“For those of you in one of the two bands, I’ll have packets of information for you to take home over winter break,” Mr. Dante went on. “The concert will be Saturday, February fifteenth, so you’ll have two full days of rehearsals, starting Friday morning. You’ll be excused from school, of course.”
“That’s it,” I heard Trevor mutter behind me. “I’m practicing more next year.”
After that, Mr. Dante talked a little bit about the fund-raiser and the next volleyball game. Then we started our warm-ups. I tried to pay attention, but I couldn’t. It was slowly starting to sink in. All-region. Symphonic band. First chair. I felt like a helium balloon slowly inflating, ready to bob around the band-hall ceiling. By the time we finished our scales, it was hard to keep my embouchure set because my lips kept stretching into a huge smile against my will.
“Let’s get out ‘Labyrinthine Dances,’” Mr. Dante announced, flipping on the metronome. Several kids groaned.
Boop . . . boop . . . . boop . . .
“Come on, now,” Mr. Dante said. “We’ve made a lot of progress! This is over twenty beats faster than the first time we rehearsed this piece.”
“Labyrinthine Dances” was a ridiculously, insanely, impossibly hard song that Mr. Dante had given us at the beginning of the year. He had this crazy theory that if we rehearsed it really slow and gradually sped up, we’d be able to play it up to tempo in time for the big state contest at the end of the year.
The problem was that the tempo he started us at was so slow, we always felt like it would take us a whole year just to get all the way through it.
Not today, though. At least, not for me. By the time we were halfway through the first page, I could see a few flute players grimacing in frustration. Next to me, Gabby dramatically gasped for breath after holding out a particularly long note.
But I could have played “Labyrinthine Dances” all day. Right then, I felt like I could play anything.
After rehearsal, I pretended to reorganize the music in my folders while everyone headed to the cubbies. I was itching to go find out who else had made the all-region bands, but I didn’t want to be too obvious about it.
“Hey, Holly?”
I glanced up—Owen was standing just to my left. “Oh! Hey,” I said, surprised.
“I just wanted to say congratulations,” he said with a little smile. “You know, on the all-region thing. You deserve it.”
I smiled back. “Thanks, Owen!” He walked off toward the cubbies, and I sat there for a second, feeling deflated. Why did things have to get so weird with Owen? I really missed him. The not-awkward him, I mean.
Standing slowly, I tucked my folder under my arm, grabbed my horn, and headed back to the lists taped up in the office window.
Under each section in the concert band, there were two alternates, followed by a list of everyone else who played that instrument in the order the judges had ranked them. Julia was there, second-to-last chair in the concert band. In fact, there were a lot of “Millicans” in both the symphonic- and concert-band clarinet sections. No surprise there—our clarinet section was almost all eighth-graders, and really good.
There was Gabby, third alto sax. Aaron was in the symphonic band, too—whoa, second-chair trumpet. And Liam, third-chair tuba. Sophie Wheeler was an alternate on oboe, which was impressive considering there was only one oboe in each band and over a dozen had auditioned. Victoria and Leah were both in the concert band, too. Brooke was just a few chairs below the French horn alternate, and Owen was around the middle of the list.
I was almost finished counting the nineteen Millican names in the two bands when Mr. Dante’s voice startled me.
“Great job, Holly. You must be pretty excited.”
I couldn’t help but grin. “Yeah. But kind of surprised, too.”
He tilted his head. “Why?”
“Well, I mean . . .” I glanced over my shoulder. “I don’t know. I thought if I made it I’d be in the concert band. I’m not . . . I’m not sure how I beat Natasha. I’ve never even beaten her in a chair test.”
Glancing at the clock, Mr. Dante reached for the shelf over his desk and pulled out what I recognized as a few of our beginner-band books from last year—tuba, baritone, trombone. Fifth period was beginner low brass, I figured.
“Holly, you’re always prepared for every chair test,” he said, stacking the books on his desk. “But with the all-region music . . . I heard you last week. Back in the practice rooms before and after school, every day. All I can say is, I’m not at all surprised by the results.”
