Texas Hold'em

by Wild Cards Trust

  LoriAnne raised her hand then peered around at the other hands to try to identify the other drummers. Four, five, six … Where was the eighth drummer?

  One last hand went up a few rows in front of LoriAnne. No, not a hand. A cluster of tentacles unfurled from the wrist of the dark-haired girl. A murmur rippled through the crowd along with a few sniggers.

  “Freeeak!” screeched a boy in an exaggerated falsetto from the far side of the hall. Outraged, she craned her neck to pinpoint the source, but could only narrow it down to the general vicinity of either the Seattle band or the Plano Originals.

  “Y’all play nice,” Buddy said, tone mild but with enough edge to remind people that he was one of the judges. “You drummers are the backbone,” he continued after the murmuring stopped. “Every band here got drums, keeping that tempo and juicin’ up what needs juicin’, sittin’ back behind all y’all. Make sure you appreciate ’em.”

  Greg elbowed LoriAnne. “No pressure, right?” He chuckled.

  LoriAnne managed a weak laugh in return. Yeah. No pressure.

  After that, Buddy talked about his background and experiences and various lessons he’d learned along the way. LoriAnne took notes like mad, feeling ever so slightly out of her depth when he started talking about how using personal life experience can enrich the texture of playing. How was she supposed to enrich texture when she didn’t have any life experience?

  Eventually, he opened it up to questions. LoriAnne stretched her cramping hand then dove right back into note-taking, self-doubt rising as other competitors asked all sorts of knowledgeable questions.

  The dark-haired joker girl stepped up to the microphone. “Antonia Abruzzi of the Jokertown Mob,” she said, then went on to ask a detailed question that had something to do with optimizing the dialogue and contrast between drums and bass during polyrhythmic performance.

  LoriAnne’s head spun just listening to her. It was an awesome question, and one LoriAnne never would have even thought to ask. Holy moly, but was she in over her head. Mr. Sloane had made an awful mistake picking her for the band. Or maybe it was a “beggars can’t be choosers” sort of thing? There’d been a few other people who auditioned for honors jazz when the drummer position had opened up, but maybe they’d all sucked super-hard, and Mr. Sloane had no choice but to pick her?

  She dragged her tumbling thoughts back to the here and now and wrote down Buddy’s every word.

  Eventually, the questions wound down. Buddy and his band played another couple of songs, then Dr. Smith came back out. “How about another round of applause for the amazing Buddy Robins?” she said, nodding as the audience enthusiastically obliged. “The competitions will begin at ten thirty A.M. Band directors, please bring your bands backstage while the band before yours is playing. No earlier. Detroit, you’re up first. Good luck, everyone.”

  LoriAnne checked her schedule for the millionth time. They were fourth to perform, which meant they’d probably be the last group to play before lunch.

  Greg and Howard left to explore and socialize until things started up again. Cassie pulled out her book and resumed reading, while Mr. Sloane murmured to himself and once again made notes on his sheet music.

  LoriAnne fidgeted for several minutes then decided she was too on edge to sit and do nothing. After leaving her backpack with Mr. Sloane, she made her way out of the performance hall. Apparently, she wasn’t the only one who was stir-crazy. A couple dozen teens milled in the foyer area, chatting or checking their phones or just taking a moment to chill. Off to her right, a couple of girls peered at a phone screen, and a familiar melody wound beneath the hum of conversation. LoriAnne smiled as she wandered past them. They were watching one of TheFeels’s videos, one he’d put out only a week ago. Not that she had them memorized or anything.

  She followed the corridor around until the crowd thinned to nothing.

  Almost nothing. The wheeled joker whizzed by, passing Antonia as she strolled in LoriAnne’s direction. LoriAnne gave her a friendly smile, but Antonia simply leveled a cool look at her and continued on without a word.

  Sighing, LoriAnne turned to watch Antonia walk away. Okay, so the Jokertown drummer wasn’t exactly outgoing. Maybe LoriAnne could try to strike up a conversation? Don’t be a stalker, she reminded herself. Plenty of time left in the week to get to know a joker.

