03/01/2026
The Rich Woman’s Baby Wouldn’t Stop Screaming — Until a Poor Black Boy Started Singing
Evelyn Whitmore had everything. First class seats, designer everything, and a screaming baby that wouldn't stop. Malik Thompson had nothing but his grandmother's songs in 12 hours to reach an audition that would change his life. When Charlotte's cries drove passengers to rage and her mother to tears at 30,000 ft, nobody expected the black kid from economy to be their salvation.
But as Malik's voice filled the cabin, inherited from a grandmother who sang through impossible odds, and Charlotte fell silent for the first time in hours, everyone would learn that sometimes the most powerful gifts come from the people we overlook, and the songs that save us cost nothing at all.
The departure gate at JFK International Airport buzzed with the familiar chaos of boarding time. Business class passengers glided through their priority lane with practiced ease. their designer luggage rolling silently behind them. In the general boarding area, families juggled backpacks and crying toddlers. College students scrolled through phones with earbuds firmly planted, and exhausted travelers nursed overpriced coffee.
Evelyn Whitmore adjusted her Airmes bag for the third time, trying to balance it with the designer diaper bag that seemed to grow heavier with each passing second. In her arms, six-month-old Charlotte squirmed and fussed, her tiny face already read with the beginnings of what promised to be a spectacular meltdown.
The baby's perfectly coordinated outfit, a miniature version of something that belonged in a boutique window, was already wrinkled from struggle. "Sh, Charlotte, please," Evelyn whispered, her voice tight with barely contained anxiety. She bounced the baby gently, a motion that had worked exactly once in the past week.
Around her, other passengers cast quick glances, some sympathetic, most annoyed. She could practically feel their thoughts. Another crying baby on a long flight. Perfect. A few rows back in the economy boarding line, 13-year-old Malik Thompson stood quietly beside his aunt. His clothes told a different story than Evelyn's polished appearance.
a faded Chicago Bulls jersey that had seen better days. Jeans with frayed cuffs that were just a bit too short and sneakers held together more by determination than actual structural integrity. But his eyes, those were something else entirely. Dark and observant. They took in everything around him with a quiet intensity that seemed beyond his years.
"You got your boarding pass?" His aunt Rosa asked for the fourth time. Her own anxiety showing through. Yes, Aunt Rosa, Malik replied softly, patting his pocket where the crumpled ticket rested. He'd been holding it so tightly earlier that the ink had smudged, but the important parts were still readable.
This flight meant everything. Tomorrow morning's audition at the Manhattan Conservatory of Music was his shot, maybe his only shot, at something bigger than the cramped apartment he'd shared with his grandmother until two months ago. The boarding process moved with agonizing slowness. Charlotte's fussing escalated to crying, then to fullthroated wailing that echoed through the gate area.
Evelyn's face flushed deeper with each passing second. She fumbled with a bottle, trying to prepare formula one-handed while holding her screaming daughter. "I can hold her for a second if you need," a woman nearby offered. "No, thank you. I've got it," Evelyn said quickly. "Too quickly." The thought of handing Charlotte to a stranger, of admitting she couldn't handle this, made her stomach clench.
She was Evelyn Whitmore. She'd graduated Suma come Loudy from Yale, had run successful marketing campaigns for Fortune 500 companies, had navigated boardrooms full of condescending men without breaking a sweat. She could certainly handle her own baby. Finally, they boarded. The contrast between business class and economy was immediate and stark.
Up front, wide seats beckoned with their promise of comfort. Flight attendants offered pre-flight champagne and warm towels. In economy, passengers squeezed past each other in the narrow aisle, shoving bags into overhead compartments that seemed to shrink with each piece of luggage.
Malik found his seat, 32B, a middle seat near the back. The elderly black woman in 32 it looked up from her book and smiled warmly. Hello, young man," she said, her voice carrying the soft cadence of the south. "Looks like we're travel companions today." "Yes, ma'am," Malik replied politely, sliding into his seat after stowing his worn backpack overhead.
"I'm Laya," she said, extending a hand. "Maya Carter." "Malik," he replied, shaking her hand gently. Something about her reminded him of his grandmother. the same warm eyes, the same way of making you feel seen. Meanwhile, Evelyn had settled into her business class seat for a butt was a generous term. Charlotte's cries had reached a pitch that seemed physically impossible for such a small human to produce. Evelyn tried everything.
