Three hours later, I woke up to the phone ringing.
“Kathryn!” my mom shouted from downstairs. “It’s for you!”
I stumbled into the computer room, grateful she hadn’t seen me sleeping, and groped around for the cordless. I thought it would be Matt but it wasn’t; my face flushed as I listened to Brooke’s voice on the other end of the line.
“I’ve got tickets to the operettas at Baldwin tonight,” she said. “It’s Vaughan Williams and Gilbert and Sullivan. Riders to the Sea and Trial by Jury. Want to go?”
“Really?” I checked the caller ID window to make sure it wasn’t a prank.
“Yeah, really. The lead in Trial is one of Lieb’s prize sopranos. Don’t you want to hear what your teacher’s other students sound like?”
“Uh-huh…” I smacked myself on the forehead, hoping it would knock out something more intelligent.
“Cool,” said Brooke. “We’ll pick you up at six thirty. Give me your address. I’ll get directions online.”
“Who was that?” Mom asked as I hung up. She’d come to take my dishes back downstairs and looked puzzled to find them on my bedroom dresser, untouched.
“Brooke Dempsey,” I told her. “The girl whose house I went to last night. She invited me to see some operas.”
Mom looked worried. “You’re going out again? Tonight? What about your paper?”
“I’ll get up early tomorrow and write it. I’ll have a draft done before church. Promise.”
She looked at the cold coffee and toast, then at the computer, which, I realized with a silent groan, hadn’t even been turned on. “I want you home by eleven,” she said. “And no going out tomorrow, even if it’s with Matt.”
“I don’t have plans for tomorrow, and I don’t have any plans to make plans.” I was starting to get antsy; I had a lot to do before Brooke came to pick me up. “You don’t have to worry, Mom. I’ll get the paper done.”
One last look of concern, and she headed back downstairs. I listened for her footfalls on the first-floor landing, then I ran back into my room and threw open the closet door. With all that had happened in the past twelve hours I guess I expected my wardrobe to be transformed, too, but what I found in there depressed me completely. I don’t have a lot of money for clothes; most of what I have I either buy from thrift shops or my mom makes. She gets fabric from vintage stores when it’s not too expensive, and from the craft shop where she works. She’s good enough to copy what we see on TV and in magazines without needing a pattern, still it’s never quite the same as what the other kids are wearing.
After trying on everything even remotely appropriate, I settled on a black skirt with a sweater that she’d knitted for my birthday the year before. I took a shower and did my hair and makeup. Then, partly to keep Mom happy and mostly to keep my mind off the waiting, I hammered out an outline for my English paper, eating dinner in front of the computer. I kept checking the little clock in the corner of the screen, watching the minutes tick down to six thirty and past. She meant to ask somebody else, I told myself, trying not to be disappointed as I watched the clock creep toward six forty-five. It’s nothing personal.
Then I heard a car in the driveway. I looked out the guest room window to see Brooke’s mom behind the wheel of a new SUV with Brooke in the passenger seat.
“Going now! Back by eleven!” I shouted as I ran down the stairs and out the front door.
“Nice sweater,” said Brooke as I slid into the backseat. Immediately, I wished I’d picked something else. The yarn was lumpy, the sweater smelled musty—it was all wrong and Brooke had noticed. But then she turned around and said, “That’s really cool. It’s like ten times more sophisticated than the crap at the mall.”
With Brooke in front of me, I had a good view of her outfit as well: a suede skirt, wrap sweater, and powerful-looking knee-high boots; when we got to Baldwin, she blended right in with the college kids. Around her neck she wore a silver star pendant that sparkled against her tanned skin. She even smelled nice—like green tea and cucumber. Sitting next to her in the small theater at the university arts center, I felt almost as if I were on a date.
The operettas ended and we left campus for a coffee shop down the street. “Just for some herbal tea,” Brooke told me. “Caffeine’s terrible for your voice.”
