I Heart Band (8 page)

O
n Friday morning, I got to school absurdly early and headed straight to Julia's locker. The night before, Mom and I had stayed up late making a couple of dozen origami four-leaf clovers, which were now in the grocery bag that I was setting down on the floor to spin her combination.

Five minutes and about half a roll of tape later, I stepped back to survey my handiwork and grinned. The clovers (which were covered in green glitter) spelled out
good luck
on the inside of the door. She'd see it right before history class.

Smiling to myself, I shut her locker and jumped about a foot in the air when I realized someone was on the other side of it.

“Hey, Holly.” Aaron glanced at me from his locker and laughed. “Did I scare you? You looked pretty focused on whatever you were doing in there.”

I tried to catch my breath, which, let's face it, was a losing battle. “Yeah, I was, um . . . leaving my friend Julia a note.”

“Ah.” He went back to digging through his locker, which was kind of a wreck. I took the opportunity to admire his profile, which, in contrast, was very well put-together. “Do you know what time it is?”

“Seven fifty-eight,” I said promptly. Aaron groaned.

“I'm gonna be late for practice.” Straightening up, he shoved back a cascading mess of papers and notebooks, then slammed the door shut. It was going to be, like, a total avalanche next time he opened it. Glancing at the clock, Aaron crammed two books into his backpack and zipped it. “You going to the band party tonight?”

Breathe, Holly. Inhale
.

“Yes! Um . . . yeah. Are you?”

“Yeah.” He smiled at me, and somehow I didn't fall over. (The smile parentheses. They hurt.) “Guess I'll see you there.”

“That's . . . um, right. You will. See me, I mean.”

As soon as he disappeared around the corner, I leaned against the lockers and sank to the floor. Fifty-one minutes until first period started. Maybe I could use the time to try to remember how to speak like a normal human being.

“Seventy-two.” Julia took her reed out of her mouth and placed it on her mouthpiece. “Not enough to change my overall grade, but it's way better than my last quiz,” she added, sliding on the ligature.

“If you do okay on the next quiz and get a B on the test the week after that, you'll pass,” said Natasha. “I'll make more flash cards this weekend.”

“Thanks,” Julia replied, then smiled at me. “And thanks again for the good-luck-wish decorations this morning, Holly.”

I grinned. “I guess they worked!”

“Yup!” Her smile suddenly looked devious. “Although I can't help but wonder if there's another reason you wanted to spend all morning at my locker.”

“Shh!” I glanced around, giggling, but Aaron wasn't there yet. “I have no idea what you're talking about.”

“Yeah, right.” Julia lowered her voice. “So did you talk to him again?”

“Talk to who?” Natasha's tone was cheerful, but she looked vaguely irritated. It made me happier than I cared to admit.

“No one,” I said quickly, picking my horn up. Julia just grinned as we headed to our seats.

Chair test number two was in less than two weeks. This time, the test was on a chorale we did during warm-ups that was actually kind of hard. Maybe I had to be fake nice to Natasha, but my days of second chair were done. As soon as I sat down, I started reading through the part we were being tested on for the fifth time, pushing down the valves and tapping my foot.

“Cute!”

I glanced over and saw Gabby pointing at Natasha's shoes as she sat down. (Purple plaid ballet flats. Okay, they
were
pretty cute. I had a dress they'd look great with.)

“Thanks!” Natasha said. “Early birthday present from my aunt.”

“Nice!” Gabby replied. “When's your birthday?”

“Saturday after next.” Natasha's voice got louder all of a sudden. “Actually, I'm having a party—you should come!”

I stopped mid-measure, fingers frozen over the valves.

“I'd love to!” Gabby said. “That's the day after the football game, yeah?”

“Yup.”

I wasn't looking at her, but I could hear that smug smile in Natasha's voice. Mr. Dante saved me from further torment when he stepped onto the podium. But I had a hard time focusing on the warm-ups.

A party. All my friends would be invited, and I wouldn't. Stellar.

The more I thought about it, the harder it was to stick with the whole “be fake nice to Natasha” thing. While we rehearsed “Galactic March,” I kept picturing Julia and Gabby and everyone at her house, giving her presents and having fun without me. So when we got to the horn solo and I heard Natasha whisper to Gabby, “I wish this solo was our chair test next week instead of the chorale. It's so easy!” I was pretty much done.

I sat rigidly in my chair, waiting until Mr. Dante finished talking to the low brass. “Let's start right at the horn solo, measure ninety-two,” he said, lifting his hands.

I kept my horn in my lap, staring at Natasha's feet while she played. She sounded great, which only fueled my anger. Discreetly, I lifted my horn to my lips and leaned over and to the side just a little bit. Blowing air into the mouthpiece, I pushed down the spit valve.

Bull's-eye.

I leaned back in my chair, trying not to smile. Of course, it was a shame to ruin such an adorable pair of shoes. But I felt
so
much better.

For a second. Then I saw Gabby looking right at me, and my stomach dropped. She looked surprised . . . and disappointed.

Whatever. I lifted my horn again, ready to come in with Brooke and Owen after the solo. It wasn't
that
big a deal, right? Natasha's shoes couldn't be
totally
ruined. And she deserved it.

“Holly.”

I looked up at Mr. Dante, and my insides instantly turned to ice.

He'd seen me.

I swallowed hard. “Yes?”
Oh God oh God oh God.

He was silent for a few seconds, looking at me with this mix of disappointment and shock that made me want to go hole up in my cubby for the rest of my life. Before he could speak, Natasha shrieked.

