November Blues (11 page)

AFTER PRACTICE, JERICHO DECIDED TO WALK
home rather than wait for his dad to pick him up. He realized with dismay that he'd left his water bottle on the field, but he didn't go back. In the distance he heard music—the familiar thumping of the drums, the bronzed tones of the saxophones, and the crisp metallic echoes of the trumpets. Band practice.

He couldn't help it—he headed straight for the field where the band learned their steps, and stood by the fence, watching. Mr. Tambori stood on a platform, shouting instructions from a megaphone. “Backs straight! Knees up! Keep those lines straight now!”

Jericho thought the band sounded pretty good. They were practicing today without marching in the intricate patterns that looked like squares or circles or other designs. The clarinets sounded a little off-key, he thought, but the brass instruments shone in the sunshine and sounded like it as well, as far as he was concerned. The
sound washed over Jericho. It was the first time all day he'd relaxed.

“Hold your horns up,” Mr. Tambori was calling. “Don't play to the ground—let the audience hear you! Swing those horns in rhythm! Move, trombones, move!”

Jericho spied Olivia Thigpen blowing her sousaphone with everything she had. It was clear she loved what she was doing, her cheeks puffing in and out and her feet marking the beat as she stood in place.

Jericho knew a lot of kids didn't get marching band. They thought the football players and cheerleaders were the ones who really worked. But he knew that marching band members were the tough ones. It was so much more than simply playing an instrument—it was about being a team player, memorizing every piece of music, holding the instrument correctly, learning new ways of moving and breathing. It was a lot of work. Some of those tenor drum sets could weigh up to fifty pounds. Tambori bellowed out, “Let's try that cadence again!”

Jericho laughed out loud as he looked across the field to Crazy Jack in the percussion section. Jack Krazinski loved to play the cymbals. He'd crash them on beat and off beat whenever he felt like it—before, during, and after practice. It wasn't uncommon to hear Crazy Jack smashing his cymbals together in school as he walked down the hall. Teachers would frown and write him disciplinary reprimands, but the next week he'd be at it again, making as much noise as he possibly could, grinning the whole time.

Jericho noticed that Olivia had put down her instrument as the woodwinds took up the song. The trilling of the
flutes and piccolos, weaving in and out of the wailing of the clarinets, sounded like birds in the hot summer air. Olivia glanced over to where Jericho stood. She waved when she noticed him, then pointed to the area where the trumpet players stood, where Jericho would have been standing. He waved back but shook his head.

He looked at the kid who had taken his place as first trumpet and sighed. A sophomore! And a girl? He couldn't believe Tambori gave such an important position to somebody who'd only been playing for a couple of years! But then he realized he had no right to complain. He was the one who had quit the band. He watched quietly for a few more minutes, then picked up his bag to head home as band practice was dismissed.

He heard Mr. Tambori called out, “How was football practice?” He was walking toward Jericho.

“It was aight,” Jericho answered, saying the word carelessly. But every muscle in his body seemed to be aching.

“There's still room for you here, you know.” Mr. Tambori dangled the words like temptation. “Carole is an adequate player, but she's not you. She just reads the notes off the page of music. You feel them.”

“So why did you make her first chair trumpet?”

“Because she was the best I had left.”

“Hey, I appreciate what you're tryin' to do, Mr. T, but I gotta go. I hope the band has a good season.”

“Take care, Jericho. Remember I'm here if you need me.”

“Thanks, man.” Jericho headed away from the fence and trudged down the street.
This must be what hell feels like
, he thought.
I need me some air-conditioning!

“Hey, Jericho!”

Now what?
He turned and saw Olivia Thigpen waving and hurrying in his direction. “What's up, Olivia?” Jericho really didn't feel like being bothered with her or anyone else today.

Her bright red, long-sleeved sweatshirt, tight over her arms and belly, was damp with sweat. She carried her sousaphone case, bulky and black, in front of her. “This is the kind of day I wish I played the flute,” she said with a laugh.

“Hey, let me carry that thing for you,” Jericho offered. “You look like one of those soldier ants carrying a big piece of food from the picnic table!”

“More like a beached whale carrying an elephant!” she joked, but she gave him the instrument.

“I told you about blasting on yourself,” he chided.

“Forget about me—what did you think of football?”

“I like it.”

“For real?”

“I think I'm gonna be pretty good at it. Coach Barnes says I'm really fast for a big dude.”

Olivia made a face. “Gee, you smell like you want to be by yourself!” she teased.

