by Amy Faye
After dinner the night before, a mistake and a half, he had some making up to do with Amy. He had some making-up to do with Dani, too, though whatever feelings that got hurt on her part were her own fault. She could have been polite, could have avoided fighting.
He let out a breath, trying to make a list in his head exactly what needed to be done. Everything, he thought. Everything needed to come out, and then it would need to go back in, in order and with an internal logic that would stand up to more things that he didn't need being pushed in there.
Some things would need to go altogether. If he could identify those, then grabbing them and throwing them away could have a big effect without too much work. But there was too much here for any hope of that.
Something tugged at him, though–something that stopped him walking right out. There was work that needed to be done. He'd never thought of himself as someone who shirked work that needed doing. There were other priorities, much higher priorities.
But that didn't mean he could just leave without doing a thing. He had to do… something. Even if it was just a little bit, he couldn't leave without having done at least something.
He let out a breath. Nothing for it but to do the work, then. Just a nibble.
He shifted the skis back out of his way, his hands free to do it a little bit more carefully this time. He picked them up and shifted them to a different corner. With luck, they wouldn't be in the way next time he needed to come in here.
He turned his head slowly. A tangled mass on his right looked unappetizing. He turned instead to the pile of cardboard boxes, pulling the first out of the stack. It was pulling apart from being over packed and thrown onto the pile, left there for the cardboard to rot and pull itself apart.
He took a breath and pulled the top open. A great puff of dust blew up into his face, forcing a cough. He'd stuffed these boxes full of anything that he wasn't ready to get rid of, when he'd moved out of Mom's house. It didn't take long to realize that there wasn't enough space in his apartment to keep any of it.
Hence the storage.
It had been years since he'd gone through them. By any reasonable standard, that meant he ought to just toss them–don't bother looking inside, he told himself. Just load up your arms and carry to the dumpster. Then, do it again five or six more times, and he'd have made a solid dent in the mess.
If it was in a box he hadn't opened in years, then he didn't need it any more.
He ignored that voice, though. He ought to take a look, at least. There was always that chance that this was the box of photos or something. If such a box existed, he didn't know about it. But the thought tugged at his mind until he couldn't exactly walk away from it, either.
He cringed when he opened the top and saw a pair of airbrushed breasts prominently displayed on the front of a glossy magazine. Yeah–that could go in the trash. He pushed it aside, pretending that it wasn't his long enough to make sure there wasn't anything else in the box. It wasn't nearly heavy enough to be this full of porno mags, after all.
His hands pressed into something soft, bound in fabric. Brett dug his fingers in and pulled. It slipped a little, then got caught. He pulled harder, and it slipped a little more, until it came free entirely.
The architect couldn't help smiling. If this was in here, then it had been a long time since he'd bothered to go through. If it had a girlie magazine on top, then who knew how long it had been. College, maybe.
He'd given that stupid book he'd gotten for Amy a lot of thought. She probably didn't even have it any more, he reckoned. The elephant, the one he held in his hands, he'd gotten on impulse.
It had been on display right by the counter, placed exactly where someone might go 'maybe she'll like this, too,' when they were buying something else. And that was exactly what he had thought.
But then, when it got home, it all seemed a little sappy. A little dumb. He frowned at the little toy in his hands. He had to start clearing this place out, and the fastest way–the best way–to do it was to just toss everything. If he were smart, he wouldn't have checked the box at all.
He set the elephant on top of the pile before hefting the weight of the box, folding the flap with his shoulder to give the woman some of her dignity back. Most of this could go in the trash. But some of it, he thought, he might like to keep.
2003
Brett looked at the little pile of stuff on his bed. A stuffed elephant, a glossy book of photos of people who Amy probably didn't even like. It was… he took a breath in and held it, forcing himself not to be too negative.
She'd love it. At the very least, it would look good, he'd be able to show that he was thinking about her, about how he was going to apologize for being a fucker. That was something, right?
He looked out the window at his car. Almost 20 years old, now. Older than him. But it drove, and last year he'd run through a semester of auto repair. It had given him enough knowledge to make sure it continued driving.
She would, he thought. She would for sure.
Maybe.
He pulled a frown. What was he thinking? Of course she wouldn't love it. How weird was that to even think? Their relationship wasn't one where they bought gifts for one another. But he'd done it, and now he had to choose to eat the loss or give it to her.
Brett forced his body to move, putting as little thought into it as he could. The less he thought about it, the more he could do before he thought again about how bad an idea it all was.
He grabbed his backpack and dumped the contents onto his bed. Two notebooks fell out. He could safely leave them on the bed, for all the notes he took in them. Then he shoved the glossy in, and the elephant on top of that, and shifted it all over his shoulder, and started moving down the stairs.
"Where are you heading?"
He turned and for an instant he couldn't figure out how he was supposed to answer that. He was–Amy was there, already. He'd been planning to go out to see her, but she was right there. He wasn't about to do any of this, none at all, in front of Mom and Jerry.
