Going Solo

by Cynthia Baxter

  “Hi, Megan,” Betsy called gaily. “Coming to lunch?”

  “No, thanks, not today,” Megan returned. “My mom’s coming to take me out. It’s my big chance to meet her new boyfriend.”

  “New boyfriend, huh?” said Betsy. “Well, have fun!”

  When Tiffany wandered out of the dorm, dressed to the hilt as usual, Megan assumed that she, too, was on her way to the Clayton College cafeteria. So she was surprised when her roommate strolled over to where she was sitting on a wooden bench near the curb.

  “Hello, Tiffany,” she said, surprised by this unexpected show of friendliness. “Were you looking for me?”

  “Me? No. Actually, I’m waiting for somebody.” She plopped down on the bench.

  Megan figured she was waiting for a date or something. But if she was, she certainly didn’t seem very excited about it. In fact, the way she was acting made it clear that at this moment she’d rather be doing just about anything else in the world.

  Megan knew Tiffany wasn’t interested in making small talk with her, but it didn’t make much sense to her for the two of them to sit there in silence, acting as if the other weren’t even there.

  “Well, I’m really looking forward to this afternoon. My mother is coming all the way from Buffalo to take me out to lunch. And if that weren’t enough, she’s bringing along her new boyfriend for me to meet.”

  “New boyfriend, huh?” Tiffany rolled her eyes upward. “That sounds like a real thrill.”

  “Actually, it is. My mother hasn’t gone out very much since my father died four years ago. I’m glad she’s met someone nice.”

  “Well, my parents are divorced, and they’re both going out with somebody new practically every single weekend. Believe me, meeting your mother’s current passion is not going to be the big thrill you obviously think it is.”

  “My mother’s not like that,’’ Megan said in a quiet voice. “I can tell that this man is really important to her.’’

  She was silent for a moment, then said, “How about you? Are you going out for lunch?”

  “Yes, I am. Not that I really feel like it. But my father suddenly got it in his head that he should come down to visit me.”

  “That sounds like a very nice idea,” said Megan.

  “Hah! He’s probably still feeling guilty for making me come here in the first place.”

  Megan was puzzled as she glanced over at her. “Why, Tiffany, I didn’t think you hated it here so much. As a matter of fact, I thought you were kind of having fun.’’

  “Fun!” Tiffany seemed shocked by the very idea. “I admit that I’ve decided to make the best of it—any resourceful person would—but I wouldn’t go so far as to say it’s fun!”

  “Well, it’s not as if you’ve been lacking in male attention.”

  “That’s true.” A smile crept slowly across Tiffany’s face as she curled a strand of her long blond hair around her finger.

  “I mean, Mark seems as if he really likes you.”

  “Mark!” Tiffany tossed her head in annoyance. “What are you talking about? Mark! I have no time for little boys like Mark Jackson. Actually, I was thinking about much bigger game. Somebody like ... Oh, forget it. You’d never understand.”

  Tiffany sighed and glanced at her watch.

  “Oh, this is so dumb,” she said impatiently. “Sitting around, waiting for our parents to arrive ... I feel like it’s the end of the Civil War and we’re out here waiting for the soldiers to come home. Maybe I should go back inside. I was pretty sure my father would be here by now. He’s got this big thing about being punctual all the time.”

  “Oh, look!” Megan cried suddenly, jumping up off the bench. “Here comes my mother! See, she’s waving from that car.... Wow, look at the car! I don’t know much about them, but isn’t that one of those really expensive sports cars?’’

  But Tiffany was too wrapped up in her own casual survey of the traffic drifting by the front of the dorm to bother looking out for Megan’s mother.

  “Here comes Daddy,” she said loftily. “I still can’t believe he actually has the nerve to show his face after forcing me to come here.”

  Just then, the sleek black Mercedes that had turned into the semicircular driveway in front of Ellis Hall pulled up right in front of the girls. Tiffany still seemed unimpressed, but Megan’s eyes were almost popping out of her head as she peered inside and saw her mother sitting in the flashy, expensive sports car. And the strangest part was that she looked totally comfortable, as if she had no doubt that she really belonged there.

