Audition & Subtraction Page 4

  Or could we just make him go home?

  “Now,” Mr. Wayne said, clearing his throat. “I know you’re all looking forward to Band Night Out. We’ll be staying at the Sunfire Hotel after your auditions, two weeks from Saturday. But if you don’t pay, you can’t play. That means fund-raisers.”

  A chorus of groans filled the room.

  “Remember, we’re in the final push. We have events scheduled each and every weekend. Make sure you participate.” Mr. Wayne scowled in a wide circle. “However, let’s not lose sight of the main purpose of the day: District Honor Band auditions.”

  Another even louder round of groans rose up like surround sound.

  “I don’t need to tell you how important it is that you do well. This is a major part of your grade, as well as your opportunity to make the band.”

  Brooke raised her clarinet from the front row and wiggled it to get Mr. Wayne’s attention. “What if we’re going to be gone the weekend of District Honor Band?”

  “I’m aware of your plans, Brooke, but you’ll still need to audition for your grade. It’s a requirement for everyone. You should have all completed the sign-up sheet marking whether you’re performing a solo or a duet and the name of the piece,” Mr. Wayne added.

  I swapped a nod with Lori. She’d signed us up for our duet the first day.

  Mr. Wayne paused a second, then pointed to Michael. “That reminds me, Mr. Malone. You’ll need to find an audition piece if you don’t already have one. Let me know if you need help.”

  “Thanks, Coach.”

  Mr. Wayne beamed.

  Suck-up.

  Mr. Wayne went on. “Check the schedule on my door for your practices with me. Each of you will be assigned two sessions—a first run-through and a final dress rehearsal. If you require additional help, see me after class.”

  He tapped the podium again. “Now, to the music. ‘Air for Band’!”

  Michael leaned forward, and his knee bumped mine. “Ow,” I muttered.

  “Sorry. Can you move over?” he asked.

  I shifted my seat and rubbed my left leg. Lori thought he had nice knees? Maybe if you liked hairy boulders.

  Mr. Wayne raised the baton, and I took a fluttery breath. At least we were starting with my favorite piece. The clarinets had the melody, and the notes were easy enough that I could relax and let the sound flow. I pushed my shoulders back and blew from down deep, letting air fill the clarinet—and the music fill me. During the last few months, things had started to click, and there were times when I heard myself play and it sounded almost … beautiful. Times when my clarinet felt like a part of me. When I thought maybe I could hear a future in the music I made. If only I could make those times stretch and last.

  By the end of the piece, I could tell Michael had fast fingers and he sight-read better than I could. He’d never seen the music before, but he played almost every note. A fresh wave of worry hit me, taking my confidence with it.

  Aaron switched out the music to a Sousa march and gave me a smile as if he could tell. Maybe he could—I felt sort of shaky.

  Finally, Mr. Wayne glanced at the clock, then lay down his baton. “That’s it for today. Nice work.” Everyone started packing up.

  “So Brandon filled me in on Band Night Out,” Michael said, flipping open his case. “An overnight at a hotel—nice!”

  “Yeah,” I said, “that part will be fun.”

  “Not the audition?”

  “Not unless you like standing in front of a firing squad.”

  “That good, huh?”

  I loosened my ligature. “We audition for Dr. Hallady. He’s a scary guy.”

  Michael slid his reed into its plastic holder. “Then it’s a good thing I don’t scare easy.”

  “Yeah, well.” I rolled my eyes. “For a guy who’s been in a youth symphony, what’s one more audition?”

  “Right.” Then he laughed—only it wasn’t a confident ha-ha kind of laugh like I expected. I shot him a look, but he turned away.

  “What does that mean?” I asked.

  He shrugged and fitted his bell into the case. “Nothing.”

  “It didn’t sound like—” I paused, distracted, as he pulled off the bottom section of his clarinet and set it next to the bell. I couldn’t help but point. “Aren’t you going to swab it out?”

  He pulled off the middle piece. “Nah.”