  LoriAnne started to resume her wandering but paused as two vaguely familiar boys swaggered toward Antonia. Both looked sixteenish. One was slender with high cheekbones and perfectly styled hair, while the other had a bit more muscle on his frame and acne on his cheeks and forehead.

  Pretty Boy smirked at Antonia. LoriAnne’s eyes narrowed as recognition clicked in. These were the same two boys who hadn’t wanted to get on the same elevator as jokers.

  As Pretty Boy passed Antonia, he shot a hand out and jerked her stick bag off her shoulder. “You dropped something, freakshow.” He held up the bag and backed away.

  Antonia whirled with a glare, tentacles writhing. “Give. It. Back.”

  Grinning, he tossed the bag to Pimple Face. “Give that back to the joker, willya?”

  LoriAnne started toward them. “Hey, cut it out, you jerks!”

  Pimple Face ignored her and tossed the bag back to his buddy. Antonia tried to snatch it back, but Pretty Boy jerked it out of her reach.

  Stupid, immature, mean jerks! She mentally reached for the pair of mosquitoes at her neck. It would take barely a second for her to clone them into hundreds and cover both boys with welts.

  And Antonia will see it, she realized with a sick jolt. The two nats might brush it off as a weird quirk of nature, but the joker was used to wild card powers. Too much chance she’d figure it out, and then LoriAnne’s life would change forever. All because these two were jerks.

  But maybe one skeeter would be enough? LoriAnne sent the lobby skeeter toward Pimple Face and waited for the right moment.

  Antonia swiped her tentacles toward Pretty Boy’s face. He backpedaled then chucked the bag over her head toward Pimple Face. The instant it left his hand, LoriAnne sent the skeeter into Pimple Face’s ear.

  Pimple face yelped and slapped his hand over his ear. The bag went sailing past him then skidded another several feet across the floor. LoriAnne leaped after it and snatched it up. “Get lost, losers,” she sneered at the boys.

  Pimple Face balled up his fist, but Pretty Boy grabbed his arm. “This freak lover isn’t worth getting kicked out of the competition,” he said with a sneer. With a parting middle finger at LoriAnne, he hauled his buddy toward the foyer.

  Relieved, LoriAnne turned to Antonia and held out the stick bag. “Are you okay? I’m so sorry they did that. I think it’s just awful how mean people are to you jokers.”

  Antonia’s chin jerked up as she took the bag. “We jokers aren’t freaking crippled,” she said, voice low but scathing. “I can stand up for myself just fine.”

  LoriAnne’s face heated. “Sorry. I … I didn’t mean to…” Her throat tightened. Gulping, she pivoted and hurried away in as fast a casual walk as she could manage, fiercely willing herself to not do anything stupid like cry. That would be the absolute nail in her social life coffin.

  She darted into the first ladies’ room she saw, locked herself in an empty stall, then sat and dropped her head into her hands. Wow, I’m really on a roll, LoriAnne thought miserably. She’d only been trying to help Antonia but instead managed to piss her off. This whole trip was turning into a train wreck, and they hadn’t even performed yet! She didn’t fit in—not as a drummer, and most certainly not with other wild cards. Antonia was her third strike. She was never ever ever going to talk to a joker, because she was done trying. The universe had spoken.

  Her Louisiana skeeter hummed against her neck. She gave a wobbly smile. “Guess I can’t hide in here for the rest of the week.” Heaving a sigh, she left the stall, fixed her smudged makeup, then trudged back to the performance hall.

  As it turned out, the two jerks were in the Detroit band
, which was the first to perform. To LoriAnne’s savage glee, the trombone player seemed to have something wrong with his hearing and hit a number of sour notes. LoriAnne would never in a million years deliberately sabotage a competitor, but Pimple Face had more than earned a bug in his ear.

  The Plano Originals were up next and—LoriAnne had to admit—played really darned well. As they worked through their set, her gut started tying itself into knots again. Those guys all knew what they were doing. Not a clueless freshman in the bunch, she was positive.