  “Hello, Mother!” Megan called breathlessly, walking over to the car.

  “Hi, Daddy.”

  And then, at exactly the same time, Megan and Tiffany stopped in their tracks and turned to face each other.

  “That’s your father?”

  ‘‘That’s your mother?’’

  Neither Joanna Davis nor Arthur Forrester noticed their daughters’ horrified reactions as they climbed out of the car and came over to where the girls were standing on the sidewalk.

  “Hi, sweetie!” said Megan’s mother, leaning over and giving her a hug. “Oh, honey, I can’t tell you how great it is to see you!”

  “Hello, Tiffany,” Mr. Forrester said seriously, nodding at his daughter, acting as if he didn’t know whether or not he dared to approach her.

  Megan was too shocked to speak. Tiffany, however, had never been one to keep silent about anything.

  “Daddy, tell me I’m not seeing what I think I’m seeing. Please, please, tell me this isn’t really Megan’s mother. Or tell me she was just hitchhiking because her car broke down on the highway and you only picked her up because you felt sorry for her.’’

  “Tiffany, what an awful thing to say.” As if to show that even her cruel words were not going to have any effect on him, Arthur Forrester reached over and put his arm around Joanna Davis. “I’ve never known you to be bothered by this kind of thing before.’’

  “Mother, is this your new boyfriend?” Megan asked, her voice a whisper.

  “He certainly is,” Joanna said proudly, her blue eyes positively glowing. “Now, aren’t you surprised?”

  Megan gulped. “How—how did you two ever meet?”

  “At the reception here, the day we brought you kids up to Wildwood,” Arthur replied. “It was over the lobster salad, wasn’t it, Joanna? Or maybe the duck in orange sauce?” He gazed over at her fondly, meanwhile giving her shoulder a squeeze.

  “I think it was the duck,” Joanna said gently. Then she looked over at Megan and Tiffany. “I know you girls are both a little bit taken aback by all this. Arthur and I expected that. But we both agreed that what would really be the best in this situation would be for you both to reserve judgment until we’ve all gotten to know one another a little better.”

  “That’s right,” Arthur agreed. “Our plan is for the four of us to go out to lunch together. Just a nice, quiet, simple lunch. Certainly neither of you can see anything wrong with that!”

  Both girls were silent as they sat crowded together in the tiny backseat of the sports car, a space that was meant for something more along the lines of a tote bag than two teenage girls. Their parents, meanwhile, barely seemed to notice either them or their silence. They were too busy chattering away, acting like a pair of lovebirds.

  Once the foursome reached the restaurant, a light, airy place in town that with its glass roof and plentiful plants looked more like a greenhouse than anything else, Arthur dropped the others at the front door while he went off to find a place to park.

  “Will you girls excuse me?” Joanna said with a bright smile. “I’d like to find a rest room and wash up. It’s been a long morning of driving!”

  She left the two of them standing alone in front of the restaurant. But instead of enjoying the warm, sunny day and the prospect of a well-prepared meal, both Megan and Tiffany were wearing morose expressions.

  “This is bad news. Really, really bad news,” Tiffany said sullenly.


  “I’m still in shock,” Megan agreed.

  “I can’t believe this is happening to me.”

  “To you!’’ Megan turned to face her. “What do you mean, to you? What about me? I have to get used to the idea that my mother, a nice, quiet woman from Buffalo, has fallen in with a flashy playboy who probably drives the seventy miles from Rochester to my mother’s house in twenty minutes flat in that—that overpriced toy of his!”

  “My father is not flashy! And he’s not a playboy, either! What about your mother? Her idea of fun is probably, oh, I don’t know, alphabetizing her cookbooks or something!”

  “My mother happens to be a professional woman!” Megan countered. “She has a very responsible job, and she’s taken excellent care of me and run our house and supported our family all at the same time. Don’t you dare say anything bad about my mother!”