Thebottle, a pacifier, the Sophie, the giraffe toy that had cost an absurd amount for what was essentially a rubber squeaker. Nothing worked. Ladies and gentlemen, we're expecting a smooth flight to New York today. The captain's voice crackled over the intercom. Flight time will be approximately 5 hours and 20 minutes. 5 hours. Evelyn felt her chest tighten.
5 hours of this with everyone watching, judging, thinking she was a terrible mother, which maybe she was. What kind of mother couldn't comfort her own baby? As the plane began to taxi, Charlotte's cries intensified. The businessman in 4B, a heavy set white man in an expensive suit, made no effort to hide his irritation.
He flagged down a flight attendant with the imperious wave of someone used to being immediately accommodated. "Excuse me," he said, his voice carrying that particular tone of entitled complaint. "I paid for business class specifically to avoid this kind of disturbance. Can't something be done?" The flight attendant, a professional smile frozen on her face, responded smoothly.
I understand your concern, sir. Perhaps I can offer you some noiseancelling headphones. Headphones? He scoffed. I shouldn't need headphones in business class. This is ridiculous. Evelyn heard every word. Her face burned with humiliation. She wanted to snap back to tell him that she'd paid for business class, too.
That she had every right to be here with her baby. But Charlotte chose that moment to escalate from crying to screaming, a sound that seemed to pierce directly through everyone's skulls. In row 32, Malik hummed quietly to himself. It was an old habit, something his grandmother had taught him. When the world gets too loud, she'd said, "You make your own music.
" The tune was something she'd sung to him countless nights. When the sirens outside their apartment window got too loud. When the neighbors fighting shook the thin walls. When his stomach hurt from hunger because the money had run out before the month did. Miss Lyla noticed the humming. She tilted her head slightly, listening.
There was something about the melody, something familiar that she couldn't quite place. "That's a pretty tune," she said softly. Malik stopped embarrassed. "Sorry, I didn't mean to. No, no, don't apologize. Music is never something to apologize for. She studied him with interest. You sing sometimes, Malik admitted. My grandma taught me.
She said music could fix just about anything that was broken. Smart woman, M. Laya said. She's still with us? Malik shook his head, his throat suddenly tight. Two months ago. I'm sorry, baby. Miss Lyla said, and somehow the endearment didn't feel patronizing. It felt like coming home. The plane lifted off and with the change in pressure, Charlotte's screams reached a new level of hysteria.
Evelyn was openly struggling now. Tears threatening at the corners of her eyes. She tried walking the aisle, but the seat belt sign was still on. She tried every position, holding Charlotte facing out, facing in, over her shoulder across her lap. Nothing worked. "For God's sake," the businessman muttered, not quite under his breath.
Some people shouldn't travel with children if they can't control them. That did it. Evelyn felt something inside her crack. I'm trying, she said, her voice breaking. I'm doing everything I can. Well, clearly it's not enough. He shot back. The tension in the cabin was palpable now. Other passengers were torn between sympathy for Evelyn and agreement with the businessman.
A crying baby on a long flight. Everyone's nightmare. Malik's humming grew slightly louder, almost unconsciously. The melody was more complex than a simple lullabi. It had layers, harmonies that seemed to weave in and out of each other. A few passengers nearby noticed their expressions softening slightly. But when the humming became audible several rows away, Evelyn snapped.
She turned around, her eyes wild with frustration and exhaustion. Can you please stop that? You're not helping. I don't need more noise right now. Malik immediately went silent, shrinking back into his seat. His face burned with embarrassment. He'd only been trying to self soothe, not to bother anyone.
Miss Laya patted his hand gently. "Don't mind her, honey," she whispered. Stress makes people say things they don't mean. But the damage was done. Malik folded into himself, making his already small frame even smaller. He stared at the seat back in front of him, wishing he could disappear entirely. Charlotte's screams reached a hysterical pitch that seemed impossible to sustain.
Her little face had gone from red to purple, her entire body rigid with distress. Flight attendants rushed over, offering suggestions, trying different techniques. One brought a warm bottle, another a different type of pacifier. Someone suggested maybe Charlotte's ears were hurting from the pressure. Nothing worked. Evelyn was openly crying now, silent tears streaming down her face as she rockedCharlotte desperately.
"Please, baby, please," she whispered. "Mommy doesn't know what to do. I don't know what you need." The businessman had called for the head flight attendant, demanding to be moved to a different seat. Other passengers were putting in earbuds, turning up music, anything to block out the sound. The baby's cries had become the only thing anyone could focus on.
