Audition & Subtraction Read online

  For as long as I could remember, Dad’s crusty old boots had sat outside the door to our kitchen. Mom would ask him to store them in a garage cabinet so she didn’t have to smell them, but really they didn’t smell, and Dad wouldn’t do it anyway. He said he liked knowing they were ready whenever he was.

  Hiking was one of his favorite things. He got out of whack when he flew overnighters, and lots of nights he couldn’t sleep. So he’d put on a headlamp and go for a hike on the desert trails behind our house. Sometimes, when there wasn’t school the next day, he’d wake me and I’d go with him. He’d carry the telescope, and we’d set it up at a curve in the trail and name the constellations.

  I stared at the worn, brown leather and the dirt crusted onto the shoelaces and toes. We hadn’t done a night hike since he’d moved out. These boots didn’t belong here.

  Neither did my dad.

  I pulled open the door, and he stood there, smiling. Dad has a big smile that people say is his best feature, but I like his eyes best. When he laughs, they crinkle up like Chinese fans. But I wasn’t in the mood to be smiling—or to see him smiling as if everything was fine.

  “Come on in,” he said.

  I set my pack down carefully on the marble floors. I could see the laundry room off to my right, but I still couldn’t picture Dad washing his own clothes. The kitchen was bigger than our kitchen at home, with glossy cabinets and fancy granite counters, but I still didn’t like it. At home, Mom had hung yellow curtains, and blue rugs covered the wood floor.

  The whole house was dark, shiny, and reeked of furniture polish. But Dad was not a polish kind of guy. He wore jeans when he didn’t have to dress up for work, got dirty fixing cars, and kept filthy boots in the garage. The guy who lived here ought to sip wine and speak with an English accent.

  How could he want to be that person? How could he want to live in this weird house while all of us were just two blocks away in a perfectly great home? It wasn’t like Mom and Dad had fought all the time. It wasn’t like she didn’t want him back. Maybe she hadn’t come out and said it, but why else was she so unhappy? Why else was she doing things like community theater with pathetic Mrs. Lansing?

  “I thought we could bake a cake today,” Dad said.

  “A cake?” I made a face. “I should really practice.”

  “Come on, honey. It won’t take long.”

  “How do you know?” I grumbled. “Since when did you ever bake a cake?”

  “So it’s time I learned.” He gestured to the counter.

  A pile of stuff sat next to the sink. I looked back at him. “Seriously?”

  “I got a cake pan and mixing bowls.” He picked an electric mixer out of the pile. “I even bought one of these.”

  He smiled, a hopeful look in his eyes. Then he reached into a cupboard and pulled out a box of angel food cake mix. “Your favorite,” he added, wiggling the box.

  I crossed my arms over my chest. “What’s going on? This is not normal father behavior.”

  He leaned one hip against the counter. “Your mom thinks you’re having a tough time. I thought if we had a chance to talk …”

  “You mean you want to grill me for info?”

  “That’s one way of saying it.” He set the box on the counter. “Mostly, I wanted to spend some time with you. Usually, we eat and you disappear with your clarinet.”

  “Maybe I don’t want to talk.”

  “Then we don’t have to. We could just make a cake.” His green eyes smiled at me along with his crooked grin. Beard stubble shadowed his cheeks, and the Red Sox T-shirt I’d given him for his birthday hung in wrinkles over his jeans.

  How could I say no with my dad looking at me like that? I sighed. “Okay, but I’m in charge because you’ll mess it up.”

  He broke into a huge smile. For some reason, that made my throat tighten. He had so many lines crinkling up at the edge of his eyes—more lines than I’d seen in a long time.

  “You be the captain,” he said, “and I’ll copilot.”

  I held out my hand for the cake mix. He passed it to me, and I read the directions. “You have eggs?”

  He went for the ingredients while I ripped open the box.

  “So auditions are a week from Saturday, right?” he asked.

  I nodded.

  “You ready?”

  “Getting there.”

  He set the carton of eggs on the counter. “And you have a whole night at a hotel with all of your friends? You must be excited.” He raised one eyebrow, like I should fill him in.

