Guitar Notes (5 page)

She imagines telling him that she’d rather not play, imagines Mr. Jacoby disappearing in a puff of smoke.

He looks at her anxiously. She hears herself say yes she knows the Saint-Saëns piece and yes she’d love to play and thank you for asking, and his face jumps into a smile as he hands her the music.

“And it goes without saying that I’m hoping you’ll want to participate in the juried competitions this year,” he says. “The first one is in November, and I was thinking of this piece.” He pulls another piece of music out of the file and hands it to her. “Take a look at it and tell me what you think. I’d be happy to meet with you anytime after school or during lunch. I’m so excited to be working with you!”

She glances down at the music. A multitude of black notes race ferociously across the page, setting off ripples of panic that she feels in her chest.

“Better hurry or you’ll be late for your next class,” he calls out.

She stuffs the music into her folder.
This is a good thing
, she tells herself as she hurries down the hall.

 SEPTEMBER 23. TUESDAY.

It is an odd day, and Tripp Broody is happy to be back in the little room.

Immediately, he smells something fishy and sour and then finds the source: crusts of what must’ve been a tuna sandwich and a withering apple core on the music stand. He opens the guitar case, reads her note, and laughs out loud. Leaving the trash was probably the worst thing Ms. Even Day has ever done in her A-plus perfectly obedient life. How fun it would be to call Mr. Jacoby in and show him the trash that the perfect Ms. Lyla Marks left behind, but he’d rather keep the exchange of notes going.

He puts her note in his pocket and, as he picks up the
guitar, he notices that the black strap is half around one side of the guitar instead of underneath the body. As he positions the guitar on his lap, he feels like one of the three bears: Someone has been sitting in my chair; someone has been eating my porridge; someone has been playing my guitar.

He will write a new note. But first he wants to play.

“Ode to Apple Cores and Sandwich Crusts,” he thinks to himself, and he begins.

Lyla is at her locker, trying to decide what she needs to bring home, when Annie catches up with her.

“Guess who I overheard in the bathroom,” Annie says.

Lyla’s brain is spinning over details. English and science homework will be due on Thursday; algebra and French are due tomorrow. As she puts the books she needs into her backpack, she says, “Give me a clue.”

“They’re in your section in orchestra.”

“Brittany?”

“Yep. And that other girl. The new one who always braids her hair.”

“Julia.”

Annie nods, eyes flashing. “They said Jacoby gave you a solo for next week’s assembly.”

Lyla’s heart pounds. “It’s true.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I don’t know. I—”

Annie punches her arm. “Because you thought I’d hate you, which I do! You should’ve heard them. ‘Lyla gets everything.’ They really hate you.” She laughs.

“Oh. Thanks. Great news.” She closes her locker and pulls her cell phone out of her purse.

“You are envied, Lyla. That’s a good thing. If you didn’t have any talent or you were stupid, then nobody would envy you.” Annie pulls her down the hall.

“I’m not sure I want to be envied. Do you think we have a kind of reputation … like of being … perfect?”

“Of course!” Annie says.

“But maybe being perfect isn’t such a great thing.”

“What is wrong with you? Being perfect is what everybody wants to be.”

Lyla’s chest tightens. “I don’t think everybody wants to be perfect.”

“Those are just the poor peasants. Speaking of peasants, did you ask Patricia What’s-Her-Name to switch days with me?”

“She said no,” Lyla lies.

“NO? Why?”

Lyla shrugs. “Some schedule thing. It was complicated.”

“If Lyla Marks asked me to switch days, I’d say yes. Oooh. I hate her.”

“You don’t even know her. She felt bad about it.” Lyla’s cell phone rings.

“Let me guess,” Annie says. “How was school today, sweetie?” she asks in perfect imitation of Lyla’s dad.

Lyla has to laugh. “Hi, Dad,” she answers. “… yes …”

“Remind him that we’re staying for the Sweet Tooth Club,” Annie adds. “And say good-bye, sweetie.”

Lyla turns her back to her and finishes the conversation. As soon as she puts her phone away, Annie pulls her down the hallway.

“We can’t be late.”

Lyla winces. “I don’t know if I even want to be in Sweet Tooth.”

“We need Sweet Tooth.”

“Who says?”

