We didn’t even rank in the competition. There were a total of thirty-four schools, and they only announced the top ten percussion ensembles at the awards ceremony. By the time the announcer got to sixth place, everyone from Ridgewood knew we didn’t have a shot.
In a completely non-shocking turn of events, Bishop won.
Mr. Mackey got the full results after the ceremony. “Twelfth,” he told us, in what was probably supposed to be an encouraging tone. “Still in the top third. Not bad, all things considered.”
I flinched when he looked at me, even though I knew he meant it in a positive way. After all, if I hadn’t used the scalpels, the xylophone feature would’ve been missing entirely, and we would’ve ranked way lower than twelfth.
Still. Watching all the Bishop kids scream and hug when they won wasn’t exactly the best feeling.
I was trying to get myself into at least a semi-decent mood for that night. Devon had brought his Xbox, and Mr. Mackey had given us permission to order pizza and hang out in Devon and Nick’s room until the curfew at eleven. (And we all knew if we could convince Mackey to sit in on “one more game” when he came to break up the party, we could easily push curfew till at least midnight. The guy was a Halo fanatic.)
But when we walked out of the last clinic of the evening—a killer tabla session with this guy from Mumbai—the snare solo results had been posted.
We joined dozens of kids from other schools crowded around the list. A few seconds later, everyone was high-fiving Jorge and clapping him on the back. He’d won, of course. Scott had gotten fourth. Devon was sixth.
I was eighth.
Two rankings lower than last year. Only one above Nick, who was a freshman. And four below Scott.
I congratulated Jorge and hung back a little from the group. After a minute, Brian and Christina joined me.
“Still really good, out of twenty-one,” Brian said. I gave him a withering look, and he laughed a little. We both knew it was crap. Christina’s sympathetic smile vanished, and she glared at someone behind me.
I glanced over my shoulder as Scott walked up, and automatically shoved my hands in my pockets. “Nice job,” I told him.
“You too.”
I snorted. “Yeah, not really.”
He gave me a smile that was part teasing, part pity. “Hey, eighth’s pretty badass for someone with shredded hands.”
I tried to smile back, but I could do without the placating. In fact, I kind of wanted him to be an aardvark about it so my anger would still be justified.
Which was stupid. There wasn’t any point in being angry, really. Scott had been thoughtless, swiping the timpani mallets. But it wasn’t like he put the scalpels in my hands. I wasn’t sure what I was so pissed about anymore, to be honest. All I knew was I didn’t want to hang out with anyone right now.
“I’m gonna call my mom before the pizza gets here,” I told Brian. “Save me a few slices if I’m late, all right?”
“Yeah, all right.” Brian studied me. “You sure you’re okay?”
Scott rolled his eyes. “No, she’s devastated. You know what a crier Phoebe is.”
Brian and I laughed, while Christina shook her head. No one ever saw me cry. Not when I dislocated my kneecap during band camp freshman year, not when I tripped during a halftime show and my drum went rolling across the field in front of the whole stadium, not when my little brother Neil’s evil hamster bit a chunk out of my arm. I never cried in front of anyone. Especially not in front of the guys.
I pulled out my phone and waved as Brian-and-Christina headed over to the hotel, but Scott hung back.
“You’ll definitely come up later, right?” he asked, nudging my elbow.
“Yeah …?” I looked at him questioningly, because he had this weird little smile on his face. “What?”
“Nothing!” His mouth shifted back to its regular smirk. “Just want to make sure you aren’t using those cuts as an excuse to stop me kicking your butt at Halo.”
“You wish.” I faked a grin back at him before turning and heading to the exit, phone to my ear.
But I didn’t call my mom. I’d definitely have to sometime tonight; my parents would have lots of questions about how both competitions went. I just didn’t feel like pretending to be okay with it at the moment. Once I saw Scott step into the elevator, I did a 180, opened the recording app on my phone, and started wandering the conference center, getting audio of anything and everything.
No sexed-up toddlers in sight, to my relief. I found two girls sitting cross-legged outside of the closed IPAC exhibition hall and recorded one playing a cool little thumb piano called an mbira. I walked around C-wing and captured about a minute of a burly, leather-jacketed dude talking about how to remove the scent glands from a dead skunk. Then I decided to check out the fan con in A-wing.
