She hoists the basket with a quick small motion and one of the doves flies up.
A few people clap, but everyone is still waiting.
She tilts the basket and hoists it up harder. The second bird falls out and lands on the concrete with a dull thud.
Another silence. In one quick move, the groom’s father kicks the corpse into the bushes.
No one says a word.
Lorinda gives an exasperated look and pulls on the groom’s arm. “Let’s just go.”
As they get into the limousine, a few people begin to clap and everyone joins in.
“Congratulations!” someone calls out.
Tripp’s mom looks like she’s going to be the next one to hit the pavement.
“It’s not your fault,” he whispers. “You did a great job.”
She throws him a doubtful glance.
“Really, Mom. They gave you a very elderly bird.”
She smiles.
His hugely generous heart has leapt free of the cage of anger to bestow compassion on the lowly Termite in her time of need. He can only hope she will remember this.
POST OFFICE; 2:22 P.M.
Annie gives her application package to the clerk, takes the large padded envelope from Lyla’s hand, and sets it on the counter. “They’re both going to the same place.”
“Anything fragile, liquid, or perishable in these?” the clerk asks.
“Just our fates,” Annie says to him, and he laughs.
“An application and a DVD,” Annie’s mom says. “The girls are applying for a special music school. Priority mail, please.”
Annie grins at Lyla. “This is sooooooo exciting.”
He stamps PRIORITY MAIL on each envelope.
“Do you have a good-luck stamp you can put on it?” Annie asks.
The clerk smiles again and shakes his head. Annie’s mom pays, and, as he tosses their envelopes in a shipping bin, Lyla feels her stomach drop.
“Good luck,” he says. “Next in line.”
“Now all we have to do is wait,” Annie says. “The suspense is going to literally kill me. I’m going to die.”
“Yeah,” Lyla says. “The headlines are going to read: Two girls got accepted into the Coles Conservatory of Music but died of suspense before finding out.” As soon as it is out of her mouth, she knows she’s just going through the motions. I don’t want to go to Coles. She says the truth to herself as they walk out.
“Enough of this!” Annie’s mom says. “We’re going to celebrate. It was a project just getting those applications together and out the door. What’ll it be? Ice cream or frappuccinos?”
SEPTEMBER 29. MONDAY.
PRACTICE ROOM B; 11:37 A.M.
Dear Ms. Even,
I have superhuman ear cilia to pick up vibes, and your even-day vibes have been all over this guitar. So on Friday I snuck in and stood next to the practice room door and hearkened. At first I thought it was all in vain because there was cello music, but I pressed my ear to the crack in the door and lo and behold what did I hear? The beat-beating of the telltale heart? The tiny hooves of reindeer? No. I heard this guitar. Scales.
Liar liar strings on fire, you are playing this guitar. The cello music on the computer is your cover. You have that on so nobody hears you playing the guitar.
So you’re a closet guitar player, Lyla Marks. I have two theories. Number One, you secretly want to be a Rock Goddess, but you are worried that people will make fun of you because you are quite the opposite of a Rock Goddess. (Rock Goddesses use picks, play power chords, and wail.) Or Number Two, you read in a book that you can play the cello even more perfectly than you already do if you strengthen your fingers by playing another instrument and so you’re just doing this so you can play Bach more beatifically and add mozzarella to your Mozart, which will give you an edge so you become a cello star. Which one is it?
—Mr. Odd Day
SEPTEMBER 30. TUESDAY.
PRACTICE ROOM B; 11:48 A.M.
Dear Mr. Odd,
How pleasant to think of you stalking me. What business of yours is it if I am playing the guitar? You do not own it.
Okay. I am playing it. Are you happy? And I don’t have to tell you why. Please do not tell anybody. It’s not because I’m embarrassed or anything. It’s just that there’s a lot of pressure on me. I am playing a solo in front of the entire school on Friday, and I have a Kennedy Center audition on Saturday. I really should be practicing.