"Uh…" He blinked and tried to find a way to make any of it sound normal. Like he'd been going anywhere other than to talk to a girl who was supposed to be his future step-sister, rather than his date to homecoming and… well, a girl at all. "I was thinking maybe, the three of us kids could go out, and give you guys the night off."
Dani's eyes lit up like he'd spoken the magic words, but she didn't say anything. Instead, she just looked over at Mom. Amy, on the other hand, didn't react much at all. That seemed about right for her, he thought. If she'd done any more than shrug, he thought, she might have had to take a rest.
Mom's eyebrow raised, but her lip curled up on one side. "And what were you thinking, specifically?"
"I don't know. Movie, maybe?"
Mom's face twisted up a little, into what might have been confusion. "What's out?"
Brett shrugged. "I hadn't put that much thought into it. I guess I can go look it up, if you need me to."
She leveled a look at him that could curdle milk, and then let it soften over the space of a few seconds. "Don't forget about your sister, when you're picking a movie."
Brett could feel his lips press together into a tight line, but he did his best to ease it back. She was right, after all.
"Who do you think you're talking to? Of course I'm not going to forget about Dani. Will I?" He said the last bit to his little sister, who shot him a look that was filled with doubt that almost stung. He reminded himself that she was going to rebel at some point, and that might as well start now as any other time.
Mom looked at him again, and then looked at Jerry, who had been keeping himself busy with his back to them all. Brett thought he was chopping vegetables, but he hadn't gone to look. She took a few steps and they spoke softly for only a moment.
Then Mom moved over and pulled one strap of her purse from the back of a dining chair and fished her wallet out, peeled off two twenties and clicked the edges on the counter in front of Amy.
"I'm serious, Brett."
He could feel annoyance threatening to show on his face again. Why was everyone doubting him all of a sudden? Sure, he had been planning something else, but he wasn't going to screw with Dani just because the plan wasn't good.
"Do you want us to get dinner too, or…?"
"Yeah. Don't do pizza, okay?"
Brett shrugged. "You're the boss."
Mom smiled. "Yes, I suppose I am."
Then she turned away and she was busying herself beside Jerry. The two of them did make a cute couple, he had to admit. When he managed to forget how much havoc it had wreaked on whatever relationship he might have had, at least.
Amy eyed the money on the counter. Brett fished his car keys out of his pocket and waited by the door until Amy took the bills and folded them up, stuffed them into a pocket.
"I want receipts," Mom called over her shoulder.
"Of course."
Then he opened the door and let Dani run by. Amy was a little slower, and gave him a curious look. He shrugged. There was a bag over his shoulder with gifts for her, and now it was a useless prop.
He could talk to Amy, now–Dani would be in her own little world, playing with a Game Boy like she always was. But he couldn't exactly go pulling out gifts, especially with Dani right there. She'd get all annoyed that she didn't get anything. Who knew what she'd come up with to tell Mom if he pissed her off.
Which meant there wasn't anything to tell Dani in the first place. All he'd done was put himself in another situation where he had to lie to Amy, lie to Mom, lie to himself.
It was getting tiring. He was getting sick of it. And if he wasn't careful, if he wasn't very very careful, he might just end up telling one of them what he really thought. That would be the biggest mistake of all.
17
Amy
Present Day
Amy's fingers felt over-sensitive, her entire body threatening to riot if she didn't get the hell out of that room and out of danger. But she wasn't in danger, she knew. She wasn't even taking a risk. She couldn't think of it as a risk, or even an uncertainty. She was going to get this position, and she wasn't going to have the least bit of trouble doing so.
Winners have a winning mindset. People don't win when they believe they are at risk of losing. Mind, body, spirit. None of that pseudo-philosophical crap sounded believable for a second, but as long as she could pretend for a little while, maybe that would be just as good.
Amy sat in her seat, her back straight, and didn't look at anyone else in the room, though she could feel every eye on her. Everyone was thinking the same thing that she was. Everyone was nervous, everyone was wondering if someone else could beat them out.
She wasn't going to follow that train, nor think hard about whether or not she had a chance. If there were a real genius in the room, one that she never had a chance in a thousand to beat out for the position, then that would be how it went.
But if there was the tiniest chance, then she'd have to go for it, or she should have just stayed in Arizona. If she looked around, at all the people who had more expensive instruments, were better-dressed, looked more confident…
Letting her eyes slip into focus would be so easy, and that was all it would take to convince herself that she didn't have a chance. She wished Brett were here, though she couldn't explain why. He had a decent stereo setup, no doubt about that. And his office had a little practice area set aside. That was interesting, and completely unexpected.
But that didn't mean that he knew the first thing about cellists. In fact, she strongly suspected he didn't. Him and millions of other people, which put him in pretty good company.
That didn't change the fact that she wanted him there. She wanted to hear him say that she'd done well, that she was the best he'd ever heard. That she had nothing to worry about.
Instead, she was surrounded by a dozen people whose chances were just as good as hers.
