Noteworthy

by Riley Redgate

  “All right,” Isaac whispered, stopping at the tree line. “That window’s the way inside. Let’s get in, get the Bear, and get out.”

  “How do we get the boards off?”

  “Uh. Not sure.” We advanced. A thick white band of stone ran above the double doors, where the shadow of scrubbed-away letters read the carnelian picture house. Isaac crept to the corner of the building and brushed a hand over the thick board that lay across the window. His finger caught on its underside. One of the board’s edges rested on a nail, unfixed to the frame. He rotated the board up until the window was free.

  Isaac pushed on the peeling white frame. The window whined upward.

  I nodded to the dark gap inside. “Wanna go first?”

  “Go ahead.”

  I braced my foot against a pipe that ran down the building’s edge, planted my palms on the rough stone windowsill, and hoisted myself up and through.

  My shoes hit filthy tile that might’ve been beautiful mosaic once. I blinked a few times, letting my eyes adjust to the darkness. Years and grime had made this foyer the picture of decay. The damp air smelled earthy, something like mold. Near the ceiling, the wallpaper had swollen and wept with water damage, long streaming stains that flanked the smeary windows.

  Isaac landed lightly next to me. He pushed the window back into place and flicked his hood back, revealing excitement that made his dark eyes gleam. We prowled toward the crimson double-doors in the center of the hall.

  I heard something and stopped, throwing my arm out to catch Isaac. He stilled. I leaned toward the door.

  Low voices echoed in the theater.

  “They’re here,” I breathed.

  Alarm flashed across Isaac’s expression. He glanced around the foyer.

  The voices grew louder. I heard the clutter of footsteps. “They’re moving,” I hissed. “I think they’re leaving.”

  “Come on.” Isaac dashed for the opposite end of the foyer, where a dark archway led to a pair of bathroom doors, Ladies and Gentlemen. I grabbed the Ladies knob. It wouldn’t turn. Isaac tried the other, which rattled and stuck as he twisted it. “Shit,” he hissed.

  I spotted a tiny closet in the corner and lunged for it. The door squeaked open, revealing a space barely larger than a crevice. Isaac folded himself in. I squeezed in afterward just as the theater doors opened. Isaac reached past me to grab the knob, pulling the closet shut with a click. Unyielding dark folded over us.

  The sound of voices in the foyer seeped, muffled, through the door. Isaac let go of the knob, which made a tiny sound. The air stirred. Something bumped into the side of my face—his chin, maybe? His nose? I flinched.

  “Sorry,” he whispered. The word landed light and warm on my forehead. I became acutely aware that I was crammed against his chest, knuckles against his heartbeat. I tried to move back, but my shoulder blade met the door with an audible creak, and I froze.

  As we stood there for what felt like several weeks, embarrassed heat lit up all over my body, patching over my cheeks, flushing my chest. I took a slow breath to steady myself. It was a terrible idea. I could smell the hint of cologne that clung to the softness of his fleece: half bitter, half sweet, like resin or rum. It made me think of dark, rich colors, maroon and cobalt and amber. Of course Isaac had to smell good, with his well-cut clothes and his long hair and his whole guitar-boy rock-star shtick. Just one more piece of the costume.

  The Minuets’ voices were still milling around. Get out, I wanted to scream. I needed space. I hadn’t been this close to anyone since June, and it reminded me too much of that afternoon. I’d tried repeatedly to forget it. But I remembered everything, down to the weather—those weird beige clouds had cast amniotic light over the whole city. In the darkness, I saw with pristine clarity the image of myself standing in my kitchen, leaning close to kiss Michael, and I heard him saying, “Wait.” I felt the grip of his big hands as he took my shoulders, moving me back a step. “We should talk.” I felt all of it, all over again.

  He’d road-tripped down from Seattle to have the talk. Because even then, he’d needed to make it all a presentation. Drama queen Michael. Center stage Michael. Couldn’t he have taken it down a notch that one time? Let me feel like my feelings belonged to me and weren’t just some event in his life story?

  I swallowed. I felt weak, and stupid, and like months of progress were slowly rewinding. I let a silent breath pour in over my tongue.

