I Heart Band (12 page)

Ten minutes later, I'd killed sixteen aliens and blown up three pods. “Wow, Trevor,” I said, not taking my eyes off the screen. “You've only killed twelve, huh? Better catch up.” Trevor grumbled something I couldn't understand.

By five twenty-five, I was really glad he didn't have a drink to “accidentally” spill in my lap. Especially when I hijacked his tank and used it to blow up my sixth pod.

“What—why did you—” he sputtered, throwing down his controller and glaring at me. Owen was lying on his side, laughing. I gave Worf a last pat on the head, then stood.

“Sorry, Trevor. Guess you just need a little more practice.” Smiling brightly, I picked up my backpack. “Bye, Owen!”

“Bye, Holly.” He was still laughing.

Halfway down the stairs, I heard Trevor mumble, “Dude, I wish you'd quit inviting her over.” I smiled to myself.

What a sore loser.

O
ne friendship fixed, two more to go.

Before school on Monday, I stopped by the vending machines. When I got to English, I tossed a bag of M&M's on Gabby's desk. She glanced up in surprise.

“Sorry I was such a jerk last week,” I said. “I thought about what you said, and you're right.”

Gabby blinked. “You mean about Natasha?”

“Yup.” I sat down at my desk. “She's Julia's friend, and I need to just . . . deal with it.”
Until Julia realizes she's evil
, I added in my head.

“Cool.” Gabby ripped open the bag, and I accepted a handful of M&M's. “She's really pretty nice, Holly. I think you'll like her once you get to know her.”

I put on my biggest smile. “I bet you're right.”

Not.

But until she and Julia and everyone else realized how awful Natasha was, I was going to fake it. I'd be so over-the-top nice, I'd out-fake Natasha herself (if that was even humanly possible). I'd be nice even when she started going on and on about herself. Even when she flirted with Aaron during band because he sat behind us and she knew it bothered me. Even when she droned on and on about debate team during lunch (and anyway, eating in the girls bathroom was getting seriously old).

If Natasha and I at least fake–getting along would make Julia happy, then that's what I'd try to do. Because I was Julia's best friend, and I wasn't giving up that title without a fight.

For the rest of the week, I stuck with the plan. Julia's history test was next Wednesday, and she had to pass if she was going to play at the football game. Lunch every day pretty much consisted of her crumbling cookies all over her notes without ever eating a bite, Natasha drilling her endlessly with those stupid flash cards, and me trying to sit at an angle so I could stare at Aaron across the cafeteria without being totally obvious.

“Holly?”

I glanced at Julia, blinking, and she laughed.

“I said your name, like, four times. What are you staring at?”

Hastily, I pointed at the front of the lunch line. (I was
not
in the mood to discuss Aaron in front of Natasha.)

“Seth is over there,” I said, giving Julia a pointed look. “If he comes over to say hi again, try to remember his name.” I paused for emphasis. “It's
Seth.
”

Julia kicked me under the table, laughing. “For your information, we had an actual conversation in PE yesterday.” She pulled out another handful of crackers before adding, “It was about how bad the weight room smells. But still.”

The three of us spent pretty much the rest of lunch talking about Seth Anderson, the gym, and how it was kind of gross that the winter dance was in the stinkiest room in the entire school. Everything felt normal, almost. Until Natasha started talking about what to wear to the dance.

“I'll definitely need to go shopping in a few weeks,” she said. “Get something new, you know?”

“I've already got something new—that red dress,” Julia replied, popping a cracker into her mouth. “I mean, I didn't get to wear it to the band party.”

At the words “band party,” I flinched. None of us looked at one another.

“Right. You should totally wear that,” Natasha said at last. I nodded mutely, and Julia went back to destroying her crackers.

I couldn't wait to get to science. Band and lunch were so awkward every day, it was quickly becoming my favorite class.

How pathetic.

Owen had already made a new batch of cards for the chapter we started this week. And hey, at least I wasn't totally lost anymore. In fact, the labs were actually starting to make sense.

At the end of class on Thursday, Mrs. Driscoll gave us all a sheet to take home.

“‘Fifteenth Annual Oak Point School District Science Fair,'” I read, making a face. “Yuck.”

