Notes From An Accidental Band Geek (19 page)

“So?” AJ said. “Who’s running laps?”

I swallowed again. Next to me, Punk shifted. I stepped out of line.

“It was me,” I said, owning up to the comment. “I said it.”

Over AJ’s shoulder, Kip shook his head. And here’s another reason for him to love giving me the solo, I thought.

“Four laps, Chicken,” AJ growled, eyes narrowed behind his sunglasses. “
Run
!”

Obediently, I jogged to the sideline, everyone staring at me the entire time, embarrassed, yeah, but also proud that I was taking responsibility for what I’d done, instead of Punk going in my place. My mellophone safely on the ground by the thirty yard line, I took a breath and began my laps.

As much as I hated running, all of the marching and playing must have built up my stamina, because it didn’t feel as awful as it would have three months ago. I let my legs carry me around the track while my brain floated through all that had happened recently. Even though things were bad with Hector, Sarah, and Punk, I hoped I could make the changes I needed to, to be a better friend and straighten things out between us. By the time I finished my first lap the band was rehearsing again, the Sousa marches and spinning flags providing the backdrop for my “punishment.”

After my fourth lap, I was just a little out of breath. I grabbed my instrument and returned to my spot. On the way, I met Punk’s eyes. He grinned at me from behind his horn. I snuck looks at him every so often while we played, until he bumped me with his hip to knock it off. I grinned, but caught Jake frowning behind his trumpet. Had he seen? Did he care?

We finished rehearsing—Kip making us play “The Liberty Bell” section so many times I could do it in my sleep—and I turned to Punk.

“So what’s the deal?” I asked on our walk back to the band room. Jake, ahead of us, turned around, saw Punk and me, and kept going.

“Straight up?” He rolled the stud under his lower lip with two fingers. His hair was dyed blue today.

“Yeah. Straight up.”

He sighed. “You remind me of someone,” he said, eyes on the ground.

“Someone . . . ?” I repeated.

“Yeah.” He stopped walking and shifted from foot to foot. “Me.” He fiddled with the lip stud again.

“I remind you of you?” I asked, trying to sort things out. “Which is why you covered for me those times, walked me to French, and danced with me at the dance?” Punk was weirder than I thought.

“Yeah. Me—a little young, a lot of attitude, and not a lot of brains.” He grinned. “My big brother kept an eye out for me freshman year, so I thought I’d do the same for you.”

“Paying it forward?” I asked. We’d stopped just outside of the band room.

“Kinda. Or karma . . . whatever. But you’re a pain and make it hard.”

“Oh, thanks,” I said, oozing sarcasm. “You have to
earn
your karma points with me.”

“Sometimes people do things because they’re trying to be
nice,
not for any other reason, Elsie. You know . . .
niiiice
?” He drew the word out and cocked his head. Odd as he was, Punk meant what he said. He’d been trying to help me, and I’d been searching for ulterior motives. Put another tick mark in the “Elsie is an idiot” column.

“Nice,” I repeated. “
Nice.
I may have heard that word once or twice.” I reached up and gave him a big hug, grateful that we were back on good terms. “Thanks for watching out for me,” I said, adding Punk to my list of people to treat better. “I’ve kind of always wanted a blue-haired, facially decorated sibling.”

He patted my head. “At your service, petit poulet.”

 

 

 

Talking with Punk gave me hope that I could fix things with Sarah and Hector, if they’d give me the chance. Back in the band room, I whistled a strain from “Ode to Joy” while packing up my mellophone and gathering my stuff. When I turned around, I spotted Jake at his locker, back to me. I went over to say good-bye.

“Hey,” I said. Talking to him still made me feel awkward, giddy, and zingy all at the same time, like I was on the verge of doing something out of control. I liked the feeling, but it also freaked me out a little. Same with his smile—I’d see it, and couldn’t remember what I wanted to say, but I didn’t care.

But when Jake turned around, there was no smile on his face. There was no expression there at all, actually, just a guarded look in his eye.

“Hey,” he said, and went back to wiping down his trumpet.

So surprised by his anti-Jake greeting, I took a step back.

