The Rattle Box: A Baxter Boys Novel

by Jane Charles

  The Rattle Box

  A Baxter Boys Novel

  Jane Charles

  Contents

  Copyright

  Dedication

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-One

  Twenty-Two

  More

  About Jane Charles

  Jane Charles’s New Adult Romance

  Jane Charles’s Historical Romance

  Copyright © 2016 by Jane Charles

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Created with Vellum

  Dedication

  To some of the mothers I admire the most –

  Donna, Natalie, Umiko, Joann, Amy, & Lorelei

  One

  “She’s here,” I whisper to Peyton Walker, my best friend.

  Peyton leans around me. “Mrs. Dosek is here?”

  “Yes.” The moment I see her, my heart begins to pound as my palms break out in a sweat. I swipe them against my jet black skirt, take deep breaths and try to compose myself. Maybe this time Mrs. Dosek will hear me play. Then maybe, if I play well enough, I can become one of her students. One on a small list of exclusive students, some of which have been accepted to Juilliard.

  It’s my junior year of high school, and if I don’t get accepted to Juilliard before my senior year, I might never be. Music is my passion. The piano, cello and violin, though if I had to pick only one, it would always be the piano. I want to compose and play. That’s all I want in life, but all my lessons have been limited to what’s been offered in middle and high school band and orchestra classes. I need more if I’m going to go any further. More meant a private teacher, something my parents couldn’t afford. Maybe if they hadn’t adopted six kids, they might have the money for lessons.

  It’s selfish, of course. Had my parents limited the number of kids, I may not have made the cut, and then where would I be? And, I wouldn’t trade my siblings for anything in the world. Well, except my youngest brother John, who spilled grape juice on my favorite white blouse this morning. Luckily I have two others or I would have been screwed. Black and white – orchestra colors. Judges frown on color, and if nothing else, I am a rule follower. Music is too important. Winning competitions is necessary. Each win and award is another item on my application to Juilliard.

  The only thing I’m lacking is a private piano teacher. I need to become a student of Mrs. Dosek.

  I had first heard of her when I was in seventh grade. She only took piano and voice students who had talent. And, she didn’t charge. Ever!

  “I heard Brooke’s parents just offered Mrs. Dosek a thousand dollars a lesson,” Peyton whispers in my ear.

  “Wow! That’s a ton of money.” Brooke’s parents were loaded, and Brooke was convinced she was the best pianist to ever grace the halls of my high school, East Central. She had a baby grand to practice on at home. I have an old upright that used to be a player piano, it was that old. The kind that once had music on the inside and played at the push of a button. Those guts are gone now, but it still plays well. Brooke has always looked down on Peyton and me as if we aren’t quite good enough, even though Peyton’s parents are probably as rich, if not richer, than Brooke’s.

  “I know!” Peyton looks over my shoulder. “Mrs. Dosek turned them down. It’s not about the money but the talent.”

  I glance at Peyton from the corner of my eye. “I bet Brooke didn’t take that well.” I hate Brooke, and I’m jealous of her. Not only do the teachers fawn over her, but she’s had private lessons since she was five. I’m glad Mrs. Dosek turned her down because that would have killed me if Brooke got lessons with her and I couldn’t even get the woman to notice me.

  Peyton snorts. “Considering she thinks she’s the best of the best, no, she didn’t.”

  “Well, Mrs. Dosek is here today.” I blow out a breath. “I just hope she stays to listen for a change.”

  “It is weird that she always leaves right before your turn.”

  It’s something Peyton and I have talked about before. I’ve seen Mrs. Dosek at several competitions and concerts but she always leaves before I play. How the hell can I get her attention if the woman doesn’t stay long enough to listen? “I emailed her again.” For like the umpteenth time.

  “Response?” Peyton asks.

  “Silence. It’s as if she has something against me or something. If she heard me play and wasn’t interested, that would be one thing, but since she never has, and we’ve never met, I can’t imagine what she has against me.”

  “I’m sure it’s just a coincidence. I know other people who have emailed her too, and she didn’t respond to them.”

  “At least I’m not alone.” Not that it makes me feel any better. I’m sure I’m just one of dozens of potential students trying to get her attention. “I just wish I knew the trick to get her to notice me.”

  The pianist before me finishes, bows and then exits the stage.

  “Good luck,” Peyton whispers.

  I take a deep breath, clutch my music.

  “Madison Cross,” the judge announces, and I step out onto the stage. I can’t help myself and glance to the seat where Mrs. Dosek had been sitting.

  It’s empty and I catch a glimpse of her just as she exits the auditorium.

  Tears spring to my eyes as I walk to the piano. Another opportunity lost.