A young woman, her hair pulled back into a loose bun, stepped through. She'd been in and out of the room five times already, and she would be at least another ten more. She looked down at a clipboard.
"Amy Harmon?" Amy stood and hefted her instrument case, trying to ignore the worn seams and edges. She had this. She had to have it. "This way."
Amy tried to settle herself down. Deep breath in, deep breath out. Sara and Rich would be there in the practice room, they'd run through it all again. It felt weird now, no doubt about that. But they'd figure everything out, and by the time they got up onto the stage, she'd be in it to win it.
There wasn't any reason to be nervous, she chided herself. The girl who was guiding her knocked on a heavy oaken door and it opened. There wasn't going to be an audience, not really. It was just going to be a bunch of musicians. They would have much more experience than her, sure.
The door opened on a practice room big enough to hold forty people comfortably. With only the three of them–four, she saw, since the girl with the clipboard made no effort to leave–they could have chosen any place at all to lounge around.
But they wouldn't do that. Rich and Sara already sat, flanking a third chair that made a semi-circle with them. Amy set her case down and popped the latches on the side, forcing herself to ignore the embarrassment of her instrument.
She didn't exactly have a paying gig right now, after all. She'd been primarily a student until a year ago, and the last year had been spent as a gun for hire, so to speak. It made a living, but it wasn't the lifestyle someone led when they were hoping to buy a Stradivari.
Anyone whose opinion mattered would know that. She didn't need to explain it unless they asked, and then she would do it dispassionately, because without a doubt, everyone in the Orchestra had been exactly where she was at one time.
She settled down between Sara and Rich. "Can I get a C?"
The piano let out a clear, even note, and Amy played alongside. Flat. She turned the tuning peg until it sounded right, her bow moving slow. From there it was just a matter of going one-by-one.
She was tuned up in a matter of seconds. As a final test, Amy played a D chord, hearing the notes sing together in a pleasant harmony. That was what she wanted to hear.
"Ready?"
Rich nodded. Amy wondered if he was always this quiet, or if it were something about her that brought it out in him. But she didn't have time to worry about it. The piano started their first piece; three seconds later, the flute started, and another second and a half later, Amy's part began.
She'd hoped that playing would ease her tension a little bit, that once she had her hands moving, she'd stop wanting to walk out right that instant. She'd feel like she belonged in this place. But that wasn't happening.
Amy's gut told her that she couldn't hang with these people. They were slumming when they played with her. She was a fraud and it was ten years too early for her to get a position here. She didn't let it show on her face and she didn't let it affect her playing. Everyone was thinking the exact same thing, she knew. And if someone was going to get the position, then she was going to make sure that it was her.
By the time that they finished the first piece, she was still uncertain, but she'd managed to convince herself, at the very least, that she could keep going. Somehow. She'd have to manage somehow, regardless of what she wanted.
She counted them into the second piece. There was no wait this time for the other instruments to step in, a harmony that began in a sudden instant. The pace that they set was blisteringly quick, the music twisting in on itself in complex patterns. Amy's fingers moved quick and easy in practiced motions, the tempo too rapid to allow for any doubt.
When they finally cut off after the Coda, Amy let her instrument rest against her shoulder, her breath coming in hard spurts. Her instrument didn't use her lungs, not like Rich's, but her heart thumped too quick and her skin felt too sensitive.
Rich said nothing, apparently too absorbed in whatever black mood had him in its grip since the first time that Amy had seen him. Sara tur
ned on the piano bench and gave a casually encouraging thumbs-up.
Amy gave herself time to relax. Too much panicking just before her audition would ruin it all. Just in time for her heart to stop feeling like it would try to escape her chest, the girl who was waiting seemed to perk up and heard something none of the others did. A moment later, she nodded to herself and then spoke aloud. "Five minutes. You ready, Miss Harmon?"
The smile she gave was supposed to be encouraging, Amy knew. But 'ready' was about the last thing that she felt.
2003
Her head hurt before she'd even seen Brett. She'd spent her time at home with a screaming headache, one that she struggled mightily not to let put her in a bad mood. She needed to be good, at least this once. She could manage that, if she had to. Just as long as she tried to.
The movie hadn't done any good on that front, though Ibuprofen did its best to dull the throbbing. They had a little girl to worry about, and Amy let that inform her opinion of the movie, but it was hard to like anything when pain seared behind her eyes.
Eating after, though–that was a different story. Almost as soon as the food touched her lips, she could feel the pain subsiding. She watched Dani, who sat beside her brother. It was easier than watching Brett, who was a near-constant reminder of the awkward situation they'd found themselves in.
Though it had been weeks, neither talked about it. Neither had talked about it, and as far as Amy was concerned, that was how it could stay. It would be easier if they never spoke about it at all, but if that wasn't an option, then she'd put it off as long as possible, and apparently Brett was completely ready to accept that.
It would have been better to date him, of course. Her face burned hot at the thought of what sort of trouble the two of them could have gotten into, and she was glad that the lights passing overhead were intermittent enough that Brett didn't seem especially interested in turning to look and see her way.