I conducted my imaginary orchestra, pointing to each section, bringing them in one at a time, completely absorbed in the music, washed over by the sound and perfection and beauty of the piece.
I really get into my Beethoven.
The vocals culminate in a huge crescendo, there’s a beat or two of silence, and the finale builds to a huge, resonant celebration of choral awesomeness. Arms keeping time, I guided my performers through the movement, heart nearly bursting with the emotion. The last note, and—
silence
.
From behind me, applause.
Shocked, I turned to find my dad leaning against the door frame.
“I—uh . . .” I stammered, embarrassed and wondering how much of my performance he’d seen.
He crossed the room and gave me a hug.
“I listen to that when I’ve had a great day too,” was all he said.
It was just what I needed to hear.
That night, after our final band camp session, I dragged myself home, exhausted. School began the next day, and I could barely muster up the energy to care, let alone be nervous. In some respects, I guess that was good. I mean, although I’d spent a week with upperclassmen and getting a feel for band, I still had no idea what to expect from high school itself. And the ice cream invite that I’d rejected reminded me of one thing: I was starting high school with basically no friends. After Alisha moved, I wasn’t the best at keeping in touch, so we drifted apart. And, truthfully, after she left I felt like I didn’t
need
any real friends—I spent nearly all of my free time on my horn or going to concerts with my dad, I was super-busy with band and orchestra, and it didn’t bother me that I was alone when I wasn’t playing my instrument.
There were plenty of kids in the bands I was in, but I didn’t think they’d get my obsession with music and practicing like Alisha had. Take Sarah, for instance . . . before the whole articulation incident she’d been really friendly toward me—I think partially because she was one of the only girls in her section too. But she wasn’t a great player and it seemed like we wouldn’t have much in common.
However, Jake’s invitation and the past week made me realize just how alone I was. I’d met lots of people in band camp—some, like Jake and Hector, I could even see getting to know better.
I just didn’t know how to make that happen.
7
Later that night, I tore through my closet, trying to figure out what to wear for the first day of school. I’m pretty average-looking: dishwater-blond hair, brown eyes, and I’m short . . . so people think I’m even younger than I actually am. It’s so annoying. Mom had taken me clothes shopping, but nothing we’d bought seemed right: The skirts were dressy, it was too hot for jeans, my capris and shorts seemed way too . . . ordinary. Why couldn’t dressing for school be more like dressing for concerts ? Black skirt, white shirt. Or just a black dress. Fed up, I finally picked an outfit—gray capris, blue-and-white shirt—and went to bed.
Of course, when I woke up I completely changed my mind and started over. The whole time I was getting ready my mom hovered at the door, asking if I needed help or was nervous.
“I’m fine, Mom. Seriously.” I was lying through my teeth, but she didn’t need to know that. I twisted my hair and clipped it, hoping that it made me look older . . . although maybe the music note clip that I used was too much?
Mom was stressed about me going to high school—she stressed about nearly everything—but you’d think she’d
act
calm for my sake. When I finally came downstairs, she was waiting, camera ready.
“First-day picture, honey!” she called, blinding me with the flash. I held my hand in front of my face as though blocking the paparazzi.
“Really, Mom?” She’d been doing this little ritual ever since I started preschool: taking photos on the first and last day of school so she could bookend that year’s scrapbook with them. The problem? She never made the scrapbooks. About every eight months or so I’d find her clicking through photos saved on our hard drive or rummaging through a shoe box of keepsakes. “I have good
intentions,
” she’d mutter, holding up a report card or drawing, “but I never have
time
.” She was one of those people with a dozen projects going on at once, all in various stages. I was pretty sure she was more organized at work—I think you had to be, as a bank manager—but she left those skills at the office.
I scarfed some orange juice and a bagel, Mom snapping photos the whole time. Dad came downstairs, jingling car keys in his pocket and whistling “Ode to Joy.”
“Congratulations!” he said, and gave me a peck on the cheek. “You look beautiful, honey.”