  What if she ended up being the reason her band lost? She’d never be able to show her face at school again. Once they made it back to Louisiana, she’d find a way to tell Mr. Sloane that he needed to find a new drummer. A better drummer. Someone who knew what the heck they were doing. That is, if he didn’t outright cut her from the group first.

  The third band to play was the Modesto Melody Makers. Since Folsom was up next, Mr. Sloane ushered the Funkalicious Four to the back to get ready.

  While Greg and Howard retrieved their instruments, LoriAnne checked her sticks then hunkered in an out-of-the-way spot while Modesto churned out “’Round Midnight.” How could the judges stand to listen to the same song over and over?

  “Hey, Folsom.” Antonia stepped out of the shadows, tentacles twisting around each other. “I’m really sorry I jumped your ass.” She winced. “You didn’t deserve it one bit.”

  It took LoriAnne a few seconds to find her voice. “It’s okay,” she said, then offered a weak smile. “It’s not as if you had any reason to be upset or anything.”

  Antonia gave a short laugh. “Right. Not a care in the world.” She smiled. “Anyway, thanks for the help, Folsom. Good luck out there.”

  “LoriAnne. I mean, that’s my name.” She stuck her hand out then immediately worried if she’d made a horrible faux pas. Antonia had tentacles. Could she even shake hands? But pulling her hand back now would be even worse.

  Cool, smooth tentacles wrapped around her fingers. Antonia shook her hand then released it. “Knock ’em dead, LoriAnne,” she said, then slipped off into the shadows.

  Holy crap! The universe had changed its mind! About talking to a joker, at least. She still didn’t know a darn thing about being a wild card. And she also still had to face the performance without making a total ass of herself.

  Modesto started their third song. Only a few minutes to go.

  LoriAnne joined the others where they waited in the wings. Greg glanced up from his bass then frowned. “What’s wrong?” he whispered. Loudly.

  LoriAnne plastered on a smile. “Nothing. Just excited!”

  He scowled. “Bullshit.”

  Howard leaned in to study her face. “Yep. Bullshit.”

  Mr. Sloane looked over at her then pulled the four of them away from the stage. “I should have dealt with this when we first arrived, but things were more chaotic than I expected.” His kind eyes met hers. “LoriAnne. What are you?”

  She went cold. Did he know about the skeeters? Was he asking her to confess that she was a wild card right here in front of the band? “I…”

  “You’re a musician,” he finished for her while she quietly died of relief. “A very talented and driven and dedicated musician. One who is also quite human.” He let out a rueful laugh. “It’s normal to be overwhelmed and uncertain, and I should’ve helped you face it. You’re such a solid member of the band, it’s easy to forget that you don’t have much experience.”

  “But all those other people who were asking such smart questions—”

  “Are only half as good as you’ll be when you’re their age.” His expression grew serious. “You wouldn’t be in this band if you didn’t belong in it. If you can’t have faith in yourself, then have it in me.”

  Greg nodded emphatically. “Yeah, he’d boot your ass right out if you started slacking. Hey, Mr. Sloane, remember how you told Jordan Kelly to get the fu—”

  Mr. Sloane cleared his throat. “Modesto just finished. We’re up. Well, LoriAnne?”

  The Louisiana skeeter sang by her ear like a teeny tiny cheerleader. LoriAnne abruptly realized that the tension that had been twisting her gut was gone. Every speck of it. She squared her shoulders. “Y’all better appreciate me, ’cause I’m your backbone!”

  When they stopped laughing, the Folsom Funkalicious Four took the stage. LoriAnne settled behind her drum kit. They opened with “’Round Midnight.” Mr. Sloane had spiced up the arrangement a bit, giving it a neo-funk flavor, but it was still sedate enough that LoriAnne could sneak peeks at the judges. None of them were making faces, so that was a good sign. And Buddy wore a smile and nodded his head in time with the beat.

  They transitioned into “Birdland.” LoriAnne couldn’t watch the judges anymore, but she didn’t need to. She knew her group was kicking ass.

  The band brought the song to an energetic close, waited for the applause to die away, then started the lovely “Won’t You Be My Neighbor?”

  It was over before she knew it. She hadn’t messed up. None of them had.

  The universe sure had changed its mind again. And that was okay by her.

