“So who’s number twenty-three?” I ask, gesturing at Ray’s jersey. She kicks the curb with her sneaker and smiles.
“Me.”
“For real?”
“Coach finally agreed to let me kick for the Mustangs. He even helped me coordinate football with soccer.”
“That’s really…” My thoughts trip over themselves as they struggle to get out of my mouth. Even though I don’t care about football, I care about this. A girl actually playing right alongside the boys. A girl tough enough to keep up, to be the star. “That’s really cool.”
“I’m scared shitless,” she says, gazing at the practice field. “Don’t tell anyone.”
“I won’t,” I say, but Ray doesn’t seem scared. Just the opposite and I wish I could have a fraction of her confidence.
“I should get to practice, but let’s hang out, okay? Everyone is heading to Dino’s Saturday night if you want to come.”
“Dino’s?”
“This diner everyone goes to. I know, most boring town ever,” Ray says with a shrug. “Later.” She starts to jog backward, waves, then turns and books it to the field.
I shake off the thought that’s permanently lodged in the back of my mind. Does she want to be friends with me, or friends with Caleb Rosenstein’s daughter? I tie my hair up with a black and gold silk ponytail holder. Sarah and I each bought one at Anthropologie’s sale rack last year, right before the winter concert. After I left, she claimed my spot as first chair. I had tried out three times before I finally made it, but that same day I came home to a family meeting and news we were moving again. Frustrated tears spilled from my eyes when I stepped down, years of practice straight out the window. But if anyone was going to take over, I’m glad it was Sarah. My phone vibrates from within my backpack and I pull it out, smiling at the text.
Sarah
How much do you miss me?
Me
So much you have no idea. Why are you up so early? Isn’t it 5 AM in Seattle?
Sarah
Set my alarm to catch you. Rumor has it there’s a talented freshman coming in, trying out for my spot.
Me
Don’t let the new kid steal it.
Sarah
Never. Verbal Disturbance are playing The Paramount tonight. Wish you could come.
Me
That’ll be a great show.
Sarah
So come back.
Me
I wish.
Sarah
Don’t replace me, k?
Me
Same.
Sarah
You okay? I miss you.
Me
Yeah. I’ll text you later. Miss you too.
I shove my phone back in my bag as I make my way out to practice.
* * *
Once I’m out on the field I instinctively reach for my neck strap, but my collar is bare.
Sweat breaks out on the back of my neck and my pulse quickens. My vision turns fuzzy as a quiet panic zips through me. I kneel and set my sax on the ground, my eyes skimming the grass. It must be here somewhere. I can’t play without it. Mr. Abella straightens sheet music at the edge of the field and I pray I find it before he starts practice.
“You dropped this.”
My red neck strap dangles in front of my nose. Clouds start to break, the sun demanding to be seen, the glare temporarily blinding me. Drew steps in front of the light, and I take the neck strap from him. When I picked it out six years ago, I thought the color was so cool. Dad took me to the music store, one of our rare father/daughter outings. He convinced me to pick something bold, pride beaming from his face as he grabbed the red material. But even after all these years, Dad’s never seen me play. And now this neck strap seems bright and obvious, like something a little kid would choose. Even so, the second I place it around my neck, my body recalibrates and steadies.
“Thanks,” I say. Drew extends his hand to help me up, leather cuffs and ropes covering his wrist. As I place my palm in his, a cuff shifts on his arm, revealing a small tattoo. Roman numerals maybe, but I can’t make out the exact symbols. His hand is warm and so big it practically swallows mine. As he pulls me to my feet a toned bicep peeks out from under his black T-shirt. Everything about him is dark, intense even, down to his beat-up black army boots. The laces are untied and hang in the grass.
“When did you start playing?” He gestures at my sax, as I clip it to the neck strap.
“Around nine.”
