Audition & Subtraction (10 page)

“You're my best friend in the world,” she said, blinking hard. “Of course I want you to make District Honor Band. I'd be completely lost without you.”

I wanted her to reach for my wrist again. To pull me back down to safety. I grabbed a fluffy pillow that had fallen off her bed and hugged it close. “Then why did
you say yes?” The anger was gone from my voice, leaving nothing but hurt.

“Because he needs me, Tay. It's not that I'm trying to harm
you
—it's that I'm trying to help
him
.”

“But you can't do one without the other.”

“Yeah, I can. If you think about it, I'm just the accompaniment. It's going to be about how well you play. How well you both play.”

“It's not that simple.”

“Why not?”

I slid forward. “For one thing, how will you have enough time to practice two duets along with your solo?”

“I'll make time. Your duet comes first—I told Michael that.”

Did she?
Her eyes were clear and steady, but I just didn't know.

“Michael and I are going to do the same duet you and I did last year,” she went on. “I already know the flute part, so I won't have to practice it much.”

“You've already got it all planned out?”

“Would you listen?” she said, frustration adding an edge to her voice. “The duet I'm doing with you is much harder. You'll get more points just on difficulty alone.”

“If we practice enough for me to play it right.”

“We will.”

I shook my head, my heart in my throat. “You have to tell him no, Lori. You just have to.”

“Why?” she snapped. “Because that would be better for you? What about me? He's my boyfriend, Tay. Did you forget that?”

“How could I?” I muttered. “You remind me ten times a day.”

“And you said you weren't going to get weird.”

“That was before I knew you were going to choose him over me.”

“
Ugh
,” she groaned. She covered her face with her hands. When she shoved her fingers through her hair a second later and looked back up, her eyes had narrowed and her cheeks burned red. “I'm not choosing anything. You're the one who's making this into a choice. If I want to stay friends with you, then I can't have a boyfriend—is that what you're really saying? I never thought you'd be like this.”

She stared at me, hurt, and the air whooshed out of me. “That's not what I meant.”

“I always thought our friendship would last through everything, but now I'm not sure.”

“Come on,” I said, worry rushing in to fill my lungs.

“Do you even want to be friends anymore?”

“Of course I do!” Fear made my voice tremble. “You're getting this all wrong.”

“Then you're not making me choose?” she asked.

My chest shook as though I were hyperventilating. Once, when I was five years old, I'd run into a swing post at a playground. When I stood up I was so dizzy,
Mom had me bend over and look at my fingers until I could count every one. I stared at my fingers now, but the dizziness was something different this time. Something inside me. “I can't believe this is happening.”

“I know.” Her face softened, and she reached for my wrist, squeezing in that way she always did; that way that said everything was okay. But suddenly I wondered if it really just meant everything was okay for Lori.

“I'm sorry,” she said again. “I wouldn't do this if I thought it would hurt you. Honest,” she added. “You're a better player. I've heard you both and you are.”

I took in a long, shaky breath. I wanted to believe that—so much.

“I'm serious, Tay.” She squeezed my wrist again. “You'll still make the band, but this way Michael won't be mad at me when you do. Is that so much to ask?”

Was it?
I couldn't think straight, could only feel the reassuring pressure of her hand.

“I guess not,” I said. If only I were as confident as Lori. My eyes throbbed with the pressure of unshed tears. “I count on you, Lori. You know that, right?” It came out all wobbly and lame and pathetic like I was four years old.

“I count on you, too,” she said seriously. Like it wasn't lame and pathetic at all.

Then she reached over and hugged me. I hugged her back. I could feel the bones in her shoulders—hard
edges that hadn't been there before she'd lost the weight. But it was still Lori. Still the one person I could always reach out to.

“I knew you'd understand.” She squeezed tighter. “You're such a good friend that way.”

Then Beethoven began playing again.

“Sorry,” she said and pulled away. She reached for her phone. I folded my arms around the pillow again. “Michael,” she said as she shot me a sorry look. Then she turned back to the phone and started typing.

