“Grandpa wants to talk to you.” She handed me the phone.
Grandpa Ozzie is my dad’s dad. He lives in Florida with my grandma and still plays his horn in a couple of senior orchestras down there.
“Elsie, love!” His scratchy voice was always music to my ears. “I hear you’re leaving for a big trip tomorrow.”
“Yes, Grandpa—to New York, for the parade.” Mom stepped into the hall, giving me privacy.
“That’s turning into a regular family tradition. Did you know that I performed in the Darcy’s parade too?”
“
What
? You did?!” I couldn’t believe it.
“It was about forty years or so ago. I was with a contingent of the BSO. We were on a float. The biggest live audience I’ve ever played in front of. What a great moment for the group!” He chuckled. “Have a wonderful time. It’s a special event.”
“Thanks, Grandpa,” I said, heart warm at his words, especially the tradition part. I had no idea that he’d ever played in a parade. And it would be a great moment for our group too, I realized. I’d been so busy thinking about it being a great moment for
me,
I’d, well, pulled an Elsie.
“And, sweetheart, good luck at the Shining Birches audition this weekend. I know you’ll play well, just remember to have fun while you’re in there.”
I told him I loved him and we hung up. It seemed that, when it came to my horn, unlike my dad, Grandpa always knew the right thing to say to make me feel better. I whistled a little Beethoven while I packed stuff to do on the bus. Mom returned a couple of minutes later.
“Your father wanted me to say good-bye to you for him.” Her forehead creased, vertical pleats appearing between her eyes.
“Uh-huh,” I said, not looking at her. Dad had a matinee show and an evening performance, and hadn’t come home for dinner in between. He hadn’t apologized or said anything to me about the horn since our blowup, even though Mom insisted that she’d spoken to him. Well, whatever. I didn’t care. I had more exciting stuff to plan for. I ignored a prickly-hot feeling and plopped my hands on top of my bag.
“I think I have everything,” I said.
“He loves you, Elsie,” Mom tried. She covered one of my hands with her own. “He just . . .”
“Doesn’t love that I’m in marching band. I get it,” I snapped. I didn’t want to have this conversation tonight, not when I had so many good things to look forward to. “Whatever.”
“
I’m
proud of you,” Mom said. “I know I don’t have a horn to toot about it, but really, Elsie, you have done so much, and grown so much since you started school. I’m impressed.” Mom’s heartfelt words brought me to the edge of tears. I struggled, and gave up. Wrapping my arms around her tightly, I squeezed as hard as I could.
“I’m glad you don’t have any horns to toot,” I whispered to her.
She finished the hug and went back downstairs, leaving me to a night of crazy dreams and half sleep.
Miraculously, Dad made an appearance before I left for school. When he plays a double show he gets home late and typically sleeps in until eight or nine. I dropped my duffel bag on the floor and rummaged through the fridge. An apple and a slice of chocolate chip muffin bread looked appealing. I purposely focused on my food—taking time to wash the apple and carefully unwrapping the bread—so I didn’t have to talk with him. He should say something first.
“Today’s the big day,” he began. I settled my slice of bread on a ragged sheet of paper towel.
“Well, tomorrow is,” I replied. “Today’s a travel day.” From watching him through my whole childhood, I knew the right terms to use.
“Look, Elsie, about what went on last week . . . I’m sorry. I know that marching band has become important to you, and I’m glad that you’ve found a musical niche at school.”
“Found a musical niche?” Offended, I stuffed a chunk of muffin bread into my mouth to prevent myself from saying anything that would get me in trouble.
He shifted and sighed. Wearing his blue plaid robe, hair a little mussed and eyes groggy behind his glasses, he looked vulnerable, like he’d expected to say something wrong. He wasn’t a hundred percent awake.
“I’m just glad you’re happy in marching band, Elsie. And I know you’ll perform beautifully at the parade and audition. Your group really impressed me at the competition a few weeks ago, and I’m sorry I didn’t get to tell you that.” His expression was guarded, like he was so sure I was going to be mad or say something awful to him, I immediately felt bad.
“Thanks, Dad,” I said, and gave him a hug.
If that was his apology, why did I still feel so hollow?