Annie stops. “The Coles Conservatory of Music. I already put it on my Coles application, didn’t you? My mom said they look at stuff like clubs and community service. And Sweet Tooth is brilliant because it’s both a club and a community service project. ‘We donate all our sales to charity.’ Did you seal up your envelope yet?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Double-check. Put it in. When are you going to actually mail yours?”

“I don’t know.”

“Let’s go on Saturday to the post office. I’ll get my mom to drive us and we can mail them at exactly the same time. It’ll be good luck. Just think, next year at this time, we’ll be at Coles and—”

“You keep saying that. We haven’t even applied. We
don’t know if we’ll even be invited to audition.”

“My mom said the fact that we did the conservatory camp this summer gives us an edge, plus we’ve been stars in Metz Youth Orchestra for the past gazillion years and we aced all the state competitions last year. And now we’ll have Sweet Tooth to show we are community-minded. Oh, I already put that lunchtime thing where we tutor little people with small brains to show we’re smart—”

“It might not be possible to do all that,” Lyla says.

“Shut up!”

“We can’t do the lunchtime tutor thing together anyway because of the practice room thing.”

“We do the tutor thing on the days we’re not in the practice room. Patricia What’s-Her-Name deserves to rot. If she traded, then we could do everything on the same days.” Annie leans in. “Well, put it down on your application and sign up for it anyway. I already did. We have to do everything we can.”

Lyla groans, and Annie gives her a look. “All right, Lyla. We can quit Sweet Tooth after we get in to Coles.”

“First of all, we might not get in to Coles. Second of all, we can’t just quit Sweet Tooth whenever we want!”

Annie rolls her eyes. “What do you think, they put us in handcuffs? YOU MUST BAKE FOR GOOD CAUSES!”

Lyla laughs. “They might.”

“Okay, then we won’t quit.” Annie steers Lyla down the next hallway. “We’ll just take it over and become
Cupcake Dictators and eat all the baked goods and become even more well rounded. Très, très round! That’s what we did with
The Quill
last year.”

“We did not.”

“We did, too. We totally took it over. We made it thirty-two pages instead of sixteen. Color instead of black and white. We got to use the lounge instead of the media center, and basically, Mr. Jordan just said yes to whatever we wanted.” Annie pulls Lyla into a classroom and then whispers: “Marisse and Casey are here. Smile.”

Lyla forces the corners of her mouth up.

 SEPTEMBER 24. WEDNESDAY.

 SEPTEMBER 25. THURSDAY.

 SEPTEMBER 27. SATURDAY.

Tripp’s mom eases the car out of the driveway and puts the air conditioner on full blast. “I bet Lorinda is nervous,” she says. “Take those things out of your ears, Tripp. It’s rude.”

“Lorinda is an unpleasant stick insect who deserves any unhappiness that might come her way,” Tripp says flatly, tucking his earbuds into his pocket.

“Don’t say that! She’s your cousin.”

“Lorinda tied me to a chair, put a sock in my mouth, and locked me in Aunt Gertrude’s attic when I was four.”

“She did not.”

“I was traumatized, Mom. You have chosen to block
this and the numerous other acts of Lorinda’s evil out of your system. She pinned me down another time and tried to literally replace my pupils with watermelon seeds. I don’t care if she is related to us. The girl is insane.”

They drive for a while and then his mom pulls into a store parking lot and gets out.

“What are you doing?” Tripp asks.

“Picking up the doves.” The door slams. Tripp watches her try to run in her black patent leather heels. She comes out two minutes later carrying a wicker basket shaped like a heart, and she hands it to Tripp. “It’s too hot for September,” she says. “I’m going to die in this dress.”

Through the slats in the basket, Tripp can see a black eye. He lifts the lid slightly. “They’re pigeons,” he says. “They look drugged.”

“Doves.” She buckles up and pulls out. “After the wedding ceremony, I’m supposed to open the cage and release the birds. It’s like a symbol of their love.”

“The basket stinks.” Tripp puts it in the backseat. “Somebody sprayed it with fake-flower perfume.”

“Better that than bird droppings,” his mom says.

When they arrive, the church is packed. A trio of musicians is playing a slow, plodding melody. Piano, flute, classical guitar. The groom and four groomsmen are standing on the right, looking hot and uncomfortable. Tripp is dying to grab the guitar and run.