Audition & Subtraction (8 page)

“It's not like I planned it,” Lori said.

“Well, maybe he did.”

“What?” Lori shot me a surprised look. “What does that mean?”

I hadn't thought it out, but as I spoke, it started to make sense. “Maybe he planned it that way to screw up our play-through.”

“He wouldn't do that!” Then she aimed a double eye-roll at Kerry and Misa. “Tay doesn't like Michael.”

I grabbed the edge of my desk. “I didn't say I don't like him. I'm just worried about our duet.”

“You still have plenty of time to practice,” Misa said.

“Yeah,” Kerry added. “They can't kiss
all
day.”

“But they can trrr
yyyy
,” Misa sang.

“You guys!” Lori hissed, but then she giggled.

“Maybe you can work on your embouchures,” Kerry said, fluttering her sooty eyelashes for effect.

“Yeah, they'll practice their pucker.” Misa made kissy noises, and they all busted up.
Ha-ha.

The final bell dinged over the loudspeaker, and Mrs. Law looked up with her usual expression of shock.

“Well, hello, everyone.” She stood as we swung around in our seats to face the front.

“I am sorry about earlier,” Lori whispered from behind. “I know I was late, but we pulled it together. You sounded great.”

No, I didn't.
But I shrugged and reached into my pack for a pen.

“Come on, Tay,” Lori whispered. “Don't be mad. Not when I'm so happy.”

My shoulders felt stiff with anger, but I forced myself to breathe deep and let it go. After all, this was the first time
ever
that Lori had done something like this. Misa and Kerry were happy for her, and I knew I should be, too. I turned enough so Lori could see me nod. I even smiled a little.

She smiled back and squeezed my arm—it was the sign. We were cool again, back to normal.

Only, I didn't feel like normal.

The air conditioner would come on in the afternoon once the temperature heated up. But it wasn't on now, so the air was still and quiet. It didn't matter. Sometimes you couldn't feel the Winds of Change until it was too late.

It was nearly half an hour before school started on Wednesday, and already the band wing thrummed with music. The percussionists had taken over; drum riffs echoed down the hall from the open doors. All the practice rooms were booked solid, and muted sounds seeped into the hall from the mostly soundproofed rooms.

I just had to grab my ligature, and then I'd go meet Lori. I was pretty sure I'd left it in the practice room last night. I hurried to the third room and stood on my tiptoes to look through the small window in the door as I raised a hand to knock. I froze, my fist an inch from the door, and sucked in a breath.

Michael Malone.
Figures.

He sat in front of a music stand so I could see him only from the side. I heard him stop, then start again. Then stop again.
Was Michael Malone face-scrunching?

Suddenly, as if I'd thought it out loud, he looked up.

Our eyes met.

Freakingtastic!

My cheeks fired with embarrassment—he probably thought I was spying. As if I would.
Well, maybe I would.
But I wasn't. I shoved open the door so hard it made a sucking noise as the air rushed out. “Sorry,” I said, sticking my head in. “I left something in here last—”

He held up a ligature.

“That's mine!” I said, relieved. I stepped inside, the door swinging shut behind me.

“Yeah, I recognized the shine.” He dropped it in my hand, the silver reflecting the overhead lights. “What do you do, use polish?”

“I just like to keep it clean. Which you might consider trying one day.”

He set the clarinet on his knee and flashed me his I'm-too-cool smirk. “Still worried about my digestive enzymes?”

I slanted my eyes in a disgusted glare. “If you don't mind sounding spitty, then why should I care?”

His smile faded. He surprised me by looking right in my eyes. “You think I sound spitty?”

“
Yeah!
” I wanted to say. But it was a lie and I couldn't do it. “No,” I muttered. “You don't.”

“You don't sound spitty, either,” he said. “Not that there's any spit inside your clarinet.” But this time he said it with a real smile.

“Yeah, well.” I shrugged. “I'm anti-spit. Just in general.”

He nodded. “Me, I like a good spitting contest now and then.”

“I can see that about you.”

Our eyes met, and for a change, it didn't feel like a clash of competitors.

