And Everything Nice Read Online Free

that how everything in life works? It’s all about who you know and who your connections are. When it should be about talent. Right, Anna?”
    Anna deflected Carmen’s comment with a smile. She said, “Brandon would know more about the selection process than me. He sang in a small group at the last concert. Didn’t you, Brandon?”
    Brandon had slid into our pew from the other end. Anna was in the middle between us, but I could still smell the tobacco smoke on him. He said, “Yeah, I was in the all-guy group that sang ‘Confessions’ last season.” He indicated Sticky Fingers, who was sitting in the pew in front of us this time. “Oscar was in the group too.”
    â€œYou guys were good!” Anna said.
    I said, “‘Confessions’? The Usher song?”
    Sticky Fingers turned around, and I got a good view of the huge snake tattoo on his neck. “Yeah.” He let loose a wheezy laugh. “Me, Brandon and a couple of rich lawyers from the bass section sang it. I was the only dude in the group who was a believable thug, but hey. We gave it our all. Right, Brandon?”
    Brandon said, “We sure did.” And he winked at me behind Oscar’s back. As if to say, Can you believe I sang in a group with this lowlife?
    At the break that night, Kristi and Carmen started more introductions among the tenors. Within a few minutes, I’d met twenty people. I knew I wouldn’t remember all their names, so I gave them nicknames. Among the women: Green Hair, Freckles, Pregnant and Old Hippie. Some of the men: Tall Guy, Pointy Shoes, Kramer and Ponytail.
    Two practices and weeks later, I still didn’t know all their names. But I knew their faces and their voices. I’d also gotten to know Anna better. And become curious enough about her to set the pvr at home to record her show.
    Joanne walked into the room one night when I was fast-forwarding through a Noontime episode. As soon as the “And Everything Nice” segment title came up on the screen, she said, “Wait. Is this based on that old sexist poem? ‘Sugar and spice and everything nice, that’s what little girls are made of ’?”
    â€œSeems to be.”
    â€œLet’s see it.”
    The opening shot showed Anna sitting at an antique desk in a sunny living room. The camera zoomed in on her hand, writing in a notebook that looked like the one she’d had at choir practice.
    The camera panned up to her face. She said, “Some people consider it old-fashioned to write in longhand, with a pen, on paper. But I love to record my thoughts about what I’ve seen and heard and read each day.”
    Joanne said, “Hey, I like that. A plug for journal-keeping. Go literacy!”
    Anna’s voiceover continued over a montage of images. “Recording my impressions of people and places is like writing a book of memories.” She taped a maple leaf into her journal. She made an I’ve-got-an-idea face and wrote something down. Her hand added the last two words to the sentence: I love the brilliant colors and cool breezes of fall .
    Joanne said, “Could she be more trite?”
    â€œWhat does trite mean, again?”
    â€œBanal, hackneyed. Lame.”
    We were back to a shot of Anna sitting, facing the camera. “The act of writing helps me remember what I’ve done,” she said. “And what I want to do.” She closed the notebook. “And today, I want to go to a local farmers’ market and buy some root vegetables!”
    â€œThat notebook she has?” Joanne said. “It’s a fancy French brand that aspiring writers use. Hemingway used them.”
    â€œWhy do you even know that?”
    â€œHow often do I have to tell you? English teachers know everything.”
    On screen, Anna stood in front of a market table. She held a squash in her hand and talked to a farmer.
    â€œThis is boring,” I said.
    â€œDo you think