The Sound of Us

by Julie Hammerle

  I pull out my music binder and a pencil. I make some notes on one of my songs—“Deh vieni, non tardar”—while waiting for the inquisition to start.

  A few seconds later, there’s a knock at the door and Kendra pulls it open. Seth steps in. He’s alone.

  “Where’s Brie?” she asks immediately.

  “Practice rooms.”

  Kendra shoots me a look, her tongue tucked into her cheek. She goes to fondle her feather earrings that are no longer there.

  Seth takes a seat right next to me on the floor, his thigh against my thigh. Seth has no qualms about invading other people’s personal spaces, and people usually don’t mind when he does it. I suppose that’s an attractive person privilege. “She told me to tell you she’s not the mole.”

  “And we should believe her?” Kendra’s eyes bug out.

  “She seemed to think so.”

  Kendra folds her arms. “Obviously this makes her suspect number one. I mean, come on.”

  “It doesn’t mean squat.” I flip a page in my music. If anything, it means Brie is smart. I should be where she is right now. I should be running through my music. I’m only here because I had a shot at seeing Jack. God, I’m weak. “Just because she chose the practice rooms over having this conversation again—”

  “It’s not just that. She’s always lurking around, keeping everyone on their toes,” Kendra interrupts me, scanning the room for support. “I was down in the theatre department lobby the other day, just looking over my music, not bothering anyone, and she came over and was all, ‘You don’t have that memorized yet?’ Like she was checking up on me or something. Mind your own fucking business.”

  “Yeah, she’s focused, but she’s also really nice and a lot of fun,” Andy says. “You just have to get to know her.”

  “I think I know her just fine. I think she’s a giant kiss-ass and a snitch.” Kendra plops down in Norman’s desk chair.

  “You can’t just accuse her,” I say. “I really don’t think it’s Brie. She’s already the best singer. Why would she have to stoop to sabotage?”

  “Are you defending her?”

  “No…yeah…I don’t know. I know she’s odd and intense, but you don’t have any proof other than that. I’d give her the benefit of the doubt. Despite what Mr. Bertrand seems to want us to do, I don’t think we should start turning on one another.” Keep your friends close and your enemies closer, right? I feel like I should make a huge bulletin board covered in all the voice campers’ pictures, the suspects in the case of the opera camp traitor.

  “I think Kiki’s right,” says Mary. She twirls a dirty blond curl around one finger while assessing the cards in her hand.

  “Of course you do,” says Kendra. “You’re the Pollyanna. You’re always like, ‘Everyone’s great! I’m so sweet.’ Even today at the retreat you had your hand up after every performance, ready to compliment everybody else.”

  “Why is that a bad thing?” I ask.

  “It’s fishy,” says Kendra.

  I toss my music to the floor. I’m sick of this conversation. This is a complete waste of my time—I’m not practicing and Jack is nowhere to be found. I’m frustrated that Kendra, who usually seems so cool and relaxed, has turned into this negative person. She’s become a Beth. Beth once accused one of the girls in our group of flirting with a guy she had called dibs on. There was no real evidence of any wrong-doing, but Beth forced us all to stop talking to the girl under penalty of our own excommunication. I will not be a party to another witch hunt. I will not ostracize Brie on a hunch. I stand up.

  “Where are you going?” asks Kendra.

  I’m about to make some excuse, give some nice, unimpeachable reason that I need to leave. I have to call my parents. I really need to get to the practice rooms. Something like that. It’s the kind of thing I would’ve told Beth in the past and then spent the whole walk home fuming about what I should’ve said. Instead, I pick up my backpack. “I came here to get away from this kind of negativity. Brie, as far as I know, has never done anything to hurt any one of us. She is not the enemy here. Kendra,” I say, looking right at her, “I assumed you were better than this nonsense. I want no part of this, and I want nothing to do with any of you if this is how it’s gonna be.”

  I toss my bag over my shoulders and leave the room.

