“Why?” Sarah pouted.
“Duh! Every girl is going to go as a
Dusk
vampire—it’ll be so lame! You guys can come up with something better, especially if the four of you coordinate.”
The four of them tossed ideas around like a beach ball at a rock concert.
“The Scooby gang!”
“Charlie Brown!”
“Superheroes ! ”
“Villains!”
“
Star Wars
characters!” That was from Hector, big surprise.
“What about Muppets?” Jake said. Silence.
“I like the Muppets,” I offered.
“Yeah, me too,” said Hector. Sarah agreed.
Steve nodded. “Now, that’ll be a good one—retro, without being geeky.”
We decided that Jake would be Kermit, Hector Fozzie Bear, Sarah would be Janice, which left me with . . .
“Oh, no way! I am
not
going to be Miss Piggy!” I crossed my arms. “No way, no how.”
“Come on, Elsie—you’ll be a great Miss Piggy!” Sarah said.
“That is
not
a nice thing to say, Sarah.” I scowled at her.
“Well, you have the hair for it, and the attitude,” Hector said. That last part, about my attitude, came out very quietly, as though he was afraid I would knock his words back in his face with my fist. Which, given the circumstances, if I could have, I would have.
“Elsie . . . really, it’ll be good,” Jake said. “We need you to make the costume work.”
“Then maybe you should go as the Three Musketeers,” I snapped. The bell rang, cutting off any reply. I gathered my books and stood.
Sarah had this exasperated, helpless expression on her face. “Elsie, it’s not that big a deal!” she cried.
“Whatever,” I said. I didn’t bother waiting for them, I just stalked out of the lunchroom.
Inside, I was churning. I didn’t want to be seen like Miss Piggy—bossy and rude and self-centered. Even if it was just a stupid Halloween costume. Why couldn’t they have all been in agreement that I was the perfect Rowlf the dog? Comments about beauty aside, Rowlf was at least a musician.
I slammed into my seat a couple of minutes before the tardy bell and waited for Hector and Sarah. They came in wearing identical frowns, hurt emanating from them in waves.
“We didn’t mean anything by it,” Hector said, leaning across the aisle. “It was a lame idea.” Sarah nodded, but didn’t say anything, just watched me with a neutral expression.
There was something about her face that made me realize how stupid I was being, getting so twisted over it. It
was
just a Halloween costume.
“No, it’s okay,” I said, relenting. “I’ll do it.”
Hector’s eyes lit up, but Sarah’s stayed calm, like she was waiting to react based on what I said next.
“Really?” Hector squeaked.
I nodded. “Yeah. It’s a good idea, and I don’t want to wreck it.” And wrecking it could mean eating lunch with my horn—which, I was surprised to find out, didn’t hold much appeal anymore—instead of in the caf.
Some warmth crept back into Sarah’s eyes.
“Cool,” she said, and nodded like she was over the whole thing. The bell rang, and Mr. O’Malley started taking attendance. He told us to review the homework questions with a partner or small group. Sarah bent to get her work out, the delicate ends of her scarf falling into her bag. It gave me an idea.
“Maybe you can help me with my costume?” I asked, shy.
“Sure,” Sarah said, voice warmer. “I’ll talk to my mom. You can probably come over on our next non-band weekend.”
Hector cleared his throat. “I think we’ll all need help,” he said.
Sarah nodded. “No problem. I’ll get supplies—”
“If I don’t hear cellular structure talk coming from
every
group, there’ll be a pop quiz,” Mr. O’Malley called. “And I guarantee you it won’t be multiple choice.”
We were all business after that. Inside, I knew I’d dodged more than a test, though.
That afternoon, tired and drained, I could barely focus on my private horn lesson. Mr. Rinaldi had to stop me twice for silly mistakes, something he’d rarely had to do in the three years I’d been working with him.
“Where’s my star player today?” he asked, peering at me over the tops of his glasses, bushy eyebrows raised in a question mark.
I shook my head, feeling more like a chicken than a star, and settled my horn in my lap. “I’m not sure,” I admitted. “Just tired.” I yawned.
