Guitar Notes (7 page)

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.

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.

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.

“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.

 OCTOBER 4. SATURDAY.

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.

 OCTOBER 7. TUESDAY.

 OCTOBER 8. WEDNESDAY.

Lyla reads the note several times, and then her phone buzzes with a text message from her dad.