I sat on the piano bench and played a couple of notes. “Can you just, like, get really awesome at a complex song?”
I got a scrunched-up piece of sheet music lobbed at me for that one. Apparently not.
One by one, Juliette played the pieces. I was no expert judge of the clarinet, but she was obviously good. Really good. She tripped up once or twice during the first song, but after that she was pretty much flawless. Either that one was the “tricky” piece, or she’d had nerves. I wasn’t sure how much help I’d be, because they all sounded the same to me.
I was starting to imagine how the clarinet would sound covering Nightwish or something—epic, probably—when she started on her last song. And, finally, something sounded different. From the expression on her face, it was obvious this was her favorite. Something about the piece made me think of crying, and emptiness, and death. Frankly, it was awful. I spent half the song staring at the wall, thinking about Aunt Linda, and how sunken her cheeks were looking, and what would happen if she didn’t make it. Then I thought about my friends back home, and how they probably barely missed me, and they’d have all these memories together that I wouldn’t be a part of. All I wanted to do suddenly was go home, climb into bed, and sleep until everything was all better.
The second Juliette stopped, I said, “Play that one.” That might sound weird, but even if that song made me feel horrible, it made me feel. And that was the point with music, wasn’t it?
“Really? Why that one?” But she looked pleased. Clearly I’d told her what she wanted to hear.
“I could tell you meant it.”
“I did. But it’s not as hard as the second one.”
“Doesn’t matter. Anyone can play a note. Talent’s what you do with the notes. Don’t you think?”
Juliette rested her clarinet between her knees and flushed. “You think I’m talented?”
“Nah. You suck. I was being nice.”
She laughed, then gave me that little half-smile of hers. “I’m so glad I met you, Ollie-oop. You know, you’re not this funny around the others. Have you noticed?”
Well, that was because every sentence I spoke around Lara was like pulling the trigger in a game of bitchy Russian roulette. Kind of puts a damper on attempts at humor. “I’m not great in groups,” I said. “I’m socially awkward.”
“You’re not socially awkward.” Said the girl who insisted Lara didn’t dislike me. Super credible. “But you should try to relax more. Don’t be afraid to talk with us, okay? We love having you around.”
Love. That was a strong word. But it perked me up, anyway. I shuffled around to face the piano. It was easier to speak to an instrument, even one I couldn’t really play beyond the basics. “Maybe if we ate lunch in here I’d be more relaxed.”
Juliette started packing up her clarinet. “Oh my God, I know. There’s something about music, don’t you think? It makes everything feel so much easier, and nicer.”
I played a C chord on the piano and nodded. “All my friendships were based on music back home. We all listened to similar stuff, we all played together … It doesn’t seem to be as big here.”
“I guess it depends what groups you hang around with. You’re right, though. You’re the first person I’ve been able to talk about playing with.”
“It’s an honor.” I grinned.
“My parents don’t take it seriously. Apparently I get everything from my grandpa. It skipped a generation.”
“Their loss, I guess.”
“Try my loss. I mean, they’re not horrible about it. They sprang for private lessons. As a hobby, though, not a career.”
“So, what do they think about this audition?”
“They don’t. Think. They don’t know about it.”
I gaped. “You rebel!”
“Easier to say sorry than ask permission, Ollie-oop. Needs do as needs must.”
“You can quote as many clichéd sayings at me as you want, but I’m still impressed.”
I couldn’t imagine going behind my parents’ backs with something that big. The most rebellious thing I’d ever done to date had been sneaking out to see Will his last night at the lake, and I could blame that on irrational hormones.
I’d been pumped full of those irrational hormones. Like Romeo and Juliet, but a teensy bit less stupid.
I grabbed my phone as Juliette gathered her music, and only then noticed I had a new text. The tone must have been drowned out by the clarinet. I unlocked it, expecting it to be Ryan or Hayley through some weird, telepathic connection, telling me they missed me or something.
But it was way weirder than that.
It was Will. I recognized the last few digits.
Can we talk?
Shit.
Shit shit shit shit oh God shit fuck crap. I was not prepared for this, oh Jesus.
My first instinct was to text him back, begging him to meet me right this second.
The next was to delete this message thread so I wouldn’t be tempted to ever reply. I actually got halfway through doing that, then chickened out. I wasn’t quite that strong. Alas and alack and whatever.
I went with door number three. Don’t reply, for now. I’d wait until I came up with the perfect response. If experience was anything to go by, the perfect response was never the first one that came to mind. Let him think I was busy. I was, after all. Busy putting together a life here. A life that didn’t need to revolve around Will “Who?” Tavares.
As soon as I made that decision, a rush of power coursed through me. Finally, after all these weeks, I had the opportunity to be the one ignoring him. I could get used to being on this side of the power balance.
I didn’t reply throughout the rest of the school day. Played it totally cool, if I do say so myself. I was 90 percent sure it was because of all Mom’s mindfulness training. When I realized that, I did some visualization. Of Will checking his phone every five minutes with his heart in his throat, like I’d been doing the whole last couple weeks of summer. And that felt so good, it was sure to manifest. It turned out I got most of my positive energy from the thought of karmic schadenfreude.
At home, Crista and Dylan were over. Aunt Linda had taken a “bad turn” during the day, according to Mom, and was back in the hospital overnight. The kids seemed pretty down—and so did the adults, to be perfectly honest—so we decided to go out for cheeseburgers. It was one of those places with entertainers wearing creepy, anthropomorphic costumes of chipmunks, ducks, and bears that have crazy eyes like they’ve taken a strong hit of something. The animals, I mean, not the entertainers. Although, their eyes were hidden, so it was hard to make that call either way, I guess.
Anyway, Crista and Dylan loved it, and spent more time following around one of the chipmunks than they did eating. It seemed ridiculous to me that they could be so scared of things like the dark, or trees rustling outside, and not the slightest bit terrified of the chipmunk costumes. Those wide, staring eyes and creepily stretched-out, half-open mouths … Nothing has ever said “I eat children” more than the face of Chipmunk Charlie, put it that way.
Even though I was still ignoring Will, I kept opening the message thread, like something would’ve somehow changed since I looked at it thirty seconds before. A part of me wondered if Will had noticed the seen receipt. If he was maybe even obsessing over it a little, internally rationalizing why I hadn’t replied.