—Ms. Even
P.S. Did you put the strings on right? They are messed up at the top. You should ask Mr. Jacoby if it’s okay to fix the scratches on the front. There’s this wood filler stuff you can get in a tube. Look it up on the Internet.
OCTOBER 1. WEDNESDAY.
PRACTICE ROOM B; 11:39 A.M.
Dear Ms. Even,
This is the guitar writing. Your secret love for me is safe with Mr. Odd. He does not engage in gossip.
I am somewhat hurt by the casual remarks about “fixing” my scratches. Does everything have to look perfect to be worthy? If you would only hearken! I have a great sound—warm and golden—especially with the new strings that the talented and charming Mr. Odd put on, and, indeed, he put them on right. Some people clip the ends of the strings off close to the tuning peg and some people make “loops” at the top.
Perhaps Mr. Odd likes the mess at the top. A reminder that life is messy.
—The Guitar
P.S. Scales are boring. If you’re going to play, play.
OCTOBER 2. THURSDAY.
PRACTICE ROOM B; 11:36 A.M.
Dear Mr. Odd,
You are indeed odd.
—Ms. Even
OCTOBER 3. FRIDAY.
ROCKLAND SCHOOL AUDITORIUM; 9:04 A.M.
“… and now to play Allegro Appassionato by Camille Saint-Saëns … here is Lyla Marks.” Mr. Handlon nods at Lyla, who is waiting in the wings.
Applause.
Lyla picks up her cello and walks to the black metal folding chair that is waiting for her onstage. Her dad is standing off to the side with his video camera on a tripod.
Her heart is pounding. Tripp’s words are in her head: If you’re going to play … play. As she sits, she feels the eyes of the audience on her face. Someone calls out something, and a few students laugh.
She imagines that she is not Lyla. She is a fake one, with arms made of metal, the one programmed to perform today. A computer chip in her brain will fire the neurons that will make her fingers move. The real Lyla is still waiting in the wings.
She lifts her bow and begins.
SPANISH CLASS; 10:53 A.M.
Greetings, Ms. Even,
I’m in Spanish class right now and I’m bored out of my finely constructed skull. To stay awake, I could either chew on the spiral binding of my notebook thus inducing metal poisoning or I could ask you this question about the International Culture thing. Please don’t take this the wrong way.
I was there first period, sitting in the back, not paying any attention at first because assemblies are always a joke, and then Mr. Handlon introduced you.
Two guys in front of me snicker. “What’s she gonna play?” one of them says.
“ ‘The Fart of the Bumblebees’ by Mozart,” the other guy says, and they both laugh.
“Play some Lady Gaga,” the first guy calls out.
Just so you know that wasn’t me.
I don’t know if you saw it, but a paper airplane flew from the back to the middle of the auditorium, and some people laughed. You looked up then like they were laughing at you, but they weren’t. People laugh at flying paper.
You sat down and started to play like it didn’t really matter if anybody heard you or not.
Everybody got quiet, the two guys in front of me even. One of them says, “She must practice fifteen hours a day.” Awe. Respect.
But that’s not why I’m writing.
Here’s why I’m writing. I looked at your face really carefully, and I think you’re faking it. You make your face look like
you’re into your music and everything, but I don’t think your emotions were real. You weren’t really thrumming.
Am I right? I’m not criticizing you. I’m just fascinated by people faking things, so I guess I just want to know, does playing the cello make you happy?
—Mr. Odd
P.S. I hope you don’t think I’m stalking you or anything because I’m not, but I saw you at your locker yesterday, so I’m thinking, why not slip this note into your locker instead of the guitar case because that way you’ll get it today instead of waiting until Monday. Not that it makes any difference really.
Tripp finishes writing the P.S. and folds the note. The three vents near the top of Lyla’s locker look like the gills of a fish, like the locker is alive and needs to exhale. Tripp feeds the folded end of his note into the top slit and hears the phump of it landing in the creature’s stomach. Too late to get it back.
ROCKLAND HALLWAY; 11:26 A.M.