“Maybe I do,” he told her. “But you ain't no peaches-and-cream cologne either!”

Olivia grinned broadly and nodded in agreement. “You got that right! So, did football give you that man-savage feeling that dudes act like they need?”

“I guess so. We had chocolate-covered rocks as a snack when we finished.”

She laughed again and wiped beads of sweat from her forehead. She had a natural, comfortable laugh and was the easiest girl to talk to that Jericho knew.

“Mr. T was telling us about the first game,” she said. “I can't believe they scheduled us to play Excelsior! Their band is, like, the best in the nation!”

“So is their football team.”

“We're gonna get destroyed! Our band uniforms, the same ones they used back in the eighties, are just plain embarrassing. We're gonna look like refugees from the thrift store.”

“I hear at least we're supposed to be getting new football uniforms—white with red numbers, I think. Coach said the athletic director knows somebody who owns a warehouse and he's getting them for us real cheap.”

“It sure would be nice to show up at Excelsior with some band threads we could be proud of,” she said as she fell into step with Jericho.

“Yeah, but it's not likely,” he told her. “You know the school board doesn't have the money for stuff like that.”

“But our band sounds good, even if we do show up lookin' like leftover soup,” Olivia asserted. “Mr. T is the best band teacher around.” She paused and glanced at Jericho. “I saw him talkin' to you.”

“He's a good man, but he just doesn't understand.”

“Maybe not. But maybe you're tossing away the wrong thing. Hey, here's my bus stop. I'll see you around, Jericho.”

“You're taking the bus with this big old instrument?” Jericho asked as he handed it back to her.

“Hey, at least I got some kinda wheels. You seem to
be doing the two-foot shuffle home. What happened to your car?”

“My stepmother's car is in the shop, so she's driving mine today. I can't complain—she and my dad make the payments on it. And I really don't mind the walk. It feels good sometimes.”

“I feel ya. Here's my bus. Catch you later.” The bus swallowed Olivia and her sousaphone, and Jericho was left alone in the heat of the summer afternoon.

NOVEMBER USUALLY LIKED BEING DOWN-
town. The tall buildings, the moist breezes from Fountain Square, the thick, rich smells from the German and Chinese and Italian restaurants, all seemed to add a heightened sense of excitement to every trip. Sometimes she'd spend a whole day at the main public library, browsing for books, doing research for some school report, stopping at lunch to get a bagel sandwich from Busken Bakery. But today she was filled only with dread.

She and her mother walked up the stone steps to the wide glass entrance doors of the building. Their meeting was on the seventieth floor. November glanced up at the structure, tiny windows going up one side of it like eyes with no face.

“Who do you think works in all those offices, Mom?” she asked.

“People who make the business world function, I
imagine,” her mother replied. “Auditors and accountants and advertisers…”

“And that's just the ones that start with the letter
A
,” November said, shaking her head. She was much too nervous to laugh.

“Most of these office folks just try to do their job well and go home to their families in the evening, I guess. Lots of them work in tiny little cubicles without even a window to see the sunshine.”

“I'd hate to have a job like that. How depressing!” said November.

“Thoreau said, ‘The mass of men lead lives of quiet desperation,'” Mrs. Nelson commented as they entered the granite-tiled lobby and searched for the name of the law firm on the directory in front of them.

“Hey, I recognize that quote!” November said, pleased with herself. “It was on the American Lit final that Mrs. Brisby gave us. We read
Walden
last year.”

“Did you get the question right?” her mother asked.

“I must have,” November told her. “It's rare when school stuff actually shows up in real life—except maybe like on
Jeopardy!
”

Her mother smiled. “It happens every day, baby girl. You're just too young to notice. How do you think I do my taxes or measure for wallpaper or figure out how much to tip the waitress?”

“Math, I guess.” November wished the elevator would hurry up. She hated it when her mother went into “teacher mode.” “I hate math, though. I want to work with people—like maybe be like one of those social workers who helped
the people after the hurricane in New Orleans.”

“That's a great career goal, November. But it requires a college education, you know. Probably some math as well,” she added.

November's shoulders slumped as the elevator doors finally separated. She knew where her mother was heading. Neither of them said anything as they rode up to the seventieth floor. Not that this surprised November—she and her mom had been avoiding talking about this meeting—something
so
important—for a week! It was weird, she thought. Before she got pregnant, she and her mom could talk about
anything
—even sex. But now they were on pins and needles around each other. The elevator deposited them into a tastefully decorated lobby, done in tones of beige and pink.