A sonic assault that made rational thought impossible. And then, cutting through the chaos like a knife through butter, came a voice. It started soft. So soft that at first, people weren't sure they were hearing it. But Malik had leaned forward in his seat, his eyes closed, and begun to sing.
Not the humming from before, but actual words. Though the language was unclear, maybe English, maybe something else, maybe something in between. The melody was haunting, beautiful in its simplicity, but there was something else to it. Something that made people stop what they were doing and listen. Charlotte paused midscream. The sudden absence of crying was so shocking that for a moment, nobody moved.
The baby hiccuped once, twice, her huge eyes searching for the source of the sound. Her little head turned and even though Malik was rose away, she seemed to lock onto his voice like a ship finding a lighthouse in a storm. The cabin went completely silent except for Malik's voice floating through the recycled air like something magic. Malik's voice filled the hushed cabin with a gentle power that seemed impossible from such a young boy.
The song wasn't anything most passengers could identify. Not a pop song or a classical piece, but something that felt older, deeper. It rose and fell like breathing, like waves against a shore, like a mother's heartbeat heard from the womb. Charlotte's purple face slowly faded back to pink. Her rigid body relaxed, tiny fists uncurling.
She hiccuped again, a small sound that might have been the beginning of more tears. But then Malik's voice shifted slightly, adding a soft verb that seemed to catch her attention completely. Her eyes still wet with tears, focused with an intensity that seemed impossible for a six-month-old.
My God, someone whispered a few rows back. Evelyn stared at her daughter in complete disbelief. Charlotte, who had been inconsolable for the past hour, who had resisted every attempt at comfort, was now completely calm. More than calm, she seemed mesmerized. Her tiny mouth formed a perfect O of wonder. The passengers reactions rippled through the cabin in waves.
A mother traveling with her own two children smiled with genuine relief and gratitude. An older couple exchanged amazed glances. The woman reaching over to squeeze her husband's hand. A group of college students had their phones out recording the moment, but not everyone was moved. The businessman in Forby scoffed loudly.
"It's just coincidence," he declared to anyone within earshot. The baby was bound to tire herself out eventually. "Purak, a flight attendant, still standing in the aisle from her failed attempts to help," shook her head slightly. "I've been flying for 15 years," she said quietly. "That wasn't luck." Evelyn's mind raced with conflicting emotions.
Relief wored with humiliation, gratitude with resentment. This boy, this poor boy in his worn out clothes, had succeeded where she, with all her education and resources, had failed completely. Her cheeks burned with a complicated shame. She was Charlotte's mother. She should have been the one to comfort her daughter. Instead, it had taken a stranger, a child from economy class, to do what she couldn't.
Malik kept singing, his eyes still closed, seemingly unaware of the attention he'd drawn. But Ms. Laya, watching him carefully, could see the slight tension in his shoulders, the way his hands gripped the armrests. He knew everyone was watching. He knew, and he kept singing anyway. In his mind, Malik wasn't on a plane at all.
He was back in his grandmother's apartment, sitting on the worn floral couch that had been there as long as he could remember. It was one of those nights when the heat had been cut off again, and they'd huddled together under every blanket they owned. His grandmother's voice had been weak by then. The cancer had taken so much from her, but she'd still sung.
Music heals even the heaviest heart. Baby, she'd whispered between verses. When everything else fails, when the world seems too dark, you sing. You sing for yourself. You sing for others. You sing because sometimes that's the only light we can make. He'd memorized every note, every word, every breath she took between phrases.
It was all he had left of her now. These songs that lived in his chest, in his throat, in the spaces between his heartbeats. Charlotte made a small sound, not distress, but something almost like recognition. Her tiny hand reached out, not toward her mother, but toward the aisle, toward wherever that magical voice was coming from.
And then, impossibly, she giggled. It was aperfect sound, pure baby joy that seemed to break whatever spell had held the cabin frozen. Several passengers actually applauded. Others laughed with relief. The tension that had been building like a storm broke apart, leaving something lighter in its wake. Evelyn's carefully constructed defenses cracked.
Her daughter, who had been nothing but tears and screams for hours, was giggling, reaching for a stranger's voice. "Choosing someone else's comfort over hers." "Ow!" she found herself whispering. "The flight attendant who'd been helping leaned down." "Some people just have the gift," she said gently. "Would you like me to thank him for you?" "No," Evelyn said quickly.