The first time I played a note, in the middle of fourth grade music class, I was hooked. There was a raw quality to the sound, like playing was an extension of how I was feeling. Still is. Notes take up the space in my mind that’s usually reserved for nerves and over-analysis. As soon as I play, my shoulders relax, dominoes of tension falling down my back.
“What about you?”
“Last year.” He laughs, his voice hoarse like he just woke up from a long nap. An orange Frisbee sails my way and Drew grabs it, then chucks it to one of the horn players. “I kind of suck. And between you and me, I hate the trumpet.”
“So why do you play?”
“Long story.” Drew fidgets with one of the leather ropes around his wrist. He glances at Mr. Abella, who’s now adjusting a music stand, a stack of papers tucked under his arm. “You just moved here, right? Why Jersey?”
I consider lying to him, fabricating a story about being a military kid. The truth will get out though, it always does. And considering Ray knows, I’m sure the entire football team is already up to speed on my bloodline. It’s only a matter of time before Drew finds out, so he might as well hear it from me.
“My dad’s a football coach,”’ I say casually. “He’s the new quarterback coach for the Jets.”
The team name hangs in the air as I wait for the reaction, but nothing registers on Drew’s tanned face. He doesn’t seem impressed. In fact, he doesn’t seem to care at all.
“I’m more of a basketball guy,” he says, shrugging. “I bet people are annoying as hell about your dad.” His dark hair falls in waves around his face. He rakes it back with his fingers.
Drew’s words are filled with such certainty, like he actually does understand. The sun catches on his brown eyes, revealing a thin amber ring hugging his iris. I’m about to ask him more when Mr. Abella’s whistle pierces the air. He steps on a green milk crate stationed at the edge of the field, tugging at the bottom of his sweater vest.
“Places, everyone.” Mr. Abella holds a conducting stick in the air. No one snaps to attention like we did in Seattle. In fact, no one glances up, except Shane, who silences a cymbal crash and folds his arms over his chest, still holding drumsticks. My heart clenches as I picture Brent pitching a Dixie cup at Shane, like he’s a garbage disposal.
“Catch you after practice,” Drew says, falling in line with the trumpets. I hurry to my spot with the saxophones, almost slipping on the wet grass. When I reach them I smile, but no one smiles back. I lick the wooden reed which is still gross no matter how many times I do it. My fingers press the keys of my sax one by one. No sound, just tapping out a song in my head. Even in the most unfamiliar of places, the rhythm of these keys is like Mom’s hot chocolate. Warm, sweet, and instantly calming.
“A quick announcement before we begin,” Mr. Abella says. Drew dangles a trumpet by his thigh, like he couldn’t care less about this practice. He checks his phone, gives it a dirty look, and shoves it into his pocket. “All-State auditions are in December. As most of you know, only the best musicians in New Jersey will qualify.”
My fingers freeze, holding down the G note, still no sound. Mr. Abella searches the band with hopeful eyes, but the horns are still busy chucking a Frisbee back and forth. The clarinets and flutes whisper to each other. Mr. Abella sighs, his face a defeated Eeyore. But when his gaze meets mine, his mouth stretches into a smile.
“Stevie, are you interested?”
Of course I’m interested. With All-State on my resume, I have a chance at NYU’
s music program. A chance to live in one place for four whole years. I nod at Mr. Abella, almost giving myself whiplash from the excitement coursing through my veins.
“Great! Shane can help you.” Mr. Abella points his conducting stick at Shane, a stuffed Aladdin genie perched on top of his quads. Shane kind of looks like the genie, especially his broad smile, and the way his stomach puffs out a little, like he ate one too many slices of pizza.
He smiles, adjusting a blue baseball hat with the letters EMT stitched in white on the front.
“All-State typically doesn’t accept freshmen, but they made an exception for Shane.”
Shane smiles again and shrugs, his drumstick tapping the snare. How in the world did he get in as a freshman? I have to talk to him.