We sat with our mugs at a table near the window and watched the college kids wander in and out. After a while the silence made me nervous, and I started searching for conversation topics.
“So…what did you think of the operas?” I asked.
She bobbed the tea bag in her cup, thinking. “I liked the baritone and I’m not usually a fan. But overall I think the conservatory is getting overrated.”
“My teacher says the singers were a lot better when he first started working here.”
“That’s what Hildy says, too. She doesn’t even get mad anymore when I go back to New York for lessons.”
I couldn’t believe how confident she was—the way she talked about New York, like it was someplace people jetted off to on any ordinary day.
“So does that mean you’re not going to college at Baldwin?” I asked.
“Are you kidding? The second I’m done at Douglas I’m out of here. The only reason I’m not in a rubber room right now is because we’ve got the Blackmore next year.”
“Mr. Lieb…” I cleared my throat. Brooke called her voice teacher by her first name, and I didn’t want to sound like a baby. “I mean, David—he’s already talking about repertoire and competition strategies.”
“You have to start thinking about it early,” she said. “You went last year, right?”
I nodded, remembering. “Cameron Bell.” The name came out like a sigh.
Brooke sighed, too. “He showed up from some tiny town nobody ever heard of and just blew everybody away.”
“And now he’s singing at Chicago Lyric.”
“Exactly.” Brooke played with the star around her neck, twirling it between her fingers. “My dad has an apartment on the Upper West Side. If I don’t get in at Juilliard, I’ll live with him. Take a year to train and then start the audition circuit.”
“You’re serious about singing for a career.”
“Totally. Aren’t you?”
I gazed into my teacup and thought about my parents. Out of all my activities, music probably offered the best shot at a scholarship, but none of us had given much thought to what might come after that.
“I don’t know,” I said. “I think I’ll be happy just to get away, you know? There’s too much pressure here to be something I’m not even sure I want to be.”
Brooke nodded. “I know exactly what you mean.”
We were quiet again, me sipping my tea while Brooke hummed part of the Gilbert and Sullivan to herself. When some of the operetta singers came in and started to gossip, she and I had the same idea at the same time; we grabbed magazines and pretended to read them while we eavesdropped, grinning at each other over the glossy pages.
“This is really cool,” Brooke whispered. “None of my other friends will do this kind of stuff with me.”
I didn’t know what to say; I ducked my head behind my magazine to hide my reddening cheeks. Those words had put a twinge in my chest—a new feeling, like happiness mingled with fear:
Brooke Dempsey, the most popular girl in my class, had called me her friend.
BROOKE
“EARTH TO BROOKE. COME IN, Brooke….”
Chloe’s voice snapped me back to the commons. Back to the bench by the window where all our friends used to hang out. “Sorry,” I said. “What were we talking about?”
“I’m on a mission,” said Chloe.
“A new one?”
“Yep.” She leaned in so the rest of us would have to lean in, too. “Two words: Senior Keg.”
“But only seniors go to Senior Keg,” said Dina.
“I’ve been doing my research. Last year Claire Dennison went because she was going out with Skip Miller. And the y
ear before that, the JV cheer squad got to go because they’d worked up some stupid routine to do around the bonfire.” Chloe paused for dramatic effect. “None of those people have what we have.”
“What is that?” said Madison.
“Brooke’s brothers. I bet they’d totally come back for Senior Keg—especially if Brooke asks really, really nicely.” Chloe sat back, looking very satisfied with herself.
Everybody looked at me like it was a total no-brainer, and why hadn’t I thought of it myself?
“I don’t think so,” I said. “I’m probably going to have other plans.”
Chloe shook her head. “You’re not telling me this, Brooke. Do not mess with my mission.”
“Then ask them yourself. You don’t always have to have me with you.”
Chloe opened a container of yogurt and stabbed her spoon into it. “You always have other plans these days. What’s she like?”
“Who?”
“That girl from the party. Kristen.”
“Kathryn.”
“Right. You’re constantly hanging out with her.”