"Too quickly." The thought of publicly acknowledging that she'd needed help, that she'd failed where this boy had succeeded was too much. No, I'll I'll handle it. The flight attendant moved back to row 32 where Malik was finally letting his voice fade to a soft hum. She placed a gentle hand on his shoulder and he jumped slightly, eyes flying open.
"That was beautiful," she said simply. "Thank you." Malik ducked his head, uncomfortable with the praise. She just needed something familiar, he mumbled. Babies like rhythm. It reminds them of before. Before, the flight attendant asked, before they were born. Heartbeats and stuff. He shrugged, trying to make himself smaller again. My grandma told me that.
Miss Laya was studying him with new interest. Your grandmother taught you that song. Malik nodded. She knew lots of them. So they came from her grandmother and her grandmother's grandmother all the way back to slavery times. Songs for getting through things. Getting through things, Miss Laya repeated softly. Yes, that's exactly what they're for.
Meanwhile, the cabin had divided into invisible camps. There are those who thought Malik was some kind of baby whisperer, a miracle worker who'd saved them all from hours of screaming. They smiled at him when they caught his eye, nodded their appreciation, whispered among themselves about what a special gift he had. But there were others who saw it differently.
They looked at Evelyn with a mixture of pity and judgment. What kind of mother couldn't soothe her own baby? What kind of person needed a child from economy to do her job for her? Their whispers were less kind. Their glances sharp with criticism. She probably has a nanny for everything. One woman murmured to her husband. These rich women have babies as accessories.
Then can't handle the actual work. That's unfair, her husband replied. but quietly without much conviction. The businessman in 4B was the worst. He made a point of catching Evelyn's eye and shaking his head with theatrical disappointment. Money can't buy everything. Can it? He said loud enough for several rows to hear.
Evelyn wanted to disappear. She wanted to tell them all that she'd tried, that she'd read every parenting book, had taken classes, had done everything right. But Charlotte had been difficult from the start. Collicky, resistant to routines, impossible to predict. And her husband, always away on business, always telling her she was overreacting, that she needed to handle things better.
Other women manage, he'd said just last week. I don't understand why you're making this so complicated. Charlotte squirmed in her arms, craning her little neck, still searching for the source of the singing. Malik had gone quiet now, shrinking back into his seat. But Charlotte wasn't having it. She let out a small whimper of protest.
Before it could escalate, Malik hummed a few notes. "Just a few, soft and almost inaudible, but Charlotte settled immediately." The flight attendant returned with a cart. "Would you like something to drink?" she asked Malik. "I'm the house. It's the least we can do." "Water's fine, ma'am," Malik said quietly.
"Are you sure? We have soda, juice, whatever you'd like. Water's fine, he repeated, and there was something in his tone that made her not push further. As she poured his water, she said, "You know, in all my years of flying, I've never seen anything quite like that. You have a real gift. It's just singing," Malik mumbled. "No," Miss Laya interjected gently.
"It's more than that, and you know it. Don't diminish yourself, child." A teenager a few rose up had worked up the courage to lean over. Hey man, where do you learn to sing like that? You take lessons or something? Malik shook his head. Never had lessons. Just listen a lot. Sang with my grandma. That's it. No training. The teenager seemed amazed.
Dude, you could be on one of those singing shows. You'd win for sure. I don't think, Malik started. But the teenager had already turned back to his friends excitedly telling them about maybe knowing a future star in business class. A wealthy woman in designer clothes had taken the seat next to Evelyn while the businessman had stormed off to complain to the head flight attendant about the complete breakdown of premium service standards. "Well," the woman said, hertone dripping with false sympathy.
"Aren't we lucky that boy was here? Otherwise, we'd all be suffering through this whole flight." She paused, then added with surgical precision. Though I suppose it must be embarrassing having to rely on a stranger's child. Evelyn forced her face into a neutral expression. Yes, lucky. She managed. Charlotte fussed again, and immediately, instinctively, Evelyn found herself looking back toward economy toward where Malik sat.
She caught herself and turned away, but not before the woman beside her noticed. You know, the woman continued. I heard the flight attendant say he's from Chicago. Southside, from the looks of it, probably doesn't fly often. Must be overwhelming for him. There was something in her tone, something coded in the way she said Southside that made Evelyn's stomach turn. But she didn't challenge it.