34
School dragged by slower than a mouse towing a concrete block across a football field. Like everyone else, I’d stashed my duffel bag in the band room before first period. During morning announcements, the crackly voice over the PA blared congratulations and wished us good luck in New York. A few kids in my homeroom even cheered.
This was a big deal. A very big deal. I’d be playing a solo on TV, alone.
When seventh period finally ended, I crammed all of my books into my locker—why bother pretending, no work was getting done this weekend!—and raced to the band room. Seniors and juniors with no seventh period were already there, and the space was a jumbled, chaotic hub of activity. I flashed back to the first day of band camp, when I didn’t understand anything that was going on. Now I knew exactly what was happening: instruments getting packed, uniforms loaded, luggage hauled out to the big charter buses . . . and I was part of it. Or, at least, I was partially part of it. As I watched the other band members laughing and joking with one another, I missed my friends. I wanted Hector to ask me another goofy classical music question, or for Sarah to show me the latest jewelry trends . . . or Jake to hold my hand. I wanted to have the time to get to know more about them. I needed to apologize. To try and make things right one last time.
When all of the buses and the truck were loaded, AJ and Mr. Sebastian called us together.
“We’re just about ready,” called AJ, “and we’ll be boarding the buses in ten minutes. Before we do, there are a couple of logistical things that we need to go over.”
Mr. Sebastian pulled a sheet of paper from his pocket. “This is the trip schedule.” He shook it for emphasis. “One thing I didn’t tell you earlier is that we’ll be doing a recording session prior to step-off. All parade performances are taped in advance in case of a weather problem or emergency. We are slated to record at two forty-five a.m.”
My jaw—along with everyone else’s—fell open.
What?!
Mr. Sebastian went on before anyone could say anything. “This is how it’s done. There are over two hundred performances that happen during the parade, and all of them need to be taped and edited before step-off. We are given a fifteen-minute window. After which, we’ll have a very early breakfast, you’ll snooze on the bus, then we’ll get into uniform and be at our step-off location at six thirty.”
He went on, giving details about how we’d get our instruments and what would happen to the buses while we performed, but I didn’t bother to listen. The idea of being up basically all night and marching the next day was both terrifying and thrilling. I tried not to think about how tired I’d be on the ride home. I could sleep the whole time, practice all day Friday, and be totally recharged and ready for my audition on Saturday. Right?
Mr. Sebastian finally finished talking and we loaded onto the buses. I was one of the last ones on; I waited, since I essentially had no one to sit with. Sarah, Jake, and Hector grabbed seats toward the back, with Steve and Punk. Punk gave me a shy smile and I smiled back as I climbed the stairs. I guess it was kind of cool that he thought of a less-pierced version of himself when he saw me, but I wished his good intentions hadn’t helped me mess things up with Jake. As I balanced in the aisle, trying to figure out where to sit on the totally full bus, the driver called out in a gravelly voice, “Please take your seat! If you’re standing, you are a hazard and a projectile!”
I blushed and everyone around me cracked up.
“The chicken is a projectile!” someone yelled. “Incoming !” That brought another round of laughter. I clutched the seats and wanted to die.
Jake caught my eye and gestured to the empty seat next to him. He wanted me to sit with him? I tried to rein in the elation that coursed through me and reminded myself to focus.
“Thanks,” I squeaked, and plopped into the seat. Suddenly I didn’t have any more words to say. Luckily, some action in the aisle saved me. Steve and Punk were huddled together, up to no good, I was sure. Finished with their nefarious schemes, they slid into the seat across the back of the bus.
Steve got up to talk to AJ. “Don’t go back there,” he whispered on his way to his seat, and winked.
Yikes! What were they up to?
Jake, meanwhile, was fiddling with the zipper on his backpack. Now or never, Elsie, I told myself.
“I’m really sorry,” I said. Saying it was easier because his head was down. “And I know you’re mad at me, and that I’ve messed up . . . everything, but I just want you to know that I like you and I’m sorry and this trip will stink if I have no friends to share it with.” I was breathless and tears were coming. I really, really didn’t want to cry.
I could feel Sarah and Hector staring at me from across the aisle. I hoped that Jake would move, or look at me, or say something. My heart pounded in my chest. He tucked his backpack under the bus seat and leaned back.
“You make it tough for people to like you, Elsie,” he said.