Lyla opens her locker to get her lunch. A small tent of folded paper is sitting on her locker floor, writing scrawled on both sides.
As a locker ahead of her slams and a girl laughs, Lyla opens the note and reads.
It’s like the words have been written with fire and she’s breathing the flames straight into her lungs.
A freckle-faced girl taps her. “You were so good this morning!” the girl gushes, her arm linked in the arm of her friend.
“Unbelievably good,” the friend says.
Lyla feels herself smile and hears herself say thanks. The girls walk on, and Lyla turns to the letter again, holding her breath.
I just want to know, does playing the cello make you happy?
Annie’s squeal startles her. She’s coming her way. Quickly, Lyla folds the letter and puts it into the back pocket of her jeans.
“We have twenty-seven hours until the Kennedy Center audition!” Annie is breathless. “I’m soooo lucky today is an odd day. I can practice. Come with me and we’ll kick Tripp Broody out. Of all days, today you should have the practice room.”
Lyla can’t think.
Annie pulls her down the hall. “I really want you to sleep over tonight, Lyla. If you don’t, I’m going to be neurotic about the audition all night. Ask your dad again.”
They walk down the hall. “He said no. He wants us to be well rested. And he thinks we should drive separately.”
“He doesn’t trust my mom’s driving skills.”
Lyla laughs. They stop at the intersection where they will go their separate ways.
“Oh!” Annie grabs Lyla’s arm. “Curt said Jacoby put up the sign-up sheet for the talent show. What time slot do you want to go for?”
“Annie, can we talk about this later? I’m feeling so overloaded.” Lyla stops breathing for a moment. She and Annie don’t really talk, do they? Annie just bulldozes over everything Lyla says. She presses her pocket, crinkling the stiffness of the paper.
I just want to know, does playing the cello make you happy?
“Fine, but we’re signing up on Monday before the good slots get taken.”
Lyla stops. “Hey, Annie. Do you have Tripp Broody in any classes?”
“No. Why?”
Lyla hesitates. “He stuck this note in my locker.”
Annie’s voice pierces Lyla’s eardrum. “WHAT? He’s an alien. What does it say?” She lowers her voice to a whisper and comes closer. “Does he like you? You cannot go out with Tripp Broody. I’m going to pick a boyfriend for you, and you’re going to pick one for me, and we’re going to all go out together.”
“I’m not going out with him. It was just a comment. Forget it.”
“What did he say?”
“It was just about the assembly. It was nothing. See you la—”
Annie grabs her. “You can’t just say it was about the assembly. I need details.”
“He said I was good, but that I looked like I was faking it.”
“What is that even supposed to mean? He is sooooooo bizarro. Beanie said he made some rude comment to her on the first day. Did I tell you how rude he was when I asked him to switch? Do not listen to him!”
“I won’t. Promise you won’t say anything to him.”
“I have no interest in saying anything to him,” Annie says, heading toward the music hallway and calling back, “We’re talking about this later!”
“It’s not a big deal, Annie!” Frustrated, Lyla turns and walks toward the cafeteria.
As soon as she arrives at her usual table, all her friends tell her how great she was this morning. She smiles and says thank you and tries to embrace the routine. She is Lyla Marks the cellist. This is the way it has always been. She needs to stop thinking odd thoughts about the cello exploding and needs to stop being annoyed by everyone complimenting her and needs to stop panicking when it’s time to practice or play. Mr. Odd is making it worse. It isn’t fair of him to stare at her face during a performance. Who said he’s allowed to put her under a microscope? Before the lunch period ends, she escapes to the bathroom. There, she takes out her notebook and writes a reply to Mr. Odd. She’ll figure out where his locker is and slip it in.
Dear Mr. Odd,
I received your letter about me faking it. What a nice thing to tell someone before a big audition.
Before I start, I will ask the judges not to expect much because I will be playing without a soul and not thrumming, whatever that means. Oh, and I’ll make sure to return all the first-place trophies that I have received, since I must have won them by faking it.
