It became clear about halfway through Thursday’s rehearsal that Isaac wasn’t going to show.
We managed to do a full run of the set before the hour ended, but the difference in our sound shocked me. With Isaac’s hypersensitive ear, Trav always put him on the strangest notes, those tight harmonies that made some chords sound like they were glowing. Without those parts—and without Isaac’s soaring solo lines, which always made my heart clench, no matter how many times I’d heard him sing them—everything sounded empty. Wrong.
Trav had a hand on the doorknob at the end of rehearsal when Mama stopped him. “Trav. Look, would you like me to call him?”
Trav froze, not facing us. “No.”
Jon Cox sighed. “Man, if you’re waiting for Isaac to crawl back and apologize, we’re still gonna be standing here by the time competition rolls around.”
“No,” Trav repeated, turning now. His eyes were cold chips of black glass. “We’re not waiting for anything.”
The rest of us traded uneasy glances.
“I get it,” Nihal said gently, “but two of our arrangements have eight-part splits. We need eight voices.”
“I’ll consolidate lines,” Trav said. “Rearrange, reteach. We can take Erik off VP for ‘Clockmaker’ and ‘Open Wide.’”
I closed my eyes, collapsing into my armchair. “Trav, we just finished the set. Nobody wants to relearn it.”
“Also,” Mama said, eyeing the rumpled collar that peeked out from Trav’s sweater, “you look exhausted. You’ve put in how many hours? I mean, the Minuets have five arrangers, and—”
Trav pulled his hat on, zipped his Patagonia, and took the doorknob in a stranglehold. “Do you think I care what the Minuets do?” he said. “This is what I do. I’ll handle it. And if Isaac’s not interested in contributing, he can stay out of it, as far as I’m concerned.”
Before we could say anything else, the door was closing at my elbow, the flag rippling in Trav’s wake. I made a hopeless gesture.
Jon Cox and Mama sat down on the sofa in unison. The freshmen just stood there, staring after Trav.
“So,” Marcus said, finally. “Does this . . . has this happened before?”
“I mean.” Jon Cox glanced at Mama. “No, but I saw it coming for sure.”
Mama sighed. “They had issues last year, but last year’s seniors always put them in line.”
I tried to imagine anyone putting Trav in line. It didn’t work.
“Same with the year before that,” Mama said. “Trav’s a transfer, so he joined the same year I did, which made it sort of weird. Maybe it would’ve been better if they’d been freshmen together.”
I caught the two freshmen trading a glance. Erik looked startled, like he hadn’t considered the fact that he’d be in the group with Marcus for four long years.
“Okay, um,” Marcus said. “I’ve got this composition homework to do, so . . .”
“Me too,” Erik said. He cleared his throat. “You, um, you want to work together?”
Surprise and doubt warred on Marcus’s expression. Eventually, he said, “S-sure, that’d be, yeah. Let’s.”
“Right.”
They headed out, both their heads ducked. Nihal hopped up on one of the arms of my armchair. We sat opposite Jon Cox and Mama, silence suspended between the four of us.
Nihal nudged me. “What ended up happening the night of the prank?”
“What prank?” Mama asked.
“Um.” I cleared my throat. “Me and Isaac had this plan to get the Minuets back after Bonfire. We were gonna steal the Golden Bear—”
Jon Cox spluttered. “You what?”
“—but Trav found out, so nothing happened.” I glanced at Nihal. “I’ve been thinking, though. What if this whole thing is because of, you know, what happened after the other weekend? I mean, Isaac seemed fine before he found out I’m . . .”
Mama shook his head. “No, don’t worry. It’s not that.”
“How do you know? It—”
Jon Cox waved his hand. “Because he’s been rooming with that cello kid for three years. Harry whatever. And cello kid is pretty much the gayest person this side of the Mississippi.”
“Oh.” I fell quiet. The theory evaporated, landing me back on square one with a thud, and with an unexpected rush of relief.
At my elbow, Nihal let out a breath, and I knew he’d been wondering the same thing.
Another lapse. Brows stayed furrowed. Lips buttoned shut.
“What if he doesn’t want to do the retreat?” Jon Cox said. “Who’s going to drive?”