She didn't have the energy. And besides, wasn't she guilty of her own assumptions? Hadn't she snapped at him earlier, dismissed him, treated him like his humming was just another irritation? Back in row 32, Miss Laya was gently drawing Malik out of his shell. "That song," she said carefully. "The one you were singing.
I feel like I've heard it before, but I can't place it." "Grandma called it Bright Morning Star," Malik said. "But she sang it different from how it's in them books." She said our version was older from before things got written down. your grandmother. Miss Laya said thoughtfully. What was her name? Alma Thompson.
Well, Alma Williams before she married my granddad. Miss Laya's eyes widened slightly. Alma Williams from Chicago sang with the Southside Community Choir back in the 70s. Malik sat up straighter. You knew her? I didn't know her personally, but honey, everyone in the Chicago church music scene knew about Alma Williams. That woman had a voice that could make angels weep.
She studied Malik with new interest and it seems she passed that gift on to you. Malik's eyes filled with tears. He quickly blinked away. Since his grandmother's death, everyone had offered condolences, had said they were sorry for his loss. But this was the first time someone had talked about her like she was more than just his grandmother, like she'd been somebody important in her own right.
Charlotte had been quiet for several minutes now, a record for the flight so far. But as Mallet's conversation with Ms. Laya grew more animated as his voice took on normal speaking tones instead of singing ones. She began to fuss again, not crying yet, but the warning signs were there. The squirming, the little frustrated grunts, the face scrunching that preceded a meltdown.
Evelyn felt her body tense. She reached for the bottle again, tried the pacifier again, bounced Charlotte gently, but she could feel it building, could sense another screaming fit approaching like a storm on the horizon. Without being asked, without even seeming to think about it, Malik began to hum again, soft, almost under his breath, but somehow it carried. Charlotte's face smoothed out.
Her body relaxed, and then she did something she hadn't done in hours. She smiled. A real genuine baby smile that transformed her whole face. Evelyn finally broke. Her pride, her embarrassment, her carefully maintained composure. None of it mattered as much as that smile. She turned in her seat, looking back toward economy, trying to spot the boy who' done what she couldn't.
When she finally located him, that small figure in the faded bull's jersey, she found him looking down at his hands, seemingly unaware of the miracle he'd just performed again. "Excuse me," she said to the flight attendant. "The boy who is singing." "What's his name?" "Malik, I believe," the flight attendant replied. "Would you like me to pass along a message?" Evelyn hesitated.
What could she say? "Thank you for showing me up. Thank you for proving I'm a failure as a mother. Thank you for having the one thing my baby needs that I can't provide. I She started then stopped. Charlotte made a small sound and Evelyn looked down at her daughter. What song is he singing? The one that keeps calming her down. The flight attendant smiled. I'll ask him.
She made her way back to row 32. Leaning down to speak quietly with Malik. Evelyn watched the interaction, saw the boy's shy response, the way he ducked his head when spoken to. He was just a kid. A kid who happened to have a gift her daughter responded to in a way she never responded to anything else.
The flight attendant returned. He says it's called Bright Morning Star, but it's his grandmother's version. She taught it to him when he was little. His grandmother's version, Evelyn repeated softly. She looked down at Charlotte, who is now peacefully playing with her own fingers, occasionally babbling in that sweet baby way that made everything else fade into the background.
What makes it special? The grandmother's version, he says she changed it to fit their story, added verses about gettingthrough hard times, about finding light in darkness. She told him every family should have their own version of the old songs to fit their own journey. Evelyn felt something shift in her chest.
Every family should have their own version. But what was her family's version? What songs did she know to sing to her daughter? Her own mother had hired nannies for such things. Evelyn had been raised on schedules and efficiency, not lullabibies and folk songs. Ma'am, the flight attendant said gently. He also said, well, he said you sing for the room first, then for the heart.
His grandmother taught him that, too. What does that mean? I think the flight attendant said carefully. It means you have to make peace with where you are before you can reach who you're trying to comfort. You have to be calm to give calm. Evelyn turned this over in her mind as the flight attendant moved on to other passengers.
Sing for the room first, then for the heart. Be calm to give calm. But how could she be calm when she felt like she was drowning every single day? When her husband criticized every decision. When the other mothers in her social circle seemed to manage everything effortlessly, when Charlotte seemed to resist her at every turn, the plane hit a patch of turbulence and several passengers gasped.