I smiled, although my face was probably magenta. But part of me had sort of expected him to say, Yeah, I have no idea how you beat Natasha, either.
“Thanks,” I said. “Although . . . something weird did kind of happen when I auditioned.”
“What do you mean?” Mr. Dante asked.
All of a sudden, I had to tell him.
“I—I don’t remember playing the fugue,” I admitted. “I remember playing the scales, and then . . . I don’t know. It’s like I wasn’t paying attention to myself or something. When I left the room, I really had no idea how I sounded.”
As soon as it was out of my mouth, I wanted to take it back. I felt like a complete fraud.
But Mr. Dante smiled. “So you were in the zone.”
“Huh?”
The bell rang, and all the background chatter started fading as everyone filed out of the band hall. Mr. Dante picked up the beginner books.
“The zone,” he repeated. “Your brain knew all the technical stuff—like we talked about last month, remember? The rhythms, the right notes, dynamics, all of that. You didn’t have to think about it anymore. So let me ask you—if you weren’t thinking about the music, what were you thinking about when you auditioned?”
I glanced over just in time to see the back of Aaron’s head disappear when the doors swung closed. Natasha and Julia were waiting for me just outside the cubbies.
“Just . . . stuff,” I mumbled, my face hot again.
Mr. Dante sounded like he was trying not to laugh. “Well, it sounds to me like you forgot about being ‘perfect’ and let your emotions kick in. You made music out of the fugue.” Walking to the podium, he set the beginner books down and smiled at me. “Maybe you should start trying to get in the zone more often.”
Chapter
Eleven
The week before Thanksgiving was weird. I’d be happy one second and bummed the next, like someone was messing with a switch that controlled my emotions.
First of all, sitting first chair rocked. Winning isn’t everything, second best is okay—yeah, I knew all that.
Still. It rocked.
And it seemed like maybe things really were getting better with Owen, too. In science class the day before break started, he even brought up our Cyborgs versus Ninjas bet.
“I think we should raise the stakes,” he said, poking the dead worm on the tray in between us with a scalpel. “The winner should actually win something. Like with the fund-raiser.”
“You want to wear a vampire Santa costume to the concert, too?” I asked, and he laughed.
“Fine, not exactly like the fund-raiser.”
“Okay.” I tapped my chin, pretending to think. “Let’s see, what would I like to win . . .”
Shaking his head, Owen grinned. “You’re so positive you’re going to get it. There’s no way, Holly.”
I ignored this. “How about . . . your phantom blade.”
His eyes widened, and for a second I felt a twinge of anxiety. The phantom blade was one of the best weapons in Prophets, and really hard to find. Owen had scored one in level six the last time we’d played—the day he’d asked me to the dance and I’d spewed soda and screwed everything up. Me asking if he’d bet the blade implied we were going to start having Prophets day again, and I still wasn’t sure
if that was something he wanted.
“All right,” Owen said at last, and I relaxed a little. “But if I win . . . we swap tanks.”
I gasped in mock horror. Every alien hunter in Prophets got to build their own tank, and mine was way better than Owen’s. It was pretty much the only reason I was as good as I was at the game.
“If you’re really so positive you’ll win, you wouldn’t be worried,” Owen teased. I crossed my arms.
“Fine. If I win, I get the phantom blade. If you win—yeah, right—we swap tanks.”
“Deal.”
“Cool.” I paused, staring at the worm. “So . . . want to watch it over Thanksgiving break?” He didn’t answer right away, and my stomach squirmed. “I mean, we still need to work on those programs, too—the concert’s in, like, three weeks.”
“Oh, right.” Owen fumbled with his scalpel. “The thing is, my grandparents are staying with us over the break, and my uncle, and . . .”
“It’s okay,” I said quickly, wishing I hadn’t asked. “Maybe another time.”
“Or you could watch it,” he added. “Just the first half, I mean.”
But I want to watch it with you. That’s what I wanted to say. But I couldn’t.
