Audition & Subtraction Page 5

  A sudden sting of tears filled my eyes, which was so stupid. Getting drippy over my brother and his routine—please. I should be glad when Andrew was playing baseball or staying over at Dad’s—it meant I got the whole upstairs to myself. But I liked the squeaks and the thuds. I liked him being home … our home. I set down my clarinet and slid out of bed. I opened up my side of the bathroom and walked through.

  “Andrew?” I knocked on his door.

  “Yeah?”

  I swung it open and leaned against the frame, trying not to breathe in the combo of manly musk and sweaty cleats. A dirty baseball jersey lay on the floor next to muddy socks and his Adobe Wildcats baseball hat. Andrew sat on his mattress, phone in his hand. He’d grown so much the past year, Mom kept promising to buy him a bigger bed.

  He rubbed his fingers through his hair, scratching along the indent from his baseball hat. “What do you want?”

  “Nothing.” I pushed the door out with a foot and pulled it back in with my hand, listening to it whoosh as it swept across the carpet. “Did Mom tell you she’s trying out for a play?”

  He looked up from his phone. “What kind of play?”

  “A lame one.”

  “Do we have to go watch her?”

  “I don’t know. She hasn’t tried out yet. Auditions are tomorrow, and she wants me to go to Dad’s.” I swung the door out and in again. “I hate that house.”

  He typed something in his phone. “Yeah, it’s dark.”

  “And … shiny. Is it weird being there at night?”

  He hit a key on his phone and set it down. Then he pulled up a leg and rested one arm over his knee. “No, it’s just … quiet. Mom’s always got the dishwasher running or the laundry going. Over at Dad’s it’s nothingness.”

  “I’m not going to sleep there.”

  “No one said you have to.”

  “I don’t know why you do it.”

  He shrugged. “It’s still Dad.”

  “But it’s not our house,” I said. “Just because he moves, I’m supposed to act like it’s my house? Like we all belong there?” I pushed at the door again. “Has he said anything? About Mom or coming home?”

  Andrew shook his head. “He asks how we’re doing.”

  “What do you say?”

  “We’re fine.”

  I straightened. “You shouldn’t say that. We’re not.”

  He gave me a long look. “I’m not saying it doesn’t suck. But we are fine.” Then he ran his hand over his chin, back and forth, as if he were brushing off crumbs.

  I frowned. “What are you doing?”

  “Nothing.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Well, anyway, we’re not fine. We’re messed up. Dad’s flying off to China, and Mom’s going to be acting in nursing homes.”

  He rubbed a finger over his face again. I squinted as something dark caught the light. “Is that a hair on your chin?”

  Andrew grinned. “Yeah.”

  I moved in closer, climbing over a pile of clothes to see better. One dark hair poked out of the bottom of his smooth chin. For the past few months, Andrew had sprouted the beginnings of a fuzzy blond mustache, but this was a dark, actually legit, hair.

  “Pull that out,” I said. “It’s weird.”

  “It’s my beard.”

  “It’s a hair!”

  “It’s a beast of a hair!” He pushed off the bed and went to stand in front of his closet mirror. He tilted his head and studied his chin. “It’s good luck. Since it’s been growing, the baseball team hasn’t lost a game.”

  “You lost last week,” I said.

  “But we won this week.”

  “Because of that hair?”

  His grin widened. “Fear the beard, baby.”

  I blew out a breath. “What does Emily think?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “She’s going to hate it.”

  “So she’ll hate it.” He shot me a look. “You gotta stop worrying about what other people think, Tay. Grow a backbone.”

  I pretended the words didn’t sting. “If I grow a backbone as raggedy as that beard, we really are going to be a messed-up family.”

  He laughed, and his eyes, so much like Mom’s, softened. Andrew had grown tall and lean like Dad, but he had Mom’s almond-shaped brown eyes. I got Mom’s round face and ski-slope nose, but Dad’s olive-green eyes. We were both pieces of them … and we were ourselves because they’d made us together. Because they were together. Now it was all coming apart. Like strands of DNA unraveling.