  Next challenge: make friends with a wild card and get some answers.

  The Secret Life of Rubberband

  Part 4

  JAN CHARGED THROUGH THE doors of the hotel kitchen, one arm out, badge displayed. “Health inspector! Everyone stay calm.”

  Everyone lost all semblance of calm. One sous chef dropped a stick of butter into a stockpot, then cursed and grabbed for a spoon. Another looked up and froze, at least on a conscious level—some autonomous function continued to chop carrots until a third sous chef tackled her to keep her from chopping off her own hand. A shaven-headed kid punching dough cried out, “Chef!”

  Chef was already blustering forward. “What the hell is this?” Her teeth weren’t filed to points, but she gave the impression they were anyway.

  Jan flipped her fake badge into the inside pocket of her leather jacket before the chef was close enough to read it. “Officers Chang and Samuelson, ma’am. We’ve received reports of spectral miasmas in the vicinity, class three health code violation. Have you seen anything out of the ordinary?”

  “The only unusual things I’ve seen”—and the chef leaned in close—“are you. Can I see your badge again, please?”

  “No time.” Jan shouldered past her. “Our local ectoplasmic readings are off the scale. Everyone here is in terrible danger.”

  Robin followed her, and tried to look official. He didn’t think health inspectors likely wore sweater vests. Or, maybe they did—just not the kind of health inspectors Jan was imagining, who probably didn’t exist in this universe anyway. He caught up with Jan—wasn’t hiding behind her, no, just catching up with her—as she neared the vat of dough the assistant baker was still punching. The chef ran after them. She was holding a knife. She’d been holding a knife when they came in. There was nothing necessarily violent about a chef holding a knife. She just had not put it down. Yet. For very good reason. He was sure.

  “You can’t just barge in here,” the chef said, as Jan shoved the dough boy out of the way and plunged her hand into the vat.

  The chef made a strangled sound, the kind that people, in Robin’s experience, tended to make when there were too many curse words in their throat to come out one at a time. She raised the knife. (To be fair, she raised both hands. One of them just happened to hold the knife.)

  Robin heard an unfortunately familiar laugh.

  Then the dough vat exploded.

  Dough chunks splattered the wall. Flour burst in Robin’s face. A gray-blue figure sprang from the vat to the counter and crouched there—four limbs bent frog-like, a torso arched like a spitting cat’s. A broad gash of a smile split its huge round eyeless head.

  “Jesus!” Robin and Jan and the chef and the dough boy scrambled back.

  The ghost cocked its head at them, as if reading fine print. It chuckled.

  “Agent Robin,” Jan said, “w
hy don’t you grab the ghost?”

  “Agent Chang,” he replied, “I thought that was your job.”

  “I’m the supervisor here.”

  Robin sighed, and gave it his best shot.

  Sprinting, he reached the rehearsal space five minutes after practice ended. Sharon Oberhoffer’s voice piped and whistled with maniacal speed, and her signs came fast and furious.

  “It’s a long story. I’m so sorry. I had to step out to take a call, and—”

 

  “You really wouldn’t have wanted to,” he said.

  She paused. Her large eyes narrowed. Her fingers snapped out and snagged a glob of wet dough from his ear.

  “Part of the long story?”

  The kids stared at him. They didn’t need sign to tell Sharon was furious. Her pipes and whistles left no room for debate on the subject. Most of the kids looked away. Antonia rolled her eyes. Robin agreed with her.

  Bubbles and the Band Trip

  Part 6

  MICHELLE WAS SURPRISED AT the size of the H-E-B Auditorium at the Tobin Center. She’d expected something modest like the small auditorium they’d been in for orientation, not this sweeping expanse of gleaming, honey-colored wood walls and luscious ceiling-length drapes. The plush carmine seats were comfortable and well-sized. There were multiple levels and the entire place felt grand.

  She’d wondered how the final competition performance could fill an auditorium this size, but Priscilla had explained that tickets had been donated to schools and colleges all over San Antonio, and that, as the competition was nationally known, jazz lovers from Austin, San Antonio, and Dallas would show up.

  Sharon signed.