“I can venture a guess at how much this lawyer's fees are,” Mrs. Nelson commented.

As they walked down the hall toward where the lawyer's offices were located, November couldn't stop herself from grabbing her mother's arm. “What should I tell them, Mom? What's the right thing to do?”

Mrs. Nelson dropped her purse and pulled her daughter into a hug. “Do what's right for that child, November. That's all I can tell you,” she whispered in her ear.

November drew away, disappointed. Although she knew better, she still wished her mother could wave a magic wand and make everything all better. She wondered if she'd ever have the power or the knowledge needed to wave a wand for a little kid in trouble.
Probably not
, she thought glumly.

They were greeted at the door by a secretary dressed in the same tones of tan as the wall and the carpet of the offices. It was as if she dressed specifically to be color-coordinated with the place, November thought. “Please come in,” the woman said with a smile. “They're waiting for you in the first conference room on the left.”

November hesitated. “Where is your restroom?” she asked quickly, looking around with an anxious face.

“It's the first door on your right,” the secretary said in a voice that was modulated so pleasantly that it sounded artificial.

November took as long as she could in the bathroom. She looked at herself in the mirror. Her jeans had given up trying to find a waistline and had settled in that space just below her ever-expanding belly. She didn't like the tight T-shirts mothers-to-be seemed to be sporting these days, so she wore a short-sleeved white blouse that fit loosely and comfortably.

Still, she thought she looked like one of those mirror images from the fun house at the amusement park. She put on a little lipstick.
I'm bloated, my face has grown a whole village full of pimples, and my arms look like sausages. Plus, my back is killing me!

Unable to stall any longer, she washed her hands and emerged from the bathroom. The perfect secretary escorted her to the conference room. Sitting around a highly buffed mahogany table were Josh's parents, her mother, and a man she figured had to be the lawyer.

“Hi, November,” Mrs. Prescott said softly. November was startled at how much better Josh's mom looked than
she had that night at the store. Her hair was freshly curled and shining, and her face looked somehow fuller. She smiled, but November didn't return the gesture. She glanced at Mr. Prescott, who was clasping his wife's hand. He too looked different, yet still intense. He offered November his other hand, but she pretended not to notice and took a seat at the other end of the table.

The lawyer, who was grinning at her like a hunter sizing up his prey, had blond hair—actually, it was an unusual shade of beige—and he wore tan slacks with an off-white, thick-cabled sweater tied around his shoulders over a softly tailored pale yellow shirt. Not only did he match his office, November thought, he looked like something out of one of those slick fashion magazines that advertise to men who had lots of money. The man's teeth were perfect, his eyes were deep blue, and as he shook her hand with a powerful handshake, November knew without looking that his fingernails were covered with clear polish. She hated him immediately.

“Welcome, November!” the lawyer said a little too loudly. “I'm Henderson Grant. I think you know everyone else. I've just been chatting with your mom here, getting to know her a little. You know she's your biggest fan!”

November looked at her mother as if she had joined the Confederate army. Mrs. Nelson gave her daughter a big smile of encouragement, but November narrowed her eyes.
I know you want me to make this decision by myself, Mom, but it's kinda cold of you to be grinnin' in the face of the enemy. Whose side are you on, anyway?

“Would you like something to drink? A cola? Perhaps
some fresh fruit juice? We'd better eat healthy for that little one!” Mr. Grant said in a booming voice.

This perfect-faced, perfume-smellin' phony is gonna make me gag. He sounds like all the announcers I've ever heard on the home shopping channel, rolled into one greasy salesman.

“Who is
we
?” November finally asked, her voice a croak in the silence. “Who else has to eat healthy for that ‘little one,' as you call it?”

The lawyer, not really answering her and using what November knew had to be his most soothing voice, responded, “I suppose you've brought us to the reason why we're here today—the health and future happiness of Joshua Prescott's child.”

Oh no he didn't!
she thought, anger coursing through her. “Excuse me? This baby is my child as well.” November glanced at her mother and was glad to see that she was suddenly sitting at attention too.

“Of course, dear,” Mr. Grant said. “But I represent the Prescott family, and our purpose here today is to see if we can come to a determination that will please everyone. Did you bring a legal representative to advise you?”

November looked again at her mother, this time with alarm.
Maybe we didn't treat this mess as seriously as we should've. Say something, Mom!
she thought desperately.

