My sore-as-hell Hufflepuff hands weren’t enough to get me out of the mallet technique workshop before dinner.
“It’ll still be educational,” Mackey told me, holding the door open. “Even if you can’t play. And hey, you remember Giovanne Clark?”
“Who?” I’d just noticed Scott and the other guys heading down the hall, and I edged to the side so that the door hid me from their view.
“Sound engineer, record producer? Those jazz fusion CDs I loaned you last semester when you had all those questions about analog versus digital recording, she was the—”
“Oh, right!” I nodded, pressing myself against the wall. “Yeah, I remember.” I heard Scott’s voice getting louder, and I held my breath.
“She’s here, recording the showcase concert tonight. I might be able to introduce you—she’d have better answers to your questions than I did, for sure.”
Through the gap between the door and the doorjamb, I saw the guys enter the room. None of them noticed me hiding like a complete wuss.
I exhaled loudly. “That’d be so cool! Thanks!”
“Sure thing.”
“But, um …” I fidgeted nervously. “Is there anything else going on right now that I could maybe check out instead of this marimba clinic?”
Mackey squinted at me. “I already said you don’t have to play. Is something going on, Phoebe?”
“What?”
“Are your hands getting worse? I thought Mrs. Hwang was—”
“No, my hands are fine, I swear,” I said quickly. “I’m just … tired.”
He rolled his eyes. “You should try sleeping.”
“Yeah, that’s why I—”
“At night.” Mackey gestured for me to enter the room. “Props for asking if you can skip a class to take a nap, though. That’s a new level of guts even for you.”
I forced a laugh. “Yeah, well. I tried.”
Keeping my eyes fixed to the floor, I walked inside, headed straight to the back row, and slid into the chair on the end. The room was maybe three-quarters full, and Christina was already standing behind the marimba, which almost made me smile. She would be the first to volunteer. To my relief, Scott and everyone else were on the other side of the room. Everyone except …
“Hey.”
I jumped as Brian squeezed past me and sat down. “Oh. Hey.”
“He’s one of the judges for the timpani solos tomorrow,” Brian whispered, jiggling his leg nervously. At the front of the room, I saw a man with a shock of white hair and a paunch now talking to Christina. “Richard Rogan, Oberlin Conservatory of Music. I heard he’s pretty tough.”
“Ah.”
Richard Rogan chose that moment to start the workshop, saving me from further conversation. After introducing himself, he asked Christina to play a chorale so he could critique her technique. I leaned back in my chair and watched her with a weird mix of pride and envy. I’d participated in a bunch of IPAC clinics in the last two years, and they’d all been amazing. I’d played surdo in a Brazilian band led by a samba master, kempul gongs with an incredible gamelan ensemble from Bali, and chekeré in an Afro Cuban music workshop. Even though we lost the competition every year, I always left Orlando really in love with being a percussionist.
This year, though, I’d just be leaving with Band-Aids on my hands.
It was hard not to feel bitter. Our ensemble ranked a record low, my solo was a total disaster, and now I couldn’t participate in any of the workshops. I couldn’t even bang on stuff in the exhibit hall—my palms were still too sore. All I could do was walk around getting audio clips of everyone else making music and being awesome.
Oh, and hooking up with guys, then running out of the room crying. I was a pro at that.
“He’s on the scholarship committee, too,” Brian whispered, tapping his mallets on his still-jiggling knee. “Mackey told me after lunch. I’m kind of freaked out, you know?”
His mallet bag was leaning against his leg, neatly filled with all the sticks and mallets that had been spread out on his bed last night. Including the triangle beater that had been to the dark side. I carefully kept my gaze averted, but my face and neck still felt flushed with residual embarrassment.
“Yeah …” My phone buzzed in my pocket, and I shifted in my chair to reach it and read the text.
Callie: Hey, it’s Callie. Moving forward with the sabotage …
“I wasn’t all that nervous about my solo before,” Brian was saying. “But now I am, a little. Or maybe a lot.”
I glanced at him, taking care to keep my phone at my side so he couldn’t see it. When I looked back down, Callie’s second text popped up.
Callie: Wanna help me ruin some turkeys?
I pressed my lips together hard to keep from laughing as I typed my response.
“Not like tomorrow’s a scholarship audition or anything,” Brian continued. “But I mean, first impressions and all. It’s kind of scary. At least it’s early—nine thirty.”