  “I don’t want them to split up, Andrew,” I said.

  He shrugged. “I know.”

  “So what do we do?”

  “I don’t think there’s anything we can do. They messed it up; they have to fix it.”

  “What if they don’t? What happens to our family?”

  He sighed. “I guess we’ll be the way we are now.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “That’s what I’m worried about.”

  Chapter 7

  “Are you sure she’s coming?” Mr. Wayne asked me. “Maybe she forgot.”

  “I reminded her,” I said. “I know she knows.” I paced back to his office door and looked down the hall. Nothing but emptiness and the odd smell of plastic sweat that seemed to lurk around the band room.

  “It’s not like Lori to be late,” Mr. Wayne added.

  Yeah, I wanted to say. It’s also not like Lori to be busy for practically the whole weekend. Sure, we’d done a Pirates marathon on Saturday, but she’d spent almost the whole time on her phone sending texts. To guess who. Finally, I’d told her to stop or she’d end up crippled with finger strain.

  She’d barely paused in her typing. “I think it’s helping my dexterity.”

  Great. So now beady-eyed, bony-kneed Michael was helping her with dexterity. What a guy.

  On Sunday, she’d gone to her grandma’s house and then couldn’t practice at night because she was behind on math homework. Which she wouldn’t have been except that she’d wasted so much time texting Michael.

  But this was different. This was our first time playing our duet for Mr. Wayne. This was District Honor Band, and my grade, and me chewing holes out of the inside of my cheek.

  Why didn’t she answer her phone? I stared at my cell as if I could will it to ring. The dark screen stared back.

  Mr. Wayne shuffled some papers on his desk. “We don’t have much time before students begin arriving.”

  “Can we wait a few more minutes?” I asked. “Please.”

  His eyes smiled at me. “Why don’t you have a seat, Tatum? Let’s use the time to have a little chat.”

  “A chat?” I said hesitantly, but I walked back in and sat down. I’d already set up everything—two chairs and a music stand for our play-through. I’d put my clarinet together, and it was resting on my case. “About what?”

  Mr. Wayne took a sip of his coffee, then stretched back. The chair creaked as it tilted. “I wondered if you’ve considered performing a solo. It’s not too late.”

  “Me? A solo?” I shook my head so hard that my pony-tail whipped across my ear. “No way.”

  “This will be the third year you’ve performed a duet. I think it would be good for you to stretch yourself.”

  “I wouldn’t stretch, Mr. Wayne. I’d explode.”

  His fingers tapped a rhythm on his desk. “You’ve greatly improved this year, Tatum. Surely you recognize that?”

  I thought back to the other day. To times when I could feel the music. When my lungs opened up and it all came flowing out. But I could never play like that for a judge. “I’d be too nervous,” I told Mr. Wayne.

  “I could help you choose a piece you’d feel comfortable with. One that plays to your strengths.”

  “What do you mean, my strengths?” I chewed at my cheek again.

  “Let’s try an experiment, shall we?”

  I looked at the door. Where is Lori?

  “Don’t panic,” Mr. Wayne said, a smile edging the corners of
his mouth. “I just want you to play the first line of your duet.”

  I reached for my clarinet and licked the reed. “Just the first line?”

  “Concentrate on a full sound.” He leaned forward. “Nice and slow.”

  I took a breath and started to play, but only got through three measures before I stopped. “I sound like a beached whale.”

  “Nonsense,” he said. “You have a very nice tone.”

  “But I sounded so spitty.”

  “Yes, you did.” He rose from his chair and sat next to me. “Hand me your clarinet.”

  He took it, unscrewed the ligature, and handed me the reed. “Wet this again.”

  While I did, he studied the duet.

  “This is a very challenging piece, Tatum. It’s quite technical in places.”

  “Lori thought it would make a good impression with the judge.”

  “It might,” he said, “if you excelled at technical passages.”

  I handed the wet reed back to him, and he set it on the mouthpiece, which was pretty gross considering it was covered in my spit. But he didn’t seem to notice as he talked.

