Being chosen for the school choir felt like a win a bright spark in Kingstar's new life at St. Hubert.
He expected the rehearsals to be fun. Light. Just like the moments he used to have singing in class with Irene at break time.
But choir practice… was a different battlefield.
Mr. Owusu was no joke.
"You can't just sing you must know your part. Your voice is not your own in a choir. You blend. You build. You support."
The very first rehearsal, Kingstar stood among seasoned choristers boys who read sheet music like textbooks, hit perfect harmony like muscle memory, and knew how to breathe with the music.
He stumbled.
He missed his tenor cue. Forgot to hold a note. And when asked to sight-read a line from Jesu, Joy of Man's Desiring, he blinked like the letters were in Chinese.
"Again!" Mr. Owusu barked. "No guessing. You must learn this the right way."
Kingstar left chapel that evening drenched in sweat not from heat, but from embarrassment.
He walked alone toward his dorm, hands in his pocket, humming quietly.
Maybe I'm not as good as I thought.
But just then, one of the older choir members, a calm Form Three student named Elvis, caught up with him.
"You're not bad, you know," Elvis said. "You just need work. You've got emotion the rest is training."
"I thought joining the choir would be the end of the journey," Kingstar admitted. "Turns out, it's just the start."
Elvis smiled. "Exactly. Choir isn't for those who sing. It's for those who serve the music."
From that night, Kingstar started staying back after practice. He sat by Elvis. Asked questions. Listened more.
Learned about breath control. Harmony lines. Pitch accuracy. Music theory. Even basic Latin pronunciation.
Every note was a lesson.
Every mistake became motivation.
Even when he noticed the Prep Prefect watching him from a distance eyes sharp with quiet jealousy Kingstar stayed focused.
He no longer wanted to impress.
He wanted to grow.