“Okay, percussion up,” Mr. Abella says and the guys scramble to their feet, hooking drums over their shoulders. “Today we begin with ‘A Whole New World.’ And one, two, three, four!” he shouts at the mess of us on the field as Shane starts a beat. Before I know it, we’re marching while butchering “A Whole New World,” all while forming the image of the genie’s lamp, which unfortunately can’t grant my wish of making this band better. Sweat beads down my back from underneath my neck strap. Shane attacks the quads, each drum stroke purposeful and precise. No doubt about it, he’s good. Easily the best musician in this band. Which isn’t an achievement, but still.
* * *
The afternoon sun stings my eyes as I head for the parking lot, practically running to catch up with Shane. He leans against a black Jeep at the far end of the lot, one foot propped against the tire. Before I can reach him, Drew falls in step with me, pulling car keys attached to a mini carabiner out of his pocket.
“Hungry?” Drew stops walking, right at the edge of the curb. I put my sax down, flexing my fingers.
“Starving,” I say. There’s a hole in his T-shirt, right by the collar, and his eyes are so dark, so never-ending, it’s hard to tell where the pupil stops and the iris begins. He tucks a loose strand of hair behind his ear, a small smile playing on his lips.
“I’m going to grab a burger at the diner. Best in town. You should definitely come,” Drew says raising his eyebrows in anticipation.
Of course I want to go, but why should I? So I can be a blip in Drew’s life? So I can move away and he can forget I ever existed? But maybe this time’ll be different. Maybe Dad’s contract will get renewed here and I can finish out high school in New Jersey. Maybe this could be something for real. Yes. Say yes.
“I can’t,” I lie. “I have a thing.”
A thing? Is that the best you can come up with? Heat rushes to my face and I pick at the Band-Aid. I don’t have a thing. In fact, I have nothing. No friends, no boyfriend thanks to my smooth moves, no first chair, nothing. And why should I have anything? I’ll just have to leave it all behind.
Drew’s phone dings and his expression morphs from hopeful to annoyed. When he pulls the phone out of his pocket his nostrils flare as he reads the message. He shoves the phone back in his pocket, his brown eyes tired. They remind me of my own. I want to know what the tattoo on his wrist means and who keeps texting him. But most of all, I want to know why my pulse double times it when he comes near me, my body demanding I stop and pay attention. My mouth falls open to say Yes, I’ll go with you, but before any sound comes out Drew steps back, his fingers curling around the keys.
“Another time,” he says as he turns and heads for his Jeep.
* * *
I throw my phone on my comforter and head to the kitchen. No phones allowed at dinner. I sidestep the moving boxes that line the hallway, the sides labeled in marker. Mom swears she’s going to finish unpacking this week, but she said that last week, and the week before, and well, I’m not holding my breath. It’s like she doesn’t see the point, like leaving a rumpled blanket on top of your bed in the morning. Why make something perfect and pretty just to mess it all up at night?
My hand instinctively reaches for the banister, the shiny wood smooth under my skin. The fourth and fifth step creak under my feet, no matter how gingerly I tread, announcing my presence. I eye the front door, more boxes piled in the entryway, illuminated by a hanging chandelier. This is the biggest house we’ve ever lived in, a consolation prize for moving across the country. It’s almost obnoxious, the way the ceiling stretches two stories high. The sheer excess of our homes embarrasses me, especially in some of the towns we’ve lived in, where it’s not the norm. No one needs this much. I’m grateful for it, don’t get me wrong, but I’d also trade it for a chance at stability.
Drew’s probably at that diner by now. Saying yes to his invitation would have been like unpacking these boxes, and settling into a new place, new routine, a new person. Part of me understands why Mom procrastinates. It’s easier when we have to pack it all up again, fewer memories to box away. But then again, this big house feels empty with its soaring ceilings and naked fireplace mantel. The air is cold with nothing to curl around and sink into. Even though the furniture is unpacked, pieces of us still sit in boxes begging to be displayed. The walls are bare, Mom’s favorite paintings buried beneath her winter wardrobe. It’s like our lives are on hold, trapped in cardboard.