  “But it’s dripping spit.”

  “It’s just water.”

  “Spit is not water. It’s full of digestive enzymes.”

  He blinked at me. “Digestive enzymes?”

  I turned away, my cheeks burning. “Forget it.” I pulled out my own swab—a handkerchief with a string attached. I worked it through the inside of each section. So much for trying to be nice to him. If he wanted a saliva-infested clarinet …

  “So Lor said you guys are playing a duet.”

  I turned back toward him, my mouth a little open. “Lor?”

  Michael snapped his case shut. “You’re lucky she’s your partner. I’ll bet she’s good.”

  “She’s the best,” I said. “And she hates Lor.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah.”

  His eyes shone as he looked toward her seat. “Maybe it depends on who says it.”

  I fought the urge to whack his arm with part of my clarinet—I’d just dent my keys.

  “So,” he said, “if only three clarinetists from Dakota can make District Honor Band …” His voice trailed off as he looked around at the other players. “Sounds like Brooke won’t be there. That leaves Angie and Aaron ahead of me.” He paused, then added, “And you.”

  I fitted my mouthpiece in the case and closed it. “Yeah. And me.”

  “I guess that makes you the competition.”

  “I guess so.” I met his gaze straight on. His eyes were nice—green with bits of yellow like colored glass. Nice eyes that sent worry crackling through me like a live wire. As he stepped off the riser, I looked for Lori, panic rushing through me. She looked back, smiling.

  Smiling?

  Then I realized she wasn’t smiling at me. She was smiling at Michael.

  I lay on the floor of my room. It was still Monday but only for two more hours. I yawned, but I didn’t want to get in bed. From the floor, I could see the stars and a moonless sky out my window.

  The phone was still warm in my hands. Lori and I had finally hung up after way too long, when I should have been working on my science handout. We would start dissecting next week, and Mr. Howard had sent home a whole packet of worksheets.

  But I’d just wanted to talk to Lori. As if nothing was different. As if nothing was happening to make things different. I’d felt so weird after band. Nervous. Unsettled. And being on the phone with Lori tonight had helped.

  For a while.

  We covered school, Band Night Out, and what we were going to do at the hotel. We talked about the movies coming out and whether Johnny Depp was too old to be hot and what movie character we’d want for our first kiss. I said Will Turner from Pirates, and Lori said Jacob from Twilight. Then she said Michael kind of looked like Jacob, except his hair was lighter and curlier. And suddenly, it was all different. Instead of the two of us, it was like Michael was on the phone, also.

  I could tell she was picturing him in her head and so was I, but I knew we weren’t picturing anything alike. It made Lori feel farther away, no matter how tightly I gripped the phone.

  And when we were just about to hang up, her voice grew soft. “I know you’re worried about band stuff, but I don’t want you to hate him, Tay,” she said. “I want you to like him.”

  Because I do. She didn’t say it, but that’s what she meant.

  So now I lay on the carpet, wishing on the stars.

  When I was little, I thought stars were streetlights God had put out for pilots like my dad when he had night flights. I’d wait for the stars to come out and know that wherever Dad was, he’d see them, too. And he’d find his way home in the dark.<
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  Dad had bought me my first book on astronomy. I still had it. According to the book, stars were really balls of hot gas, constantly spinning in motion. But from my window, they didn’t look like they were doing anything but twinkling. You could always count on the stars to be there, same as the night before.

  That’s how I wanted things to stay. Exactly the same.

  I ran my fingers through the scratchy fibers of carpet, holding tight. Maybe it wasn’t fair to blame Michael Malone, but his moving here was ruining everything. Because of him, I might not make District Honor Band. Worse, he was trying to steal away my best friend.

  How could Lori, who had never liked a guy before, suddenly like him? It couldn’t be for real. Even if she did fall under his bony-kneed spell, it wasn’t like it would change anything. Not really. Not between us.

  Even if you like-liked a guy, how could that take the place of a best friend?

