“Tripp … you home?”
He puts his hand on his chest to see if he can feel the beating of his heart. He cannot. Has he died in bed? He closes his eyes and tries to hear his heart pumping blood through his veins. He gets up and looks at himself in the mirror.
Boom Boom. Boom Boom. He thumps his chest with his palm. Boom Boom. Boom Boom. Over the boomboom beat, he is dying to play a searing guitar solo. But alas, it is all in vain, all in vain, because Death—in the form of his mother—has eaten away the very thing he loves. Villain! Thy name is Termite!
As if on cue, his mother enters. She sees the book on his bed. “Edgar Allan Poe! Ooh. I remember those stories! Which one are you reading?”
He knows what she is doing. She is trying to engage him in a cheerful discussion about literature so that he will forget her cruel kidnapping of his guitar. He looks at her in the mirror. “I’m sure you know the assignment, Mom. It’s posted on Edline. And, yes, I finished reading it.”
“Well … I was just stopping in because I learned something interesting today. Did you know that your school offers peer tutoring during lunch hours?”
“No. No. No. No. No.”
“It would make such sense. You hate lunch anyway. You’ve told me that.”
He can’t tell her about the practice room. She would pull the plug for sure.
“I think I should sign you up for it,” she says. “It’s a peer. You might hit it off. Make a new frien—”
“No. No. No. No. No—”
“I don’t understand that word.” She turns and leaves. “I’m signing you up.”
Villain!
He paces for a while, and then he opens his laptop and calls up the Slater Community Association website. After he finds the page for the Slater Creek Parkway Cleanup Committee, he clicks the sign-up button.
I would like to be chairperson for this committee: yes
Name: Terry Broody
E-mail address:
[email protected] Comment: I’m so excited to become a part of this great cause.
Submit: Yes
How wonderful of the Termite to sign up for such an important community-building event. Maybe she’ll even make some new friends!
SEPTEMBER 22. MONDAY.
PRACTICE ROOM B; 11:26 A.M.
Tripp Broody has left no trash in the room, not a single piece of paper, and Lyla realizes that she was hoping for another acerbic note.
Good, she tells herself. I shouldn’t waste my time with him. She sits on the bench and eats half a tuna fish sandwich and an apple and tells herself that, as soon as she is done, she will get out her cello. But after a few bites, she sets down her lunch and opens the guitar case. A note, folded, is tucked between the strings.
Dear Ms. Even,
You are well known for being absolutely perfect. Perfect grades. Perfect behavior. Perfect posture. Perfect attendance. Perfect class president. Perfect cello playing. Perfect best friend who plays perfect violin. I heard you sneeze once. Even that was perfect.
My question is, why choose to get all worked up about a trifle? How long did it take you to throw away my wastepaper products? 3 seconds? 3.5 seconds? Now, how much negative energy have you wasted being mad at me because of it? What is the point? Why couldn’t the candy wrapper on the music stand inspire you to write a song? That would be a positive way to handle it. Perhaps I’ll write one called “The Even Day Vibes.”
—Mr. Odd
Lyla reads it twice, mashes it into a ball, marches into the hallway, and throws it into the trash can. She comes back in and paces, four steps from wall to wall, her heart racing. Then she pulls out her notebook.
Dear Mr. Odd,
Thank you for enlightening me on the subject of why I am so petty and negative and shallow. Here are my apple core and the crusts of my tuna fish sandwich. I truly hope these objects inspire you.
—Ms. Even
She drops her sandwich crusts and apple core on the music stand like little bombs. She feels wicked, better somehow.
She paces. One, two, three, four. One, two, three, four.
Through the walls, she can hear the muted sound of Patricia Kent’s French horn. She should go next door and ask if she’d be willing to switch days with Annie, but instead, she gets out the guitar.
Two big scratches run down the front. The ends of the strings at the top are messy, coiled. He didn’t even bother to wipe off the dust.
