“Let me grab my notes.”
“You have notes?”
“Yeah, well, from last semester, but it’ll help for this equation. Do you have Matthews? Because he’s a stickler for showing your work.”
“Yeah, I do. How’d you know?”
He shrugged. “Small school, he’s the only calc I and II teacher.”
I looked at him. “Are we in the same class?”
“I’m repeating calc I.”
“Oh. I’m sorry.”
He didn’t answer. Instead, he swept the tray away and returned with his math book and backpack and sat next to me. He pulled out a red one-subject notebook with CALC scrawled across the front in terrible handwriting and flipped past a few pages with drawings on them. Mostly hats: like fedoras, Stetsons, and even some women’s old-fashioned floppy ones. I glimpsed a few drawings of faces, too. Mostly female, it looked like, with short black hair and heavy black makeup. One in particular I spotted before he flipped the page was scratched out, like someone ran a black Bic over it in jagged lines until it ripped the page.
Finally he landed on the math portion of the strange notebook and ripped a page out. He scribbled something on the upper right of the page, handed it to me, then tapped the lines of numbers at the top. “There. That’s the one you need.”
I wanted to ask about the girl he’d drawn, and why she looked sad. Why he looked sad. But I didn’t. Not because I needed help with math, but because he was funny, and I liked him.
The bell rang then, announcing our detention time was over. He stood and flipped his backpack over his shoulder and nodded to me. “See you around, new girl.” He headed out of the library.
I slowly gathered my things. I was looking forward to choir, but I didn’t want to run into anyone in the hall. Better to be late than to be harassed, I had learned. I tossed the rest of my milk and lunch in the trash, and then turned to his page of notes. As I folded it to tuck in my math book, I hadn’t noticed the other equation on the right side of the page. The numbers were long and complicated. While students made a din of noise outside the library, I sat back down to figure out the ten-digit answer.
I stared at it, wondering what it had to do with question four, when it wasn’t the formula I needed at all. I turned the paper sideways and held it up to the light – ignoring the librarian’s weird look.
Ten digits, the first three looked familiar – they were the same as our area code here.
No way.
I was fairly sure it was his phone number. He gave me his phone number in the form of a calculus equation. I dropped the paper like it was on fire.
No boy had ever given me his number before. What was I supposed to do with it? I had a cell phone, Papa insisted on it since I’d be at school every day and dance practice afterwards, but I barely used it. I didn’t even have any numbers besides our Pastor, Papa, and Callie. My parents, being overseas, were restricted to just apps to communicate. I had a few friends on those apps from the all-girls Christian school I attended Germany, but the time change made it difficult to even find time to talk.
He gave me his number. At risk of losing it with my other homework, I quickly pulled my phone from my bag and stored it under Ethan – boy I hit with bathroom door.
It occurred to me he never asked about that. Did he recognize me?
The librarian eyed me and announced loudly, “You’re going to be late for your next period,” which I knew was code for ‘hurry up.’
I nodded to her, scooped my bag over my shoulder, and hurried out of the library.
As I hurried into the choir room, I had my phone still in my hand. I pulled up Ethan’s number and simply texted, “Hi. This is Taylor.” I paused and added in another text, “The girl from the library.”
As soon as I sent it, someone’s phone in the room beeped, then beeped again.
“Ethan, turn your phone off,” the teacher, Mr. Jackson, groaned with a heavy sound of annoyance. “How many times do I have to tell you?”
My head shot up and I looked around the room. Most of the basses huddled on the right, the girls and one guy in the sopranos to the left, and in the middle the altos and baritones congregated, all waiting for Mr. Jackson to get us started.
There was Ethan, in the middle, with the other baritones and the lone two brave tenor boys. Our eyes met and the widest smile crossed his face briefly. He checked his phone, waved it at me, then tucked it back in his pocket.
“Ah, Taylor.” Mr. Jackson’s annoyed tone completely left when he saw me. “Have you met Ethan? He’s one of our best baritones. He’s been ... out for a while. Do you might getting him some music and catching him up a little?”