“I know.” I hung my head. “I’m an awful, no-good, very bad friend. Seriously.”
“I don’t know if you’re
that
bad,” Jake responded. Was he teasing me?
“I’m trying to be better, but I don’t know if I can
get
better if I have no friends to practice on.” At this point, I could see Hector and Sarah out of the corner of my eye, obviously listening to me, so I turned directly to them. Both were staring at me, dead on.
“Look,” I said, trying to continue with my apology, “I know I’m a freak, okay? And I want to change. I’m
trying
to change.”
Sarah and Hector exchanged glances. Next to me, Jake sighed.
“Can you?” Jake said. “Change can be good, but, Elsie, you’ve really hurt us.”
“I want us to hang out again. I didn’t mean to get you guys so mad at me. It’s just . . . it’s hard for me to be close with anyone—or thing—other than my horn. And that doesn’t have feelings.” Weird as it sounded, it was the truth. And, thankfully, Hector, Sarah, and Jake seemed to realize that.
“You need to use your mouth less, brain more,” Hector said. “Especially when it comes to me.”
I nodded at him.
“One more example of jerky, insensitive behavior and I’m done,” growled Sarah. “Seriously.”
“I know. I’m so sorry.” I was so grateful that they were listening to me, that things between us could maybe get better if I changed.
Jake reached out and squeezed my hand, and I knew that he understood that I didn’t mean for things with Punk to get so weird. The whole time, I felt . . . what was the word? Remorseful. Like if I could go back and change everything, I would. This time I
really
needed to learn and change. No more second chances.
As I was thinking about that, Sarah popped up.
“Oh! I can’t find my cell phone!” She made a show of patting her pockets while Hector searched their seat. As she reached up to the overhead bin to grab her bag, I saw it peeking out of her pocket. Before opening my mouth to tell her, though, I noticed that her eyes kept dancing toward the back of the bus—and Steve.
Oh!
OH!
That’s what she wanted me to ask her about after the Halloween dance! I was such a dolt. Realizing that Sarah was crushing on Steve and trying to get his attention nearly made me laugh out loud. I clamped my lips closed, vowing to ask her about him when we got to New York.
Jake sat in the seat next to me, closest to the window. He took my hand. My heart pounded and palms dampened, and it was easy to put Sarah and Steve out of my mind.
“This is going to be so awesome,” he said. I smiled and tried to calm down. Having him next to me was like sitting next to a low-level electrical charge: The hair on my arms would stand up every so often, and a scatter of sparks zapped across the back of my neck when I looked at him. How did
I
get so lucky?
“New York City, here we come!” called Jake.
“Whooo ! !” everyone responded. “Goooo Hellcats!”
AJ made his way to the middle of the bus, arms draped over seats on either side for balance. “Let me hear you!” he called. “One-two-three-four!”
“Screaming Hellcats at the door ! ” we responded. It was one of our pre-performance psych-up chants.
“Five-six-seven-eight! ” he yelled.
“Blowin’ you out of our way!” we cheered. “
Gooo
, Hellcats!” Screams and yells reverberated off the bus ceiling. Jake and I exchanged giant smiles. Inside, as I listened to the cheers ricocheting up and down the aisle, I was filled to nearly bursting with happiness
.
I
belonged
here. I hadn’t felt that way about anything else. Yeah, I was always comfortable when I was playing or sitting in an orchestra, but, maybe because of my dad, I’d looked at playing in those ensembles as
jobs
. I’d focused on learning my parts and playing well, and hadn’t really connected with anyone—as Sarah kept pointing out. Now, as I looked at Sarah’s, Jake’s, and Hector’s beaming faces, Steve’s lazy smile, and Punk’s loopy grin, something clicked. I could do what I loved—play my instrument—have friends, and feel like I was part of something larger than myself. And it felt
good
. I squeezed Jake’s hand, wrapped around mine, and smiled at him.
Everything was going to be okay.
35
A little while later, Jake took out a deck of cards from his bag. I’m not a card player, but he and Sarah and Hector taught me how to play a game called Pig. We played for a while, then I needed to go to the bathroom. We’d been on the road for a little over an hour, but the only scheduled rest stop was another forty minutes away. I definitely couldn’t wait that long.