—Ms. Even
OCTOBER 4. SATURDAY.
KENNEDY CENTER STUDIO L 105; 2:30 P.M.
Violinists are warming up in a separate studio, which is one consolation; a solid wall separates Lyla from Annie’s nervous buzzing. Lyla’s father is bad enough. He is sitting too close, drumming his fingers on his thighs and eyeing the cellists who are packing up and the two others who are still waiting to audition. “Wouldn’t you feel better if you played through your scales?” he asks for the second time.
She is holding her mother’s cello, trying to hide the dread on her face. Before she can answer, a woman with a clipboard walks in and calls her name.
Her dad stands up. Lyla nods and stands and gingerly picks up the instrument.
“Be careful going through the door!” her dad whispers, and then adds, “You’ll do great.”
“Beautiful instrument,” the woman says. Then she stops. “Lyla Marks.” Recognition flushes over her face. “You’re Gwendolyn Marks’s daughter!”
Her dad beams.
The woman’s eyes get watery. “I heard her with the National Symphony right upstairs,” she whispers to them both. “I think I’ll stand by the door and eavesdrop on this one!”
Lyla’s dad wishes her good luck again, and Lyla follows the woman across the hall.
Six judges are sitting in wooden chairs behind one long table. In the center of the room, an empty chair waits for her.
Lyla turns to fit the cello through the doorway.
“Good luck,” the woman whispers.
Lyla sits, trying to imagine what the judges are seeing in her face. Can they tell that she doesn’t want to be here? I will make a mistake, she says to herself, and they will reject me, and it will be over. She feels her mother’s ghost crouched inside the cello, peering at her.
She lifts her bow and plays, her fingers marching solemnly up and down the neck. She doesn’t make a single mistake.
OCTOBER 6. MONDAY.
PRACTICE ROOM B; 11:36 A.M.
Dear Ms. Even,
You took it the wrong way. I mean that you’re faking your enthusiasm, not your skill. You’re copying and repeating something that somebody wrote a long time ago, but you’re not into it. You’re like a machine. Just tell me if I’m right. I was at a wedding last week, and the musicians were like that. Really good, but not really playing.
Every time I pick up my guitar, I play. I don’t copy and repeat music that somebody else thinks is good. I play what’s in
side me. That’s what I mean by thrumming. When the vibrations of the music make your soul vibrate, you feel the thrum. It’s like you’re perfectly in tune with the song, as if you are the music and the music is you. It’s the only thing I do that feels right. I know Mr. Jacoby thinks I’m not a serious musician because I’m not in band or orchestra, but I think a serious musician is somebody who really thrums.
—Odd
OCTOBER 7. TUESDAY.
PRACTICE ROOM B; 11:37 A.M.
Dear Odd,
Thank you once again, O Wise One, for the enlightenment. I think a serious musician shares his or her music. What is the point of thrumming if you never do it outside of your little room?
I think it’s beautiful and profound that Saint-Saëns wrote something down and I can read the music and play it on a stage and add beauty to the world. I think it’s my responsibility to add beauty to the world. Perhaps this is why I also dispose of my own trash.
By the way, I came to the music room yesterday and stood outside the practice room, listening—or should I say, hearkening—to you play. I don’t have superhuman ear cilia like you do. I have regular ears, but I could still hear you. Do you ever play a real song or do you always play in that formless way, one guitar solo after another like a string of random phrases? Don’t take this the wrong way. You were probably playing your heart out, but how satisfying is it to play that way? Are you happy?
—E
OCTOBER 8. WEDNESDAY.
PRACTICE ROOM B; 11:42 A.M.
Dear Even,
Thank you so much for your encouraging comments regarding my music. I didn’t realize that my songs aren’t real. Do songs have to adhere to a form to be real? Do you always know where you are going when you walk? I enjoy peregrinating in a random fashion. Sometimes I enjoy peregrinating and eating a pomegranate at the same time. While I’m doing that, my phrases might meander, but what can I do?