“Not really,” I said. But it was stupid to try and lie. Kathryn and I had been hanging out almost every day. She’d come to my house after school and we’d listen to CDs or sing duets from my mom’s old sheet music collection. Or we’d head over to Baldwin. Sneak into recitals, then go spend the evening at the coffee shop. Kathryn wasn’t like other people at school who glommed onto me from the minute I walked in the building until the minute I went to bed at night. She never came over without being invited. She didn’t kiss my brothers’ butts. Plus, she knew how to keep secrets instead of putting everything out there like everybody else. It made it cooler when she did share. Like one day, when she showed me some stories she’d written in her journal. One was about an opera singer who loses her voice to throat cancer but still manages to get famous by swimming Lake Superior. She said the story was inspired by me, because “you never let anything hold you back.” But all I could think of was that I’d been holding back for years, downplaying my music—downplaying who I really was—so the rest of my friends wouldn’t give me grief about it.
“Speaking of Kathryn,” said Chloe, “there she is!” Chloe jumped up so fast she almost tipped the rest of us off the bench. Kathryn was standing across the commons, in line at the Coke machines. “Let’s get her over here.”
“No!” I jumped up, too. Chloe and I wound up chest-to-chest. She raised an eyebrow. “It’s just that we have choir,” I explained. “We’re supposed to get there early for warm-ups.”
I picked up my bag and broke away. Never mind that we actually had choir fifth period—Chloe wouldn’t remember something like that.
At least I hoped she wouldn’t.
“Hey!” Kathryn said when I grabbed her arm. She’d barely finished paying for her bottled water.
“Bring that to the music wing,” I told her. “I want you to hear the new Traviata I just downloaded.”
“Okay…” She trotted along as we sped around the corner and pushed through the music wing doors. “I actually wanted to ask you something,” she said. “Can you come over on Saturday for dinner? My mom’s making a roast.”
I slowed down and let go of her arm.
“Your mom cooks?”
“Yes,” said Kathryn. “Doesn’t yours?”
“I guess, if you call heating up a burrito cooking. She thinks anything where you have to boil water is a big deal.”
“Well, Saturday is a special occasion. Usually we’re not so fancy, but this is for my birthday.”
My shoulders went all tight, the way they always do when I’ve forgotten something. “You never told me it was your birthday.”
“I don’t make a big deal about it,” she said. “I guess I get scared nobody will care and then I’ll be disappointed—or maybe they will care and then I won’t know how to handle the attention. Is that weird?”
I wanted to tell her that yes, it was weird, but the truth is that I liked being the only person she’d told. Kathryn was the kind of person who was alone a lot. Nobody ever left me alone.
Hanging out with her, we could be alone together.
Kathryn lives across town in a neighborhood that was built back in the seventies. The houses are mostly split-levels with tiny yards and trees that are all the same height. Kathryn’s house is on one of the nicer streets, and it looks like it was built to look old. It has two stories, shutters on the windows, and a little porch on the front.
When Mom dropped me off a man was in the front yard, running a Weed Eater around a little flower bed.
“Hey, there!” he said as he turned off the machine. “You must be Kathryn’s friend. Is it Brooke?”
He had dark hair like hers and the same sort of surprised-looking eyes. I said, “Yeah,” and went to shake hands, because my mom would have given me crap later on for being rude, but also because he just looked like the kind of guy you’d want to shake hands with. He was all sweaty and dusty with grass stains on his white socks. Earlier that day, my own dad had sent me an email. He told me he and Jake were going on vacation before Jake’s next movie. Someplace tropical. I’d been thinking maybe he’d come to Lake Champion to see me.
“I hear you’re a singer, too,” said Kathryn’s dad. “And a swimmer. What do you swim?”
“Two hundred–yard freestyle.” He let go of my hand, and I made myself quit obsessing about Dad and Jake—if I couldn’t control it, then I needed to let it go. “Relay, too.”
“I did relay back in college.” He put his fingers on his tricep and squeezed the puny muscles. “Not that you’d know it now.”
