. The familiar melodies soothed me, and for a while, I forgot my nerves.
Until the solo auditions.
“Let’s try something from the spring concert repertoire,” Mr. Baker said, flipping through his binder. “Ella, why don’t you give it a shot? Measure 32.”
I froze. I wasn’t expecting to sing alone so soon, but I couldn’t say no.
Taking a shaky breath, I began.
The first few notes were tentative, but as I continued, the music carried me. My voice found its footing, climbing higher and stronger with each measure.
By the time I reached the final note, my heart was pounding, but I felt…good.
Before Mr. Baker could respond, Angela spoke up.
“Lovely,” she said, though her tone dripped with condescension. “But you might want to focus on breath control. Here, let me show you.”
Without waiting for permission, Angela launched into the same passage, her voice soaring over the room with practiced ease. It was technically perfect, but there was something in the way she sang it—so forceful, so desperate to impress—that made the moment feel hollow.
I shrank back into my chair, heat rising to my cheeks. Mr. Baker, to his credit, nodded politely at Angela but didn’t comment.
“Good effort, everyone,” he said, moving on to the next section.
Angela glanced at me with a small, satisfied smile. “Don’t worry,” she whispered. “It takes time to really shine.”
I bit my lip, forcing myself to focus on the music in front of me. But inside, I felt the first flicker of frustration.
A Voice That Demands the Spotlight
Over the next few rehearsals, it became painfully clear that Angela didn’t just want to lead—she wanted to be the choir.
Every decision seemed to orbit around her. She critiqued the tenors for being “too timid” and interrupted the altos to “help” them find their tone.
During a rehearsal of a group number, she positioned herself front and center, turning what should’ve been a blend of voices into her personal solo.
Mr. Baker handled her with quiet diplomacy, but even he looked strained by the third week.
“She’s impossible,” whispered Sara, a fellow newcomer, during a break. “I’ve never seen someone hog so much airspace.”
I nodded, grateful I wasn’t the only one feeling it.
The final straw came during another solo audition. This time, I wasn’t even called on, but when a shy alto named Mira tried out, Angela cut her off mid-verse.
“That’s lovely, but this section really needs power,” Angela said, stepping in without invitation. “I think it would sound stronger like this.”
She sang the passage flawlessly, but Mira’s face fell. Mr. Baker seemed torn, finally sighing and saying, “All right, let’s try it Angela’s way.”
As Angela beamed, something in me snapped.
It wasn’t just that she wanted every solo or that she critiqued every voice but her own. It was the way she made the rest of us feel small, like our voices didn’t matter unless they served hers.
I didn’t say anything—I wasn’t ready for that.
But as I watched Mira’s shoulders slump, I made a quiet promise to myself: I wouldn’t let Angela take the joy of singing away from me.
I threw myself into practice, both in rehearsals and at home. I worked with the other newer members, helping them find their confidence.
Slowly, I began to realize that the choir wasn’t Angela—it was all of us.
And one day soon, I thought, she might finally see that too.
When the Music Falters
The night of the spring concert arrived in a flurry of nerves and last-minute adjustments.
The town hall buzzed with anticipation, the seats packed with friends, family, and local dignitaries. From backstage, I could hear the murmured excitement of the audience as they settled in, the weight of their expectation pressing on my chest.
Angela, of course, thrived in the atmosphere. She flitted about the dressing room, offering unsolicited advice to anyone who dared meet her gaze.
“Make sure you project,” she told a tenor who’d been in the choir for years. “And for heaven’s sake, don’t drag the tempo,” she added to the altos.
When her attention landed on me, I braced myself.
“You’re blending much better now,” she said with a tight smile. “Just remember—this isn’t karaoke. We’re professionals here.”
I nodded mutely, biting back the retort that threatened to escape. This wasn’t the time or place.
The first half of the concert went smoothly, the choir finding its rhythm as we moved through a medley of classical and contemporary pieces. I lost myself in the music, feeling the harmonies flow around me like a tide.
For a while, Angela’s presence faded into the background, her voice no longer the center of my focus.
But as the concert built toward its climax—the ambitious and challenging final piece, one of Angela’s coveted solos—the tension returned.
We gathered in our positions, the lights dimming as Mr. Baker raised his baton.
Angela stepped forward, her posture commanding and confident. Her gaze swept across the audience, her expression triumphant, as if she already knew they’d be applauding her name by the end.
The piece began, the choir’s voices swelling in unison before falling back to support Angela’s first solo. Her voice soared, clear and powerful, and for a moment, I grudgingly admired her skill.
But as the music rose toward its crescendo, Angela seemed to push harder, her voice straining for a dramatic high note.
Then it happened.
Her voice cracked.
It wasn’t subtle—a piercing, jarring break that echoed through the hall like a splinter snapping.
The audience froze, a ripple of surprise and suppressed laughter sweeping through the room.
Angela froze too, her confidence evaporating as she stood there, stunned and silent.
For the first time, she looked unsure of herself.
The Harmony That Saved the Day
The silence stretched, heavy and awkward. I glanced at Sara and Mira, their faces mirroring my own mix of shock and panic.
Someone had to do something—anything—or the entire performance would collapse.
I stepped forward, catching Mira’s eye and giving her a small nod. She nodded back, and before I could overthink it, I began singing.
It wasn’t a solo—not exactly. I eased into the melody, soft and steady, my voice threading through the silence like a needle through cloth.
Mira and Sara joined in almost immediately, their harmonies weaving around mine, strong and clear.
The rest of the choir followed, our voices lifting as one. The music grew, reclaiming the moment from the tension and awkwardness.
Together, we carried the piece to its finish, our harmonies swelling to fill the hall with warmth and resonance.
When the final note faded, the audience erupted into applause.
It wasn’t polite or hesitant—it was thunderous, filled with cheers and whistles. The standing ovation washed over us, a wave of gratitude and joy.
Angela, still frozen in place, looked out at the audience as if trying to understand what had just happened. She stepped back into the group, her face pale, as the rest of us took our bows.
Backstage, the energy was electric. The newer members clustered together, laughing and hugging, the tension of the night finally melting away.
Angela lingered by the edge of the room, avoiding eye contact as she picked at the cuff of her sleeve.
For all her theatrics earlier, she seemed smaller now, her presence dimmed by the weight of the night’s events.
Mr. Baker approached me, his expression warm.
“Ella,” he said, resting a hand on my shoulder, “that was remarkable. Your quick thinking—and your harmonies—saved the performance tonight.”
I stammered a thank you, but he shook his head. “It’s not just about tonight,” he said. “The choir is stronger because of what you’ve brought to it. Don’t forget that.”
I smiled, feeling a quiet pride settle in my chest.
A few days later, I heard the news. One of the long-time members mentioned it casually after rehearsal.
“Angela’s taking a break,” they said, sipping their tea. “Apparently, Mr. Baker had a chat with her after the concert. Told her it might be time to step back and let the group grow without her… influence.”
The words hung in the air, delicate and deliberate.
I thought of Angela standing frozen on stage, the cracks in her voice mirrored in her composure.
It wasn’t exactly the ending I’d expected, but it felt right. Her departure wasn’t about punishment—it was about letting the choir become what it was always meant to be: a group, not a spotlight.
As for me, I kept singing, not to prove anything to anyone, but simply for the joy of it.