  Tiffany held up her hands for silence.

  “Look, Megan,” she said in a much calmer voice, “we both realize that we have a really big problem on our hands. One that doesn’t look as if either of us is going to be able to do very much about. And, actually, I suppose that when you get right down to the question of whether or not we approve of the choices that our parents have made, you could argue that it really is none of our business.

  “But there is one very scary aspect of all this that is our business.”

  Megan blinked. “Really? What’s that?”

  “If things continue in the same way they’ve obviously been going up until now,’’ Tiffany said earnestly, “you and I could end up becoming stepsisters!”

  * * * *

  Megan and Tiffany ended up spending one of the longest, most awkward afternoons of their lives with their parents. Through both lunch and the long drive the foursome took right afterward, Joanna Davis and Arthur Forrester were both acting so mushy toward each other that both their daughters were embarrassed for them. Their daughters were quiet, meanwhile, speaking only when spoken to and saying as little to each other as possible.

  And once that ordeal was over with and the lovebirds had gone on their way, taking off in Mr. Forrester’s sleek sports car surrounded by a cloud of dust, the two girls became totally committed to avoiding each other. The disturbing possibility that they might one day end up as members of the same family was simply too much for either of them to bear.

  Megan began putting more and more energy into working on the Mozart flute concerto. While her position as runner-up made it virtually impossible that she would ever get the chance to perform it later on that summer, striving to master it at least gave her life focus. Besides, she did get to run through it with the Wildwood Student Orchestra once or twice a week, just in case.

  Those times were always a little tense for her. She never stopped being aware that Allegra was sitting just a few feet away from her in the violin section, no doubt watching her the whole time, knowing exactly what she was feeling. She could hardly stand being exposed in that way, especially to someone to whom she had at one time readily given her friendship and her trust.

  No, she wouldn’t be performing any concerto this summer. But the way she looked at it, it couldn’t hurt to perfect it while she had the opportunity. One never knew when something like that might come in handy.

  Tiffany, meanwhile, was also busy. Her brand-new pursuit of the cello, it was turning out, was fitting in nicely with her brand-new pursuit of Jason Diamond. She was determined to add them both to her life, and she was already finding that the two could work together in helping her achieve her goals. Her daily practice sessions and the music lessons with Morris Church, that she was now taking quite seriously, were improving her cello playing—so much so that when Jason invited her to join him and a handful of other Wildwood students in the lobby of Ellis Hall one evening to play some of his newest compositions, she was confident that she would be able to handle it.

  “I’m really honored that you chose me to be one of the musicians for this world premiere of your piece, ‘Trio for Three Opposing Voices,’ ” she gushed as she sat down with him and the other four students who had brought along their instruments.

  “Relax, Tiffany,’’ said Todd. “Jason asked a whole bunch of kids to come tonight. You just happen to be one of the few who bothered to show up.”

  “Well, what I meant was, it’s such a thrill to be a part of all this.”

  Tiffany tugged at the miniskirt she had chosen to wear this evening—not a very good choice, she now realized, since it didn’t make it very easy for her to sit comfortably with her cello in position. All the other kids were, as always, dressed in jeans or shorts and T-shirts.

  Even Jason was in his usual scruffy jeans and a faded blue cotton shut that looked as if it had never seen an iron in its life. Tonight, he seemed particularly excited. The usual glint in his eye bordered on wildness as he anticipated hearing, for the very first time, music that up until now he had only imagined.

  “Okay, kids,” he said, rubbing his hands together as he perched on a small stool. “How about taking this from the top? Let’s start with the first movement of ‘Trio.’ ”

  “Great,” said Kenny. “But, uh, who’s going to play ‘wet washcloth slapped against an aluminum can?’ ”

  “I could do that,” Joan offered. “Or I could play the ‘crunching aluminum foil’ part.”

  The part that Tiffany was assigned was cello. She was relieved; even though she was not yet completely at home with the cello, at least she felt more comfortable with it than she did hitting washcloths against cans or crushing up sheets of foil in one hand.

