The words “you were completely flat” echoed in the dead silence of the rehearsal room, a public indictment she delivered with a smirk while our director did absolutely nothing.
For twenty years, that second-row alto seat was my anchor in a world that never stopped shifting.
Then Monica arrived, a soprano with a voice like a wrecking ball and an ego to match.
She dismantled our choir from the inside out, cloaking her power grab in the language of “acoustics” and “optimizing our sound.”
That public humiliation, however, was a declaration of war.
She believed her powerful voice was her greatest weapon, never imagining the quiet alto in the back row was meticulously recording every single one of her flawed notes to compose a symphony of humiliation she would never see coming.
The Gathering Storm: The Soprano’s Shadow
For twenty years, the second row of the alto section was my spot. It wasn’t official, not written down in any church ledger, but it was mine. From that specific seat in the choir loft of St. Jude’s, I’d watched my son, Leo, grow from a squirming toddler in the pews to a lanky college student who only showed up on holidays. From that spot, I’d sung through the raw grief of my divorce and later, the quiet, unexpected joy of meeting David. The worn, burgundy hymnal in the rack in front of me had my thumbprint smudged on the corner of page 214, “Be Thou My Vision.” It was more than a chair; it was an anchor.
Then Monica arrived. She swept into our first September rehearsal like a weather system, all expensive perfume and a voice that was undeniably powerful. She was a soprano, the kind that could shatter glass if she felt like it. During the meet-and-greet, she told us she was a top real estate agent in the city. “I don’t just sell houses,” she’d said with a blindingly white smile, “I sell lifestyles. It’s all about presentation.”
Mr. Abernathy, our choir director for as long as I could remember, was immediately mesmerized. He was a gentle soul, more comfortable with a Bach cantata than with confrontation, and Monica’s confident energy seemed to bowl him over.
By the end of that first rehearsal, she’d already made her first move. “You know, Mr. A,” she said, her voice carrying across the loft, “if we want to achieve a truly blended, professional sound, we should consider optimizing our placement. It’s all about acoustics. Highlighting our strengths.”
She gestured around the loft, her manicured fingers pointing out new positions. The tenors were shuffled. The basses were split. And then her gaze landed on me. “For instance,” she continued, her tone as smooth as honey, “the altos have such a lovely, grounding tone. It would be a shame for it to get lost. Perhaps if we moved some of you back, to create a richer foundation for the sopranos to… soar.”
She wasn’t looking at the other altos. She was looking right at me. Mr. Abernathy, eager to please this dynamic new talent, clapped his hands together. “A splendid idea, Monica! A fresh perspective!” Before I could process it, he was asking me to move. To the back row. My anchor was gone, replaced by a dusty spot against the wall where the music stands were stored. I looked at my old seat, now empty, a perfect space for a soprano’s voice to soar.
Whispers in the Pews
The car ride home was quiet. David, my husband, drove, his hand resting on the center console near mine. He knew the post-rehearsal ritual: I needed a few minutes to let the music settle before I could talk about the day.
“So,” he finally said, turning onto our street. “How was it?”
“We’ve been… rearranged.” I tried to keep my voice light, but it came out flat.
“Rearranged? Like the living room furniture?” He had a dry wit that usually made me smile, but tonight, the joke didn’t land.
“Something like that. A new soprano thinks she knows best.” I explained what happened, the casual way Monica had dismantled twenty years of unspoken tradition in twenty minutes. David listened, his brow furrowed. He was an engineer, a man who believed in logic and proven systems. Monica’s brand of social engineering didn’t compute for him.
“So this new woman, Monica, just walked in and took over?” he asked, pulling into the driveway.
“Not officially. But she has Mr. Abernathy wrapped around her little finger. She talks about ‘acoustics’ and ‘blending,’ but it’s just noise. She wanted the front row.” I sighed, the frustration bubbling up. “She wanted my spot.”
The next week, the division was already visible. Carol, a fellow alto who’d been my row-mate for a decade, shot me sympathetic looks from her new position three feet away. “It’s crazy, Sarah,” she whispered during a break. “She’s got him reorganizing the sheet music library now. Says it’s ‘chronologically inefficient.’” A few of the older members, like Bill from the bass section, just seemed confused, shuffling to their new spots like lost sheep.
But others were captivated. The younger sopranos hung on Monica’s every word, impressed by her powerful voice and her take-charge attitude. They saw her as a mentor, a breath of fresh air. I saw her as an invader, planting her flag in territory that wasn’t hers to claim. She was turning our sanctuary into her stage.
The First Critique
It started small. A little hummed correction here, a pointed look there. During a run-through of “A Mighty Fortress Is Our God,” Monica stopped singing mid-phrase. The rest of us faltered to a stop a few bars later.
“Sorry, Mr. A,” she said, holding up a hand. “I’m just hearing something a little… sharp. In the tenor section.” She smiled sweetly at Mark, a young guy who was still learning to control his vibrato. “Mark, honey, just try to support that note from your diaphragm. You’re pushing it from your throat.”
Mark flushed crimson. Mr. Abernathy, instead of telling Monica that he was the director, simply nodded. “Good note, Monica. Thank you. Mark, let’s take it from the top of the verse.”
