Audition & Subtraction (11 page)

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.

“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.”

I stopped and took a breath. Okay, now I felt embarrassed. What could Aaron do about it? What could he say that everyone else hadn't said a million times?

“Never mind,” I said. “Forget all that.”

Somewhere in the yard beside us, cicadas buzzed in chorus.

“Humans should be like wolves,” he said.

I glanced at him, surprised.

“Gray wolves mate for life. Did you know that?”

I nodded, suddenly understanding. “Yeah. I saw the same show on Discovery.”

“I thought about that show a lot when my parents split.”

His voice was low and quiet, but his words worked through me, reaching someplace deep inside. “How long ago?”

“Three years.” He kicked at a rock, and it danced
across the gutter. “Wolves don't divorce and send the cubs back and forth every other weekend and twice a month on Wednesdays.”

“If wolves can do it, why can't our parents?”

“Exactly. Wolves probably have brains the size of a tennis ball.”

“Maybe we should have been born wolves.”

Aaron sighed. “Occasionally, they like to eat their babies.”

“That's a downside.”

We laughed, and the knots in my stomach loosened a little. The sound felt good—like music.

We crossed a street, the sky a plain, dark gray now, the sun shining on some other part of the world. “I keep thinking they'll work things out.”

“I used to think that, too,” he said.

“But it could still happen with my mom and dad. It's only been a couple of months.”

He didn't say anything. I thought maybe he nodded, or maybe I just wanted him to nod.

“Did your parents try to work it out?” I asked.

“Not really. It was kind of too late by then. My dad remarried a year later, and that was that. My mom dates—it's like auditions for a new dad every year.”

“How can you joke about it?”

“I don't know. I just do.”

“I couldn't,” I said. “If they split, I won't be able to handle it.”

“You just think that,” he said. “But your parents aren't together now, and you're doing okay.”

“I don't feel okay.”

He gave me a half smile. “That doesn't mean you're not handling it.”