“How do you know I won’t cheat?” I joked half-heartedly, and Owen rolled his eyes.
“Yeah, right.”
I smiled, tapping my pencil on the worm diagram I was supposed to be labeling. “Okay, I’ll watch the first half over the break.”
Owen grinned. “Cool.”
I left science class feeling pretty good.
But right after school, I had to run to Mr. Franks’s room because I’d left my winter-break reading list on my desk. And that’s when I saw Natasha and Aaron, laughing and walking so close their arms kept grazing. I watched as they went out the side exit to the buses. Just like that, someone flipped the switch and all my happiness vanished.
I was tired of feeling bad about Aaron liking Natasha. I wanted to be happy for her and just get over it. And really, I had no choice if we were going to stay friends.
Still—ow. Ow ow ow ow ow.
“Chad?” I knocked on my brother’s door and waited. No answer. Pushing the door open, I stepped over the pile of laundry—which I swear was the same exact pile from a few weeks ago—and headed to the movie shelf.
“Cyborgs, cyborgs . . .” After a minute of searching, I found Cyborgs versus Ninjas stuck in the right corner of the third shelf. I took it, shaking my head. It had been way over a month ago that Chad’s friend Leon had brought this over, but somehow I wasn’t surprised it was still here.
Then I realized a bunch of Chad’s—and my—movies were probably collecting dust over at Leon’s and Toby’s houses.
“That’s it,” I said out loud. Marching back to my room, I grabbed a pad of yellow paper, sticky notes, and a pencil.
An hour later, Chad walked into his room and froze, one dirty sneaker stepping on the mountain of clothes. “What are you doing?”
“Organizing,” I replied without looking up. Stacks of DVDs surrounded my feet, each with a sticky note labeling it with things like House—Invisible and Murder—Nightfall.
“You can’t just come into my room and—”
“Chad, give me a break,” I interrupted. “You barge into my room whenever you want and you know it. Besides, look at this.” Picking up the Cyborgs DVD, I held it out for him to see.
Chad squinted. “Oh yeah, that’s Leon’s. I meant to give that back.”
“But you haven’t,” I said. “Because you didn’t even know it was here. So how many of our DVDs does Leon have?”
“Uh—”
“Six!” I yelled, waving my yellow pad. “That I know of, anyway. Probably more. Geez, Chad—a lot of these are mine, you know. From birthdays and Christmas and allowance money. So I’m organizing them, and you’re just going to have to deal with it.”
Chad rubbed his forehead like he was getting a headache. “Okay, fine, whatever.”
I stared as he stepped off the pile of laundry and started picking through shirts and sniffing them. Holding up a dark blue T-shirt, he inspected a stain on the sleeve. Then he pulled off his San Antonio Spurs jersey, tossed it on top of the pile, and pulled on the stained blue shirt.
“Are you kidding me?”
He glanced at me in surprise. “What?”
“Chad, you just traded a dirty shirt for another dirty shirt.”
“Less dirty,” he corrected me, heading to his computer.
“You do know we have these magical machines downstairs that, like, wash and dry clothes, don’t you?”
Chad typed in his password, his back to me. “Yeah, but Mom said she and Dad won’t do my laundry anymore.”
I walked over to his desk. “They haven’t done my laundry since I started middle school.”
“Well, you’re the freak fifth-grader who actually wanted to learn how to do it. I don’t.”
“So?” I said, kicking his chair. “Ever stop to think that it’s kind of pathetic that a sixteen-year-old doesn’t even know how to work a washing machine? Do you think Mom’s going to come do your laundry when you go to college?”
“God, Holly,” Chad groaned. “You sound exactly like her.”
“I’ll teach you,” I offered. “It’s easy, I swear.”
“No, thanks.”
“So what are you going to do, just wear the same dirty clothes forever?”
“Don’t be stupid,” Chad replied. “Christmas is next month. New clothes.”
“Chad!” I cried. “You can’t—you . . .” He snickered, starting up a computer game. My eyes fell on a few fortune cookies on his desk.