I felt a prickle of anger. It wasn’t her place. But no one else said anything. Her critiques became a regular feature of rehearsals. She’d offer unsolicited advice on breathing, on posture, on pronunciation. She cloaked it all in the language of helpfulness, which made it impossible to object to without looking petty or defensive. She was a master of making you feel small while pretending to lift you up.
Then she turned her attention to me. We were working on a delicate piece, a Palestrina motet that required precise, gentle entrances. The altos had a subtle harmony that lay beneath the main soprano melody. It was my favorite kind of singing—not about power, but about presence.
We sang the phrase, and I felt my note land exactly where it should, a soft cushion for the higher voices.
Monica’s head tilted. “You know, Sarah,” she said, her voice just loud enough for everyone to hear. “I think you’re anticipating the beat just a hair. It’s making the whole alto chord feel… heavy. Try to think of it as floating in, not stepping in.” She demonstrated, singing my part with an exaggerated, airy tone that was completely wrong for the style.
My hands clenched the hymnal. She wasn’t just critiquing a note; she was critiquing my musicality, my understanding of the piece. I had sung Palestrina since before Mark the tenor was born. I looked at Mr. Abernathy, expecting him to intervene, to defend the integrity of his section leader.
He just gave a weak smile. “Let’s all try to be mindful of our entrances. From the top.” He wasn’t going to stop her. No one was. I was in the back row, and my voice, it seemed, was getting harder and harder to hear.
A Solo for One
The breaking point, or what I thought was the breaking point, came a week before the annual Harvest Sunday service. The centerpiece was always a beautiful, multi-part arrangement of “For the Beauty of the Earth.” The third verse featured a soaring descant, traditionally sung by the entire soprano section to create a shimmering, ethereal effect. It was the musical equivalent of sunlight breaking through stained glass.
At the end of rehearsal, Monica approached the director’s podium. “Mr. A, I have a thought about the Harvest Sunday anthem,” she began, flipping through her score. “The soprano descant is lovely, of course, but as a group, it can sound a bit… diffuse. What if we highlighted the line? Make it a solo. It would give it more focus, more emotional impact.”
A solo. She wanted to take one of the choir’s most beloved communal moments and make it about one person. About herself.
Carol caught my eye from across the room and gave a slight shake of her head. Bill the bass cleared his throat, about to speak, but Monica pressed on.
“I’d be happy to take it on, of course,” she said with a magnanimous air, as if she were doing us all a massive favor. “I think I can really give it the power it deserves.”
Mr. Abernathy’s face was a mixture of awe and exhaustion. The path of least resistance was right in front of him, gift-wrapped in a confident smile. “Well… that’s an interesting take, Monica. A solo…” He looked out at the rest of us, his gaze pleading for us to understand. “I suppose it could be very moving. Alright. Let’s try it that way.”
The next rehearsal, we practiced it with her as the soloist. We all sang our parts, the familiar, grounding harmonies, and then her voice cut through the air. It was loud, I’ll give her that. She hit every note with the force of a hammer, adding a dramatic, wobbly vibrato at the end of each phrase. All the delicacy, all the shimmering grace of the piece, was gone. She wasn’t singing to God; she was performing for an audience.
I sang my simple alto line, my throat tight with a rage that felt anything but holy. She was tearing apart our music, our traditions, our fellowship, one perfectly-pitched, soul-crushing note at a time. And she was just getting started.
The Unholy Note: The Humiliation
It was a Tuesday night, and the air in the church basement was thick with the smell of old coffee and floor wax. We were rehearsing a new, challenging anthem for the upcoming Christmas season. The harmonies were complex, full of tight intervals and suspensions that required absolute precision. It was the kind of music I loved, the kind that made you listen to your neighbor as much as yourself.
We were navigating a particularly tricky passage where the altos had a rising chromatic line against the sopranos’ sustained high G. It was dissonant and beautiful. We sang through it once, and it was a little shaky. Mr. Abernathy raised his hands to stop us.
But Monica was faster.
“Stop, stop, stop!” she called out, her voice cutting through the fading chords. The entire choir fell silent. Twenty-five pairs of eyes turned to her. She had her gaze fixed on the back row. On me.
“Mr. A, I’m sorry, but we can’t possibly get this right if the foundation is cracked,” she said, her voice dripping with faux concern. “Sarah. That last run. You were completely flat.”
The words hung in the air, echoing in the sudden, dead silence. It wasn’t a quiet suggestion. It wasn’t a helpful note. It was a public indictment. My face burned, a hot, creeping flush that started in my chest and spread to my ears. I’ve been a singer my whole life. I’m not a professional, but I know pitch. I was not flat.
“I think the whole section was just finding its footing, Monica,” Carol said, her voice quiet but firm.
Monica waved a dismissive hand, not even gracing Carol with a look. Her eyes, cold and bright, were still locked on me. “No, it was one voice. It was dragging everyone else down.” She gave a small, tight smile that didn’t reach her eyes. It was a smirk. A victor’s smirk. “Some voices just don’t belong in certain pieces.”
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