  The sounds of voices outside faded, and the squeaking of sneakers stopped. I heard the distant whine of the window frame, a clunk as the plank fell back into place, and I grappled around for the doorknob. The door popped open. I practically tripped over my feet in my haste to get away.

  “Hey,” Isaac said.

  I glanced back at him as he shut the closet door.

  He looked wary. “You all right, man?”

  “Fine,” I said. My voice cracked—I’d forced it too deep. I turned away. “Claustrophobic, it’s fine. Let’s go.”

  Calm, I thought, as we slipped through the crimson double doors. Calm. I felt around for a light switch, found one, and flicked it, making small bulbs bloom into light far overhead.

  We’d emerged at the top of an aisle that led down to a long white screen. The wall behind the screen was painted a bold, dark red, like the dining hall walls in McKnight. Cobwebs clouded every corner like Spanish moss. Legions of thin wooden seats stretched to the left and right, some of them folded up, some hanging down like dangling tongues.

  At the front, a dozen-odd crates had been gathered into a circle. Isaac and I padded down the aisle toward them. Once, this carpet had probably been carnelian red, too. It was dusky pink now, all grayed out.

  “This place is actually pretty cool,” Isaac said with a touch of reluctance, looking up at the ceiling. Painted panels stretched overhead, showing faded pastel clouds and apple-cheeked angels, blocked off by wooden beams. One light bulb for each panel.

  “Yeah,” I murmured. My heart had calmed. The air in here hung eerie and still. We stopped at the circle of crates. “Where do you think they keep the Bear?” I said.

  A noise rang up the aisle. Isaac and I ducked, dropping like there’d been a gunshot. We crawled behind the front row of seats on opposite sides of the aisle.

  “Hello?” came a voice. Shit. One of the Minuets had come back for something. We should have waited. I shouldn’t have panicked in that closet.

  I pointed toward the emergency exit door and mouthed, Run?

  Isaac gave his head a hard shake. Locked, he mouthed.

  “I know you’re in here,” said the voice. “The lights are on.”

  My thoughts of escape faltered. That voice . . .

  “Wait, what the hell?” Isaac said, standing up. I stood too.

  Trav stood at the top of the aisle, the red doors framing his square shoulders. His hands were balled up at his sides.

  “Trav,” I choked out. “I. How did you find us?”

  “I followed Isaac from Wingate.”

  “But how—” I closed my eyes. “Nihal.” He’d heard after all. And instead of confronting us, he’d done this.

  I bit back disappointment. I would have thought he could be honest enough to . . .

  Honest? The sheer hypocrisy of the thought stopped me. When had I ever been honest with him? How could I expect him to owe me that?

  Trav nodded to the door. “Come on.”

  “Yup, nope, not happening,” Isaac said, moving back to the circle of crates. “We’re already here. We’re going to find this thing.”

  “Find what?” Trav said.

  “The Golden Bear,” I said.

  “The Bear? You’re stealing the Bear?” Trav sounded unimpressed. “What are you planning to do with it, exactly? Hold it for ransom until the Minuets apologize? Threaten to smash it unless they throw the competition?”

  “Hey, that’s not a bad idea, actually.” Isaac started flipping the crates over with his toe, carelessly disrupting the Minuets’ space. Under
one sat a six-pack of wheat beer. Under another, a pair of black binders. He picked one up and started flipping through.

  “Huh,” he said. “Rehearsal notes. Do you do this, Trav?”

  “Let’s go,” Trav said. “It’s 1:00 a.m. I’m tired.”

  Isaac stopped turning pages and frowned at the binder. “Wait,” he said. “What is this?”

  “What’s what?” I said, leaning over to look at the binder. I caught only a flash of narrow handwriting before Isaac snapped the binder shut.

  “You wrote those shitheads a peace letter?” Isaac said, staring at Trav with open disbelief. “After they landed you with hundreds of hours of unnecessary transcription?”

  “Yes,” Trav said. “I did. Because someone has to be mature in this situation, and it clearly isn’t going to be you.”

  I felt the venom in Trav’s voice. Isaac stiffened. Something kindled in his expression: pure belligerence.