When I slide into the kitchen chair across from Joey, he half smiles, but his eyes are fixed on something off in the distance. I turn around, but as usual nothing’s there. My hand reaches for the side of his chipmunk cheek, like his therapist taught me, and I gently adjust his gaze to meet mine.
“Hey, buddy,” I say. His eyes, like the sea after a storm, register my face.
“Stevie!”
Joey pronounces the v in my name as an f as he jumps from his seat and throws his arms around my neck. I nuzzle into him, his hair like fresh farm-picked apples. Mom scoops meatballs into a serving dish, my stomach gurgling at the smell. Her hair is up in a hurried bun, loose curls falling around her face. A couple of dots of green paint freckle her forehead. She must’ve been in the basement. The art studio is the one room Mom prioritized, lining paints and brushes on an otherwise bare shelf, her easel positioned beneath one of the high hats for optimal light.
“He was upset he didn’t get to see you when we got home from speech therapy.” Mom smiles at Joey like he’s her only child as she pours a pot of pasta into a strainer. I’m used to it by now, the constant attention Joey needs. The kind I don’t need, but still want.
“Andrea says he’s almost all set for kindergarten.” Mom beams at him, and she should. A couple years ago we were all so worried about him, especially Mom. She freaked out before this last move knowing she had to find him a new therapist and change his entire routine. But as soon as we moved here in the beginning of the summer, she found Andrea. Mom calls her a miracle worker.
“Mama, balls,” Joey says, pointing to his empty plate, the plastic one with a train painted in the middle.
“Please,” Mom says, scooping him two with extra sauce, just how he likes it.
“Peas.” Joey forks a piece and takes a huge bite. “Stevie, you like see, uh. Um. Stevie?”
“Yeah, buddy?” I smile because I know where this is going. I wait for him to find his words, never completing his sentence for him. Andrea said to be patient and give him time.
“Uh. Do you … uh … you like seafood?” Joey’s already giggling, his shaggy curls bouncing around his head.
“I do.”
Here comes the punch line. Joey opens his mouth wide, laughing, gross bits of meatball chewed up inside.
“See.” He almost spits a chunk at me, he’s laughing so hard. I can’t help laughing with him. “Food!”
“Gross!” I scream like I always do and he erupts into hysterics, sending a piece of meatball onto his favorite dinosaur T-shirt, the one with the velociraptor playing basketball.
“Joey, eat your food,” Mom says sternly, but even she’s smiling. I stand, reaching for the serving spoon, helping myself. “Oh, I’m sorry, Stevie.” Mom shakes her head, taking the spoon from me and placing meat
balls and pasta on my plate.
“Where’s Dad?” I ask, eyeing the empty chair across from Mom, no silverware or plate on his placemat.
“Practice ran long tonight,” Mom says, “Should be home soon.”
“I think I’m going to try out for All-State,” I start to say, even though no one asked me how my practice was today.
Before Mom can answer, the front door swings open and Joey jumps from his chair, the wooden legs scraping against the tile. He runs full speed to the foyer screaming, “Daddy!”
Mom places a fork, knife, and plate at Dad’s end of the table. He walks into the kitchen, Joey clutching his ankle like a koala bear. Joey attempts to climb Dad’s leg, but he’s too slow. Dad picks him up and throws him in the air, Joey’s machine gun laughter bouncing around the room.
“How’s my little man?” Dad says, a whistle swinging from his neck as he puts Joey down on the tile and squats so he’s eye level with him.
“Good!” Joey yells, grabbing for Dad’s Jets hat. Dad secures it over Joey’s curls, making it a few notches tighter. He has those same curls but they’re thinning. As Dad straightens up, he smiles at Mom like he hasn’t seen her in years. It’s the way he always looks at her, like they’re in on a big secret together. I would give anything for someone to look at me like that. To know me like that.
Where It All Lands Page 3