  Chapter 6

  “Why do you always get stuck doing this stuff?” I asked Mom. “Can’t the other teachers staple packets?”

  She handed me a stack of papers. “I didn’t get stuck. I volunteered.”

  “Well, then why do I always get stuck doing this stuff?”

  She smiled. “Because you’re a wonderful daughter.”

  I sighed and slid a GROW YOUR GARDEN coloring packet into the electric stapler. Bam, the staple shot through the pages, and I set the packet on top of the finished pile. I wasn’t being wonderful on purpose. This wasn’t how I wanted to spend my Thursday night, but I’d finished my homework, spent nearly an hour going over the evil thirty-second notes in my duet, and now it was either staple packets or worry. “How many of these do you have to do?”

  “One hundred,” she said, gesturing to a box at her feet. “But most of them are already done.” She stuck a white cover on top of the yellow and blue pages she’d spread out on the kitchen island. “I can finish up myself.”

  I shrugged and watched another staple shoot into the pages. “I guess I can do a few more.”

  The kitchen felt warm from the oven. It smelled good—like the chicken and garlic potatoes we’d had for dinner. Andrew had baseball practice, so he’d eaten earlier. Now that he was sixteen, he borrowed Mom’s car and drove himself. That meant a lot of nights when it was just Mom and me. She’d started talking more at dinner, as if she could fill up the empty chairs with her voice.

  In the two months since the separation, it was like she’d tried to wipe away all the signs that Dad had ever lived here. She’d taken his place mat off the table, so now there were three spots instead of four. And Dad’s coffee mug was up in the cupboard instead of on the draining board, and the hat he kept on a hook by the back door was gone. Things were just … gone … and with nothing to replace them, it felt like there were holes everywhere. Holes in our house. Holes in our family. Even holes in my mom.

  “Isn’t Lori coming over tonight?” she asked. “I thought you were going to practice together.”

  I held out my hand for another packet. “I thought so, too, but she had to go to some music program for her sister.”

  “I heard you practicing before dinner. It’s coming along.”

  “Not fast enough.” I had tried practicing standing up in case that helped, but I couldn’t hold my clarinet steady. Nothing felt right tonight—my tone seemed fuzzy, my rhythm was off, and I still couldn’t get through the fast parts without tripping over my fingers. “It sounds stupid when it’s just me.”

  “It’s not supposed to sound perfect on your own. It’s a duet,” Mom said.

  “But I don’t do the melody right without Lori.”

  “I’m sure you’ll work it out with a little more practice. You don’t give yourself enough credit.”

  I rolled my eyes. “You’re such a mom.”

  “I think I’ve just been insulted,” she said, smiling. She handed me another packet. “You and Lori did a duet last year, and you pulled it off. You’ll do the same this year.”

  “Nothing’s the same this year,” I said.

  “Such as?”

  A pair of green-yellow eyes popped into my head. I shoved the packet in the stapler so hard, it double-stapled.

  Mom’s eyebrows rose an inch. When her eyes weren’t all red, puffy, and tired, they were pretty—dark brown and shaped like half-moons.

  “It’s just the new guy. Michael Malone.”

  “The one who sits next to you?”

  I nodded and leaned on the counter, watching her stack the pages, but not really seeing anything except Michael. “He doesn’t say anything during practice, but I can tell he’s listening, waiting for me to mess up. So he can say he’s better.”

  “Is he?”

  “No,” I said. Then I shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe. He never squeaks, not even on the high notes.”

  “You don’t squeak, either.”

  “Yeah, I do—when I get nervous. And I can’t help getting nervous with him sitting next to me.”

  “Then ignore him.”

  “It’s not that easy.” I flicked a nail through the corner of a packet, fanning the pages like a deck of cards. “He’s always there. If he’s not staring at me, he’s staring at Lori.”

  “Lori?”

  “He’s got these beady eyes. You don’t notice it at first, but they’re too close together, like a gorilla or something.”

  “A beady-eyed gorilla?” She handed me another packet.