“Speaking of spit,” Michael added, “what's the deal with Frank?”

I slid the ligature on and off my finger like a ring. Frank sat behind us and had a small saliva problem. “I don't think he closes his mouth all the way when he plays.”

Michael blinked. “For real? Because I feel like I'm sitting in front of a sprinkler. I got to say something.”

“You can't,” I told him. “I don't think he can help it. He's got special rubber-band attachments on his braces.”

“He's going to figure out something's wrong when I show up to band in a raincoat.”

I laughed—it just sort of burst out of me, completely unexpected. Kind of like his sense of humor.

He grinned, and I suddenly understood what Lori might see in him. He had a nice smile—when he wasn't smirking.

I stuck the ligature in the pocket of my backpack. “I said the exact same thing about the raincoat to Aaron six months ago.”

“Not surprised,” Michael said. “You guys are pretty funny together.”

“Who?” I frowned. “Aaron and me?”

“Yeah. You guys are always going off on something during band.”

“I guess,” I said. “We've known each other a while. Anyway, I think Frank's rubber bands come off in a month.”

“I suppose I won't drown in a month.” He shrugged and brought his clarinet back into playing position.

I pointed to the music stand. “Well. I'll let you get back to it.” Then my jaw dropped as I got a good look at his sheet music. The page was full of black—which meant lots of fast passages.

“Is that your solo?” I asked. “It looks hard.”

His eyes flickered back to the music. “More points, right?” But I saw a line between his eyebrows. Definite face-scrunching. All of a sudden, I remembered that first day in band and how he'd seemed nervous about the audition.

I licked my dry lips. “Lori told me your dad is a musician.”

“Yeah,” Michael said. “In New York.”

“And you're going to play in his band?”

“That's the plan when I'm old enough.”

I worked my hands into my back pockets. “That must be tough, though. Having him so far away.”

“Yeah, it kind of sucks.”

“Does he visit very much?”

“He can't,” Michael said. “They've got gigs. But he'll come out if I make District Honor Band.”

Frowning, I thought through what he'd just said. There was something weird about it. … “So,” I asked slowly, “does that mean if you don't make it, he won't come out to see you?”

His fingers flashed white at the tips as if he were pressing them into the keys. “I didn't say that. I'm getting in, and he's coming out. End of story.” Then he wet his reed and turned back to his music.

I swallowed, feeling like I should say something. But what? Instead, I backed out and closed the door softly until it clicked shut. I heard the muted sound of his clarinet again and stood there a minute, breathing hard. My heart felt heavy and fast, all at the same time. I wished I'd just gone in, grabbed my ligature, and walked out. I didn't want to know all that about his dad.

I liked Michael better when I could just hate him.

“You know a frog has three eyelids?”

I heard Aaron, but kind of like you hear a fly buzzing around your head. Like background noise.

“Uh-huh,” I murmured, shifting on one of the high-backed chairs in the science lab. Luckily, Mr. Howard had assigned Aaron as my partner. Not only was he the smartest person in honors science, but he could make me laugh about anything—including frog guts. We'd been prepping our lab stations since Monday. Finally, we got to start dissecting today. I'd been waiting all year for this, and now I could hardly concentrate.

“Frogs lay thousands of eggs at one time,” Aaron said.

“Huh.” I took the study guide he held out, but the words were a blur on the page. Instead I saw flashes of thirty-second notes that I
still
couldn't play. On the
back of my neck, I could almost feel Michael's hot breath as if he were getting closer and closer to beating me.

This morning had been weird. He'd been practicing an extra-hard solo so he could take
my
spot, and somehow I'd ended up feeling bad for him. Why did he have to go on about that dad stuff? Just because I asked didn't mean he had to tell me.

Besides, I had my own problems at home. And no way Michael was feeling sorry for me because my parents were separated. He didn't care that my mom had gotten a part in a community theater play, and in a few weeks, she'd be embarrassing herself on a stage as “Nurse Welty, Licensed to Kill.” And what about Lori? Obviously he didn't care that I couldn't even talk to my best friend anymore. Her heart might be on my side, but her lips were on his.