“Hey, Dad.” Kathryn came out on the porch. “Mom says we’re eating in a half hour. She wants you cleaned up.”
“Thanks, Sweetpea.” He winked at me and restarted the Weed Eater.
“Sorry if he tried to talk your head off,” Kathryn said as we stepped into her living room. It led right into the dining room, which led straight back to the kitchen. The house felt lived in. Used and homey. I liked it.
“Come upstairs,” she said. “It’s nicer in my room.”
She led me up the staircase to a room that barely held the bed and a dresser. I waited for her to close the door. Then I handed her the package I’d brought. She unwrapped one end and gasped as she pulled out a long shoe box. Inside was a pair of knee-high black boots.
“Oh my God,” she said.
“Do you like them? I tried to get something that would go with everything.”
“I can’t accept these.”
“Sure you can. We can exchange them if they don’t fit.”
“But they’re so nice,” she said, running her fingertips along the leather. “I needed something like this. Was it obvious?”
“Well…” I hesitated. Chloe thought Kathryn had inner style, but I knew it was probably because she couldn’t afford much else. “Don’t think I’m trying to make you feel bad. Because your clothes are really awesome. But shoes are like the one thing you can’t fake.”
“I know.” She buried her face in her hands. “I must look like an idiot.”
I sighed. “Where in ‘your clothes are really awesome’ did you hear ‘looks like an idiot’?”
“Okay,” she said, and blushed. “I’m sorry.”
“I’d kill for some of the stuff you’ve got.”
“Really?”
“Totally. The shoes are just the finishing touch—my way of putting the icing on the birthday cake.”
She put the boots on and admired herself in the closet mirror. Downstairs, I could hear pots and pans banging. The house was starting to smell great, like slow-cooked meat and fresh bread. Through the window over Kathryn’s bed, I could see her father cutting the grass. Just like any normal dad on a Saturday afternoon. My dad had never mowed a lawn in his life.
“What does he do?” I asked.
“He’s an engineer. A surveyor, but he got laid off a few weeks ago.”
“Oh,” I said
. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay. He’s thinking maybe he’ll get another job soon.”
“He seems nice.”
She pulled a skirt from her closet and held it up to herself, seeing how it looked with the boots. “He’s okay, I guess.”
“You don’t get along?”
“We get along fine, he’s just…” She sat on the bed and started to unzip the boots. “All of the firms in town get slow and then they have layoffs, and it always seems to be him they’re letting go. I feel bad when it happens, but then he’s around a lot more than other dads would be, and he and my mom focus so much on my school stuff already that it’s just hard. It’s like I dread when he’s out of work, because then it puts even more pressure on me, you know?”
I wanted to sympathize, but all I could think of was that she was crazy. Having my dad around all of the time was one of my biggest dreams.
“Plus, he’s a little corny,” she added. “I mean, he still calls me Sweetpea, like he thinks I’m four years old or something.”
“But that’s cute,” I said. “Hold on.” My BlackBerry had started to vibrate. I slid it out of my pocket and checked the screen.
C.Romelli: Where r u, B?
I hit delete. Two seconds later it buzzed again. This time I ignored it.
“Don’t you want to get that?” Kathryn asked.
“Nah,” I said. “It’s nobody.” Chloe had been chasing me around ever since Monday morning, when she’d hatched her Senior Keg plan. So far I’d managed to stay a few steps ahead, but every day there were more messages.
On the phone: “Brooke, it’s Chloe. Where’ve you been? Call me.”
In my email: OK, avoid me if you want. But you just don’t want to admit our party was a success. We won’t bite your new friend, you know. See you tomorrow? I better!!! -C-
On IM:
CHLOECAT: Brooke?
CHLOECAT: B?
CHLOECAT: U there?
CHLOECAT: This hiding out crap? Getting old.
CHLOECAT: GROW UP!!!
CHLOECAT: Call me.
Rival Page 5