  I ripped open the plastic wrap in the box and dumped the mix into a bowl. “Yeah.”

  “You know …” He straightened and drummed on the counter with his fingers. “I got you something. Maybe now is a good time to give it to you.”

  He disappeared into the laundry room. I waited, my hands around the glass bowl of cake mix, a few butterflies of excitement flitting around my stomach in spite of my bad mood. A present?

  A minute later, he was back, a small velvet box in his hands. Jewelry? I wiggled open the black lid. A gold charm bracelet lay inside, and attached was an engraved heart: HONOR BAND.

  “Dad.” I closed the lid, the butterflies dropping like dead gnats. “I haven’t made it yet.”

  “I know,” he said. “Mom told me I should wait, but you made it last year. Plus, I was afraid I’d be gone working when you find out. This way, it can also be a good-luck charm.”

  “I hope you can return it,” I said, handing it back to him.

  “Why?” His voice deepened with surprise.

  I studied the cake directions. “We need half a cup of water.”

  “Tatum!” He came up beside me and turned me with a hand on my shoulder. “What’s going on? You’ve been talking about District Honor Band all year.”

  “Nothing’s going on,” I snapped. “I just may not make it.”

  “Does this have something to do with the new guy? Your mother told me there was a new clarinetist.”

  “Half a cup of water,” I said again.

  He didn’t take the hint. Both of his hands circled my shoulders. “You’re not just going to let him take the spot from you without a fight, are you?”

  “It’s not like we’re going to wrestle for it.”

  “You know what I mean, honey. You have to believe in yourself. You have to go for it. Are you doing everything you can?”

  “Yes.” I pulled away, grabbing the measuring cup myself. As I filled it at the sink, a tiny traitorous voice piped up and asked, Are you really doing everything you can? The voice came from my backpack. From the solo music still stuck inside a folder. Mr. Wayne had said the music was singing my name. Maybe it was, because I swear, it kept calling to me. Maybe it was possessed. Maybe I was possessed. Only, if I were, I’d go demon on Michael and slice off his pouty lips.

  I dumped the water into the bowl and stirred. “Can we just bake?”

  “I’m trying to help, honey.”

  I dropped the whisk so that batter splattered on the cold, stone counter. “Well, you’re not. If I make it, I make it. It won’t be the end of the world if I don’t.” My words would’ve sounded impressive, too, if my voice hadn’t cracked. “Your making a big deal about it just makes me feel worse.”

  He held up his hands. “Okay. I’m just worried about you.”

  “If you’re worried, then why don’t you move back home? Then I won’t even care about stupid Honor Band.”

  He ran a hand through his hair. There was more salt than pepper in it now. “It’s not that easy, Tatum.”

  “Is anything?” I mumbled.

  I felt his hand on my shoulder again. “I love you, honey.”

  I handed him the measuring cup. “You can put this away.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” He saluted me, then laid the cup on the drain board by the sink. He leaned an elbow on the counter and watched me stir. “That looks good,” he said doubtfully.

  “It’s not done yet.” I swirled the whisk around the
bowl. “You know Mom got a part in that play?”

  He nodded. “I know.”

  “She’s a bodyguard pretending to be a nurse.”

  “It sounds interesting.”

  “It sounds lame.” I stirred some more, though the batter had puffed up.

  “Tatum,” Dad warned. “You need to be supportive.”

  “She’s going to dress up like a nurse, wave a gun, and say lines like, ‘It’s time for your shot.’” I rolled my eyes. “I cannot, in good conscience, support that.” It was a phrase I’d heard Mrs. Law use before, and it had a nice ring to it.

  Dad didn’t look impressed. “Your mom is enjoying this—don’t ruin it for her.”

  “She’s only doing it because she’s lonely.” I gave him a pointed look. “If you’d just come home …”

  He sighed, looking at me through sad eyes. “That won’t solve things, Tay. Two people can be together and not really be together.”

  “What’s that mean?”

  “Well, we’re trying to figure that out.”