  On the way to Yunker, I start crying. I don’t know why. I didn’t leave Chandler Hall thinking, “Man, I need a good cry.” I guess it’s because I’m overwhelmed by everything and I have no one to talk to. The other students here are my competition. I can’t go to them. Besides, they all seem to be handling their workload pretty well. I can’t give them the impression that I’m not. There’s no one at home I can call to complain to. My sister will tell me not to take things so seriously. She’ll tell me to forget about the rules and have a good time. It’s what she would’ve done, and she probably would’ve gotten away with it, too. My parents are no help, either. I can’t give them any reason to think that I’m not one hundred percent happy and excited about the prospect of becoming a real, live opera singer.

  And Beth, well, she’d laugh right in my ear and then broadcast all of my shortcomings across every social media account available to her.

  When I get up to the practice rooms, I wave as I pass Brie’s door. She doesn’t see me; she’s too focused on her own music. I find an empty room around the corner and drop my backpack on the chair next to the door. I unzip my bag and rifle around for my music, my binder. It’s nowhere to be found.

  I slide down the wall until my butt plops on the floor. I know where it is. I left it in Norman’s room. It’s there, on the floor next to Jack’s bed, with all the people I basically just told to suck it.

  I let myself cry for a few more minutes and then I decide I have to go back there. I’m sure they’ve been talking about me since I left, about how I’m probably the mole because I got so upset, or, more likely, how Brie and I are probably mole partners, working together to bring down the rest of the group.

  But I start to buck up as I approach the dorm. So what if they think I’m the mole or a bitch or some combination of the two? What does it matter? I’m fine if I have to spend the rest of camp alone and friendless. I’m used to alone and friendless. If I really need to talk to someone, I can jump on Twitter and chat with @Windry87 or whoever. My Project Earth friends will listen to me. They won’t judge me. They were there for me when all the stuff with Beth went down and they’ll be there for me now.

  By the time I reach Norman’s door, I’m a walking tower of strength. I don’t need anyone. I am a lone wolf. I am a shark and the opera scholarship is my chum. I am going to knock on the door, grab my belongings, and leave. They can say whatever they want about me. I don’t care.

  I give Norman’s door a few raps and wait, straightening my shoulders. The door flies open and it’s not Norman, it’s Jack. I peek beyond him and see that everyone else has left. My binder is still on the floor, though.

  Jack, who was sending a text when he answered the door, shoves his phone into his pocket. “Hey,” he says.

  I remember my resolve. Shark Kiki needs no one. I point to Jack’s bed. “I left my binder.”

  “Oh, sure.” He stands aside and lets me in. The door swings shut behind me.

  I pick up my music and hold it aloft. “Thanks,” I say, making a move to leave.

  “You doing okay?” he asks.

  “I’m fine.” He’s always catching me at my worst moments.

  “You look sad.”

  I shake my head.

  “If you need cheering up,” Jack says, “I mean, you said you don’t and I know you’re probably busy, but I’ve been doing this Project Earth season five rewatch…” He shrugs and points his thumb toward his computer. He shoots me an easygoing smile and it nearly melts me. A few minutes ago, I felt completely alone at this school. Not here, though. Not when Jack’s around.

  I clutch my music binder tighter. Shark Kiki needs to go to that practice room.
Shark Kiki needs to work hard.

  He shakes his head. “Never mind. I know you don’t have time.”

  He’s right, I don’t. Watching TV with a boy all evening instead of practicing is the exact opposite of what I should be doing. I should be spending every spare moment in that practice room. But I’m not a shark. I’m not a machine. I’m a human girl who can count on one hand how many times a guy has ever voluntarily asked her to hang out. And I need to know someone’s on my side.

  “No,” I say, tossing my binder back to the ground. “I’m in.”

  The practice rooms will be there tomorrow.

  chapter twelve

  Kiki Nichols @kikeronis: My life right now = music and cute boys. #nocomplaints

  The practice rooms are there tomorrow. And the next day, and the next.

  But so are Jack and Project Earth.

  On Monday night after the retreat, I stayed down in his room until curfew rewatching episodes from the most recent season of our favorite show. I was able to add some more items to my Jack list: He can’t stand Lisa (the most annoying character on the show; everybody thinks so), he’s the youngest of seven kids, and he lives only about twenty minutes from campus, which I kind of already knew but decided to count it anyway because I was that desperate for more Jack information.