I blushed. “Thanks, Dad. I gotta catch the bus,” I said, and slung my backpack and French horn case—dotted with oval airport stickers from the places my dad traveled (plus a scratched-off one from the fateful Vienna trip)—over my shoulder. I had a private lesson after school, and would leave my instrument in my locker in the band room so that when Dad picked me up we could go straight to Mr. Rinaldi’s house.
“I’ll drive you today,” Dad said, smiling. “It’s a special occasion.”
Did parents drive kids to high school? Would that be weird? But I kind of didn’t want to go by myself.
“Okay,” I mumbled.
“Have a wonderful day, Elsie,” Mom said, squeezing me. I breathed in her mom-smell: the spicy note of her perfume mixed with an undertone of the vinegar and baking soda mixture she cleaned with. For a second, I felt the same way as I had on my first day of first grade, small and scared. I squeezed Mom tight before letting go.
Dad and I walked to the car while Mom waved from the window. After he backed out of the driveway, Dad glanced at me.
“Nervous?” he asked.
I shook my head, in spite of the butterflies flitting around my stomach. “Not really,” I lied for the second time that morning. “Being at band camp gave me a pretty good idea of where stuff is.”
“That’s good.” He tilted his head, like he was thinking. “You know, Elsie, there’s more to feeling comfortable in high school than just knowing where things are.”
I didn’t know where this was going, so I didn’t say anything, but my heart sped up.
“I want you to watch out for yourself,” Dad said. “People might try to take advantage of you.”
“People.”
Oh no—was my dad trying to talk to me about boys ? I immediately regretted accepting the ride.
He cleared his throat and went on. “You know, certain . . . ah, factors may make you vulnerable in others’ eyes. And I want you to protect yourself. So I thought we could clearly set up some rules for this year.”
This was the worst car trip ever. “Look, Dad, I know I’m short and young, and all the other things that worry you, but I’ll be fine. Seriously. No one is going to take advantage of me.” I glanced at him, then turned to the window, hoping that would end the conversation.
“I appreciate that,” he said, in his “I’m going to say this no matter what” dad-voice, “but we’re still going to have rules that make us both comfortable. So, I would like to meet any gentlemen friends that you make this year, and you are not allowed to go on dates without my permission.” He rushed through the last part.
The butterflies in my stomach morphed into a herd of elephants. I wanted to crawl into my backpack and hide.
“I know this is awkward, but I want us to be honest with each other,” he said.
He had
no idea
how awkward this was.
“And, really, it’s in the best interest of your career goals. I mean, you wouldn’t want to get distracted before your big audition, right?”
Up until he said that, I was feeling as bad for him as I was for me. But mentioning my audition immediately brought back the sound of his voice telling Mike that he didn’t think I could get in to Shining Birches—and my anger. I took a breath.
The high school was in sight. It looked way different than it had during band camp. For most of the week, we had been the largest group of students on campus—yeah, the football team was there, and the peer orientation leaders, but I didn’t see them much. Now the front of the school swarmed with people. People who looked much, much older than me. And Dad expected a response from me before I got out of the car. I exhaled.
“No problem, Dad,” I forced out, eyes still on the front of the school, fighting churning emotions. “You’re right. I’m so busy with my horn I don’t have time for that stuff.”
He pulled up to the curb.
Before he could say anything else, I rushed a “Thanks!” and escaped from the car, grabbing my horn from the backseat, palms sweating and heart pounding.
“Hey, freshman, is that a toilet bowl on your back?”
I wasn’t sure where the voice came from, but I knew exactly who it was directed at:
Me.
An hour later, I stood in the hall while kids rushed to their next class. I was supposed to be going to French, but couldn’t find the room. So far, I’d successfully made it to homeroom and algebra without getting lost. But the foreign language department was elusive. I tucked myself up against some lockers while I studied my map and tried not to panic. We only had three minutes between classes, and the seconds passed with every beat of my heart. I was terrified of being late and having to walk in while everyone stared at me. Did everyone else feel this awful?