I was looking down at my phone as I walked, labeling my audio clips, when someone up ahead yelled: “Todd, hurry up!”
A guy wearing a gaudy Christmas sweater and what was obviously a fake mustache burst out of one of the bigger ballrooms, some sort of trophy hanging at his side. I could hear the excited chatter of a huge crowd coming from inside. A second later, a tall, thin guy strutted out, looking quite pleased with himself. He seemed familiar, but it took me a few seconds to place him. His longish dark hair was gelled and curled, and he was wearing a suit. A very, very tight suit. I gawked shamelessly.
Undies-Snape cleaned up good.
Judging from the look on his face, the shorter guy with the trophy clearly agreed. I wondered if he was the cotton-ball-twinkly-lights person from last night. No tackling now, though—he took Todd’s hand, and they set off together down the hall, fingers interlaced. I watched them go, because … well, like I said. That suit was seriously tight.
The ballroom doors flew open again, and more costumed people poured out. I pressed myself against the wall, flipping my recorder app on. I already knew what I’d be labeling this audio clip. Awesome Geek Parade.
I recognized some of the costumes, like the woman in the flowery dress and sweater-vest pushing the food trolley from the Hogwarts Express, and the guy walking around with a giant Azkaban HAVE YOU SEEN THIS WIZARD? poster framing his face. But there were a bunch of costumes I didn’t get at all. Like the dozen or so girls all carrying flashing silver pen-thingies, but wearing different, distinct outfits: one had a long, rainbow-striped scarf, one had a trench coat, and one looked like a magician with a cape. Another had a bow tie, and she winked at me as she straightened it.
I got some pretty hilarious audio clips, too. “I got shafted!” ranted one guy, pushing off the hood of his black cape. “I’m a freaking Ringwraith, how could they not see it?” Then there was the bearded dude in battle armor, wielding both a sword and a trophy and arguing with his friend: “But I’m not Ned Stark, I’m Boromir!”
As the last of the crazy fan parade filed through the doors, my eyes fell on one costume in particular. Conservative green coat and skirt, fur stole, giant red purse. Oily black hair, stuffed bird perched on her hat.
“Boggart Snape!” I exclaimed. “Oh my god, best costume ever.”
Boggart Snape was deep in conversation with Professors Trelawney and McGonagall, but she glanced up at the sound of my voice. Then she smiled and waved.
“Hey, thanks!” she called.
McGonagall nudged her. “See? Told you! The judges are morons.”
“Eh, I guess,” Boggart Snape said with a shrug as they continued down the hall. “I still think it’s this dumb bluebird, you know?”
“Yeah, but where’re you gonna find an actual vulture?” I heard Trelawney say right before they rounded the corner.
Snickering, I trailed behind them all the way back to the elevators in the hotel lobby. Bluebird aside, that costume was seriously cool. I thought about taking a picture of her to show Christina but figured that’d be a pretty creepy thing to do. Although maybe if I asked her …
But just as I opened my mouth to call after them, the elevator doors slid open and Scott stepped out.
“Hey!” I said. “What are you doing down here?”
“Looking for you,” he said. “I’ve got something for your hands.”
“Ah.” Well, there went my alone time. “What about Halo?”
He shrugged, following me back onto the elevator. “No fun without you.”
My neck suddenly felt warm, which was annoying. Scott could get flirty every once in a while, but it didn’t mean anything. My brain knew that by now, but the rest of me sometimes responded to it against my will. “Is Mackey playing yet?”
“Not yet,” Scott said, punching the button for the sixth floor. “We’ll sucker him into it when he tries to pull curfew.”
I smiled. “Yeah.”
The elevator was empty, but our shoulders kept bumping together the whole way up. As soon as we stepped into the hall, I could hear the sounds of Halo 5 coming from Devon and Nick’s room. But Scott led me into the room next to it. I pointed questioningly at the Do Not Disturb sign, and he shrugged.
“Brian put it there this morning. He got all paranoid about that missing bag and spread the other mallets out to count them, and he didn’t want housekeeping moving anything.”
“Ah.” I closed the door behind me and wrinkled my nose. “Whoa. Smells like coffee. Coffee and … something else.” Something sickly sweet.
“Oh yeah, Jorge made some last night.” Scott pointed to the pot on the little shelf next to one of the beds, which was filled to the top with alarmingly black liquid. “He used the bag from Devon’s room, too, so it’d be extra-caffeinated. Oh, and Mountain Dew instead of water.”