  “Now come on.” Trav turned and opened one of the double doors. “We’re going. You’re not taking their ridiculous statue.”

  “Yeah? Or else what?” Isaac’s voice was as rough and unyielding as cement.

  Trav closed his eyes. “What exactly do you want me to say, Isaac?” He spoke crisply, each word a needle going in. “Fine. Let’s see. I could tell the others at rehearsal tomorrow that I caught you. Would that be humiliating enough? Or I could report this to the emergency line and get you two suspended. Does that work for you?” His volume rose steadily. “I don’t want to have to dangle something over your head, Isaac; I want to know that you respect me enough to back off something when I ask you! So can you stop turning me into the villain here and be a little cooperative? Please! Just once!”

  His words echoed around the movie house for a long second. Finally, he shook his head and left. The door banged shut behind him.

  Isaac stood stock still, potential energy coiled up in every inch of his body. After a long second, he dropped the binder and kicked the crate back into place over it. “Fucking Christ.”

  He stormed up the aisle.

  For a second I stood alone, looking around the empty theater. I stood tall and unbending, a hollowness in my chest, unsure what I was feeling, unsure what I was even thinking. Everything seemed to swim. Was this what boyhood was supposed to feel like? A power struggle, a punch to the stomach? It was foreign and inaccessible. It was something I could feel in my blood. It was only just beginning to grow clear.

  I’d set down the burdens of being a girl, unstrapped them one by one and left them on the roadside, but my shoulders didn’t feel any lighter. They were carrying different, unfamiliar weights now. As I stood there in that derelict husk of a theater, I felt like I’d gotten lost in between my lives, and the road ahead looked long and strange and poorly lit.

  During Friday’s rehearsal, I couldn’t meet Isaac’s eyes, or Trav’s. Staring down at my sheet music, I got the overwhelming sense of their mirror-image disappointment in me, Isaac’s for not backing him up, and Trav’s for my betrayal. I was the bad seed, now, the disobedient kid, and it stunned me how much I cared. I kept remembering the ringing silence after Trav had pleaded for us to just work with him, and the heady scent of Isaac’s cologne in the dark.

  Nihal hadn’t texted me all day. Good. I had nothing to talk about with him.

  If the other guys noticed something was off, they covered it up valiantly. Marcus, at the very least, was even more excitable than usual. “Guys,” he exclaimed after rehearsal, “I can’t wait to perform for people. It’s going to be great. Right?”

  “Yeah, Daylight’s always a good time,” Mama said.

  “It’ll be weird not watching it this year,” I murmured, perching on one arm of the sofa. The Measures and the Sharps performed at the start of the night, a ploy to get people to show up on time. Daylight Dance, like every other Kensington dance, was awkward by nature. Too many teachers standing around the periphery of Marden Cathedral’s cleared dining hall. Too many kids from class getting weird on the dance floor.

  My plan: perform, then make a break for it. This wasn’t like the Spirit Rally, where everyone up on the bleachers had seen barely anything of me except a blur of black hair and hipster glasses. The makeshift stage they set up for the DJ at the Daylight Dance was close and personal, and I had a short solo part in our second song, “After All.”

  Still. The idea of leaving early left a sour taste in my mouth. I loved that dance.

  Jon Cox made a grumbling sound, and Marcus wilted a bit. “You don’t think it’s going to be good?”

  Mama rolled his eyes. “He’s just bitter he didn’t have the balls to ask Victoria to go with him.”

  “I have a date,” Erik declared from the piano bench, changing the subject with all the subtlety of a rhinoceros crashing into an even larger rhinoceros.

  “Who’re you taking, rook?” Mama said, sounding half amused and half proud.

  “This girl in Carnelian. Her name’s Camilla; she plays string bass.”

  Jon Cox gave his sleaziest grin. “Good with her hands, huh?”

  I rolled my eyes.

  “Jon,” Mama chided. “Please, have some decorum. Erik’s, like, four years old.”

  Erik’s cheeks went red. “Shut up. She’s cool.” He busied himself with his phone.