  I nodded as I fed it to the stapler. “And his knees are bony, and he never ties his shoes. The laces are always trailing in the dirt, and I mean, who knows what germs he’s dragging around with him. Plus, he never swabs out his clarinet.”

  “What does Lori think of him?”

  I shrugged. “She likes him, I guess. When he gets out of school, he wants to play in his father’s band in New York, so she thinks that’s cool.”

  Mom made this noise in the back of her throat that was supposed to be understanding but was actually annoying. “You just need to concentrate on your own playing.”

  “I am. I just wish Lori had more time. Our first read-through for Mr. Wayne is on Monday.”

  “You’ve got the whole weekend,” she said, sliding the last pages together.

  A gray piece of construction paper fluttered off the counter. I grabbed it in midair and turned it over.

  “Auditions for community theater?” I scanned the flyer, then shot my mom a horrified look. “No way am I doing this.”

  She snatched the flyer out of my hands. “It’s not for you. It’s for me.”

  I gasped. “You?”

  She set the flyer back on the counter. “Mrs. Lansing gave it to me. Something I might want to get involved in.”

  “Community theater?” I puckered around the words as if I were saying “toe fungus” or “chronic canker sore.”

  “Yes, community theater,” she said sharply. “Auditions are tomorrow night, and I’m going. You’ll be at your father’s.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Fine. But why can’t I stay here? I hate going to that house. It’s always so dark, and I’m afraid to touch anything or I’ll leave fingerprints.”

  “Tatum,” she said, and her voice sounded really tired all of a sudden. “It’s just very clean because your dad is rarely in town. He feels bad that you don’t spend more time there.”

  “Well, I feel bad that he doesn’t come home.”

  She sighed—but it was one of those heavy breaths full of stuff she didn’t have to say because I’d already heard it before.

  We need some time.

  Even adults don’t always have the answers.

  We’re doing our best.

  It’s not about you; it’s about us.

  Ha. It sure felt like it was about me.

  “Anyway,” she said, “you’ll be there while I’m at the audition.”

  I pulled the flyer closer with the edge of one finger and read the description.

  Harry and the Heiress:

  An Assisted-Living Lov
e Story

  By local playwright Anita Weebans

  Desert Rose Nursing Home

  “A romance with old people?” I asked. “I don’t get why you’d want to do something like this.” Once, Mom had dragged me to a musical her friend Mrs. Lansing was in. It was a bunch of white-hairs singing off-key in a church auditorium.

  “Because it might be fun,” she said.

  Fun? Was she really that desperate? I rubbed a hand over my stomach where garlic potatoes suddenly churned. Of course she was that desperate. She sat at home and watched tearjerkers and ate Junior Mints. And I’d overheard her talking to Grandma about how awkward it was to go out with her friends because they all still had husbands. She didn’t need community theater. She needed Dad back.

  So what if his new job kept him away so much? Having Dad a little bit was better than not having him at all.

  Why was I the only one who could see that?

  I looked up from my sheet music at the sound of the front door slamming. My bedroom clock glowed 8:54 p.m.—Andrew must be home. My fingers stilled on the keys of my clarinet. I didn’t have my mouthpiece attached—I’d just been slowly going over the hard section of the duet, working my fingers over the keys. If I did it enough times, they would learn what to do without my brain having to tell them. At least I hoped so. I started the thirty-second notes again, but mostly I listened.

  There was a soft muffle of voices—Mom saying hi and asking about practice—and then Andrew’s size 11 shoes on the stairs. He pounded up them, three or four at a time, and the floor shook a little as he reached the top. The upstairs was just big enough for a computer desk at the top of the landing, and our two rooms connected by the bathroom.

  Then I heard Andrew’s bedroom door, a slight squeak as it closed. A thud and then another thud—him kicking his shoes off. Silence. He’d be leaning over his iPod right now, turning it on and … a drumbeat thrummed from his room as the music kicked on. I smiled a little—I could time his movements to the second.