“Look, Elsie,” he went on when I had settled myself, mellophone balanced across my lap, “I don’t know why you want to rush into Shining Birches, but I can appreciate your work ethic.”
I waited.
“Perhaps there’s a way we can work this out and get everyone’s needs met.”
“What do you mean?”
“You need to practice, I need—and I think
you
need— to come to New York. You’re the strongest player in your section—not to mention the loudest—and if we do end up adopting the Minutemen’s parade music, there’s potential for a major mellophone solo in the piece. We need your chops.”
A major mellophone solo? That was intriguing, as was his comment that he thought I needed to travel with the group. What was that supposed to mean?
“What if we arranged it so that you could use the band room at lunch and after school for some extra practice time between now and then. Would that help?”
I considered his offer. I’d practiced during my lunch period all through eighth grade, but that was because I hadn’t had anyone to eat lunch
with
. Then again, since Hector and Sarah weren’t speaking to me, and who knew what was going on with Jake, it was kind of perfect. And, although I hated to admit it, the promise of a solo at Darcy’s—in front of a national TV audience—made the parade sound less like a distraction and more like an amazing performance opportunity. But could I handle both?
“Practicing in the band room would definitely help, but I need to think about everything, Mr. Sebastian. Is that okay?” I hated not being able to jump up and down, hug him and shout “Yes!”—because, based on the look on his face, that’s what he was expecting—but I had to be honest. Marching band was not the most important thing in the world to me: horn was. And if I’d learned anything this season, it was that they were two great things that didn’t go together.
When I left his office a few minutes later, I was smiling and feeling a little bit better about the New York situation. Of course, by the time I reached the sidewalk, everything else came flooding back.
Bye-bye, good mood.
27
Wrapped in a fog of worry, I went home wishing there was someone I could talk to about my Darcy’s/Shining Birches dilemma. Although, I thought ruefully, if I hadn’t caused Hector/Sarah and Punk dilemmas, I would have
lots
of someones to discuss it with. And then there was Jake. I wasn’t sure that was a dilemma, yet, but it definitely was . . . something. At this point, regardless of what happened at the dance, he was the only person who was still speaking to me. At least, I hoped he was.
When I got home, I opened a blank e-mail and plugged in Jake’s address. What to say? “Hey—how are you? Where were you today? I messed up with nearly everyone else and I need advice about my horn.” Lame. The blank message block didn’t offer any better suggestions, so I spent about fifteen minutes typing his address in the SEND field, thinking awhile, then erasing it. I did the same thing on his FriendPage. A few people had left posts about the dance, and there were about ten posts asking where he was today, but he hadn’t responded. He must be really sick or something.
I couldn’t come up with anything to put on his wall either, so after checking Punk’s, Hector’s, and Sarah’s pages—all of which were dotted with messages about the upcoming trip to New York, and none of them had left notes on mine—I just logged off and dragged out my homework, depressed over the whole situation.
At dinner, I picked at my food. I kept wondering how to bring up the whole “I’m going to miss Thanksgiving for a marching band gig” thing. I mean, if I told my parents I was going to be playing in a symphony, it’d be one thing, but I didn’t know how they’d take me promenading through Manhattan with my instrument. Not to mention their reaction to the whole “cutting into my Shining Birches practice time” thing too. At one point, Mom told a supposedly funny story about a dye pack at the bank accidentally exploding on a teller. Dad laughed, but I was so wrapped up in my own world, I missed the humor.
When he stopped laughing, both of them turned to me, like I was supposed to say something next. Realizing that made me even less interested in telling them.
“Uh, so,” I started. “The, uh, marching band got some great news today.” I stabbed a clump of ziti with my fork, paying precise attention to each strand of cheese that stretched off the plate.
“What kind of news?” My dad’s fork hit his plate with a
clink!
I dotted my pasta around, gathering extra sauce.
“We’ve been invited to march in the Darcy’s Thanksgiving parade,” I blurted, then stuffed the sauce-filled glob into my mouth. I was so nervous, it tasted like cardboard. I choked it down.