  The two of us never made plans for Tuesday night, so I went to my room alone after dinner. But Jack, carrying his laptop with him, came up to find me.

  “We’re doing this again?” I said.

  “Yes. Unless you’re busy, know that you have a standing invitation. My room. After dinner. Project Earth.” Then he set up his computer on my desk and we watched it from there, him sitting on my desk chair, and me on my bed.

  On Wednesday, I went right to his room after dinner. Again we watched the show at his desk, sitting in separate chairs.

  On Thursday, same thing, but after episode eight, he stands up and says, “Want to see something cool?” He moves toward the door. He seems nervous. He keeps playing with the hem of his polo shirt.

  “Maybe?” I say.

  “Don’t worry,” he says. “I’m not going to pull out my collection of dead spiders or anything. Just lie down on the bed.”

  “Uh…” I say. It’s a long, drawn out “uh.” Do I want to lie on his bed? Yes. Am I little nervous/excited/apprehensive about where this is going? Sure.

  “I’ll stay by the door. Just lie down.”

  I do, noting that he made his bed today. He never makes his bed. I wonder if that was for my benefit, if this whole “lie down on my bed” act was planned. That thought launches a whole kaleidoscope of butterflies into my stomach.

  Jack shuts off the lights and says, “Now look up.”

  I stare above me, at the bottom of Norman’s bunk. As my eyes adjust to the darkness, a celestial heaven in glow-in-the-dark stars reveals itself, dotting the space above Jack’s bed.

  “Fancy,” I say.

  “They were there when I got here.” Jack’s footsteps approach. “Move over.”

  I scoot toward the wall and Jack lies down next to me, both of us on our backs, both of us with arms folded across our chests. If anyone were to walk into the room, they’d think we were corpses. My thumb wraps itself over the top of my index finger and gives the knuckle a satisfying crack. The only sound in the room comes from our breaths. We can’t silence those.

  I feel the scratchy sleeve of Jack’s polo shirt rub against my upper arm as he shifts his position. He’s still looking up.

  Me too. I keep staring at the stars. “You watch other TV?” I ask. “Besides Project Earth?”

  “Of course.”

  “And movies?” This is probably the most banal conversation we could be having at this moment, but it’s all I’ve got. I’ve never been in this position with a guy before, not even almost. I mean, other than the Tromboner Dave thing, but that doesn’t count. That barely happened. This is Jack. We are lying in bed together. It’s dark. We’re alone. I have no idea how to behave.

  “Sure.”

  “What’s your favorite movie?” I ask.

  “I don’t know. Probably Star Wars.” He scratches his arm and, in the process, his hand grazes my forearm. The sound in the room reduces to one breath as mine gets caught somewhere just north of my sternum.

  “The new one?” I manage to choke out.

  “I love the new one, but Empire’s probably still the best of the series. What’s your favorite movie?”

  “I don’t know. Love, Actually?”

  “Cliché.”

  I turn my head. Through the darkness, I find the side of his face. “And liking Star Wars isn’t cliché?”

  Jack’s still staring straight ahead. Why doesn’t he lean over and kiss me? Why am I in bed with him right now if he isn’t planning on kissing me? Tromboner Dave would’ve wasted no time. I know that much. Maybe I was wrong about our connection. Maybe this is the connection. Maybe we’re friends who talk about movies and TV in the dark sometimes. All I know is, I’m not going to make the first move. After Davis Blankenshaft, I don’t do that anymore. No good has ever come from me playing my hand first, romantically. I am now the queen of waiting for guys to come to me. If it means I have to wait forever, so be it. At least I’ll avoid embarrassment.

  “Star Wars is classic.”

  “So’s Love, Actually. It’s a new classic.” I gaze once again at the stars above my head. I focus on one constellation that looks like a bunny rabbit wielding a watering can.

  “Kiki,” he whispers. “I want to play music with you again.”