“Is, uhhh . . . everything okay?” I stammered, wondering if I’d imagined everything—the dance, the squeezed hands, the smiles, the escorts to class.

Jake folded up the dingy gray cleaning cloth and stuck it in his locker, keeping his attention on exactly what he was doing.

“I dunno,” he finally said. “You tell me.”

I had no idea what he was talking about. Without even knowing what the deal was, my eyes started to tear up.

“Tell you what?” I said. I tried to sound tough, to cover my struggle against tears.

His locker clicked shut. He turned to me. His mouth was in a tight line and his forehead furrowed. Even his hair, typically flopping over his eyes, seemed sad.

“Seriously, Elsie? What’s your deal?”

I had no idea what he was talking about. The band room had nearly emptied, and I knew I’d have to leave soon to catch the late bus home.

“My
deal
?” I repeated. “I have no deal.” There was an edge to my voice. I hadn’t done anything to Jake! Why was he being like this for no reason?

“Okay,” he said, and crossed his arms. “Fine. Maybe
you
don’t have a deal; does Punk?”

“Huh?” was what came out of my mouth, but what ran through my brain were the times that Punk had helped me out, covered for me in band, the Halloween dance, and, finally, today, me pursuing him around the field to get him to talk to me. In that instant, I saw what it probably looked like to Jake—that I liked Punk, not him, or that I was playing some sort of game.

Unfortunately, in the seconds that it took me to put everything together, Jake had turned away again, this time heading for the door. Me not saying anything was probably all he needed to hear.

“There is no deal,” I said, going after him.

“What is it, then?” he said. We were in the hall now, heading to the buses. Jake walked with stiff legs, hurt and anger trailing behind him.

“It’s just . . .” I trailed off, not sure how to explain things with Punk in the remaining steps to the bus. “He’s just looking out for me,” I tried. “That’s all.”

Jake shook his head slightly. “That’s all?” It came out sarcastic.

Inside, my emotions raced—angry, hurt, and embarrassed competed for the win.

“That’s all,” I said, hurt winning. The tears I’d been fighting spilled over and I swiped my eyes. “He’s a
friend
.”

We’d reached the buses. Jake stopped and faced me. I saw how upset he was, but I needed him to see that I was too.

Drained and exhausted from apologizing to everyone all day, “I’m sorry,” was all I could offer.

“Me too,” he said, and climbed onto his bus.

I watched his—and then mine—pull away from the curb. And I cried for the entire long walk home.

31

I saw the next few days through a near-constant blur of tears. Hector and Sarah were still ignoring me. Jake was still upset about the Punk thing, and although we’d spoken once or twice before history class, he stopped coming to my locker and I couldn’t remember the last time I’d seen one of his big smiles.

So I did what I do best: hole up and practice, practice, practice the bad feelings away. If I wasn’t playing Brahms on my horn, the rewritten Sousa solo was coming out of my mellophone. Thanks to my less-than-stellar mental state, both sounded like funeral dirges.

I came home on Tuesday afternoon, two weeks before Thanksgiving, to find my dad sitting at the table, a grim look on his face. Well, the grim look had been there ever since I told him I had taken the New York solo. It was just
more
grim, if that was even possible.

“What’s up? You ready?” I dropped my backpack on the floor and headed to the fridge. He was supposed to take me to Mr. Rinaldi’s. “My lesson’s in thirty minutes. Can you still drop me off?”

“Mr. Rinaldi just called,” Dad said. He took off his glasses and rubbed his face. “He had to cancel your lesson today.”

Halfway in the fridge, my hand wrapped around a package of cheese sticks, I couldn’t move. “What?” I asked. I stayed that way, hoping I’d misheard my father.

“He had to cancel. There’s been a family emergency.”

I left the cheese sticks where they were, straightened, and closed the door.

“
What?!”

“His wife is in the hospital. She may have had a stroke. It’s serious, Elsie.”

I felt terrible for Mr. Rinaldi. Mrs. Rinaldi was so nice—she always checked in on my lesson and complimented my playing. I hoped she was okay, but I needed my lessons! My feelings fizzled and popped like hot oil.