“Pet, pet, pet,” muttered some nameless girl from the altos. Angelica, I think her name was. She turned and threw a nasty smirk at Ethan.
“Sure,” I told Mr. Jackson as I went to our music self and plucked our South African piece, Bhombela, and handed it to Ethan. “It’s got French parts in it,” I told him. “I’m sure you won’t have trouble with those at all.”
His fingers brushed mine as he took it from me, and I felt a small shock go through me. Had I imagined that spark? Did he feel it too?
His green eyes softened, and he smiled slightly at me, like he did when he sat down across from me at the library. “Welcome to Warner High choir, Taylor. I hope you like it here.”
“I’m sure I will ... now.”
His face lit up with a bigger smile, but in the back of my mind, all I could think was, I hope you’re not a mistake, Ethan. Please don’t be a mistake.
Chapter 5
Ethan
For the next forty-five minutes of class, I couldn’t stop sneaking glances at Taylor. Since I was a baritone and she was a soprano, we somehow ended up standing next to each other on the podium slats. I tried to focus on the song I’d never heard, the one that the whole class had been practicing for months, and also the one Taylor apparently knew by heart or something. She was good – too good, actually. Her voice was light, strong, and high. It was doing things to me, and I wasn’t sure if I was ready for that. She was also dressed so differently than the other girls – in a sea of short shorts and crop tops, she was wearing a baggy, white peasant shirt and P.E. shorts, an odd mixed-match as complex yet simple as she was, I figured.
Choir ended too soon, and she scurried away and disappeared into the hallway as soon as the bell rang. Strange.
“Hey Ethan, wait up!”
That voice grated on my last nerve. I turned slowly to see Susanna, Angelica’s little minion, standing behind me, as I was throwing my backpack over my shoulder. “What’s up, Susie?” I didn’t bother to smile.
“Angelica wanted me to ask you...”
I partially tuned her out as students pushed passed us. Whatever she had to say was just going to annoy me anyway, and part of me wanted to follow Taylor into the hall just as an excuse to talk to her. She’d figured out my number on that equation, so she was good; real good. And she seemed educated, cultured, a world traveler. I was not religious at all, so that was an issue, but I suddenly found myself wanting to know what she believed for some reason.
“...so, do you think you can let bygones be bygones for the play’s sake?”
I shut my eyes briefly. “Angelica isn’t in the play.”
“No, but she’s clearly the best choice for the lead, don’t you think?”
I eyed her, hoping she would get the hint. “I haven’t cast the role for Lilla yet.”
Susie hmphed and stamped her foot a little. “Angelica really needs that role, Ethan. You know there’s no one better. She has a solo in the spring concert and she’s perfect for it.”
Except she can’t dance. She couldn’t dance like Maeve could. I shook my head to dismiss the thoughts. “I guess we’ll see tomorrow, won’t we?”
“Fine, I’ll let her know. And what about your apology? What do you want me to tell her about that? You got her in a bunch of trouble, like with her parents and everything.”
/> My mouth gaped open. She said something nasty about Maeve, and as far I was concerned, Angelica deserved the punishment I dished out, and probably more, and detention be damned. I’d serve detention every day if it meant I could put Angelica in her place, and she could keep her mouth shut.
“I’m not apologizing,” I announced, and with that, I turned and left the room.
It was already close to three, so the hallway had nearly cleared for the last period of the day when I got out there. I didn’t see Taylor anywhere, so I plodded to my math class, and made a mental note she was likely across the Math hall and I’d catch her when the bell rang.
Calc I was going to be easy for the rest of the school year, since I already had most of the concepts, so I spent the next forty minutes mostly daydreaming. Doodling in my notepad, writing out little lyrics of songs next to keys, and mostly absenting swishing graphite over my lined pages. I tried to focus on math, I really did. But my male brain had other ideas, and they definitely involved a blonde ponytail.