“My shoe! What the heck
is
that?” She stuck her foot out, then stared at me, her mouth open. “Did you empty your
spit valve
on my
shoe
?”

Oh God.

Sophie Wheeler squealed in disgust, and behind me, a few of the boys laughed. I could feel Julia staring at me. On the other side of Natasha, Gabby's eyes were glued to the floor. My face burned.

“Holly?” Mr. Dante said again.

I cleared my throat, but my voice came out all shaky and weak anyway. “It was an accident.”

Could I have said anything more lame? Probably not. Natasha just gaped at me, her leg still extended as if she was trying to get as far away from her own foot as humanly possible.

Mr. Dante studied me thoughtfully. He knew I was lying, I could tell. I shifted in my chair.

“Then I suggest you be more careful in the future,” he said at last. “And I believe you owe Natasha an apology.”

I thought nothing could be more humiliating than Aaron Cook seeing me playing Warlock with a bunch of nerds. Clearly, I was wrong.

“Sorry,” I mumbled, turning toward Natasha but not meeting her eyes.

“Okay,” she said. But as soon as Mr. Dante started rehearsal again, I saw her and Sophie exchange a Look.

Oh my God,
Sophie mouthed at her, and Natasha snickered. Sophie made a disgusted face at me before turning back around in her chair.

When rehearsal finally ended (like, a decade later), I just stayed in my chair with my eyes fixed on my folder, trying to not look guilty. Trevor didn't help by jabbing me in the arm with his trombone slide, causing me to jump about a foot off my chair.

“What?” I yelped. He grinned at me.

“Good one.”

“Huh?”

Trevor looked pointedly at Natasha, who was making a big show of wiping her shoe with a rag. “I did that to Max in beginner class all the time when he got annoying.” He headed to the cubby room, and I stared after him in shock.

I was officially as immature as Trevor Wells. This had to be rock-bottom, right?

“Holly, I need to speak with you in my office, please.”

Wrong.

I couldn't even look up at Mr. Dante. Leaving my horn on my chair, I followed him to the front of the band hall without taking my eyes off my shoes.

Inside his office, he closed the door, then leaned against his desk. But he didn't say anything. I fidgeted, staring at the spreadsheet opened on his computer monitor. This was one of my mom's tactics, too—waiting and waiting until the silence was just too much and I confessed to whatever it was I was trying to pretend I hadn't done.

It drove me nuts, because it always worked.

“I'm really sorry!” I burst out after five seconds of unbearably awkward silence. “I don't know why I did that. I mean, I
do
know why I did it, but I know I shouldn't have done it, you know?”

Mr. Dante arched an eyebrow. “And why exactly did you do it?”

“Because . . .” I trailed off, staring at my shoes again. Somehow
Because Natasha was being a total jerk
didn't seem like an answer Mr. Dante would appreciate.

I cleared my throat. “I, um . . . I don't get along very well with Natasha.”

“And?”

Confused, I glanced up. “And what?”

Mr. Dante shrugged. “You seem like a pretty sensible girl, Holly. Do you really think not getting along with someone is a reason to empty your spit valve on her shoe?”

My face grew hot. “No,” I said in a small voice.

“I didn't think so. You know, Mrs. Wendell told me a lot about you this summer.”

I blinked in surprise. “Really?”

“Yup.” Pulling open his top desk drawer, Mr. Dante pulled out a notebook and began flipping through the labels. The
color-coded
labels—nice. “I took notes when I met with her after I was hired,” he added when he saw me staring, and I tried to smile.

“Oh.”

“Here we go—sixth-graders, French horn.” Mr. Dante tapped the page. “She said you were very talented, well-behaved, one of her best and most hardworking students . . . and apparently you had a knack for making great concert programs?”

I blushed again, but for a different reason this time.

“So.” Mr. Dante closed his notebook. “How does such a responsible, mature student go from this”—he held up the notebook—“to what I saw from you today?”

I squeezed my eyes shut. Oh my God, this guy could even give Mom a run for her money for the title of Guilt Trip Master.

What could I say?
Because Natasha is having a birthday party and probably not inviting me. Because she stole my best friend. Because she got first chair instead of me—which is
totally
unfair, by the way.

Nope. Not about to say that to Mr. Dante.

“I don't know,” I said at last, opening my eyes. “I . . . I really am sorry, Mr. Dante. It won't happen again, ever. I've never done anything so—so
gross
before. Seriously, it's something my brother would do,” I added with a shudder. Mr. Dante chuckled, and I smiled weakly in relief.

“Glad to hear it, Holly. Thank you.” Opening the top drawer, he placed the notebook back inside. The score to “Labyrinthine Dances” was open on his desk. I leaned forward a little, my eyes widening.

“Did you . . . did you
color
this?”

Mr. Dante nodded, flipping a few pages so I could see. “I just highlight certain things so I can see them at a glance. Dynamics are green, tempo changes are orange, key changes are blue . . . you get the idea.”

Whoa. The man was a genius.

“You'd better get to lunch, Holly. And listen . . .” I tore my eyes off the beauty of the color-coded score and looked at him. “I appreciate your apology, and I know you mean it. But you need to tell Natasha you're sorry.” Adjusting his glasses again, Mr. Dante smiled. “I know she . . . pushes your buttons sometimes. But, Holly, you push hers, too, and you know it. And like it or not, you're going to be in the same section for the rest of the year. Seems like the best thing to do would be at least
try
to get along, right?”