“Did you know that when you slice open a frog, it farts?”

“Yeah,” I said. Then I blinked. It took me a second to hear what Aaron had just said. “What?”

“Oh, so you're actually listening.”

I rolled my eyes. “Jeez, Aaron.”

“Just want to be sure you're awake before I hand you the scissors.”

“Smart. Piss me off, then hand me a lethal weapon.”

“Angry and out for blood,” he said. “That's what I look for in a dissecting partner.”

Before I knew it, I was smiling. “Idiot.” I looked around for the first time. “So are we ready?”

The lab lights cast a white gleam on everything, making me wish I had sunglasses. Across from us, John and Spencer poked their frog with pins, even though we weren't supposed to touch them yet. I stared at ours, wrinkling my nose at the smell—sort of like Lysol but more intense.

Mr. Howard was still checking everyone's workspace. Ours had passed inspection. Frog on dissection tray. Aprons on us. Plastic gloves ready. Dissecting pins and scissors on the metal tray.

Finally, Mr. Howard cleared his throat. His polo shirt buttoned so high the collar bobbed up and down with his Adam's apple. “All right, everyone. We're ready to begin. Please refer to your worksheet and answer question number one.”

Aaron held up the paper. “I don't believe this.”

“What?” I leaned against his shoulder and read, “What sex is your frog?”

He frowned. “Isn't that a little personal? We've only just met.”

I grinned and groaned at the same time. “We're not seriously supposed to look between its legs? How humiliating.”

“For who?” Aaron asked. “Us or the frog?”

I looked at our frog—really looked. It had little legs with blue veins and a round white belly. I felt a
pang of sadness for it. I wouldn't like being murdered so eighth graders could slice me open. The frog might have had a nice lily-pad home and a best friend before it was snatched. “We should name it,” I told Aaron.

“Why?”

“It seems nicer that way.”

“It's nicer slicing open something with a name?”

“I don't know,” I said. “It'll seem less dead that way.”

“It's supposed to be dead.”

“I know. It just looks so … previously alive.”

“At least it died for science,” Aaron offered, “a noble and worthy cause.”

“Yeah, and now we're sticking it with pins and checking out its privates.”

Aaron laughed. “Well, we can't name it until we know if it's a boy or a girl.” He studied the worksheet. “We're supposed to look at its fingers. Male frogs have thick pads on the thumb.”

“That's how you tell? The thumb?”

“That's what the paper says.”

We both bent over the frog. “Are those thick?”

Aaron studied it a second longer. “I'm guessing it's a male.”

“Just to be safe, we'll call him Sam,” I decided. “That way it's okay even if we're wrong.”

“So, Sam,” Aaron said. “We're gathered here to slice you open.”

I shot him an evil look. “Is that your idea of kind and sensitive?”

“Just pretend it's someone you hate.”

Immediately a pair of green-yellow eyes flashed in my head. “That's easy.” I rolled one of the straight pins side to side on the tray.

“Let me guess,” Aaron said. “Malone.”

I nodded, thinking back to earlier. “I ended up talking to him this morning. I think he's worried about the audition, but he's still so sure of himself. It's incredibly annoying.”

“Your frog is annoying?” Mr. Howard asked as he stopped at our table.

I looked up, startled. “Oh. Um. No,” I stammered.

“Then what progress have you made?” he asked.

“Sam is a male,” Aaron told him.

“Sam?” Mr. Howard repeated.

“We're on a first-name basis with our frog.”

His mouth puckered around a smile. “I see. You may keep going.” He walked to the next table, and Aaron leaned over the worksheet to write in our answer.

“He's not very good,” he said.

I frowned at the stretched-out body. “We got a bad frog?”

“Not Sam,” Aaron said. “Malone. He bangs out every note the same.” Then he pushed back his hair so I could look right into his eyes, and he smiled. A very snarky smile.

A rush of True Like flooded through me—I really ought to create a whole new Level of Like in honor of Aaron. If we weren't sitting over a dead amphibian, I would have reached out and hugged him.