Never Stop Singing. Denise Lewis Patrick

that evening, Melody lay across her bed holding her radio, but it wasn’t on. She was listening to her brother and sisters arguing and then laughing down in the living room, the same way they always had. She was smiling when her parents stuck their heads into her room.

      “The idea was that you would listen to the radio,” her father teased, “not to your squabbling siblings.”

      “I know, Daddy,” Melody laughed. She sat up as Mommy came into the room.

      Her mother waved a package. “One more gift!”

      Melody could tell from the shape that it was a book. Even though her mother was a math teacher, she loved to read. And she always encouraged other people—especially her children—to love reading, too.

      Mommy sat on the edge of her bed. Daddy leaned against the doorway. Melody untied the ribbon and peeled away the paper. “The First Book of Rhythms, by Langston Hughes,” she read.

      As long as she could remember, Melody had heard her father reading aloud poems written by the famous black author. He could even recite some Langston Hughes poems from memory. Sometimes, the poems sounded like music.

      Melody flipped through her new book, surprised to see that it wasn’t poetry. It was about finding rhythms in poetry and music and even nature. She couldn’t wait to read it.

      “I saw in the newspaper that Mr. Hughes is going to make an appearance at Hudson’s department store in February,” Mommy told her.

      “Can we go?” Melody asked excitedly.

      Mommy nodded.

      Melody had started paging through the book again when a yawn snuck up on her. “I think Melody needs to listen to the rhythm of her sleep,” Daddy laughed.

      Melody set the book and the radio on the shelf behind her bed and crawled under the covers. Mommy tucked her in, and Daddy kissed her on the forehead. “’Night, my ten-year-old girl.”

      “’Night, Daddy,” Melody murmured. “’Night, Mommy.” Her parents went across the hall to their room, and their voices mingled with Lila’s, Yvonne’s, and Dwayne’s. Melody fell asleep listening to the rhythm of her family.

      Challenges

       CHAPTER 4

       t the end of the first week back at school, Melody decided that doing long division and writing compositions weren’t quite as interesting as Christmas, Watch Night, or her birthday. She was having trouble staying awake. Big Momma said her body was playing catch-up for all the sleep it had lost while Melody was having fun. On Friday afternoon, Melody blinked as Mrs. Butler rapped on the edge of her desk with a ruler and told the class that she had a special announcement.

      “I know it’s hard to get back to our schoolwork after having so much free time. But here’s something we can all look forward to.” She unrolled a poster and tacked it onto the bulletin board.

      Melody recognized the face of Frederick Douglass from a book at her grandparents’ house, and she remembered his amazing life story: He was born a slave but taught himself to read and write when he was only a boy. He later escaped from slavery, and grew up to travel free all over the world to speak against it. Melody’s grandfather said Frederick Douglass’s story had always given him the courage to fight for civil rights.

      “Our entire school will be celebrating Negro History Week next month,” Mrs. Butler said. “We’ll have a big assembly, and every class will participate. You can recite a poem, act out a skit, sing, or even present artwork. Which class will do the best job?”

      “We will!” Melody chanted with the rest of the class. Melody remembered what Yvonne had said about being proud of what black Americans have contributed to history, and suddenly she had an idea. She pumped her hand into the air.

      “Can I make a banner?” she asked when Mrs. Butler called on her.

      Mrs. Butler gave her an approving nod. Other kids were eagerly raising their hands. Mrs. Butler began to write their ideas on the chalkboard.

      Diane Harris stood up. “Could I sing?” she asked.

      “That would be very nice, Diane,” Mrs. Butler said.

      Diane sat down, leaning across the aisle to Melody. “Will you sing with me?” she whispered.

      Melody was flattered. Diane was one of the best singers in their children’s choir at church, and she usually sang solos. “I—I guess so,” Melody answered sheepishly. Unlike Dwayne, Melody didn’t like the attention of standing alone in front of a crowd. She preferred to be one of many voices in a chorus. But singing with Diane at a school assembly would be fun.

      “Can I help with your banner?” Sharon asked from her desk on Melody’s other side. “My dad can get us a long roll of paper.”

      Melody nodded. Sharon was good at drawing. “I want to make a banner that includes the names of great people from black history,” Melody said.

      “We can have important events on it, too,” Sharon suggested.

      “Great idea,” Melody smiled. She couldn’t wait to write to Yvonne at college to tell her about the project.

      After school, Melody and Sharon waited for Val to walk the few blocks from her junior high so that they could all walk home together. Lila usually walked with her, but she was staying at school for a meeting of the science club.

      “Have you guys thought any more about what Pastor Daniels said on Watch Night?” Melody asked as the girls trudged through the snow. Five inches had fallen while they were in school, and most of the sidewalks were still covered.

      “Yeah,” Sharon said. “I was thinking I could help out more around the house.”

      Melody laughed and shook her head. “That doesn’t count! He talked about making things better in our community.” She turned to Val. “Isn’t that what he said?”

      Val didn’t answer. She was looking at her feet. At first, Melody thought it was because of the snow. Val had told them that it almost never snowed in Birmingham. In fact, Val had never needed a winter coat or mittens or boots before she’d moved to Detroit.

      Melody tilted her head to see her cousin’s face. Val’s silence wasn’t about the snow. “What’s wrong?” Melody asked.

      “How can I make a difference in my community when I don’t even have one yet?” Val asked, her voice shaking. It sounded like she was trying not to cry.

      “Come on, don’t say that,” Sharon said. “You’re a part of our community.”

      “How can I be?” Val said as the girls stopped at Sharon’s corner. “We don’t even have a house of our own.”

      Sharon gave Val’s arm a reassuring squeeze, said good-bye, and ran the rest of the way home, her boots stomping through the snow.

      “Does she always run?” Val asked, watching in amazement.

      “Yep,” Melody replied. “Ever since kindergarten.” But she was thinking about what Val had said. When Val had moved to Detroit eight months earlier, Melody had wanted to help her feel at home. Melody still wanted to help.

      “You’ve got to keep your hopes up,” Melody told Val. “Think about the garden I’m going to help you plant at your new house. Think about your own room and painting it any color you want. Your daddy promised, remember?”

      Val sighed. “I remember. I just didn’t think it would be this