Charlotte startled, her face crumpling toward tears. But before the first cry could escape, Malik's humming grew slightly louder, adding a rhythmic quality that seemed to match the plane's movement. It was like he was incorporating the turbulence into the song. making it part of the music instead of something to fear.
Charlotte relaxed again, and Evelyn found herself studying the boy more carefully. He couldn't be more than 13 or 14, but there was something old about him. Not in his face, which was still soft with youth, but in his manner. The way he held himself, careful and contained. The way he seemed to be constantly making himself smaller, less noticeable.
The way he sang like it was breathing natural and necessary. What had his life been like? She wondered. To produce such a gift, and why did it seem touched with such sadness? As the turbulence settled and the captain announced they were cruising at altitude, Evelyn made a decision. She carefully stood up with Charlotte and made her way back toward economy.
Several passengers watched her progress with interest. The wealthy woman who'd been sitting beside her smirked, probably thinking Evelyn was about to make a scene. But when Evelyn reached row 32, she simply stood in the aisle for a moment, uncertain. Malik looked up at her with those dark, careful eyes, and she saw him brace himself as if expecting another scolding.
I, she started, then had to clear her throat. What you did, what you're doing, I just wanted to say the words stuck. Thank you. Seemed too small. I'm sorry. seemed too vulnerable. Charlotte decided for her. The baby reached out toward Malik with both chubby arms, babbling excitedly. And then, clear as day, she made a sound that might have been Ma or might have been the beginning of music.
But either way, it was directed entirely at this boy she'd never met before today. "She likes you," Evelyn said finally. And if it wasn't exactly thank you or I'm sorry, at least it was true. Malik ducked his head, but she caught the tiny smile that flashed across his face. "She's a sweet baby," he said softly. "She just needed to hear something familiar.
" "But she's never heard that song before," Evelyn pointed out. "No," Miss Laya interjected gently. "But she's heard love before, and that's what the boy sings with. Love, it translates across any language, any melody." Evelyn stood there for another moment, holding her calm, content baby, looking at this boy who'd given her daughter peace.
She wanted to ask him to teach her the song. She wanted to offer him money. She wanted to do something, anything to balance the scales between them. But before she could figure out what to say, the plane hit another patch of turbulence. This one more severe. The captain's voice came over the intercom, asking all passengers to return to their seats immediately.
As Evelyn made her way back to business class, she heard Malik's humming following her, a ribbon of sound that seemed to wrap around Charlotte like a blanket. And for the first time since her daughter had been born, Evelyn didn't feel like she was failing. She felt like she was learning. The plane steadied after the turbulence, and the seat belt sign flickered off.
Evelyn exhaled slowly, still feeling the ghost of the planes shaking in her bones. Charlotte remained peaceful against her shoulder, occasionally making soft sounds that seemed to echo Malik's melody. It was the longest her daughter had been calm since they'd left Chicago. "Thank goodness that's over," the wealthy woman beside her commented, smoothing her silk blouse.
"Though I must say, it's fortunate that boy back there has such effect on your littleone. Otherwise, we'd all be suffering through the turbulence and screaming." Evelyn forced herself to respond politely. Yes, fortunate. Back in row 32, Malik accepted a package of pretzels from Ms. Laya, who'd insisted he needed to eat something.
His stomach had been in knots since yesterday, thinking about tomorrow's audition. The Manhattan Conservatory of Music only held these open editions once a year. If he missed it or if he wasn't good enough, that door would close forever. You traveling alone, sweetie? Miss Laya asked gently. My aunt put me on the plane in Chicago.
My other aunt, Kesha, she's picking me up in New York. He carefully opened the pretzels, trying not to scatter crumbs. She lives in Brooklyn. Works double shifts at the hospital, but she got tomorrow morning off to take me to the audition. Audition? Malik nodded. A flicker of excitement breaking through his careful composure.
The Manhattan Conservatory. They have a scholarship program for kids who can't afford regular tuition. Full ride if you get in classes, even housing assistance during the school year. "That's wonderful," Miss Laya said, though she noticed how his hands trembled slightly. "Your grandmother would be proud. She's the one who sent in the application," Malik said softly before she got too sick.
Said, "I had something that shouldn't be wasted." He stared at his hands. "I just hope I don't mess it up." A teenage girl across the aisle had been listening. She leaned over with interest. Wait, you're auditioning for MCM? That's like impossible to get into. My cousin tried three times. Malik shrank back slightly....READ FULL STORY 👇👇👇