Everything I’d been holding together—the crazy practice schedule, the stress over Shining Birches and the new solo, the Hector/Sarah drama, and the Jake fight—came bubbling to the surface. This could not be happening. I
needed
Mr. Rinaldi—he played principal horn for the Boston Symphony before my dad took the job, he served on the faculty of Shining Birches for the past ten years, and last year sat on the audition panel. He knew what they wanted—and knew how to make sure I
became
what they wanted. I rested my head against the fridge door and fought tears.

“Unfortunately there’s nothing we can do,” my dad said calmly, seeming oblivious to my impending mental collapse. “These things happen.”

“No, it’s more than
unfortunate,
” I spat. “It’s TERRIBLE ! What am I going to do, find another horn teacher in—oh, twenty-eight minutes?” I squeezed my hands into fists and stuffed them into my pockets.

“Look, Elsie, I know this is a disappointment,” he began, “but maybe it’s also a sign that this is something you’re not ready to take on. You have enough on your plate with traveling to New York for your other group. You can apply again next year.”

I stared at him, disbelieving. How could he say that to me? “You are asking me to
give up
?! Are you
kidding
? I have worked so, so hard for this, Dad! You know that!”

He pinched the bridge of his nose—his “it’s hard to deal with a teenage girl” gesture.

“Look, honey, I’m not sure
how
hard you’ve worked or how much you want this. You never practice when I’m home. You never ask me for help. The one time I did help you earlier this fall, you shooed me out of your room like I was an unwanted visitor. You spend all of your time with marching band, not even playing the instrument you claim to love. What am I
supposed
to think?”

His words ripped a ragged wound across my heart. I couldn’t even breathe, let alone talk.
This
was how he really felt? That I wasn’t doing enough, didn’t love my instrument enough, that I wasn’t practicing enough? I’d had my suspicions, but the truth burned in a way I was completely unprepared for.

“I joined marching band because I needed another ensemble for Shining Birches after missing Boston Youth Orchestra for our ‘family vacation,’”I reminded him through gritted teeth. “I’m sorry that I ended up
liking
a non-orchestral group!” It was the first time I admitted that out loud, and even though I was in a haze of fury and hurt, I still experienced a twinge of surprise at the admission.

“And I HAVE been practicing. Just not around
you
! Around people who support me and believe I’m
actually a good player
!” That last part emerged as nearly a scream. I couldn’t take it anymore. I launched myself off the front of the fridge with one foot, passed my dad’s stunned expression, and raced upstairs to my bedroom, where I slammed the door as hard as I could.

I threw myself on the bed and screamed into a pillow, kicking my feet on the mattress like a kid tempertantruming in the grocery store. Fury raged through me. I couldn’t believe how my dad had just cut me down. He had
no idea
what I was going through to prepare for Shining Birches ! I’d turned down invitations to hang out with my friends, gotten into fights with them over how much I played—and now maybe lost all of them because of my horn-first thinking—and still did my schoolwork and practiced constantly. All because I wanted to be like him, do what he did!

I hopped off my bed and paced around my room, twisting the pillow in my hands. I needed to release the tension and anger that rolled through my body. My horn was downstairs by the back door—but there was no way I was going to go get it. I kept pacing and wrecking that pillow, half expecting my dad to come to the door and definitely not wanting him to.

He never came.

After about a half hour of walking back and forth, my fury level dropped from Thunderous Rage to Smoldering Anger. I sat on the bed. And as soon as I did, the scene downstairs started to replay itself in my mind. I stood and pushed it away. Yes, I was abominably angry, but I had another problem: no horn teacher. That had to be my first priority—
had
to be, especially after the argument I’d just had.

And after that argument, there was no way I’d ask my dad—or any of his friends—for help. Ever.

After a quick internal debate—to ask for help, or not to ask for help, that is the question—I decided to see if anyone who was still speaking to me could offer some guidance. Or, at least, moral support. I quietly crept out of my room and woke up the computer—why Mom insisted on leaving it out in the open if she was never around to check on where my virtual self was lurking was beyond me—not wanting my dad to hear me and start round two. Almost as soon as I logged on, the chat bubble popped up on my screen. Hector, Steve, and Jake were online. So was Punk.