  I say nothing, but my shoulders twitch involuntarily.

  “I know we can’t,” he says. “I know that.”

  “You’re right, we can’t,” I say. “I’ll get kicked out of voice camp and what if someone finds out and you have to reveal your identity as a drummer? Why is that secret anyway? Do you use your drumsticks to fight crime?” I want to know more about him. I want to take on every one of his secrets. I want to wear his secrets like a cloak.

  “There’s a weekly open mic night at this coffee shop in Broad Ripple. Crossroads. You know it?”

  “No.”

  “I heard Eric and Tromboner Dave talking about it. They started a band—they call themselves ‘Dumpster’—and they’re planning on playing at the open mic someday soon.”

  I wait to see where he’s going with this.

  “I wish that could be us,” he says.

  “But it can’t.”

  “I know. I just wish…” he trails off. I feel his shoulders shrug against me.

  I decide to play along, to lighten the mood. “What would we call ourselves?” I ask. “Dumpster’s taken, obviously. So that sucks.”

  “It was my first choice, too, damn it.”

  “Do you like Game of Thrones?” I ask.

  “Eh.”

  “I’ve always wanted to start a band called Valar Margulies—like a hybrid between Valar Morghulis and Julianna Margulies—but I wondered if maybe Game of Thrones nerds wouldn’t get the joke and they’d just think I knew nothing. Like Jon Snow.”

  “I don’t get it.”

  “You don’t get it? The Jon Snow reference or the band name?”

  “Any of it. I don’t watch Game of Thrones, or The Good Wife, for that matter.”

  “Dude,” I say.

  “I know.”

  “We need to fix that. What are we doing wasting our time rewatching Project Earth?”

  “Maybe next year when we’re both at school here…” he trails off.

  Next year. We’re lying in bed together and he’s thought about us hanging out next year. What would that be like? No more strict high-schooler curfews. We could eat together every day. He could take me on dates in his car. It would be amazing. I mentally add “Jack” to the list of reasons why I need that scholarship.

  I need that scholarship.

  “I should really go,” I say.

  I sit up, and Jack grabs my arm, though he drops it so fast
it barely happened. “It’s…” He cranes his head over to his desk and checks the clock. “…not quite curfew yet. We’ve got time.”

  “Yeah, but this conversation is starting to get dangerous. Besides”—I pause for dramatic effect—“did you know there’s a mole?”

  “A mole?”

  “A spy. Someone’s feeding information to the voice teachers whenever one of us steps out of line.”

  “That’s shady.”

  “Yeah, and you never know what kind of information they might find interesting enough to tell Mr. Bertrand. Like, you know, being in bed with someone late at night.”

  “Are there specific rules about that?”

  “Not that I know of. But the mole might be Norman. What if he hears us talking about this open mic thing?”

  “We’re only talking about it, not doing it, A. And B, Norman is not the mole.” He laughs.

  “He might be. He’s Mister Rules Guy. He’s very competitive.”

  “I guarantee it’s not Norman. He’s way more concerned about being one of the cool kids than he is about winning the scholarship. Believe me. His dad’s, like, president of a bank or something. He doesn’t need the money.”

  “I don’t know.” I’m still dubious.

  “I thought you singers were supposed to be all supportive and peaceful, but you guys are way more cutthroat than the golf douchebags. Who’d have thunk it?”

  I glance at the door.

  “Trust me. Stay until curfew. Nothing bad is going to happen.” He pats his bed. “You still have to tell me what happened with Davis Blankenshaft the Third.”

  “And you have to tell me how you can play the drums like that.” My shoulders drop. I don’t want to leave. God help me, I don’t. And I’m not actually breaking any rules…yet.

  “See. We still have a lot to talk about.”

  I sigh and lay back down, my arm grazing one of his sturdy forearms, AKA my kryptonite. They’re strong and broad and hairy, which I never expected to find attractive, but I do. I long to feel them around me. If Jack didn’t have those arms, I probably would’ve been able to resist. I probably would’ve gone back up to my room. How lame. I would actually consider throwing away everything for a pair of arms. “You first,” I say.