I forced myself to stare at the white board with an equation as the teacher droned on, but I found I cared very little. What was wrong with me? I wanted to see her again, my fingers itched to text her, but I didn’t need another detention this week by pulling out my phone in the middle of class. I sighed and convinced myself I’d run into her after class, and maybe we could hang out or something.
Shoot. George. He wanted math tutoring right before my after-school theater club; in fact, I had to meet him in the library directly after class, then theater club until six, and I had to pick up my sister from after-school care and take her directly to soccer practice. I was busy today, but maybe tomorrow. Yeah, there was always tomorrow.
But, then again, sometimes there wasn’t. I knew that all too well.
The darkness in my brain was always there, despite the medication I started last month. I wondered if it would ever go away, if I could ever go back to who I was ... before the accident. Before I lost her. I slumped in my chair. Five minutes of class, and I’d be free for the day.
Luckily for me, I was one of the first kids out of class. The last period of any high school day was always so chaotic – everyone rushing to get to the bus or their car or their ride as quickly as possible. A litter of papers, pencils, and gum wrappers were scattered around the lockers, and someone had thrown up in a garbage can nearby. I stepped over the trash and briefly lamented the terrible job of being a high school janitor; I missed my prep school in the city. It was shiny and immaculate all the time – nothing like the broken down, chipped blue lockers of this school and doors with tape around the windows to seal them.
God, I missed the city.
I was so lost in my stupid thoughts as I headed to the library, I almost knocked Taylor over when I bumped into her.
“Ethan!” she exclaimed, turning as she caught her balance against the nearby door frame. There was a brief, very brief, burst of fire in her blue eyes, but it extinguished quickly.
It was eerily close to this morning when she hit me with the bathroom door. She had a temper, then, but she did a good job of hiding it.
Interesting for sure.
“Oh! I’m sorry,” I blurted, before my mind could even move from one thought to another. “I’m just about to head in there,” I motioned to the library, “for tutoring. Where are you headed?”
“Um, I have dance class,” she begged softly, hugging her math book to her chest. “I gotta go. It’s a long walk.”
“Walk?” I blinked at her and wracked my brain for dance studios in this town. I couldn’t think of any off the top of my head, but there weren’t any around here, that was for sure. I guess that explained her legs I’d seen under the table earlier.
Stupid male brain kicked in again, but I ignored it. Now was not the time.
“Yeah, Ms. Tiffany’s,” was all she said. She glanced at the ground.
“You’re a dancer.” I meant it as a question, but it didn’t come out that way.
“Yeah, I have been since I was little.”
“What do you dance?”
She cocked her head at me. “That’s a question most people don’t ask.”
I laughed at that. “You know, like ballet, jazz, modern. Am I missing any?”
“How do you know about dance?”
“My little sister fancied she’d be a ballerina when she grew up, so she took lessons last year, but it turns out she likes sports more.”
“You have a little sister?”
She was amused, I could see that. “I do. Amy. She’s seven.”
“Wow.”
“You?”
“Nope. No siblings right now. My parents always said I was their little miracle from God.”
“Must be nice,” I muttered. I loved my sister, but our age gap was terrible at times. What I wouldn’t give for someone closer to my age – a brother maybe to run ideas off. Or a sister to hang out with and tease who wouldn’t cry when I looked at her. Amy was great, but she was still ... little.
“I, uh, really gotta go,” she announced and started past me.
Damn it. I was lost in my head again and she was leaving. I side stepped and she headed for the front doors. “Hey!” I called after her. “I have theater club every day at 4:30. Maybe you’d like to come sometime?”
She turned and jogged backwards. “I have dance until then two days a week, but maybe!” She gave me a little wave and a smile and pushed the door open with her back and left.
The rest of my day kind of trudged on after that. I worked with George for almost an hour, until it was time for theater. Jackson, our choir teacher, was also the theater club advisor, so the minute I entered the choir room – which also doubled as a tier audience portion and a theater – he was immediately relieved to see me.