This is both the best and weirdest text ever. Also, hell yes. I pressed send, then looked up to find Brian staring at me. “Sorry,” I said quickly, tucking my phone under my leg. “Wait … why are you scared?”
Brian frowned. “Because I want to go to Oberlin? But I can’t afford it without a scholarship?”
“Oh.” I looked over at Richard Rogan again. “Brian, you don’t have to worry about college auditions for another year. I doubt he’s going to remember everyone from this workshop a year from now.”
“Yeah, but he’ll probably remember the timpani soloists. Especially the good ones.” I stared at him blankly, and he sighed. “He’s one of the judges tomorrow, like I said.”
“Oh! Right. Sorry.”
Brian ran his hand over his hair. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah! I’m sorry,” I said quickly. “Just out of it today, I guess.” At the front of the room, Christina headed over to sit next to Nuri and Amy while some guy I vaguely recognized from Bishop took her place behind the marimba.
My gaze drifted to the second row, where Scott sat with Jorge and the other guys. He’d texted me five times before lunch asking how I was doing, then given up. I felt guilty for not responding, but really, what was there to say? Hey, that was fun until it was mortifying. I tried to wash the Mountain Dew sludge out of my underwear but they’re pretty much ruined, so housekeeping is in for a treat when they empty the trash next to the fourth floor elevators. How’s your butt?
My phone buzzed again, and my shoulders tensed. I made sure Brian wasn’t looking before taking a peek, and relaxed when I saw it was Callie again.
Callie: Can you get some stuff for me? Bring it by later? My dad’s practically got me on lockdown.
Chewing my lip, I responded: What do you need?
“Who are you texting?”
I glanced up to find Brian staring at my phone, which I tucked back under my leg. “No one.”
“Phoebe …” He waited until I looked up. His face was kind of pink, and he swallowed nervously. “I just, um … if there’s anything you want to, you know, talk about …”
I frowned. “What? No, there’s nothing. Why?”
I could have sworn he glanced over at Scott for a second. The Bishop guy finished the chorale, and everyone applauded. Well, almost everyone. Jorge was leaning back in his seat, trying to get Devon’s attention without Scott noticing.
A feeling of foreboding washed over me. You’re being paranoid, I told myself, turning my phone over and over in my hands. Brian didn’t know what happened with me and Scott last night. No one did.
Richard Rogan started correcting the way the Bishop guy rolled his thumbs in when he played, but I was still staring at Jorge. He was gesturing for Devon to hand him something. Scott sat between them, totally oblivious to the exchange going on behind his back. My palms started to sweat under my bandages. When my phone buzzed again, I jumped about a foot. I scanned Callie’s text quickly.
Callie: Cool, thx! I need some Nair, a metal nail file, and lotion that has lanolin.
Exhaling shakily, I glanced back up at the guys. Devon was passing Jorge a pair of sticks behind their chairs, both of them clearly trying to be discreet.
I typed my response quickly. No prob. Will get from my roommates.
Right when I hit send, someone let out a loud yelp. Scott leaped out of his chair and pulled Devon’s drumstick out of the back of his jeans. Jorge and Devon were doubled over laughing. Nick started cracking up, too, and even Amy was giggling. Nuri pressed her hand over her mouth, then glanced back at me.
Oh god.
Christina shot Jorge a death glare while pretty much the rest of the room started snickering. Mr. Mackey half stood from his seat in the first row and gestured for Scott to sit down. Judging from his purplish-red complexion, the guys were in for a serious lecture after the workshop. I stared down at my shaking hands, hotly aware of Brian watching me.
“You all know, don’t you,” I whispered. “Scott told you.”
Brian cleared his throat. “Well …”
I closed my eyes. Scott had actually told everyone. Not only that we’d fooled around—which was enough of a betrayal—but the gory details. It hadn’t even occurred to me not to trust him. I’d assumed he wouldn’t tell. And that he was embarrassed about what happened, too.
But no. He was just another stupid horny dude who had to let everyone know about the most recent points on his scoreboard. Like last year, when he wouldn’t shut up about that Bishop girl. I was a complete moron for thinking the fact that we were actually friends would make a difference in this case.
Suddenly furious, I shoved my phone back in my pocket with trembling hands. “Where are you going?” Brian asked as I started to stand. “Phoebe, hang on—”
“If Mackey asks, tell him I’m sick,” I said shortly. Brian grabbed my wrist, and I scowled. “Let go.”
He eyed Richard Rogan nervously, but we were sitting too far back for him to hear. Christina, however, was twisted around in her chair and watching us closely.