She sits down on the bench with it. There’s a worn black strap, but she isn’t sure if she should put it on. How different to hold an instrument in her arms, like a big baby, instead of resting it against her body. She lays the fingers of her right hand on the strings. No bow.
Pluck. Pluck. Pluck. Pluck. Pluck. Pluck.
Funny. She was expecting to hear the notes C, G, D, A—the four strings of the cello—plus two more. It takes her a moment to figure out the pitches of the six strings: E, A, D, G, B, E.
She studies the neck. Is it fretted chromatically? Each fret a half note? Can she play a scale?
She experiments until she finds the E major scale. Plays it up and down. Then the E minor. Up and down. Each note rings out in the little room.
The strings are new. She can tell. New strings always have a bright sound.
As her fingers move through the scale, she tells herself that everything will be all right. She is Lyla Marks. She is just playing this guitar for a moment because it feels good to play it, and then she will pick up her cello because she is a cellist, and she is an A student, and she is Annie Win’s best friend, and her heart is beating normally, and everything is perfectly fine.
When the period is over, she puts the guitar away reluctantly. She tucks her note for Mr. Odd in between the strings, closes the case, and sets it back in the corner.
“Ah, Lyla.” Mr. Jacoby startles her. “Just the person I was looking for.”
Guilt shoots through her like adrenaline, and she spins around. Did he hear her playing the guitar? Did he see the apple core and the sandwich crusts on the music stand?
He holds the door for her and she picks up her cello. He follows her to the storage room, where she puts away her instrument. “You did very well on the Bach this morning.” He laughs. “That’s an understatement. I’ve never heard anything like it. International Culture Day assembly is October third, and Mr. Steig is hoping that a music department student will perform a short opening piece, and I’d love you to do something.” As they walk out of the storage room, he opens the file he is holding and pulls out the sheet music. “I was thinking of Allegro Appassionato by Saint-Saëns. I bet you know it. Or would you like to do another piece?”
She imagines telling him that she’d rather not play, imagines Mr. Jacoby disappearing in a puff of smoke.
He looks at her anxiously. She hears herself say yes she knows the Saint-Saëns piece and yes she’d love to play and thank you for asking, and his face jumps into a smile as he hands her the music.
“And it goes without saying that I’m hoping you’ll want to participate in the juried competitions this year,” he says. “The first one is in November, and I was thinking of this piece.” He pulls another piece of music out of the file and hands it to her. “Take a look at it and tell me what you think. I’d be happy to meet with you anytime after school or during lunch. I’m so excited to be working with you!”
She glances down at the music. A multitude of black notes race ferociously across the page, setting off ripples of panic that she feels in her chest.
“Better hurry or you’ll be late for your next class,” he calls out.
She stuffs the music into her folder. This is a good thing, she tells herself as she hurries down the hall.
SEPTEMBER 23. TUESDAY.
PRACTICE ROOM B; 11:23 A.M.
It is an odd day, and Tripp Broody is happy to be back in the little room.
Immediately, he smells something fishy and sour and then finds the source: crusts of what must’ve been a tuna sandwich and a withering appl
e core on the music stand. He opens the guitar case, reads her note, and laughs out loud. Leaving the trash was probably the worst thing Ms. Even Day has ever done in her A-plus perfectly obedient life. How fun it would be to call Mr. Jacoby in and show him the trash that the perfect Ms. Lyla Marks left behind, but he’d rather keep the exchange of notes going.
He puts her note in his pocket and, as he picks up the guitar, he notices that the black strap is half around one side of the guitar instead of underneath the body. As he positions the guitar on his lap, he feels like one of the three bears: Someone has been sitting in my chair; someone has been eating my porridge; someone has been playing my guitar.
He will write a new note. But first he wants to play.
“Ode to Apple Cores and Sandwich Crusts,” he thinks to himself, and he begins.
ROCKLAND HALLWAY; 3:14 P.M.
Lyla is at her locker, trying to decide what she needs to bring home, when Annie catches up with her.
“Guess who I overheard in the bathroom,” Annie says.