“Well,” he said with a smile, “let’s try something peppier, to wake you up.” He paged through the sheet music on the stand and found a light duet that was not part of my audition packet.
“But that’s not for Shining Birches,” I protested.
“Just because it’s not one of your audition pieces doesn’t mean we can’t play it,” he responded. “As a matter of fact, playing something with no ties to the audition is probably a good idea. It’ll clear your head.” He tapped his foot to set the tempo of the piece.
With everything that had been going on lately—learning the mellophone and marching band, worrying about Shining Birches, settling into high school classes, and maybe making new friends—I couldn’t remember the last time my head was anything but packed.
I counted the beats with Mr. Rinaldi, then raised the horn to my lips, hoping for clarity.
I followed his lead on the duet, letting the notes rise and fall, harmonize and separate, trying to stay as focused as possible on the music and leave the rest of my life behind. I tried, but couldn’t find that place where I stop playing and just start
feeling
the music. My horn and I were disconnected today, and there was nothing else I could do about it.
We held the last note for an extra beat, then Mr. Rinaldi put his horn down and studied me.
“Did that help?”
“Absolutely,” I answered, hoping he was convinced by my smile and didn’t look in my eyes.
12
“I wish your father wouldn’t hide his peas under his mashed potatoes. I always find them.” Mom scraped the remnants of Dad’s dinner down the garbage disposal and passed me the plate to load into the dishwasher.
“But you never say anything while he does it,” I pointed out. She’d been forcing green vegetables on my dad ever since they got married. “So he thinks he’s getting away with it.”
“True,” Mom mused. “I always think about it at the beginning of dinner, but by the time we’re eating I’ve forgotten.” She handed me the last of the silverware and I plunked it into the basket. “It’s nice to get you standing still,” she added.
I knew what she meant. Between band practice, classes, and squeezing in my Shining Birches audition prep—which was still not going well—I was rarely in one place for long. Lately, I’d taken to staying after band to play my horn, which made for a long night of homework later. I just nodded.
“You look so tired,” Mom said.
I shrugged. I didn’t want to think about it too much. I just needed to deal. “I’m fine.”
Mom slung a dish towel over my shoulder and started washing pots and pans. I leaned against the counter, drying lids.
“I know you’re fine, Elsie, but I worry. You’re young for all of this pressure, and I wish I were home more to help you with it.”
How many times did my parents need to remind me how young I was? Or that I needed help managing my life?
“I can
handle
it, Mom,” I snapped. I clanged the lid I’d been drying on the counter harder than I meant to. The sound rang through the kitchen. “I have work to do,” I muttered, leaving.
Upstairs, I dumped my backpack onto my bed and stared at the pile of folders, textbooks, and assignment sheets covering my comforter. I had a lab report to write up, chapters to read in
Emma
for English, history questions, math problems, and French verbs to conjugate. And I had to get as much done as possible before Saturday, which was our first field show and parade competition. Forget what I’d told my mom, high school was seriously so much
work
. I sorted through the stack, trying to decide what to do first. Nothing appealed. I hated to admit it, but Mom was right. I was wiped out, and really wanted a nap. I yawned, and glanced at the clock: 7:30. If I lay down for a half hour, I reasoned, I’d still have plenty of time to work on what was due tomorrow. I moved the pile of school materials to one side and curled up on my bed with my “Eat-Sleep-French horn” pillow.
What felt like a second later, a knock sounded at my bedroom door.
“Huh?” I muttered. The door opened.
“Honey, it’s late—” My mom stopped.
I sat up, groggy.
“I was coming in to tell you that you should get to bed,” she said.
“Bed?” Sleep fuzz clouded my head. “I was napping.”
“It’s after eleven,” my mom said, a furrow appearing in her forehead. “I thought you were doing homework.”
“Eleven?!” Shock reverberated through me. Had I really been asleep that long? I stared at my bedside clock, trying to make sense of what happened. I’d put my head on the pillow at 7:30; how had I lost nearly four hours?
“I’m going to bed,” my mom said. “And you should too.” She came in and gave me a kiss, but I caught the worried look on her face. Fear crawled around in my stomach. How was I going to get anything done for tomorrow?