“Why?”
“We were going to stay up all night, but we fell asleep before it finished brewing.”
I rolled my eyes. Morons.
Scott started rummaging through his backpack while I surveyed the room. Poor Brian. He was the neat and organized type, while Scott and Jorge were … not. Brian’s suitcase was zipped up and tucked away in the corner, while the contents of Scott’s and Jorge’s suitcases appeared to have been the victims of a minor in-room tornado. Shirts, jeans, and boxers were strewn all over one of the beds, the night table and the chair in the corner. A lone black sock dangled from the lamp. Crumpled receipts and gum wrappers littered the carpet, no doubt pulled from pockets and mindlessly released as if the floor was some sort of trash-eating void. (I’d witnessed them do this many times.)
The other bed, the one closest to me, was covered in sticks, mallets, and triangle beaters, all neatly organized by type and size. Behind me, a wad of hand towels sat on top of the wardrobe that held the TV. They seemed to be wrapped around something. I did not want to know what that something was.
I heard a yell of despair through the wall, followed by triumphant laughter. I wondered if Christina was hanging out with them.
“Here, hold out your hands.”
I turned to find Scott right behind me. Eyeing him suspiciously, I held my hands out, palms up. “Not really in the mood for the hand-slap game, just so you know.”
He smiled, peeling off the bandage on my right hand, then my left. It was that same weird little smile from earlier. I watched as he squeezed gel from a little tube into both my palms. “This stuff is amazing,” he informed me. “My mom orders it online.”
Scott tossed the tube and bandages onto the floor—I mean, into the magic trash void—then cupped his hands under mine and started very, very gently rubbing the gel into my palms with his thumbs. All thoughts of Brian and Christina flew out of my mind.
What was happening right now.
I stared at Scott, completely caught off guard. The gel was minty and cool on my aching cuts, and his hands were warm and his fingers were just as callousy as mine, and what even was happening right now.
“Um.” I struggled to keep my tone even. “Thanks?”
Scott shrugged again, keeping his eyes on my hands. “Sure.” His thumbs stopped moving for a second. I held my breath. “Sorry about your solo,” he said. “I know you’d’ve done better if it wasn’t for this.” He resumed the thumb massage, and I exhaled.
“So are you finally going to apologize for making me play with scalpels?”
“I didn’t make you.”
“You took my mallets.”
“Which is not the same as putting scalpels in your hands.”
“What else was I going to use?”
“How about anything but knives?” He was laughing, and I tried not to smile because I could tell he was messing with me. And sure enough, a few seconds later: “Fine. I’m sorry. Okay?”
“Thank you.” I injected as much weariness into those two words as possible. It wasn’t very effective, though. Because now that I’d finally gotten my apology, my full attention was back on the thumb massage, which was making me feel many things that weren’t remotely weary. I wondered briefly if he’d used this move on that senior from Bishop last year. Then I decided I didn’t care.
“I’m going to be useless at Halo,” I heard myself say. “It’s not like I can really hold the controller.”
Scott was quiet for a few seconds. “Hmm. So … wanna hang out in here for a while?”
“Guess so.”
I moved closer, just a little, ignoring the voice in my head saying, No, seriously, Phoebe, what the actual hell are you doing? Then the voice shut right up, because kissing. Kissing was happening now.
Very soft, tentative kissing, which was amazing for about two seconds until it freaked me right out because soft and tentative were two words I’d never associated with Scott. Or myself, for that matter.
Screw that.
I grabbed his shirt and yanked him closer with probably more force than necessary. He seemed briefly taken aback, then responded so eagerly I bumped into the wardrobe. He kissed me harder, and his hands slid up my waist just as the giant mystery wad of damp towels fell and hit my head. I gasped at the shock of cool liquid running down my neck.
“What the—” Then the scent of spice and pine trees hit me so hard I nearly gagged. Scott stepped back, and we both looked down at the now-empty bottle of Jorge’s cologne by our feet, surrounded by the hand towels. I grimaced, running my hands through my sticky hair. “Why the hell was that up there?”
“It broke in his suitcase,” Scott said, as if that were a perfectly logical reason to wrap it in towels and set it precariously on top of a wardrobe.