“Please give this to your parents and mark it on your calendars,” Mrs. Driscoll announced. “The fair isn't until May, but participation is mandatory. You and your lab partner will begin working on your project at the start of next semester. Yes, for a grade,” she added when Trevor raised his hand. “We'll discuss this more before winter break.”

“How fun,” I muttered.

“I know!” Owen exclaimed. I glanced at him and bit my lip to keep from laughing, because he obviously meant it. “Hey, are you coming over today?”

“I can't,” I replied. “I'm staying after school to practice for the chair test next week without Chad pounding on my wall.”

Owen smiled. “You really want to beat Natasha, huh?”

“No.” Apparently I said it too quickly, because he laughed. “Okay, yeah, I do. But not just because of Natasha. I want another shot at the horn solo. After the whole pep rally thing, I need to redeem myself.”

And I meant it, too. Yes, seeing my name above Natasha's would be pretty sweet. Okay,
very
sweet. But I was irritated with myself for screwing up so badly last Friday. When I got to the band hall after school, I made sure Mr. Dante saw me through his office window before heading into a practice room. He waved at me from his desk.

I started with a quick warm-up, then took out the chorale. It was weird—the chorale really was pretty easy, but . . .

I didn't sound bad, and I was playing it right. But it didn't sound
great.

After half an hour, I got up and knocked on Mr. Dante's open door. He glanced up from his computer.

“Hi, Holly,” he said. “What's up?”

“Would you listen to me play the chorale?” I asked. “I need help.”

“Of course!”

He followed me back to the practice room. I sat down, picked up my horn, and waited for whoever was playing in the room next to me to stop so I could concentrate.

Mr. Dante leaned against the wall and bowed his head, but I could tell he was listening closely. When I finished, I frowned.

“You don't look too happy,” Mr. Dante said.

“Well, it's just that I played it right,” I said. “But it sounds . . . blah.”

He laughed. “Blah?”

“I mean, it just . . .” I shrugged. “It's boring.”

“Okay.” Mr. Dante tilted his head. “So is it the music that's boring?”

“Maybe,” I said with a grin, and he laughed again. “No, it's me. I can't make it sound good.”

I tried not to show how much this bothered me. I knew the chorale wasn't boring, because we played it in class and I sat next to Natasha.

And I would never say this to anyone, but she made it sound
amazing
.

“So what do you think you're doing wrong?” Mr. Dante asked. I studied the music, frowning again.

“I don't know. I didn't miss any notes, I played all the rhythms right, I did all the dynamics, I—”

“What you're saying,” Mr. Dante interrupted, “is that technically, you played it perfectly.”

I blushed. “Well . . . yeah.”

“You're right.” He smiled. “You
did
play it perfectly. But music is about more than just playing something perfectly, right?”

“That's what Gabby said!” I exclaimed. “But I just . . . I don't really understand. What do you mean?”

Mr. Dante leaned forward and tapped the sheet of paper on my stand. “What's this?”

“Uh . . . my music?”

“This piece of paper is music?”

“Oh,” I said. “No . . . it's paper with music written on it.”

“Right,” he said. “It's kind of a road map. Tells you what notes to play, how loud or soft to play them, what tempo—all that stuff. Will it sound exactly the same way with every musician, even if they do all that right?”

I drummed my fingers on my horn. “Probably not?”

He smiled. “Probably not. It's up to the musician to actually make
music
out of it. You said you talked to Gabby about this—what do you think about her playing?”

“She's
amazing
,” I said without hesitation.

“Why? Because she plays it perfectly?”

I kind of saw where he was going with this. “Well . . . no. I mean, she doesn't make any mistakes or anything, but that's not why she sounds so good.”

“So what's the difference between how she sounds, and how you think you sound?”

I concentrated, remembering what Gabby sounded like on our first chair test. The music had been so easy, but it didn't sound boring at all when she played it.

“I don't know!” I sat back in my chair, frustrated. “I know it sounds different, but I don't know why.”

“Sure you do,” Mr. Dante said. “Music isn't notes on paper, right? It's a way of expressing ideas and emotions. You like listening to Gabby play because when she does, she's
saying
something.”

I stared at him. I so badly wanted to understand, and when I thought about Gabby, I kind of did, but . . .