Nihal nudged me. “Do you have your license, Julian?”
“Yeah, but I can’t drive more than one person. And I’m not allowed to have anyone younger than twenty in the car until March.” I frowned. “Actually . . . Jon, how are you allowed to drive more than one person?”
A guilty look crept over Jon Cox’s face. He threaded his fingers through his golden hair.
Mama jumped in, just like at the Dollar Sale. “It’s, uh, different in Massachusetts. The—”
Jon Cox sighed. “Leave it, Mama.” He glanced at me, his blue eyes guarded. “I turned eighteen in August.”
“What? How are you a sophomore?”
“I got held back. Twice.”
I opened my mouth to reply, but nothing came to mind. Sure, some Kensington kids couldn’t have cared less about core classes, but they’d still tested into this place. The whole point of this school was excellence.
After a second, I wiped the surprise from my face. Stop. God. I hated getting snobby about grades. None of my friends back home got good grades, and I didn’t judge them for it; it was dumb to hold Kensington kids to a different standard.
“Jon’s dyslexic,” Mama explained. “It was worse in elementary school.”
“Oh.” I looked back at Jon Cox, who was shrinking back into the sofa. Tiny things fell into place—the way Trav always taught Jon’s parts last, and with uncharacteristic patience. Jon Cox’s deeply smothered insecurity. The way he was always reading the same book for weeks at a go. “I mean,” I said, “but you can’t help that.”
Jon Cox let out a mumbling laugh. “Not according to some people.”
“Fuck them,” Mama said.
Jon Cox didn’t look satisfied. His expression grew doubtful, as if his own thoughts were hounding him. I wanted to say something reassuring, but nothing came to mind. “Right,” I said, clearing my throat. “Okay, so. We’ll just . . . hope Isaac comes around?”
“That’s pretty much my plan,” Mama said, standing.
The four of us collected our things, huddled down in our jackets, and shuffled out together into the icy clutches of campus.
It wasn’t until Nihal and I were alone and halfway up the hill, coated in snow to our knees, that I spoke. “I know nobody wants to say it, but if Isaac doesn’t show for the retreat, the driving thing is going to be an issue.”
“Yeah,” Nihal said. “He’s also loud. Next to everyone else in the competition, seven people will sound anemic. We’re already so small.”
“You want to track him down?” I said. “Tomorrow after classes, maybe?”
“We can’t. I have transcribing to do, and you have to go to that meeting with Graves.”
We broke onto the cleared sidewalk. “How about tonight?” I said. “I could sneak out after check-in. Ten o’clock?”
Nihal checked his watch. “I can do that. I’ll meet you at his room.”
I knocked on Isaac’s door, using only one knuckle to dampen the noise. The Wingate prefect couldn’t see me on this hall—he’d chase me out.
After a second, the door creaked open to reveal Isaac’s roommate, a light frown on his face. It was the first time I’d seen Harry: a pale, scrawny kid wearing white Converse and neon yellow jeans, which made him look just a little bit jaundiced. “Isaac’s not here,” he said.
I loosed a sigh. Of all the nights Isaac had picked to sneak out to work . . . good thing Harry was actually home for once, then.
Nihal glanced at me. “We can wait in my room for a bit.”
“Yeah, word.” I looked back to Harry. “Did Isaac say if he was getting back before lights-out?”
Harry frowned. “No, guys, like, he’s not here. He left Kensing ton this afternoon.”
After a beat of uncomprehending silence, I said, “He what?”
“Yeah.” Harry adjusted his glasses, the thick black rims framing owlish blue eyes. “They let him out before afternoon classes.”
“Why?” Nihal said, sounding as blindsided as I felt. “Where did he go?”
“Back to the city,” Harry said. “He didn’t tell you? His dad was in a wreck, and there’s been, like, three different surgery complications. He still hasn’t been discharged.”
“What?” Nihal spluttered. My mouth was wide open. I couldn’t help it.
“I thought he would’ve told you. At rehearsal, or whatever.”
We were quiet for a minute.
“No,” I managed. “Nothing. He didn’t tell us anything.”