“Pretty exciting, but isn’t that short notice?” my dad asked. Sometimes, I hated that he knew so much about music. “They usually issue invitations in late September.”
“That
is
exciting,” Mom echoed. “And a long way to go by yourself.”
I reminded them about the bleachers collapse (ignoring Mom’s cringes), summarizing how we came to be invited in the Minutemen’s place. The whole time, Mom and Dad were practicing their psychic parenting skills. There was even a forehead argument at one point, where dad furrowed his whole brow and raised one eyebrow. Mom shook her head at him, tilted her head toward me, and shook it. Dad raised both eyebrows in response.
“So we just found out today,” I finished. I speared a meatball and ate it whole, hoping to prevent discussion. “Oh,” I added, trying to sneak in the information as an afterthought, “I might be playing a major solo too.”
“What about Shining Birches?” Of course that’d be the next thing out of Dad’s mouth. Even though it was the first thing that occurred to me, coming from him it was totally annoying.
“Mr. Sebastian will let me use the band room during lunch for extra practice, and I’ll work out a plan with Mr. Rinaldi,” I responded as if I had it under control. “I’m in good shape anyway.” I crossed my fingers after that one.
Dad whistled low, through his teeth.
“Are you sure it’s a good idea to accept that solo if they offer it?” he asked.
“What?!” He thought I should turn it
down
?!
“Well, I haven’t heard you play your audition pieces lately, and the last time I did, you needed substantial help. Are you sure you’ll be ready, especially once you add practices for another solo into your schedule?”
Dad, on repeat. I opened and closed my mouth, trying to rein in my anger.
“Of
course
I’ll be ready!” I snipped. I’ll just have to sacrifice time with the few friends I have left, a part of me whispered. I ignored that part. Before I could go on, my mom spoke up.
“You’ll miss Thanksgiving dinner at Aunt Denise’s.”
Aunt Denise’s Thanksgivings flashed through my head: dry turkey, younger cousins running around, trying to blow up the turkey carcass using illegal firecrackers that Uncle Rick stashed in the garage after the Fourth of July. Nope, I wouldn’t be missing anything. “Well, you can watch me on TV,” I said through clenched teeth.
Mom leaned over her plate, toward me. “New York is a dangerous place, and I don’t like knowing that you’ll be running around unsupervised. Are you taking buses up and back?”
I rolled my eyes. “Mom, we’ll be supervised. It’s not like I’m going to leave parade formation to go sightseeing and come back and get back in line! Give me a
break
.” I took a breath. “You might not like it, but you have to let me go.”
“Elsie, we’re just concerned about you.” My mom was trying to defuse the situation, but I wouldn’t have it. I was sick of feeling bad about my choices, what I said, or the decisions I made—with my parents
and
my friends. This was my choice. I owned it.
I pushed back from the table and glared at my parents.
“I’m playing. I’m going. Deal with it.”
I marched up to my room, slamming the door behind me.
28
I hid in my room for the rest of the night, rejecting my mother’s two attempts to talk.
“Leave me
alone
!” I called from the bed. My dad never checked on me.
A major problem came with my self-imposed exile: I had nowhere to practice. I couldn’t leave, which was my original plan, because to leave I’d have to get dropped off somewhere. And it was a Monday night, which meant no symphony gigs for my dad. But now more than ever, I needed to practice for the audition and prep for my lesson.
Tormented by my own stupidity, I set up my music stand and put my horn together. I blew warm air through it while I considered my options. I had to play; I had no choice. But I didn’t want to give my dad the satisfaction of hearing me run through the pieces after my dinner table explosion. I stared at the “Music washes away from the soul the dust of everyday life” quote that I’d plastered across the top of my mirror. My soul was definitely dusty.
I
needed
to play.
But how?
Then it occurred to me: my practice mute! I had one stuffed in the back of my closet, but never used it—I couldn’t work on tone with it in.
“Should we try it?” I asked my horn. I dug it out, stuffed it into the bell, and
voila!
my formerly mellow-brassy sound was reduced to a teeny honking. I also cut my air, playing as quietly as possible—the antithesis of my marching band blowouts.