“I don't know how to do that. ‘Say something,' or whatever.”

“Then that,” Mr. Dante said with a smile, “is something we're going to have to work on this year.”

After he left, I gazed at the chorale for a little while, thinking. The person in the practice room next to me was working on it now, and they sounded great. Sitting up straight, I listened more closely.

Yup, that was definitely a trumpet.

Stomach tingling, I packed up my horn and folder and walked into the hall. When I paused outside of the next door and peered through the little window, the tingles turned to major flip-flops.

Apparently my hand had a mind of its own, because it knocked without my permission. Aaron glanced up, and I opened the door, embarrassed. He smiled at me.

“Hey, Holly!”

“Hi!”
Oh my God
. I didn't know what to say. Why had I knocked?

Luckily, Aaron spoke before the silence got awkward. “Was that you practicing next door? You sounded really good.”

“Thanks!” I said, trying not to look like I wanted to turn cartwheels down the hall. “I guess I need the practice after how bad I screwed up at the pep rally.”

Aaron laughed. “You mean the solo in the march?”

I felt my face get warm, even though he hadn't said it meanly. “Yeah. It was awful.”

He shook his head. “Don't worry about it. Last year at the first football game, my first valve got stuck before we played the fight song, and I didn't notice. You know how the fight song starts, right?”

I nodded. (It started with a trumpet fanfare.)

Aaron pressed the valve and twisted it a little so it stayed halfway down. Then he lifted the trumpet to his mouth. “So we start the fight song, and this happens.”

When he played, the most ridiculous noise I'd ever heard came out of his trumpet. I knew exactly what Chad would say it sounded like, but I wasn't going to say that because it was gross.

I did double over laughing in the doorway, though. Aaron grinned.

“Yeah, that's pretty much what everyone did,” he said. “Mrs. Wendell had to start the song over again because half the trumpets were laughing instead of playing.”

“Sorry,” I managed to say, but I couldn't stop giggling.

He shrugged. “It's all right. I laughed, too. It
was
pretty funny.”

“Yeah, it must have been.”

“Anyway, it was way worse than the pep-rally thing,” he said. “I promise.”

“Thanks,” I said. “That makes me feel better.”

It made me feel a
lot
better, apparently. Because I couldn't stop smiling for the rest of the day.

“A
re you
seriously
studying on a Saturday
again
?”

“Chad!” I yelled, glaring at him. “Can you
seriously
just please knock before you barge into my
room?”

Rolling his eyes, Chad stepped back into the hall and shut my door. A second later:

Thud. Thud. Thud.

What a baby.

“Oh, just come in.” Rolling my eyes, I turned my attention back to the cards scattered over my desk.

“I just downloaded
Deep Cove
,” Chad said. “Wanna watch?”

I chewed my lip, shifting the cards around. “Maybe later, if that's okay. I need to finish this.”

“You're kidding, right?” He picked up one of the cards and snorted. “What is all this?”

I grabbed the card out of his hand. “If you must know, I'm making these to help Julia. She's failing history.”

“What's with all the dorky pictures?”

Sighing, I separated the cards into two groups. “These are my friend Owen's,” I said, patting them. “He made this game in sixth grade to study history. I'm trying to make a game like it for Julia, only for seventh-grade history, obviously.”

Chad stared at me dumbly. “A game?”

“Yeah.” I stacked up Owen's cards and made two piles. “It's pretty cool, actually. See, this stack is all important people and events and stuff like that, and that stack is dates and places. Each player gets an even mix of cards from both stacks. So say you and I were playing, and I put down this card with Stephen F. Austin. You could win the hand if you had—”

“Oh my God, Holly.” Chad was doing the squinty thing again, like it hurt to use his brain that much. “No offense, but your boyfriend sounds like a nerd.”

“He's not a nerd,” I said, standing up. “And he's my friend, not my boyfriend. Now get out so I can finish.” I pushed Chad into the hallway and shut the door.

“What about
Deep Cove
?” he yelled.

“After dinner, maybe!” I yelled back, then sat down at my desk.