“You have to do your laundry,” I said triumphantly, “because you have to clean your work uniform. Or were you just planning on asking your boss for a new Lotus Garden shirt every month?”
Chad’s smirk faded. “Yeah, Mr. G. kind of said something about that last week.” He tapped his fingers on the mouse, then looked at me. “You can do it.”
“Never.”
“I’ll pay you.”
“No.” I paused. “How much?”
He considered it. “Fifty cents a load,” he said. “What? What are you laughing at?”
“You’re insane.” I went back to organizing the shelf, and he went back to crashing race cars on his computer. Fifteen minutes later, the DVDs were neatly organized. I took a moment to admire my work before walking up behind Chad and tapping the back of his head with my yellow pad. He paused his game and glared at me.
“What?”
“Our movies are alphabetized on the shelf,” I said, ripping off a sheet of paper and handing it to him. “Here’s a list of the ones that are missing. When you get them back from Leon or Toby or whoever, I’ll shelve them in the right place. Whenever you watch something, just put it back where you found it. I’m going to make a cross-referenced spreadsheet to keep track of everything and add new DVDs as we get them—I’ll e-mail it to you.”
He stared at me. “Right. I’m pretty sure you’re the one who’s insane.”
I ignored him. “I’m borrowing this tonight,” I went on, holding up Cyborgs. “You can bring it back to Leon on Monday.”
“You know that’s sci-fi, right?” Chad asked. “Not really your thing.”
“I know,” I said, shrugging. “But I promised someone I’d watch it.”
“Ah,” Chad said, grinning. “Your boyfriend. Who, by the way, still has all those Watch the Fog movies. So I don’t know what you’re giving me such a hard time about.”
“I know,” I replied, trying to keep my voice normal. “I’ll . . . I’ll get them back next week. And it’s not . . . um, that’s a different guy.”
“Wow, two boyfriends.” Chad was enjoying himself, clearly oblivious to the fact that I wanted to crawl int
o a hole. “Have you told Mom and Dad about this?”
“There’s nothing to tell,” I said flatly. “They’re both just friends.” Before he could say anything else, I grabbed my yellow pad, sticky notes, and Cyborgs, and headed for the hall.
“By the way,” I added, “ten bucks a load. That’s my offer.”
“Ten?” Chad cried. “No way!”
“Hey, you’ve got a job,” I said. “I mean, until your boss fires you because some customer complains that his delivery boy smells rank.”
“Come on, Holly—”
“Ten bucks a load, or you let me teach you how to do it yourself.” I smiled sweetly. “For the one-time price of twenty dollars. Your choice.” And with that, I closed the door.
Back in my room, I took the Cyborgs disc out of its case and slid it into my DVD player. I flopped down on my bed and hit PLAY. But when the opening credits started, I couldn’t focus.
Aaron still had the first two Watch the Fog movies. And Carrie, too. Even though I was alone in my room, a blush crept over my cheeks as I remembered my big, stupid plan to get Aaron to ask me to the dance. And then I realized how close I’d come to just asking him myself in the cubbies—the exact same day he’d asked Natasha. Well, at least I’d avoided that level of humiliation.
But I kept picturing it, anyway. How it would have happened. Me mustering up all my courage. “Aaron, I was wondering if you’d go to the dance with me.”
Him looking all surprised. “Uh, I’ve already got a date, Holly. With Natasha. What, did you actually think I liked you or something?”
Not that Aaron would ever say anything like that. He was too nice. Still, my brain wouldn’t let it go—I watched it happen over and over, like a scene on replay. When my phone rang, it was a relief to hit the mental pause button.
“Hello?”
“Hey, it’s me,” Julia said.
“Hey! Aren’t you at your uncle’s place?”
“Yes, and I’m losing my mind,” she moaned. “My cousins are driving me nuts. How about you?”
“I’m bored,” I said, flipping my TV off. “I finally organized my and Chad’s movies, though.”
Friends, Fugues, and Fortune Cookies Page 8