  Once the piece got under way, however, she found that she might have been better off with the less conventional ways of making sounds after all. Halfway through the first measure, she stopped.

  “Uh, excuse me, but is this a misprint? Or is this note really supposed to be F-sharp-sharp-sharp?’ “

  “That’s what it says, and that’s what you’re supposed to play,” Jason returned, sounding a bit cross over having had his music questioned.

  “But what is F-sharp-sharp-sharp?”

  “Oh, come on, Tiff,” Todd said with an impatient sigh. “I’d have thought that’s so simple that even you could figure it out.”

  “Well, I can’t, so there,” Tiffany snapped back. “I thought this place was supposed to be a supportive learning environment and all that.”

  “And I thought it was supposed to be a place where the kids knew something about music!” Todd countered.

  “Come on, everybody.” Jason was quick to interrupt. “That’s enough sniping. Look, Tiffany, an F-sharp-sharp-sharp is the same as an A-flat. Just play an A-flat there.”

  “Well, why doesn’t it say A-flat?” she muttered.

  “Because I felt it should be written as F-sharp-sharp-sharp to support the integrity of the piece, that’s why,” Jason replied. He was barely able to keep his growing anger beneath the surface. “Okay, okay. We’ve got that all straightened out now, so let’s try again. Back to the beginning. One, two, three, four ...”

  This time, the piece proceeded more or less smoothly for a total of five measures. To Tiffany, it sounded hideous—the washcloths, the aluminum foil, the occasional whole note played on the cello. But at least she was managing to get through it. And as far as her adoration of Jason Diamond went, that was all she cared about.

  And then she came to a place in the music, right after those first five measures, where there were no more notes written, only the hand-printed instruction, ‘Chant.’ ”

  “Wait a minute, wait, wait,” she cried. “What is this?”

  “Tiffany, if this piece is too hard for you ...” Todd began.

  “It’s not too hard for me. It’s just... not the kind of thing I’m used to playing, that’s all.”

  “Oh, I see. The kind of thing you’re used to playing is probably more along the lines of ‘Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star,’ right?”

  “Come on, Todd.” Once again, Jason was playing referee. “We all know my m
usic is not written in the conventional way. What that means, Tiffany, is that you’re supposed to stop playing the cello and instead start chanting.”

  “Chanting?” Tiffany blinked.

  “Right. Chanting.”

  “What do you mean, chanting?’’

  “Well, now, that’s the really creative part,” said Jason, beaming. “You can chant anything you like.”

  “You could try a Gregorian chant,’’ Joan suggested. “You know, like medieval monks.”

  “Or you could chant ‘Om,’ like in meditation,” Jason said.

  “Or you could chant nursery rhymes,” said Todd. “I’m pretty sure you must know some of those. In fact, come to think of it, you’ve always kind of reminded me of Little Miss Muffet. You know, sitting on a tuffet, eating curds ...”

  “I’m not going to chant,” Tiffany said, pouting. “This is...” She was about to say “ridiculous’’ but stopped herself just in time. “This is not the kind of thing I’m used to.”

  “Hey, man, that’s the whole idea,” Jason cried. “My music isn’t the kind of thing that anybody is used to! It’s new! It’s pure! It’s ... it’s experimental! You’ve got to let go, to create, in order to play it!”

  Tiffany squirmed in her chair. “I’m not going to ‘let go’ in front of all these people. At least not by chanting.”

  Jason sighed. “Maybe we should try switching parts.”

  Tiffany stood up. “Look, I think you’d better find another cellist. I’m sorry, Jason, but I guess I’m just not musically talented enough to do your music justice. I’m obviously not the right person to make it come alive in the way it deserves.”

  She stood up and walked away, cello in hand.

  “Aw, it’s just as well,” she heard Todd saying as she left. “Who needs Miss Muffet around, anyway?”

  She headed back to her room, her heart heavy with the knowledge that she had failed. She couldn’t play the cello. She couldn’t read Jason’s music. And she certainly couldn’t bring herself to chant in public.