“Perfect!” I said aloud. If it had hands, I’d’ve slapped my horn a high five.
I played for two hours, softly pouring my frustration and anger into the instrument, working through the audition pieces and dusting my soul. There were just over three weeks to perfect them, and if all of my practice sessions went this well, I’d blow the judges’ hair back.
Maybe all I needed to do between now and then was stay this miserable?
The next morning, I rushed through my routine to avoid conversation with my mom and dad. Leaving the house was no help, though—the walk to the bus stop just brought me closer to the mess that waited for me at school. I’d have to talk to Jake. Hector and Sarah too. And probably Punk. I nearly groaned out loud.
I arrived at school a wreck. The nervous-excited (Jake), nervous-shameful (Hector/Sarah), and nervous-nervous (Punk) feelings wreaked havoc on my stomach and palms. They were sweating so much they left little pools on the green vinyl bus seat, and I couldn’t breathe without wanting to hurl.
I saw Jake first. He was standing next to my locker, a guarded look on his face, hands in his pockets.
“Hey,” he said.
“Hey,” I said in response, hoping that it came out sounding cooler than I felt. He moved aside. My hands trembled so much I could barely spin the locker’s combination dial. “Were you sick?”
“Nope,” he said, hair flopping into his eyes. His voice made the hair on the back of my neck stand up and sent a tickle down my back. I tried to hide the damp handprints plastered on my textbooks as I shoved them into my bag. “My dad’s aunt died, so we had to go to New York on short notice. The funeral was yesterday.”
I hadn’t expected that. “Oh.” What else should I say? “I’m sorry.”
We fell into step, my heart slamming. He was walking me to homeroom!
“Thanks. I didn’t exactly know her—I hadn’t seen her since I was little. She was old and pretty sick. My dad was bummed out about it.”
I nodded like I knew what that was like. No one in my family had died—I still had all four grandparents—and I’d never been to a funeral. They seemed scary.
“Well, I’m glad you’re okay.” We’d reached the door to my homeroom and the first bell buzzed. “You’re going to be late.”
“I’ll run.” The girl who sat in front of me pushed between us to get into class. Jake kicked at the door frame with the toe of his shoe. “Look, Elsie, I talked to Hector last night. He’s pretty ticked. So’s Sarah.”
A pang of jealousy hit me—he talked to them last night, but not me? But after the way I’d behaved, why would he want to talk to me at all? I felt as big as the spider crawling across the industrial tile floor.
“You’ve gotta talk to them.”
I nodded. He waited, probably thinking I’d say something else. But I didn’t know what to say. I’d messed up, and I couldn’t blame them for not wanting to give me another chance.
“Okay, then,” Jake said, giving up on me responding. “I’ll see you later.”
Reluctantly, I brought my eyes up to his. He was staring straight at me, totally serious, jaw set. Then his face broke into a blinding smile that melted my insides and made me grateful that I hadn’t ticked him off too. Yet. He jogged away.
In a daze, a zombie chicken for sure, I went into the classroom and took my seat. He hadn’t said anything about the dance, but his smile and walk to homeroom were indicators that something had happened, that things had changed between us. But how? And did I want them to? The hair on the back of my neck stood up again, and I realized that maybe I did. Okay, I definitely did.
While the morning announcements blared over the PA system, I thought about how to handle Hector. He was right—I was mean to him a lot, and not because I didn’t like him. He just was in the wrong place at the wrong time, saying the wrong thing. None of that was his fault. It was my fault that my brain and mouth didn’t get along. I was too quick to judge.
And Sarah was right too—I never asked her anything about
her
. To be honest, I never asked about
anyone
else because I was always so wrapped up in Elsie-land. I sighed. The bell rang.
They deserved big, big apologies when I saw them.
And that didn’t take long. On my way to class, I spotted Hector and Sarah standing in the hall, talking. Lump in my throat, I walked over to them. Sarah nudged Hector, who turned to watch me. He was wearing his “Han shot first” T-shirt. He frowned, and although I couldn’t see his eyes behind his glasses, I was sure they were hard.