I was almost done making cards for all the people and events in the first three chapters of my history book. They didn't look nearly as good as Owen's, though. He had pictures on the back of each one of his, just like my science cards. And not like pictures he copied out of his textbook—original drawings. But these were even better than the ones he doodled during class. They were colored with ink so well, they almost looked like he'd printed them off his computer. One of the queens kind of looked like that troll from his napkin at lunch. Napoleon resembled one of the dwarves from
Snow White
.

It took forever to finish, but when I knocked on Julia's door Sunday afternoon I had all the cards we'd need to play the game in a plastic bag. (I'd done my best with the pictures, but most of them were pretty lame.)

“Hey!” Julia stepped back to let me in, eyeing the bag. “What's that?”

“This,” I said confidently, “is what's going to help you pass your history test Wednesday.”

An hour later, we were sitting on her bed studying our cards. We each had six left, plus two piles of the ones we'd already played. My pile was bigger, but Julia was improving fast.

“Battle of Velasco,” I said, tossing the card down. “So you can put a date or a place.”

Julia frowned at her cards. “Um . . .”

“Look.” I flipped the card over and read off the back. “‘This was the first battle between Mexico and Texas, and the—'”

“Got it!” Beaming, Julia put a card on top of mine.

“‘June 1832,'” I read. “That's right!”

Julia collected both cards. “Hey, we're almost tied now!”

“Yup.” I grinned at her. “See? You're getting it!”

“I know, I can't believe it.” Julia shook her head. “Seriously, thanks for doing this, Holly.”

“Anytime,” I said. “Are you still going to tutoring?”

“Yeah, Dad takes me to school early every morning. My parents were seriously not happy about that progress report.” Lowering her cards, Julia sighed. “And Natasha's been trying to help, too. But . . .”

I tried not to smirk. “It's not working?”

Julia shrugged. “She just . . . I don't know. History is pretty easy for her. That's why I didn't tell her when I failed the first few quizzes. I was embarrassed.”

I blinked. “You mean Natasha didn't know you were failing until progress reports came out?”

“Yeah.”

I pretended to study a card so Julia couldn't see how pleased I was. “Oh.”

Julia snorted. “You don't have to look so happy about it.”

Shaking my head frantically, I gave her my most innocent look. “I'm not!”

“Right.” Julia turned the Battle of Velasco card over and over in her hands. “You know, Holly . . .” She stopped. “Never mind.”

“What?”

She hesitated, then sat up straight. “Okay. Do you remember last year in English, when we had to memorize those poems and recite them in front of the class?”

“Yeah . . .”

“I was
so nervous
,” Julia said. “I seriously almost puked in the bathroom that morning.”

I stared at her. “Really? You never told me that.”

“Right—because remember how excited you were about it?” She grinned at me. “You got
so
into it.”

My cheeks felt warm. “I wasn't
that
excited.”

“Holly, you wore a costume!”

“It was just a hat,” I said defensively.

“You had props!”

“What, Chad's old stuffed monkey?” I exclaimed. “The poem was about the jungle! I just thought it would—” I stopped, because she was laughing. “Okay, what's your point?”

“My point is, I didn't tell you how nervous I was because you thought the whole thing was not only easy, but
cool
.” Julia smiled. “I'm saying . . . yeah, Natasha is kind of a know-it-all. But so are you.”

“Excuse me?” That stung, but I kept my tone light. “I am not!”

“Holly, I love you,” Julia said, still grinning. “But yeah, you are.”

“Okay, fine.” I put my cards down. “But I'm nowhere near as bad as Natasha.”

Julia's smile faded. “You really hate her, huh.”

I played with my card, not meeting her gaze. I didn't want to say yes . . . but I didn't want to lie to Julia anymore, either.

“Look, Sophie told me you guys had a big fight at the band party,” Julia said at last.

Oh boy.

“Yeah, we did,” I said slowly. “And I—I don't know what Natasha told you, but I didn't—”

“She didn't tell me anything,” Julia interrupted. “Sophie said she heard you say something about me telling Natasha a secret about you, and then Natasha said you weren't my only friend. Or something like that. But Natasha never mentioned anything about it to me, and I never asked.”

I drummed my fingers on my knee, unsure of what to say. But Julia spoke again before I got the chance.

“I don't know what you guys were arguing about,” she said. “But Holly, of
course
I've never told Natasha a secret about you. Do you really think I'd do that?”