  “Hey, Julian. Can we talk?” Nihal said from the door to the Nest.

  He looked cautious. It irritated me more than it should have. No, I wanted to snap, but I managed to muster up an “Okay.”

  I followed him into the dimness of the stairwell. We headed to the bottom of the steps and halted by the door that led back into the library.

  Nihal sat on the windowsill. “So,” he said.

  “Yeah,” I grunted, sticking my hands in my pockets. I scanned his face but couldn’t hold his eyes—he was examining me in that careful, knowing way of his, a look that exposed as much as it questioned.

  He chose his words carefully. “You know, this is probably exactly what the Minuets wanted.”

  “What did they want?”

  “To get us fighting. Nothing sounds worse than a group that hates singing with each other.”

  I closed my eyes and let out a slow breath through my nose. He needed to stop being reasonable. The only thing worse than arguing with someone who was clearly wrong was arguing with someone who was clearly right.

  Nihal stayed quiet for a minute. Something like guilt niggled at me, and I kicked it away. Why was I feeling guilty? Nihal had been the one to go running to Trav without even talking to us. Weren’t guys supposed to be confrontational, or something?

  Examining his downturned face, though, I began to see the other side of the coin. He’d probably felt like he had to rat us out. We’d put the Minuets issue back on the burner two nights before a performance.

  Maybe Nihal deserved an apology. Just a bit.

  I opened my mouth, searching for words, but trying not to look apologetic. It felt too close to my actual self—like if I apologized, the lines and contours of my real face would glow right through.

  Nihal spoke first.

  “Sorry for telling Trav,” he said.

  I blinked a few times, taken aback. “If you’re sorry, why’d you do it?” I asked. Something bolder than I ever would have said out of disguise.

  “I’m sorry to you specifically. Because I know Isaac’s hard to say no to.”

  Guilt set in. It was my idea, I wanted to say. I suggested going behind your backs. Not Isaac.

  Nihal shrugged, rubbing his scraggly beard. “I don’t regret it, but I’m still sorry. Anyway, I thought I should at least try to clear the air, since . . .” He shifted on the windowsill. “I don’t know. It’s been good getting to know you this year, and I guess I didn’t want hard feelings. But if you don’t . . .” Uncertainty dragged his voice into silence.

  Something softened in me and melted. The resentment faded as I studied him, Nihal with his unassuming gentleness, with his quiet but firm desire to do the best thing for
as many people as possible.

  “No, of course,” I said, my voice thick. “No hard feelings, man.”

  “’Cause after all, you know I love you,

  And after all, you know I want you,

  Baby, after all, you know I need you,

  After all this time.”

  The last “time” hit an A-flat above middle C, the very top of my belt. I only held it for a second before riffing downward—disguising my voice up there was way more of a task.

  At the high note, the crowd broke into scattered cheers. Isaac took the solo part back over, and I faded back to my background part. Dum dah det, dum dah det, din din.

  I kept my focus on Trav. Some of the crowd was already dancing, but most people just stood there, hardly ten feet away, smiling up at us or yapping with their friends. The knot of people thinned out about twenty feet from the stage’s edge, turning into a scattered sea of disinterested kids in formal wear, eyeing the wintry decorations. Marden Cathedral looked gorgeous tonight, its soaring interior decked in glass snowflakes on thin white threads, pine boughs arranged over stone arches. My freshman year, I’d thought November 5th was ridiculously early to ring in the winter. Then, the day after the dance, the New York sky had dumped several inches of heavy snow onto the ground, and I got the point.

  Trav lifted his hand. We crescendoed out on the final note and made a crisp cutoff. Cheering broke out, ringing off the vaulted ceiling. As we filed off the stage, the DJ, some guy in black with a neckbeard, jogged up to take our place.

  Nihal and I descended the steps into the crowd side by side.

  “Do you think you’ll stay?” he asked, shrugging his blazer off. As he rolled up the sleeves of his blue button-up, I longed to do the same—this place was already heating up beyond belief—but my white shirt’s fabric wasn’t as opaque as I would’ve liked. I was wearing my makeshift nylon binder and an undershirt, but it still felt safer to keep the jacket on.