Lyla’s brain is spinning over details. English and science homework will be due on Thursday; algebra and French are due tomorrow. As she puts the books she needs into her backpack, she says, “Give me a clue.”
“They’re in your section in orchestra.”
“Brittany?”
“Yep. And that other girl. The new one who always braids her hair.”
“Julia.”
Annie nods, eyes flashing. “They said Jacoby gave you a solo for next week’s assembly.”
Lyla’s heart pounds. “It’s true.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I don’t know. I—”
Annie punches her arm. “Because you thought I’d hate you, which I do! You should’ve heard them. ‘Lyla gets everything.’ They really hate you.” She laughs.
“Oh. Thanks. Great news.” She closes her locker and pulls her cell phone out of her purse.
“You are envied, Lyla. That’s a good thing. If you didn’t have any talent or you were stupid, then nobody would envy you.” Annie pulls her down the hall.
“I’m not sure I want to be envied. Do you think we have a kind of reputation … like of being … perfect?”
“Of course!” Annie says.
“But maybe being perfect isn’t such a great thing.”
“What is wrong with you? Being perfect is what everybody wants to be.”
Lyla’s chest tightens. “I don’t think everybody wants to be perfect.”
“Those are just the poor peasants. Speaking of peasants, did you ask Patricia What’s-Her-Name to switch days with me?”
“She said no,” Lyla lies.
“NO? Why?”
Lyla shrugs. “Some schedule thing. It was complicated.”
“If Lyla Marks asked me to switch days, I’d say yes. Oooh. I hate her.”
“You don’t even know her. She felt bad about it.” Lyla’s cell phone rings.
“Let me guess,” Annie says. “How was school today, sweetie?” she asks in perfect imitation of Lyla’s dad.
Lyla has to laugh. “Hi, Dad,” she answers. “… yes …”
“Remind him that we’re staying for the Sweet Tooth Club,” Annie adds. “And say good-bye, sweetie.”
Lyla turns her back to her and finishes the conversation. As soon as she puts her phone away, Annie pulls her down the hallway.
“We can’t be late.”
Lyla winces. “I don’t know if I even want to be in Sweet Tooth.”
“We need Sweet Tooth.”
“Who says?”
Annie stops. “The Coles Conservatory of Music. I already put it on my Coles application, didn’t you? My mom said they look at stuff like clubs and community service. And Sweet Tooth is brilliant because it’s both a club and a community service project. ‘We donate all our sales to charity.’ Did you seal up your envelope yet?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Double-check. Put it in. When are you going to actually mail yours?”
“I don’t know.”
“Let’s go on Saturday to the post office. I’ll get my mom to drive us and we can mail them at exactly the same time. It’ll be good luck. Just think, next year at this time, we’ll be at Coles and—”
“You keep saying that. We haven’t even applied. We don’t know if we’ll even be invited to audition.”
“My mom said the fact that we did the conservatory camp this summer gives us an edge, plus we’ve been stars in Metz Youth Orchestra for the past gazillion years and we aced all the state competitions last year. And now we’ll have Sweet Tooth to show we are community-minded. Oh, I already put that lunchtime thing where we tutor little people with small brains to show we’re smart—”
“It might not be possible to do all that,” Lyla says.
“Shut up!”
“We can’t do the lunchtime tutor thing together anyway because of the practice room thing.”
“We do the tutor thing on the days we’re not in the practice room. Patricia What’s-Her-Name deserves to rot. If she traded, then we could do everything on the same days.” Annie leans in. “Well, put it down on your application and sign up for it anyway. I already did. We have to do everything we can.”
Lyla groans, and Annie gives her a look. “All right, Lyla. We can quit Sweet Tooth after we get in to Coles.”
“First of all, we might not get in to Coles. Second of all, we can’t just quit Sweet Tooth whenever we want!”
Annie rolls her eyes. “What do you think, they put us in handcuffs? YOU MUST BAKE FOR GOOD CAUSES!”