“Yep,” I said, faking calmness. “Guess I fell asleep while I was reading.” I picked up
Emma
—which was so far away from my hands that I would have had to toss it to the end of the bed while I “fell asleep” reading it—and gestured at my mother with it.
“Okay, then,” she said, and closed the door behind her.
After changing into my “I’ll be Bach” T-shirt and fuzzy yellow pj pants, and brushing my teeth, I felt more together. I organized my assignments into the Must Complete Tonight pile and the Can Wait pile. Must-dos: math problems, history questions, start lab report. I moved off my bed and sat on the floor to attack algebra.
An hour and a half later, I could barely keep my eyes open and it looked as though a first grader wrote my history assignment. I rubbed my face.
Downstairs, the front door opened. Dad was home.
Crud! I hoped he hadn’t seen my light. The last thing I needed were questions from him—or, I realized a second later—more questions from my mom when he told her that I’d been up. I swept the books into a pile and hopped into bed, clicking the light off.
A light tapping came at my door. I ignored it, pulling the covers over my head.
“Elsie?” The door opened a crack. I made my breathing slow and steady.
Dad stood there and I tried not to move. After a second came a whispered “Love you, pumpkin,” then the door clicked closed. The whistled chorus of “Ode to Joy” floated behind him. A bittersweet zap hit my heart, and my eyes filled with tears that I didn’t let fall.
My alarm went off what felt like two seconds later. I slapped the clock radio snooze button at least three times and finally dragged myself out of bed when I heard my mom coming up to check on me. Getting ready and out the door was awful—even after a purposely-chilly shower, I was still groggy and sluggish and my mom kept giving me looks like she wanted to say something, but didn’t. I wished my parents would allow me to drink coffee.
By the time the bus arrived at HeHe, I’d woken up a little. The crisp October air and bright sunshine had helped. I made my way to my locker.
“Hey, Elsie!” Hector waved at me from across the hall and came to lean against the locker bank next to mine. “Yikes! A little rough around the edges?” he asked once he got close enough to get a good look at me—hair a wreck, permanent scowl, and bloodshot eyes.
“Gee, thanks,” I muttered, not trying to hide the sarcasm dripping from my voice. “Do those observations win you many friends?”
Hector backed up a step or two. Ouch. Maybe that was too harsh.
“I’m really tired,” I tried again. I crammed a few books into my locker and grabbed my notebook.
“I guess,” Hector said, frowning. “See you at lunch.” The first bell rang and he disappeared into the crowd. Great. Now I felt bad about my behavior on top of feeling gross in general. This was turning out to be a winner of a Wednesday. I trudged toward homeroom.
Wednesday.
Wednesday. What was it that made Wednesday stick in my head?
Midstride, I froze. And barely heard the snide “Freshman !” snarl from a sophomore girl who almost fell over me.
Today was Wednesday. Our first field show competition was Saturday, and we had a dress run-through this afternoon. I was supposed to bring my hat! Ice slid through my veins. What band-o-rific punishment would I be given? Running laps wearing a cape? Clucking the 1812 Overture?
Around me, the halls were emptying. Hatless or not, if I wanted to make it to homeroom before the late bell, I’d have to sprint.
At lunch, I rushed to our table, stack of unfinished homework under my arm and stomach churning from worrying all morning. I wanted to beat Steve there so I could discuss my problem with Jake, Hector, and Sarah.
I tossed my lunch bag on the table and plopped the papers beside it. Steve hadn’t arrived yet.
“Elsie!” Hector cried. “Help me out: that song from the movie
2001: A Space Odyssey
—bah-dah-BA-DAH! —”
“Richard Strauss. It’s called ‘Thus Spoke Zarathustra,’ but that’s the name of the whole piece. The section they used in the movie is actually a movement called ‘Sunrise.’ The Pops played it a couple of years ago.” I waved my hand at Hector’s gaping mouth. “But that doesn’t matter. I forgot my hat.”
All three of them shook their heads.
“Dude!” Jake said. “Elsie! We need them for run-through.”
“I
know
that,” I snapped.
“Steve is going to kill you,” Sarah said.
“I know that too. That’s why I’m telling you before he gets here. Help me out!” Desperate, anyone?