And without even thinking it through, I reached for my own cell phone. I flipped it open and typed in Aaron's number.

Still want to go to the game together Fri?

I'm in if U R.

The warm breeze swirled over my face like a blow-dryer as I pedaled up Dad's cul-de-sac Thursday after school. It felt good, though, to work my legs and suck down some non-air-conditioned air. The bushes had turned flowery and colorful in the past month, and I rode past a mix of yellow and pink, steering my wheels toward the few patches of shade from overhanging trees. Dad had left his garage door open, and I coasted up the bumpy pavers of his driveway and into the cool darkness.

Other than Dad's truck, the garage was empty and cleaner than the inside of most people's houses. Our garage at home was never clean. Tools, camping gear, and old truck parts spilled out of cabinets. It had gotten so bad, Andrew complained that taking out the garbage was like running an obstacle course. This didn't look like Dad's garage at all.

Maybe because he wasn't planning to stay?

The door to the house swung open and Dad stuck out his head. “Hey, Taters. Thought I heard you.”

“Hi.” I undid the chin strap of my helmet.

“I'm getting some things ready. Leave your stuff and come on in.” Then the door thudded shut behind him.

I took off my helmet and set it on the handlebars. I shrugged the pack off my back, but I wasn't going to leave it in the garage—it held my clarinet and music. I reached for the door handle, but froze when I saw Dad's hiking boots.

For as long as I could remember, Dad's crusty old boots had sat outside the door to our kitchen. Mom would ask him to store them in a garage cabinet so she didn't have to smell them, but really they didn't smell, and Dad wouldn't do it anyway. He said he liked knowing they were ready whenever he was.

Hiking was one of his favorite things. He got out of whack when he flew overnighters, and lots of nights he couldn't sleep. So he'd put on a headlamp and go for a hike on the desert trails behind our house. Sometimes, when there wasn't school the next day, he'd wake me and I'd go with him. He'd carry the telescope, and we'd set it up at a curve in the trail and name the constellations.

I stared at the worn, brown leather and the dirt crusted onto the shoelaces and toes. We hadn't done a
night hike since he'd moved out. These boots didn't belong here.

Neither did my dad.

I pulled open the door, and he stood there, smiling. Dad has a big smile that people say is his best feature, but I like his eyes best. When he laughs, they crinkle up like Chinese fans. But I wasn't in the mood to be smiling—or to see him smiling as if everything was fine.

“Come on in,” he said.

I set my pack down carefully on the marble floors. I could see the laundry room off to my right, but I still couldn't picture Dad washing his own clothes. The kitchen was bigger than our kitchen at home, with glossy cabinets and fancy granite counters, but I still didn't like it. At home, Mom had hung yellow curtains, and blue rugs covered the wood floor.

The whole house was dark, shiny, and reeked of furniture polish. But Dad was not a polish kind of guy. He wore jeans when he didn't have to dress up for work, got dirty fixing cars, and kept filthy boots in the garage. The guy who lived here ought to sip wine and speak with an English accent.

How could he want to be that person? How could he want to live in this weird house while all of us were just two blocks away in a perfectly great
home
? It wasn't like Mom and Dad had fought all the time. It wasn't like she didn't want him back. Maybe she hadn't come out and said it, but why else was she so unhappy? Why else
was she doing things like community theater with pathetic Mrs. Lansing?

“I thought we could bake a cake today,” Dad said.

“A cake?” I made a face. “I should really practice.”

“Come on, honey. It won't take long.”

“How do you know?” I grumbled. “Since when did you ever bake a cake?”

“So it's time I learned.” He gestured to the counter.

A pile of stuff sat next to the sink. I looked back at him. “Seriously?”

“I got a cake pan and mixing bowls.” He picked an electric mixer out of the pile. “I even bought one of these.”