I winced. “No, I guess I don't. But . . .” I chewed my lip, and Julia stared at me.

“What?”

Ugh, I so did not want to say this. But I had to.

“I guess I just feel like maybe . . . maybe she's your best friend now.”

Julia's eyes widened. “What? Why?”

I took a deep breath.

“Because you spent the last day of summer break with her and didn't even call me. Because you told her about your first kiss before me. Because you barely know this girl and it just seems like you'd rather hang out with her than you would with me.”

After a few seconds, I forced myself to look at Julia. Her mouth was hanging open.

“Holly,” she said after a second. “I'm really sorry, I didn't know . . .” She paused, shaking her head. “Look. The day before school started, my dad dragged me all over the place shopping for school supplies. When we got home, Natasha called me, freaking out because they screwed up her schedule. I only asked her to come over because I think she was kind of nervous about starting at a new school.”

“It's okay,” I said hastily, already feeling guilty for bringing it up. “I—”

“No, listen.” Julia sat up straighter. “The whole Garrett thing. Come on, Holly—I was
dying
to tell you about him! But we barely got any phone time while I was at the beach. And I mean, Natasha and I lived in the same cabin at Lake Lindon. I told her because . . . I don't know, I just had to tell
somebody
, you know?

“But, Holly,” she went on before I could say anything. “You really think that means she's suddenly my best friend? That's just . . . there's no way. I promise.”

I swallowed hard, my eyes burning. “Thanks,” I whispered. Leaning across the bed, Julia hugged me.

“I have to ask you something, though,” she said, flopping back against her pillows. “Why don't you like her, really? You didn't, right from the very beginning. Before you found out about Garrett and all that. How come?”

“She just . . . she's really stuck-up.” It wasn't the first time I'd said that, but for some reason now it sounded lame. “I mean, it's like you said about history,” I added quickly. “You didn't want to ask her for help because you were embarrassed—well, that's
her
fault. And it's not the same as the poem thing in English last year—I thought that was fun, but I wasn't
bragging
about it! Natasha's always talking about how easy history is, how easy
all
her classes are, how she's like the queen of debate team, or whatever. She thinks she's so good at everything. Doesn't it annoy you?”

Julia bit her lip like she was trying not to laugh. “No. I meant what I said—she reminds me of you.”

I scowled. “Julia, I am
not
like her.”

“No?” Julia started ticking off points on her fingers. “You both play French horn, and you're both awesome at it. You're both total perfectionists. Seriously, you're the only people I know who plan out what you're going to wear for an entire
week
, Holly. You even kind of have the same taste in clothes. You both—”

“But I don't
act
like her!” I cried. “I don't go around telling everyone how great I think I am.”

“You don't?” Julia said. “What about this whole first chair thing? It's not just that you want it—it's that you think it's
wrong
that you didn't get it. Don't you?”

I opened my mouth to say no, but then I remembered standing near the buffet at Spins, talking to Gabby about the chair test.

I don't understand why Mr. Dante gave her first chair
.

“Why are you so upset about second chair?” Julia asked. “I mean, jeez! We're already in advanced band with a bunch of eighth-graders.
And
you beat the only eighth-grader in your section! You're really good, Holly, and everyone knows it. So why is getting first chair such a big deal?”

“Because, it's . . .” I stopped, staring at the cards spread out on the bed. “I don't know.”

“Because you're a perfectionist,” Julia said again. “And so is Natasha. Nothing wrong with that! And why do you think I got along with her so well at band camp, anyway? She reminded me of my best friend. Who I really, really missed.”

I didn't know what to say to that. Actually, I didn't want to say anything at all because there was a pretty good chance I'd cry.

Not because Julia had hurt my feelings—but because she was right.

“Look, maybe Natasha did act kind of . . . pushy at first,” Julia admitted. “But, I mean, she just moved and had to start a new school. I was the only person she knew. She was just nervous. You know?”

I thought about Natasha's face when Julia and I had made that big scene in the hall on the first day of school. Then I imagined what I'd feel like if I'd started seventh grade someplace new. Someplace away from Julia and all my friends.

“Yeah,” I said, and I was surprised to realize I actually meant it. “I know.”