  “Your reed was just a little low. Be sure it’s correctly placed. You’ll know when you’re getting a nice sound.” He pointed to the sheet music. “Now, let’s look at this section with the thirty-second notes.”

  “I’m working on those.”

  “Instead of playing all the notes, just play the first note of each beat. Give me quarter notes, long and full.”

  I slid the mouthpiece between my lips and took a breath. A low full B hummed through the bell and filled the office. I finished the two lines and then looked at him.

  He grinned so wide his eyes were just slivers of brown. “That was marvelous, Tatum. Lovely.”

  “It’s a lot easier than playing all those notes,” I said, laughing a little. It had sounded good. Really good.

  “Obviously, you need to work on your technical skills and improve. And you will in time. However,” he added, “you truly shine in areas of musical expression and the tone you produce. I don’t think this duet serves you well. Not as well as the right solo.”

  “But—”

  He held up a hand. “I know you feel more comfortable with Lori, and I know that worked well for you last year. But this year is different. There’s more at stake.”

  I curled my fingers over the clarinet. “You mean more than District Honor Band?”

  “Yes.” He sighed with his mouth closed so the air whistled out his nose. “We’ll get to that in a minute. First, District Honor Band. You know only three clarinet players from our school will make it.”

  “Believe me, I know,” I said. “But Brooke is gone the weekend of the concert like last year. That leaves Angie and Aaron and they’re both amazing, so they’ll make it.” I took a breath. “Melanie, Jamie, and Frank all play third part, and I think I can beat them.” I rubbed my hand along the barrel. “Which leaves Michael. You think he’s better than I am?”

  “That’s for the judge to determine,” Mr. Wayne said gently. “But I will say that you’re both at a similar level. It might be very close.”

  Acid bubbled up in my stomach. “In other words, I need all the help I can get.”

  “He might be thinking the same thing—that he needs all the help he can get.” Mr. Wayne gave me a pointed look. “Regardless, those who perform a solo are rewarded with more points. It won’t affect Lori because she’s also performing a solo for her own audition. But it will affect you.”

  “I still think a duet is my best chance.”

  He sighed. “You realize Dr. Hallady will judge your performance this year?”

  I gulped, picturing the band director from Adobe High in my head. “I know. I’m already having nightmares about it.”

  Mr. Wayne smiled. “He’s not as scary as he looks. But he will use these auditions as an opportunity to evaluate incoming students. Yes, there will be another chance to audition for the regular band, but a strong performance now could very well earn you a spot in his Wind Ensemble next year.”

  “But that’s the top band at Adobe!”

  “Don’t you want to be in Wind Ensemble?”

  “I didn’t think I had a chance,” I admitted.

  “Wind Ensemble is not out of your range. If it’s something you wanted to do, I could help you.”

  “You don’t really think—”

  “I certainly do think.” He reached for the duet and studied it, shaking his head just a little. “The first step would be to prepare a solo.”

  “I’m not sure,” I said, but a shivery feeling worked its way through me. Mr. Wayne thinks I have a chance at Wind Ensemble?

  “Will you promise me you’ll think about it?”

  I nodded.

  “Good enough.” He set the music back on the stand. “We really can’t wait a moment longer. Why don’t we get started?”

  Started? “But I can’t do a duet by myself.”

  He folded his hands over his middle. “We’ll just concentrate on your part.”

  My stomach clenched, suddenly nervous again. Something really terrible must have happened to keep Lori away.

  I slid to the edge of my chair, goose bumps rising where the cold metal touched my legs. I focused on the music, counted out the beat in my head, took a breath, and began.

  And missed a flat. I screwed up my face at the awful sound. “Sorry, Mr. Wayne.”

  I started again, but now my heart raced and I couldn’t keep the beat straight in my head. After a muffled trill and another dropped flat, I gave up, fighting the urge to whack my head against the music stand.

  “Relax,” Mr. Wayne said gently.