“Don’t just run off,” Brian whispered. “We can talk about it after the workshop, okay?”
“Why didn’t you tell me everyone knew?” I hissed back. “Oh, wait, I know—you were too busy gossiping with your girlfriend about it.”
I wrenched my arm from his grasp and slipped down the aisle and out the exit. But Brian followed, letting the door close softly behind him.
“Phoebe, what the hell.”
He sounded more confused than angry, but I was still shaking with rage. “Just leave me alone, okay?”
I headed back to the hotel lobby, walking as fast as I could. Brian kept up at my side, which only infuriated me more. I jabbed at the up button and stood there, fuming, while Brian stood silently next to me. The elevator was on the nineteenth floor and not moving. Perfect.
Finally, Brian cleared his throat. “Look, if you’re mad at Scott, you should know that—”
“I’m not mad at him,” I snapped. “I know he’s a massive jerk. I just didn’t realize you were, too.”
Brian’s eyes widened, and I ignored a flash of guilt. “What?”
“When did he tell you guys? Last night, during Halo?” I laughed sourly. “Hope he at least waited for Mackey to clear out. A heads-up would’ve been nice, you know. But it’s fine. I know how hard it is to detach yourself from Christina and do anything on your own.”
Brian’s face was pale, which meant he was getting pissed. Good. Brian had this infuriatingly calm, even way of arguing that aggravated the hell out of me. My way of dealing with it was to plow over him. And the way I was feeling right now, I really needed to plow over someone. Whether they deserved it or not.
“I’ve been trying to talk to you all day,” he said through gritted teeth. “I texted you this morning, and—”
“Yeah, I got your text. And you want to know why I didn’t meet up with you? Because I knew she’d be there. Because she’s always there now. I can’t even remember the last time we hung out, just the two of us.”
I paused when a bleach-blond woman approached, sexed-up toddler in tow. The woman stepped around me and pressed the up button as if it weren’t already lit, then stood right next to us, fussing over her poor daughter’s cowboy hat. The elevator was on the fifteenth floor and coming down. Thank god.
“I don’t get it,” Brian said quietly. “Why is this suddenly about Christina?”
“It’s not sudden.” I kept my eyes fixed on the elevator doors, willing them to open. “You’ve been dating for almost a month.”
“Well, you didn’t seem to have a problem with that until now.”
“I don’t have a problem with it.”
I winced at how pathetic (and untrue) that sounded. Brian cleared his throat again.
“Look, are you …” He hesitated. “Are you jealous?”
My head snapped up. “Are you kidding me? No!”
He blinked rapidly behind his glasses. “Then what’s your deal?”
“Ow, Mommy, that’s too tight!”
We both glanced down at the little girl, who scowled as she loosened the strap of her cowboy hat. Her mother wasn’t even pretending not to eavesdrop as she adjusted the hat’s angle. The elevator doors slid open at last, and I said a silent prayer of thanks to any and all deities.
“Phoebe …” Brian stepped forward, but I waved him off and stepped on the elevator. The pageant mom followed, pulling her kid along and taking out her phone. I stabbed blindly at a random button. Brian just stood there as the doors closed between us.
I had this weird moment where All The Emotions Ever—guilt! regret! hate! anger! shame!—hit me so hard I couldn’t breathe. And then the next second, they imploded. Gone. All I felt was a little tugging on my fingers. Numb, I looked down to see the tiny cowgirl holding up a Tootsie Roll with an earnest expression.
“Thanks,” I said hoarsely, and took it. She smiled, revealing chocolatey teeth.
“It’s my last one,” she informed me. Her mother glanced up from her phone and scowled.
“Helvetica Bold Johnson!” she scolded, bending over and patting down her daughter’s sparkly denim dress like a TSA agent. “Where do you keep hiding these things?”
I unwrapped the candy and popped it into my mouth, then pulled my phone out and started a text to Callie.
Thank you for enlisting me in this noble effort. You have no idea how badly I need the distraction of turkey sabotage. Also you might be my only friend in this entire convention center now, so. Flattered?
I read over it and snorted. Select all, delete. No reason to clue this perfectly normal girl in to the fact that I was completely pathetic. I quickly typed: Grabbing that stuff now, meet up soon? and hit send. Okay, this was good. I had a plan. Steal some stuff from my roommates, get up to Callie’s room as fast as possible, and do everything in my power to avoid every single person from Ridgewood High School for the rest of this convention.