Lyla laughs. “They might.”
“Okay, then we won’t quit.” Annie steers Lyla down the next hallway. “We’ll just take it over and become Cupcake Dictators and eat all the baked goods and become even more well rounded. Très, très round! That’s what we did with The Quill last year.”
“We did not.”
“We did, too. We totally took it over. We made it thirty-two pages instead of sixteen. Color instead of black and white. We got to use the lounge instead of the media center, and basically, Mr. Jordan just said yes to whatever we wanted.” Annie pulls Lyla into a classroom and then whispers: “Marisse and Casey are here. Smile.”
Lyla forces the corners of her mouth up.
SEPTEMBER 24. WEDNESDAY.
PRACTICE ROOM B; 11:46 A.M.
Dear Ms. Even,
You have been playing this guitar, haven’t you?
—Mr. Odd
Dear Mr. Odd,
I do not play the guitar. I play the cello.
—Ms. Even
SEPTEMBER 25. THURSDAY.
PRACTICE ROOM B; 11:37 A.M.
Dear Ms. Even,
The guitar is crushed. It wants to be played. Thankfully, it has me.
—Mr. Odd
SEPTEMBER 27. SATURDAY.
THE BROODYS’ CAR; 11:03 A.M.
Tripp’s mom eases the car out of the driveway and puts the air conditioner on full blast. “I bet Lorinda is nervous,” she says. “Take those things out of your ears, Tripp. It’s rude.”
“Lorinda is an unpleasant stick insect who deserves any unhappiness that might come her way,” Tripp says flatly, tucking his earbuds into his pocket.
“Don’t say that! She’s your cousin.”
“Lorinda tied me to a chair, put a sock in my mouth, and locked me in Aunt Gertrude’s attic when I was four.”
“She did not.”
“I was traumatized, Mom. You have chosen to block this and the numerous other acts of Lorinda’s evil out of your system. She pinned me down another time and tried to literally replace my pupils with watermelon seeds. I don’t care if she is related to us. The girl is insane.”
They drive for a while and then his mom pulls into a store parking lot and gets out.
“What are you doing?” Tripp asks.
“Picking up the doves.” The door slams. Tripp watches her try to run in her black patent leather heels. She comes out two
minutes later carrying a wicker basket shaped like a heart, and she hands it to Tripp. “It’s too hot for September,” she says. “I’m going to die in this dress.”
Through the slats in the basket, Tripp can see a black eye. He lifts the lid slightly. “They’re pigeons,” he says. “They look drugged.”
“Doves.” She buckles up and pulls out. “After the wedding ceremony, I’m supposed to open the cage and release the birds. It’s like a symbol of their love.”
“The basket stinks.” Tripp puts it in the backseat. “Somebody sprayed it with fake-flower perfume.”
“Better that than bird droppings,” his mom says.
When they arrive, the church is packed. A trio of musicians is playing a slow, plodding melody. Piano, flute, classical guitar. The groom and four groomsmen are standing on the right, looking hot and uncomfortable. Tripp is dying to grab the guitar and run.
The parents of the groom walk down the aisle, and then the mother of the bride comes, his mom’s older sister, who always wears the same bitter expression.
Tripp nudges his mom to look at the priest, who is asleep in a chair next to the lectern. “The music bored him to death,” Tripp whispers.
His mother’s eyes widen. “He better wake up.”
Tripp starts to laugh and she shushes him.
The priest wakes up, the wedding begins, and the musicians play another coma-inducing tune.
To stay awake, Tripp slips cracker crumbs that he has found in his pocket into the birds’ basket. One of the doves pecks up the crumbs as soon as they drop. The other dove doesn’t move. They haven’t made a sound. What kind of bird remains silent when imprisoned? he wonders. Shouldn’t they be screaming their heads off?
After the ceremony, they all gather in the stifling heat on the steps outside the church. The limousine pulls up, which is the cue for the birds.
Tripp’s mom holds up the basket and lifts the lid.
Nothing happens.