Amazing Kids! Magazine

The Singer

Jacob Chavez, 15, California


I can feel the smoke fill my lungs. There is no color, just soothing black and harsh white. I know I am singing but I can’t hear my own voice. I can feel the dozens of eyes staring at me but only notice one. I can hear the gentle snaps of their lighters as they slowly place them next to their mouths. I can’t stop staring at those eyes, the only things with color. Her eyes. Her eyes are warm and destructive, yet inviting, just like the smoke filling my lungs. I have to concentrate on the lyrics, as if they will run from my mouth. I turn to meet eyes with someone else, anyone else, but they race back to hers. Her eyes can look through me. I feel weak, but not weak. I feel like falling, like a cloud, one gentle blow and I’m gone. She purses her ruby lips; her eyebrows arch. I squeeze the microphone, pour my voice into it, and the echo lashes out darker than her hair. I’m drawn to her. She’s drawn to my voice, and I to her eyes. He is staring at me again. The singer. His voice smoother and richer than vanilla. I come back every day for his voice, the voice only the most beautiful of angels should carry. He fidgets with the microphone, dares to look away, only to stare back. His voice coming out of his lips like the rays of the sun. His hair wet with grease. His voice. Intoxicating. It lingers in the air effortlessly. I’m drawn to his voice, only as he is drawn to my eyes. Even though he’s on stage. She’s across the room. I can feel him. I can hold her. His arms. Her hands. His hips. Her shoulders. His voice. Her eyes.