“Whatever.” I paused for a second. I’d fooled around with precisely two guys before but never in a hotel room. Never in a situation where it could really escalate. Not that it had to escalate.
Maybe I wanted it to escalate, though.
Maybe I needed to stop thinking and start kissing again.
So I moved in, but after a moment Scott pulled away. “What?” I asked, trying not to sound freaked out. Was he reconsidering now? Was he backing out?
“Nothing, just …” He squinted at me. “It’s kind of weird doing this when you smell like Jorge.”
“Oh. Well … get over it?”
Scott blinked a few times. “Okay.”
Easy.
Nothing tentative about his mouth this time. My hands were still too tender to be useful, but my fingers danced lightly along the back of his neck and pulled at his hair a little. Which was apparently appreciated, judging from various audible reactions. And one increasingly prominent physical reaction, which, hello, this was new territory for me. He pulled me back a few steps—or maybe I pushed him forward?—and before I could decide whether or not I really wanted to, we’d toppled onto the bed.
I had this panicky moment of Oh my god, you’re on top of a guy, watch your knees, Phoebe, CAREFUL WITH YOUR KNEES! as he wriggled back toward the headboard. Then his hands squeezed my elbows, and he gasped. “Stop!”
“What?!” I thought for sure I’d accidentally kneed him in the groin anyway. Then I sat up and realized we were on the wrong bed. The one covered with sticks and mallets. Scott’s eyes were bugged out in … not pain, exactly. More like Extreme Surprise. “What’s wrong?”
“Triangle beater! It’s … ah …”
Arching his back, he pushed away a bunch of sticks and a gong mallet from under his butt, then shoved his hand down the back of his jeans.
Horrified, I scrambled off the bed, slipping on several sets of timpani mallets. I backed into the shelf and my elbow knocked over the coffeepot. “Sharks!” I whirled around and barely caught the pot before it hit the floor. But not before the lid flipped open, sloshing the entire pot’s worth of Mountain Dew coffee all down my front.
I straightened up slowly, shaken, and turned to face Scott. We stared at each other. Him, sitting awkwardly on a pile of sticks, the freed triangle beater in one hand while his other held the gong mallet over his lap in a pretty ridiculous position, given the circumstances. Me, my hair sticky with cologne, empty pot in my hands, my shirt and jeans soaking wet and stained a color Crayola would probably call Toxic Sludge.
His lips were twitching like he wanted to laugh but was waiting to see if I did, too. And I did, because this was beyond ridiculous and I could feel coffee seeping into my underwear and oh my god what would Brian say if he knew where that triangle beater had been, and before I knew it I was slumped against the wall, laughing so hard my sides hurt.
Scott cracked up, too, and when he clumsily scooted off the bed and knocked a bunch of sticks to the floor in a clatter, it only made us laugh harder. Then he knelt down next to me and took the coffeepot from my hands, and I had the sudden, horrifying realization that I was about to cry. And not tears-from-laughter crying. Tears-from-confusion-and-regret-and-humiliation, what-the-hell-am-I-even-doing crying. Girl crying.
No way could I let Scott see this.
I shot to my feet so fast I got a head rush. “Okay. Yeah. I’m gonna go back to my room.”
“Wait, Phoebe …” Scott stood, too, still holding the coffeepot. “Are you okay?”
“Of course!” I faced him, lips pressed together, trying to keep the tears back through sheer force of will. “I mean, I could use a shower. But otherwise, fanfreakingtastic.” Definitely not about to bawl my eyes out. I’m not one of those girls.
“Right.” Scott smiled a little. “But are you— Will you come back?”
I exhaled slowly. “I don’t know. I mean, this wasn’t … It didn’t mean anything, right? Why’d you even ask me up here?”
His smile faltered, and I felt a twinge of guilt. “I don’t know. Because you looked really upset when the solo results went up, and I … I felt bad.”
“Yeah, I was upset.” I shrugged and attempted a good-natured grin. “So we fooled around because we both felt sorry for me. Ha.”
“Phoebe, hang on—”
“It’s fine!” I called, already halfway to the door. “Seriously, no worries. See you later, okay?” The door clicked closed before he could respond. I hurried down the hall, reeking of cologne and stale, too-sweet coffee. A tear rolled down my cheek, and I barely made it back to my thankfully empty room before losing it completely.