  After placing the music, I take a seat, as disappointment sinks into my belly. If I weren’t on stage, I’d completely lose it, but I hold my shit together and blink so the tears don’t fall, and I start to play. I can’t see the music, but I don’t really need to since I memorized these pieces long ago, starting with Brahms’ Lullaby—the first of my four Brahms’ selections for this afternoon. The judges want emotion, in addition to skill, along with four levels of difficulty. Well, I’ve got the emotion, and if even a quarter of it comes through in my music, I’ve got the competition beat. And, it’s Mrs. Dosek’s loss for missing it.

  Two

  The applause was a balm to my wounded soul, though I still wish Mrs. Dosek would have stuck around to hear me. Then my soul wouldn’t be wounded.

  Yes, I’m being melodramatic, but I don’t care. I needed her to hear me. I needed her to love how I play. I needed her to want me as a student.

  I bow, grab my music and exit the stage. I need to get out of here before I totally lose my shit. Time is running out. If I don’t get a private teacher to help me go beyond what I’ve done on my own with limited resources, and more letters of recommendation, Juilliard will never, ever consider me.

  As I step from the backstage area I spot Mrs. Dosek at the end of the corridor – right outside of the auditorium. Why the hell couldn’t she have stayed in there just long enough to hear me? It’s not like she left or anything.

  I start in her direction, trying to think about what I am going to say to her. I can’t let this opportunity pass. This may be my one shot. If she didn’t ignore my emails, this wouldn’t be necessary.

  Her head is down and a tall man with short dark hair and tattooed arms is rubbing her back.r />
  Why the hell is she crying? It’s not like my music moved her. She wasn’t there to hear it.

  Mrs. Dosek wipes her eyes with a tissue then shakes her head, as if gaining control of herself. The tall man says something to her and then kisses her forehead.

  It’s touching and sweet and this may be an “aw” moment if I wasn’t pissed that she once again walked out on me. I know it’s not personal. She doesn’t know me for it to be personal. But, it’s as if she’s avoiding me, and that is personal.

  They turn and I step right into their path. I don’t care if it’s rude. I need to get her attention.

  Mrs. Dosek’s eyes widen slightly and then all facial expression disappears, as if she’s donned a mask. “Yes.”

  Be professional. “Mrs. Dosek, I am Madison Cross.”

  She just nods as the man behind her places his hand at the small of her back, as if I’m a threat or something.

  “I’ve been trying to reach you to inquire about private lessons.”

  She blinks at me.

  “I understand you are very…” Picky. Don’t use picky. “Selective of your students. I’d hoped that you might consider me.”

  She says nothing, but studies me. My face, hair, body, then eyes, as if taking me in. What’s her deal?

  “Mrs. Dosek?”

  She blinks again. “I’m sorry, but there’s no room in my schedule.”

  And with that, my dreams shatter and panic takes control. “Please. I need your help.” I grab her hands. That’s not professional, but I’m not above begging. Not at this point in my dreams. “My parents cannot afford a private instructor. I’ve dreams of Juilliard, and you are the best. Everyone who has ever studied with you has gotten into the school of their choice, including the very best music school out there. Please, at least listen to me play.”

  “Miss Cross!” Mrs. Dosek yanks her hands back. “I’m sure you play beautifully and if I had the time, I’d consider your application. I simply cannot at this time in your life.”

  Tears fill my eyes. “Please.”

  “I’m sorry.” She nods and walks around me. I turn and watch her leave the building, wishing she’d change her mind and come back.

  Three

  Peyton jumps into my path. “How did it go?”

  I can’t look at my best friend. I’m still watching the back of Mrs. Dosek.

  “Well?” She tugs on my arm.

  I blow out a sigh and turn to her. “Not interested. Doesn’t have time.” Rage boils.

  “That’s what she said?”

  “She might as well have.”

  “What were her exact words? Maybe you misunderstood.”

  I snort then repeat for Peyton, “I’m sure you play beautifully and if I had the time, I’d consider your application. I simply cannot at this time in your life.”

  Peyton scrunches her nose in confusion. “Your life?”

  “Odd, I know. I’m sure she meant her life.” I dismiss my friend. “She didn’t even give me a chance to pitch myself. I even pleaded with her.”

  I’m disgusted with myself and angry. So much was riding on Mrs. Dosek noticing me, thinking I’m wonderful and begging me to be a student. Of course, that’s my fantasy, which is about as far from reality as you can get.

  “Let’s go get Baskin-Robbins.”

  I glare at Peyton. “Ice cream is not going to help. My future just went up in a puff of smoke.”

  She grins at me. “Aren’t you the one who said any problem can be solved with a pint of Gold Medal Ribbon?”

  “If I really believed that, I’d send Mrs. Dosek one, but she doesn’t want me.” Those damn tears start up again.

  “Come on.” Brooke links her arm in mine. “Let’s get ice cream and come back later for the scores.”

  “What’s the point?” Okay, now I’m pouting, but I really don’t care.

  “Because you’ll beat Brooke, like you always do, and that always makes me happy.”