  “But you’re the parents. How can you not know?”

  “That’s a switch,” he said. “I thought parents didn’t know anything.”

  “But—”

  He tapped on the box, not letting me finish. “What’s next?”

  I read the directions. “Three eggs.”

  “Aye, aye, captain.” He flipped open the egg carton and pulled out three eggs.

  “We have to separate them into a bowl.”

  He saluted me again, then got three cereal bowls out of the cupboard. “One egg in each bowl?”

  I couldn’t help it. I laughed. “That’s not how you separate eggs.”

  “Are you making fun of me?” He pretended to put me in a headlock, but really he just rubbed my hair. His T-shirt felt warm against my cheek and smelled like his soap. “You love me, too?” he asked.

  I reached around and hugged him. “A little.”

  He laughed into my hair, and we stayed like that for a minute. “The cake, Dad?”

  He laughed again and loosened his hold. “So, what do you do with the eggs?”

  I wiped a hand at the side of my eye and focused on the cake ingredients. “You have to separate the whites from the yolks.”

  “Oh,” he said. “How do you do that?”

  “Watch the captain.” I cracked one egg, holding each side of the shell like a cup. I slid the yolk from one shell to the other, letting the white part fall into the bowl.

  “Very cool,” he said. “How did you learn that?”

  “Mom taught me,” I said. As I thought back, the memory filled me like an ache. My first angel food cake. Mom had let me carry it to the table, and Dad had pretended to choke from the first bite and fall to the floor. We’d all laughed, the four of us.

  I felt a chill where I’d been warm a minute ago. Dad must have felt it, too, because he stiffened. “It was the first time I baked a cake for your birthday.”

  “Right.” He slid his hands in his back pockets.

  I grabbed the bowl with the yolk and dumped it in with the whites.

  “Hey,” Dad asked. “Why’d you do that?”

  “I like them better when they’re not separated.”

  The closet seemed warmer than the rest of the house. It was more of a room than a closet—big enough for all of Dad’s camping gear to fit in one end. Even so, it was kind of creepy, off by itself, upstairs in the back of the house. But I liked it. It was the one place in my dad’s house I liked. You could shut the door and be in your own world. I brought my clarinet up here and practiced all I wanted and no one heard me but the shadows on the wall. In here, I was a famous clarinetist, renowned for my talent and beautiful hair.

  There was only one overhead light, and I’d arranged an old camp chair beneath it. I propped open my folder of music on a cooler and pulled out the duet. The thirty-second notes stared up at me—black angry slashes on the page.

  I was really starting to hate this duet.

  A famous clarinetist wouldn’t hate it. Then again, a famous clarinetist wouldn’t be playing a duet. She’d be playing a solo. Without even meaning to, I reached for my English folder and thumbed to the back. There it was.

  Clarinet Concerto by Mozart. Mr. Wayne had given me the second movement. I wondered what it would sound like and why he thought it was perfect for me. My mouth felt so dry, I ran my tongue over my lips, wishing I’d brought up a bottle of water.

  I laid the music flat and looked at it. It wouldn’t hurt to just try. The closet felt cozy with the door closed—like a cocoon. That made me smile. I was the caterpillar in my cocoon, and I could play inside as beautifully as a butterfly.

  I filled my lungs with air and started slowly. The melody flowed out, raising goose bumps along my arms. The piece was a little sad, but a lot beautiful. I lifted my shoulders, imagining myself on a stage with bright lights above and a whole audience of Dr. Halladys listening. Da dee de dee la la lee laaaaa. The music built around me, and in my mind I could hear the audience murmur at my amazing talent.

  I finished, listening as the last note echoed into perfect silence. Then the applause began. Thank you. Thank you. I bowed as the audience stood up, clapping and whistling.

  If only.

  If only I could play like I wanted to in my dreams, District Honor Band would be just the beginning. I’d try out for Wind Ensemble, and no one would imagine me not making it. Not even myself.

  I folded up the solo and stuffed it away.

  It was nice to dream about, but I couldn’t stay in the closet where I was talented and brilliant and never got nervous. I had to face reality.