I frowned. Where
was
the language suite? I was looking for room 322, but it seemed that the numbers on the third floor skipped from 317 to 325. Grrrr!
“Hey Chickie! Zombie Chick! ” The voice was loud, and coming from right in front of me. Couldn’t this person see that I was concentrating?
Something rattled my map and I nearly hit the ceiling, I jumped so high.
“Easy, there, Chick-chick, or we’ll have to call an ambulance this time.” I finally glanced at the talker. It was Punk, from the horn line. Regardless of what Dad said, Punk was definitely a “distraction.” Especially now. His hair was streaked pink (maybe for the first day of school?), and he’d replaced the safety pins in his ears with paper clips. He saw me staring at them.
“Got bored in homeroom. Checking out HeHe High’s floor plan? Where you goin’?”
It took me a second to figure out what HeHe High was.
“French,” I responded, chuckling at the joke. “Can’t you get an infection from that?” While I was talking, Punk plucked the map from my hands.
“Probably. Follow me.”
For a second, I didn’t move. I had heard over and over again during band camp about how upperclassmen would give freshmen the wrong directions to classes to make them late, or play stupid pranks on them to embarrass them. Would another band member—especially one from my section—do that?
Punk glanced over his shoulder at me. “You’ll be tardy in a minute,” he said.
That did it. I decided to follow him and hoped he got me there on time.
We wove through the throngs of students and Punk pushed open a set of doors to a staircase that I hadn’t noticed earlier. With his long legs, he took the steps two at a time. I scurried like a rabbit to keep up.
He pushed open another door, led me down a short hall, and we stopped in front of a classroom decorated with a giant cutout of a beret and the Eiffel Tower.
“Bonne chance, petit poulet,”
he said, and took off with long strides.
“Merci!”
I called to his retreating back. I scuttled into the room and took my seat, beating the bell by a heartbeat.
8
After French, I ran into Jake outside of my history class. He waved and smiled as I walked over.
“Are we in the same class?” he asked.
I pointed to room 210. “Mine’s in there.”
His was next door, but he didn’t move. I thought we had maybe two minutes before the late bell, and I wanted to take my seat and get settled before it rang. Cutting it close before French left me feeling discombobulated for the whole period, so much so that when Mlle. Paquette asked me what my favorite color was I responded
“janvier”
(January) instead of
“jaune”
(yellow). Racking up the good first impressions, that’s me. At least I didn’t faint.
Leaving Jake seemed rude, though. He fiddled with the strap on his backpack. His hair flopped into his eyes as he asked how my first day had been so far.
“It’s been okay,” was what I said.
I don’t want to be late!
was what I
wanted
to say. My hands started sweating. “We should get going.” The halls were emptying around us.
“I guess.” He shifted. “I think the horn part on ‘America’ sounded pretty rockin’ at rehearsal, don’t you?”
I thought back to the band camp dress rehearsal, where the whole group ran through the entire show from beginning to end, playing and marching.
“It needs more work,” I said. “The trumpets should be more precise about hitting their notes and the horns aren’t articulating clearly.”
His face fell.
“I’m sure it’ll get better as we move forward,” I added, trying to smooth things over. “Look, we really should go.”
Jake’s hurt expression and mumbled “Bye” stayed with me even after I bolted into class, just ahead of the tardy bell.
Why is it that when I tell the musical truth, no one likes to hear it?
The next afternoon, I sat at home, horn in my lap, playing Bach’s Cello Suites. Every time I picked up my instrument—my
real
instrument—I felt like I
belonged
. I didn’t have to explain myself, or worry about what I was saying or what other people would think of what I said. My only focus was my sound.
And today I sounded like crud.
“Come
on
! ” I muttered to my horn. “We’re better than this.”
My fingers were rebelling, not pressing the valves as quickly as I wanted them to. I kept gakking on the same phrase over and over, and there was no way I could hit anything higher than a D. It felt as though I was playing my horn from behind a mask. Frustrated, I stopped and cleared my spit valve, then stood, put the horn on the chair behind me, and stretched. Maybe if I shook it out a little I’d feel better.