  It makes me happy too, not that I should admit it, but Brooke’s been a pain in my ass since fifth grade when we all started orchestra together. Teachers have doted on her, praised her and kept her at first chair of the violins. Of course, her parents are rich and threw money at the school. My parents, not so much. While her parents were writing big checks so the orchestra and band could have things like new uniforms and instruments, my mom is giving cookies for a bake sale. I used to think Brooke would always be better. That was, until we got into high school and we started competing against each other in solo and ensemble. Her parents’ money has no power here, and I’ve been beating her out for the past three years.

  A lot of good it does though. Brooke has private instructors and some awards, and she told me that she’s practically assured a spot at Juilliard. She could be lying, which wouldn’t surprise me, but the one thing she has over me is the letters of recommendation and the money to pay tuition, room and board.

  Not only do I need Mrs. Dosek to write a letter, I need to find someone to write a check. Scholarships are not easy to come by, but at least I’ve gotten straight A’s since entering high school. Except, they aren’t the weighted classes. I know my talents, and math and science are not exactly at the top of the list. I’ve got the requirements to graduate, but that’s about it. Nothing on my current high school transcripts screams smart girl. Well, except English and Literature. Those I ace without effort, and those are weighted. Not that any of those classes matter at Juilliard, where my talent needs to get me a place. Grades and smarts help, but they aren’t going to consider me with just middle and high school teachers writing about my talent.

  My last chance at Juilliard just walked out the door and I need to face reality and actually look at other universities.

  “I know that look,” Peyton warns.

  “What look?”

  “The worst case scenario. You’re stuck at a piano at the local community college for a choir that can hardly sing, and they are only there because it’s an easy A and fits the elective option.”

  She’s right. That is what I fear. Not that community college is bad, but I can’t imagine I’d learn much more than I do in high school. And I want to learn. I want to compose, but I know I have so much to learn.

  Peyton starts dragging me toward the door.

  “We aren’t supposed to leave. Chaperones and all that.”

  She rolls her eyes. “They’ll never know.” With a quick glance over her shoulder, she pushes me out the door.

  I don’t break rules. And, if I were in my right mind, I’d insist that Peyton stay in the music hall like we are supposed to. I’m the grounded one, keeping Peyton from getting into trouble. But, today I don’t care. Nothing will make me feel better right now except a pint of Gold Medal Ribbon, and I might just eat it all in one sitting.

  Four

  “What in God’s name possessed you to do such a thing?” my mother yells when I get into the car. She’d remained cool and calm when the teachers were explaining my violation, but I could feel the tension rolling off her, even as I apologized.

  I’m in trouble. Big trouble, but I really don’t care.

  “Do you have any idea the panic, the terror, the horrible things that went through my mind when your teacher called to say that you and Peyton were missing?”

  “We just stepped out for ice cream,” I grumble. We had thought Baskin-Robbins was only a few blocks away and that nobody would miss us. Turns out it was about ten blocks, then we sat and ate our ice cream there because we couldn’t exactly bring it back into the school or people would know where we’d gone. “We lost track of time.”

  “You weren’t supposed to leave the campus at all. Not even the building. What has gotten into you?”

  “I’m sorry, okay,” I yell back.

  “You will be sorry.” She pulls into traffic. “You are suspended for three days, but you will be making up the work at home.”

  Not going back to the school for three days isn’t exactly a hardship.

&nb
sp; “No phone, no computer, no iPad, no TV. Nothing but study and practice.”

  Peyton is the only person I talk to the most and anything I watch on television is also recorded, so I’m not really missing anything there. I’ll just catch up when the punishment has been lifted.

  “And, no Peyton. I don’t want you hanging out with that girl anymore. She’s a bad influence.”

  This gets my attention. “Peyton is my best friend.”

  “Make a different one. I’m sure it was Peyton who suggested you two leave for ice cream.”

  I just shrug because it’s the truth.

  “It used to be that you had influence over her, but she’s turned you.”

  “Turned me,” I nearly laugh. What the hell am I, a zombie?

  “She’s doesn’t have sense, and apparently you don’t either.”

  Here she goes. “Nothing happened to us.”

  “Well, your teachers and I didn’t know that now did we?” she yells. “For two hours you were gone and nobody knew where you were. They were about to call the police.”

  Really, they are making way too much out of this. “I’m sorry. I won’t ever do anything like that again.”

  “I know you won’t, because you will not be able to go anywhere without your father or me.”

  Okay, now she’s being ridiculous, but I don’t voice those thoughts. She’s angry enough. In a few days Mom will calm down.

  “Why did you leave anyway? That’s not like you.”

  If I tell her the truth, she’ll yell, because for some reason, she doesn’t like my contacting Mrs. Dosek. If I lie, she’ll know.

  “Well?”

  “I talked to Mrs. Dosek,” I finally say.

  My mother stills, and it’s as if the color drains from her face. Really, what is the big deal? Mrs. Dosek is a teacher in a public school, has private students and is very well respected. Mom behaves as if she’s a serial killer or something.