  Lori and I hadn’t talked again about her duet with Michael. But I’d thought about it all day. What happened if she started to like him even more? Would she give him extra help? Secretly want him to make it instead of me? I tried to stop myself, but the thoughts would push up like weeds, and when I yanked one out, another would shoot up. But I trusted Lori.

  My stomach clenched. I had to.

  I sank back into the shadows and went to work on the duet.

  Chapter 14

  “So when we get there,” I said, “we’ll pretend we’re having a really great time.” I dodged a pile of broken glass on the sidewalk and glanced over at Aaron.

  He shot me a funny look. Well, maybe it wasn’t a funny look. Maybe it was just that Aaron looked funny. Not funny, actually. Different.

  “What?” he asked.

  “Nothing,” I said, realizing I’d been staring. It was almost seven, and the sun had just gone down. There were still a few streaks of red and orange painted across the clouds. Arizona had beautiful sunsets, but it was the pollution that caught the light and made all the colors. It was weird how something so good came from something so bad.

  The streetlights had just clicked on, but it wasn’t dark-dark. Not so dark that I couldn’t see Aaron looked so not like … Aaron.

  His hair, usually flopped over his eyes, had been brushed back over his forehead, the red highlights almost copper in the fading light. He’d even dressed different tonight, matching a gray polo and black jeans. He seemed taller and, I don’t know … cool. Like if you didn’t know who he was and you just saw him walking along the street, you’d peg him for a popular kid.

  “You’re staring again.”

  “Sorry,” I said. “I just don’t think I’ve ever seen you match before.”

  “That’s because I’m color blind.”

  “Oh, Aaron.” Embarrassment shot through me. “Really?”

  “No.” He smiled.

  I shoved his shoulder, knocking him off balance for a second, and then we both laughed.

  “I guess I never really cared about it before.” He shot me a hesitant look. “But maybe I’ll match more often.”

  I’d tried to look different, too. I wore a pink cami with a short white sweater that was more for fashion than warmth. I had on white capris, and I’d painted my toenails pink to match the cami. I wore my
hair in a pony like usual, but I’d put clips in the front the way Lori said it looked best. I could feel the weight of it along the back of my neck, but in a good way. I still screwed up with eye pencil half the time, but tonight I’d done it right. I’d even managed to get the mascara on without stabbing my eyeball.

  It was over a mile to the school, but I didn’t mind the walk. Mom would pick me up after the game, or I’d call if I was going home with the Van Sants. It was kind of nice to walk. It felt normal—kicking rocks and looking up for the first sign of stars.

  “By the way,” I said, “thanks.”

  “For what?” Aaron asked.

  His clarinet case bounced against his leg. Aaron played with the B-Rockers. They called themselves that because they played at school basketball games. There were only eight kids in the group, and they pulled on matching shirts and sunglasses every home game and played rock and roll during halftime. Mr. Wayne grumbled that the music would rot your ears, but he got the school to pay for the sheet music. They weren’t bad.

  “Thanks for thinking of this,” I said. “You were right. I don’t think Lori even realizes how she’s been acting. If I say something, she thinks it’s because I don’t like Michael.”

  “She’ll figure it out,” he said.

  “She better. I want things to get back to how they were.” My voice caught as I thought of Mom. She’d been so happy today; I thought something good had happened with Dad. But it wasn’t that at all. She’d gotten her nurse costume for the play.

  “You okay?” Aaron asked. His eyes had dark rims around lighter brown irises—I’d never noticed before with his hair so shaggy.

  “Yeah,” I said. “I’m fine.”

  But those eyes wouldn’t let go. He watched me as if he really saw me. As if he knew. It felt … I don’t know. Not embarrassing like it should, but nice. Without meaning to, I said, “Actually, no. I’m not okay.”

  He nodded, but I could tell he was waiting for more.

  “It’s my parents. This separation is completely messed up. My mom is doing community theater, and my dad has this new job so he’s hardly ever around. They say they want to work things out, but they never even talk.”