He smiled, a hopeful look in his eyes. Then he reached into a cupboard and pulled out a box of angel food cake mix. “Your favorite,” he added, wiggling the box.

I crossed my arms over my chest. “What's going on? This is not normal father behavior.”

He leaned one hip against the counter. “Your mom thinks you're having a tough time. I thought if we had a chance to talk …”

“You mean you want to grill me for info?”

“That's one way of saying it.” He set the box on the counter. “Mostly, I wanted to spend some time with you. Usually, we eat and you disappear with your clarinet.”

“Maybe I don't want to talk.”

“Then we don't have to. We could just make a cake.” His green eyes smiled at me along with his crooked grin. Beard stubble shadowed his cheeks, and the Red Sox T-shirt I'd given him for his birthday hung in wrinkles over his jeans.

How could I say no with my dad looking at me like that? I sighed. “Okay, but I'm in charge because you'll mess it up.”

He broke into a huge smile. For some reason, that made my throat tighten. He had so many lines crinkling up at the edge of his eyes—more lines than I'd seen in a long time.

“You be the captain,” he said, “and I'll copilot.”

I held out my hand for the cake mix. He passed it to me, and I read the directions. “You have eggs?”

He went for the ingredients while I ripped open the box.

“So auditions are a week from Saturday, right?” he asked.

I nodded.

“You ready?”

“Getting there.”

He set the carton of eggs on the counter. “And you have a whole night at a hotel with all of your friends? You must be excited.” He raised one eyebrow, like I should fill him in.

I ripped open the plastic wrap in the box and dumped the mix into a bowl. “Yeah.”

“You know …” He straightened and drummed on the counter with his fingers. “I got you something. Maybe now is a good time to give it to you.”

He disappeared into the laundry room. I waited, my hands around the glass bowl of cake mix, a few butterflies of excitement flitting around my stomach in spite of my bad mood.
A present?

A minute later, he was back, a small velvet box in his hands.
Jewelry?
I wiggled open the black lid. A gold charm bracelet lay inside, and attached was an engraved heart: HONOR BAND.

“Dad.” I closed the lid, the butterflies dropping like dead gnats. “I haven't made it yet.”

“I know,” he said. “Mom told me I should wait, but you made it last year. Plus, I was afraid I'd be gone working when you find out. This way, it can also be a good-luck charm.”

“I hope you can return it,” I said, handing it back to him.

“Why?” His voice deepened with surprise.

I studied the cake directions. “We need half a cup of water.”

“Tatum!” He came up beside me and turned me with a hand on my shoulder. “What's going on? You've been talking about District Honor Band all year.”

“Nothing's going on,” I snapped. “I just may not make it.”

“Does this have something to do with the new guy? Your mother told me there was a new clarinetist.”

“Half a cup of water,” I said again.

He didn't take the hint. Both of his hands circled my shoulders. “You're not just going to let him take the spot from you without a fight, are you?”

“It's not like we're going to wrestle for it.”

“You know what I mean, honey. You have to believe in yourself. You have to go for it. Are you doing everything you can?”

“Yes.” I pulled away, grabbing the measuring cup myself. As I filled it at the sink, a tiny traitorous voice piped up and asked,
Are you really doing everything you can?
The voice came from my backpack. From the solo music still stuck inside a folder. Mr. Wayne had said the music was singing my name. Maybe it was, because I swear, it kept calling to me. Maybe it was possessed. Maybe
I
was possessed. Only, if I were, I'd go demon on Michael and slice off his pouty lips.

I dumped the water into the bowl and stirred. “Can we just bake?”

“I'm trying to help, honey.”

I dropped the whisk so that batter splattered on the cold, stone counter. “Well, you're not. If I make it, I make it. It won't be the end of the world if I don't.” My words would've sounded impressive, too, if my voice hadn't cracked. “Your making a big deal about it just makes me feel worse.”

He held up his hands. “Okay. I'm just worried about you.”

“If you're worried, then why don't you move back home? Then I won't even care about stupid Honor Band.”