  Why do people always say that, as if it’s something you can do on command? I set my fingers over the keys—even they felt cold now. Or was it my fingers? I shivered and rested the bell of my clarinet between my knees to keep it from shaking. Only, my knees shook, too.

  I bet he was sorry he’d ever said anything about Wind Ensemble. Me do a solo? Ha!

  Suddenly, the door flew open and Lori rushed in. “Sorry,” she gasped, out of breath. “I’m really sorry!”

  I was so happy to see her that tears welled up in my eyes. “Are you okay? I called and called, but you didn’t answer your phone.”

  “I forgot to charge it last night.” She dumped her backpack on the floor and set her flute case on Mr. Wayne’s desk. “The battery died this morning.”

  “Where were you?” I asked.

  “We about gave up on you,” Mr. Wayne added.

  “I know. I’m really sorry.” She flipped the lid of her case and had the pieces together in the time it took Mr. Wayne to cross back to his desk chair.

  Her eyes locked with mine. “I am so, so sorry!”

  “I thought you were dead or something.”

  Though she didn’t look dead—or even all that upset as she slid into the chair next to me. She looked really good in a blue V-neck and jean shorts—were they new? Had she dropped another size? I suddenly felt lame in a faded pink T-shirt and jeans.

  She blew a few warm-up notes. “You ready?”

  I nodded.

  She played a note for tuning and I joined in.

  “Pull out,” she whispered. “Just a little.”

  I adjusted my barrel, and we blew another note. I can’t even tune myself—what am I thinking?

  Lori glanced at Mr. Wayne. “Okay, we’re ready.”

  She used her flute to mark the beat. One, two, three …

  I followed along, my fingers a lot less wobbly with her next to me. Two lines in, I got into the rhythm of the piece and made it through without too many errors. Well, except for the thirty-second notes.

  Lori circled the end of her flute, my signal to stop, and the last note faded into silence. We both let out a breath. I sagged back in my seat.

  “Nice beginning,” Mr. Wayne said, as the warning bell sounded for first period. He ripped a piece of paper off his notebook. “We don’t have t
ime to go over my notes right now, but you can read them on your own.”

  I reached around the music stand and took it. There were half a dozen scrawls in Mr. Wayne’s messy writing.

  “Miss Van Sant, you have a solo read-through with me today at lunch, correct?”

  “I’ll be there.”

  “See that you’re on time. And, Miss Austin?”

  I snapped my case shut and looked up. “Please think about what we discussed.”

  I nodded, but it was a lie. Who was I kidding? I couldn’t play without Lori. After this morning, I was sure of it.

  If only I was sure of her.

  “What did he mean?” Lori asked as soon as we closed the office door behind us.

  The hall was crammed now, and I had to dodge a group of kids heading to morning choir. After Mr. Wayne’s soundproof office, it felt like someone had turned up the volume on the world.

  “I’ll tell you later,” I said, raising my voice enough to be heard. “So what happened? Where were you?”

  “Hey, Tay-Lo!” someone shouted. “Wait up.”

  Only Misa had a voice so high-pitched it carried over everyone else’s. We both turned and, sure enough, there were Misa and Kerry at the end of the hall.

  While we waited, Lori grabbed my arm. “Remember when you made me promise that you’d be the first to know when I got kissed?”

  My heart screeched to a halt.

  “Well.” She beamed. “You’re the first.”

  Before I could breathe again, Kerry and Misa caught up.

  “What’s going on?” Kerry asked.

  Lori grinned, her cheeks neon red. “It’s official,” she said. “Michael and I are dating.”

  Chapter 8

  “Oh. My. God.” Kerry’s dark eyes widened with each word.

  “You are sooooo lucky!” Misa said.

  They went on and on all the way to English, which was good, because if I opened my mouth I was afraid of what might come out.

  I thought you were dead under a bus, and you were kissing Michael Malone? You were sucking face with Pouty Lips?

  We got to language arts with time to spare. Mrs. Law sat behind her desk, thumbing through our literature book. She never bothered to look up until the bell rang, and then she’d blink at us, surprised, as if she didn’t know where we’d all come from.