“Thank goodness, Hersbill, I didn’t think the show would go on without you.” He stuck out his hand and I shook it. “It’s good to have you back, Ethan. How are you doing? Is everything getting back to normal, well, normal-ish?”
I shrugged. “It’s getting there.”
“We’ll have to cast the whole play over now,” he mumbled. He was a short, thin man with a thick head of blond hair. He always wore a Hawaiian shirt, shorts, and flip flops nearly every day to teach in, but he’d been here for something like ten years, so no one really said shit to him about it I imagined. He was cool as hell, and we all loved him.
Recast the play I wrote for my best friend that’s dead now?
“Are you sure you’re up for this?”
I nodded and inhaled. “I’m ready.”
“All right. Then let’s get set up and get ready to listen to some lines for The Hat.”
A smile spread across my face. “I can’t wait.”
Maeve was gone, true, but this was still my play. A play Jackson read last year and absolutely loved. Sure, it was still missing an ending act, but we still had two months. It took some convincing, but Jackson was ready to help me put it on.
“Singing and dancing?” he had said before Halloween last year. “Are you sure you want to do this, Ethan?”
I had nodded vigorously at him. “It’s going to be amazing.”
“And the whole concept is about a ‘sorting hat’ that turns this girl’s friends into...”
“Aliens,” Maeve had added. “Ethan’s a fucking good writer, ain’t he?”
“Language, Maeve,” Jackson had scolded her, but then turned back to the file on his tablet. “Well, Mr. Hersbill, if you think we pull this off before June, then I approve. Now let’s find some actors, shall we?”
It was probably the best news of my life. Maeve and I had celebrated with Chicago hot dogs and milkshakes at a little country diner we loved to frequent just outside town. Her mom worked there as a waitress, so the food was free, but I always left a tip.
I hadn’t been there in four months.
I sat through a few auditions, some good, some terrible. A few choir kids who I knew were going to try out were actually really good,
and it was a yes immediately from Jackson and me. The cast was small; five singers in a chorus, ten actors. Of the ten actors, we cast all seven of the male ones that day. Turns out, this school had a dance theater class a few years ago, and those students – mostly seniors – were eager to be part of my project.
The female roles were harder. There were only three: Lilla, the star of the play, her sister Harriet, and, her mother, Georgina. Act I, they had a complicated singing and dancing scene that required some expert steps as well as strong vocals, and so far I was not impressed by my options. The ones that were great at dancing were too shy to sing and one girl asked if she could just record herself and play it later. That was a no-go for both Jackson and I without even discussing it.
Then Angelica took the stage, the last audition of the day, at quarter to six. She was dressed in her cheerleader outfit, of course she was, and her audition song was strange: ‘Baltimore Crabs’ from Hairspray, even complete with the baton routine.
I wasn’t an experienced director, but even I could tell on Jackson’s face it was a poor choice for Lilla – a rather shy, sheltered girl who had to fight aliens. Angelica was so ... extroverted and snarky. She was all wrong for my shy, soft Lilla. Unfortunately for me, Angelica was also so right. She was great at faking anything she needed to, even I knew that, and she had all the moves, and the voice, well, sorta. She was technically a second soprano, closer to an alto, and I had written the music for a higher soprano, but we could make it work if I had to.
Finally, we dismissed the actors and told them we would get back to them by the end of the week.
Jackson scooped up his notes and shoved them into a shoulder bag. “We’ll talk about this tomorrow.”
I snatched my backpack off the floor and nodded. Nothing else needed to be said as I hurried to my car to pick up my sister.
On Mondays, Wednesday, and Fridays, it was my turn to cook for Amy and I, which usually meant some kind of pop-in-the-oven deal Mom bought pre-packaged, but today I didn’t feel like it. Mom didn’t like us eating fast food, but by the time soccer practice was over, it was already close to eight and I was starving, so drive-through it was. Amy was, as always, ecstatic to unwrap her Happy Meal like she’d never had one before. Oh, to be seven. I settled on two chicken sandwiches and fries. It’s healthier if you get chicken, right?
Taming of the Shoe Page 4