“No, we didn't,” Mrs. Nelson replied. “Not at this time. We have come today simply to listen to your proposals. If we find we need formal representation, we will pursue it at a later date.”

“I see. Thank you. That will be fine.” The lawyer
scribbled something on a legal pad. He seemed to be pleased.

November looked over at Josh's parents.
His mom's gained a little weight—she needed that
, November thought.
And she's got her hair and nails done too. New hookup as well—DKNY—nice stuff. Dag! She's almost glowing!
Josh's father, looking fit and trim, smiled warmly at her, but November still couldn't quite smile back.
With that gray at his temples and that leather jacket, he looks dignified, and I gotta admit, downright responsible. Looks like they've been to that
Extreme Makeover
TV show.

And me? I look like…like a scared sixteen-year-old pregnant girl. But that doesn't mean I don't have rights! Where do they come off with this stuff?

So she asked outright, “Do you plan to try to take my baby?” She stared directly at Mr. and Mrs. Prescott but found she was trembling.

“Of course not, but we would like to make you an offer, November,” Mrs. Prescott said gently. “We'd like to adopt the baby and raise it as our own.”

November's thoughts churned. Her first reaction was to scream, “No way!” Then she immediately wondered what would happen if she agreed to this ridiculous proposal.
Would I get to see it? Would they let me?
And, a moment later,
Would I want to?

“You wouldn't have to be burdened with this unplanned responsibility for the rest of your life,” Josh's father added.

He's right! I'd be free!
Her heartbeat quickened. But then she immediately felt overwhelmed by guilt. She gulped.
How can I turn against the baby like this? What
kind of mother even thinks about giving her baby away?

“We'd make it worth your while.” The lawyer inserted himself into the conversation. “You'd be financially set for years to come.”

November knew they had recently come into a lot of cash—Josh had told her how his mom had inherited it from her grandfather. How was she supposed to fight all this?

Henderson Grant cleared his throat. “Your mother tells us you've been accepted to the Cornell Summer Academic Program. What a stunning achievement! Please allow me to offer my congratulations.”

November, furious at her mother, shot her a look of pure hatred.
How
dare
she tell these people my business!
Mrs. Nelson looked away.

The lawyer, his voice smooth and convincing, continued, “Not only would you receive a generous settlement check when the baby is born, but all your college expenses would be paid as well—tuition, books, dorm, everything—for the full four years.”

These folks are off the hook! I can't believe what they're doing! They're practically offering to buy my baby!
November didn't know if she felt insulted or excited about all the possibilities they were dumping in her lap. Her thoughts swirled at a dizzying speed.
I could go to Cornell for the summer after all!
she thought guiltily.
Mom wouldn't have to get a second job. I could concentrate on books instead of bills.
Then she realized what she was considering, and she slumped once more in despair.

Mrs. Nelson gasped and looked at her daughter but gave no indication of what she was thinking. November felt like
one of those unfortunate animals on the nature channel who sits and waits for the stronger, fiercer animals to come and devour it.

I'm way out of my league here. And I think they know that.

“Of course we'll do a DNA test to establish paternity—just a formality, I assure you—then the formal adoption papers will be filed.” The lawyer gave November another of those magazine-model paper smiles.

November jumped up.
Now wait just a minute! They can't just dis me like that!
“You think this is somebody else's baby?” she asked angrily. “You think I slept around with every boy in Douglass High School?” She headed for the door.

“Don't be upset, dear,” the lawyer said, comforting her and directing her back to her chair. She jerked her arm away. “These things are simply legal formalities. Of course we know the baby belongs to Josh. That's why we're here.”

November sat down warily. “What if I turn down your offer?” she asked harshly.

“That doesn't make a whole lot of sense, now, does it?” Mr. Grant said soothingly. “You have limited financial resources, you're only sixteen, and you have nothing to offer this child. The Prescotts already know how to bring up a baby. They have a comfortable home and can give the child everything it deserves or desires.”

November grew increasingly dismayed.
Everything he says is true
, she thought.

“He'd have his own room,” Mrs. Prescott added, her voice pleading. “A puppy. A bicycle. A backyard swimming pool.”

Josh never had a puppy or a pool
, November recalled.

“If it's a girl, she could take piano lessons and ballet lessons and go to Paris to study if she wants,” Mr. Prescott added.

Give me a break! Paris?

November glared at her mother, who, although looking drained, said nothing.
You're not helping here, Mom. I feel like I'm drowning!