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“What is with you two?” I look from Daddy to R.J. “Why are you always asking me stuff like that? God, you’d think he was all over me the way y’all check up on me.”

“Just looking out for you, sweetie,” Daddy says. There he goes with the
sweetie
crap again.

R.J. joins in. “Yeah, just looking out for my baby sister.” His sincerity is called into question when he crosses himself and folds his hands like a nun in prayer.

“R.J., you’re
so
going to hell.”

***

The church parking lot is a zoo. It’s filled to capacity, and several car trunks spew gold and white glittery decorations. The sanctuary looks even worse. Ladders rest on either side of the altar, and plastic containers litter the vestibule. Overexcited parishioners weave in and out of the mess in response to others who yell instructions and point.

In a corner of the choir loft, I spot Isaac. His back is to me, but it’s clear he’s arguing with someone. His shoulders look tense, and he shakes his head. I move closer but stop when I catch bits of their conversation.

“Do I really need to remind you?” The female’s voice is familiar but too quiet to identify.

“Course not. Made yourself clear a long time ago.”

“I’m glad you haven’t forgotten. I thought you might have, considering.”

“How would you know? It’s none of your business.” Isaac sounds tired.

“You made it my business. It’s your word against mine. We may be in a church, but I haven’t forgotten or forgiven.”

“Oh, come on. Give it up.”

“Not a chance.”

That can’t be…

“You’re sick. You enjoy this. Make mountains out of nothing. Wasn’t a big deal then, and it isn’t now.
You
made it a big deal.” Now he sounds pissed.

“That’s right, and I’ll do it again.”

That voice…

“Did you?”

“Maybe. Maybe not.” Her voice purrs.

I duck into the shadows when high heels clack on the hard floor. They approach and recede, so I peek my head out just in time to see a blonde bob disappear around the corner.

Marcie Swann.

No one told Isaac the Decoration Committee planned to trim the sanctuary at the same time we’re rehearsing the Christmas cantata, so we pack ourselves into the choir room, which hasn’t had a redo since before I was born. The adults wrangle the kids onto scratchy orange couches, and the musicians attempt to keep their instruments from getting smashed in the melee. I stay out of Isaac’s way as he fires off instructions like a military captain.

“You. There. You.
Over there.
Juli, you play while I direct.”

While he points in everyone’s face, I sit at a 1970s upright piano unworthy of anyone’s talent. The cantata has an organ part, too, but I think that’ll have to wait for another day.

“Brass, are you ready? Strings? Everyone warmed up?” Isaac doesn’t wait for an answer. He hustles everyone into position, nods to the harpist shoved in the corner, raises his arms and flicks his wrist.

The choir sounds good, and the children sound like…well, a bunch of children. Not great, but cute. It’s not bad for a first full rehearsal, but the close quarters make everything difficult. Pretty soon, the overcrowded room smells like my school’s gymnasium—eau de sweat and stinky socks. The kids are restless, and I’d love to throw a tantrum right along with them.

Worst of all is Isaac. He moves well beyond moody musician and enters chain-saw-killer territory. I glance at the children and see a little boy’s eyes get big when Isaac yells at the altos to “back the hell off.” Before he drops an F-bomb in church, I tug his sleeve.

He whips around. “What?” There’s sweat on his upper lip and stains under his arms.

“Calm down,” I say quietly. “There are children here.”

“Like I need to be reminded?” He jerks his sleeve out of my grasp.

“Clearly, you do.”

His nostrils flare and, for a moment, I wonder if he’ll go postal. Through clenched teeth he barks another order at me, “Outside.
Now
.”

A hush falls over the room, and even the kids sense the change. Isaac grabs my elbow none too gently, yanks me out into the hall and slams the door. A hundred dollars says someone’s got their ear pressed to the other side.

“Don’t you ever,
ever
talk to me like that in front of a roomful of
people.
Understand? Do that again and I’ll drop you faster than you can blink.” He squeezes my arm so hard my hand is tingly and numb.

My first reaction is to knee him in the nuts. No, my first reaction is to cry, but kneeing him is a close second.

Whooosh.
The flames of my temper ignite.

Here it comes.

“What crawled up your butt? May I remind you that I’m a volunteer? So are all those people in there, including the children. And their parents don’t need to be hollered at
like
children, Isaac. Neither do I.”

“You”—he closes his eyes and shakes his head—“are replaceable.”

The monster rears up.

“Yeah? Knock yourself out, Maestro. I’m sure one of your other students will jump at the chance to be your bitch.” I yank my arm free and walk away. Down the adjoining hall, the sound of high heels recedes.

I had set aside most of the day for the cantata rehearsal, so now I’ve got little to do. I don’t want to answer anyone’s questions, so I lock myself in my room and make an honest attempt to do homework. Daddy says I need to spend more time on school stuff, so that’s what I’ll do. I hate to admit it, but he’s right. Still, I pull back the collar of my shirt so I can see my upper arm. Isaac’s fingerprints are stamped there. For some reason, it’s comforting.

He doesn’t show up Monday afternoon. Or Wednesday.
Or any other day.

He dropped me. I’ve been replaced.

Chapter Ten

The first week without Isaac, I muddle through. By the second week, I have to force myself out to the studio. Every time I open the door, the scent of his aftershave fills the air. His fingerprints cover the piano’s surface. His echo reminds me to slow down during the adagio.

A few days later, I get pissed—pissed at him for losing control and being a jerk, pissed at myself for taking the bait. Walking out felt right at the time, but now I’m not so sure. I’m not sure of anything.

By the third week, I’m a blubbering mess.

Was that small moment of triumph worth throwing away your chance to get into the NEC? Didn’t think that one
through,
did you, moron?

Things get worse when Mama asks why Isaac hasn’t been over.

“I won’t send him a check if he’s not here,” she says. “Is he coming back?”

“I don’t think so.”

Mama perches on a stepstool so she can empty out the contents of the cabinet above the fridge. She’s already tackled the rest of the kitchen and pantry—empty, wipe, toss,
then
rearrange—so their contents line up according to color and expiration date. Not that she eats any of it. She stops and rests her arms on top of the fridge, a can of black-eyed peas in her hand.

“And why not? What did you do to run him off?”

“Why do you always assume I did something?” I lean against the kitchen table.

“Because I know you. You screw up everything.”

I look over to the sink where she’s lined up her medication bottles on the windowsill from tallest to shortest. All the labels face out.

“Thanks for the vote of confidence. I know I can count on you.” I turn to go upstairs, but she’s not done yet.

“Am I wrong? Where are your friends? Fact is
,
you don’t have any.”

Her words pierce my back like poisoned arrows. I shouldn’t listen to this.

“I have tried and tried with you, Julianne, but you just aren’t very likable. I mean, look at you. You don’t make an effort to fit in, with your wild hair and frumpy, bohemian clothes. You always cover up in shapeless T-shirts. You’ve got a whole closet full of nice things like the other girls wear, but you insist on doing things your own way. Well, look where it’s gotten you. Is it any wonder you can’t get along with Isaac Laroche?”

I walk down the hall, but she yells after me.

“For heaven’s sake, we were
paying
the man and he still abandoned you!”

I can’t talk back. She’ll smack me. I can’t yell. She’ll yell louder. I can’t run away. I’ve got nowhere to go. Nowhere, nothing, no one—that’s exactly who I am at this moment when the veil descends, wraps its blackened rage around my head with gargoyle claws and sinks in deep.

I round the corner to my room, kick the door shut and lift the bedside lamp. It’s the first thing to hit the wall, followed by all my piano awards and trophies. It’s not enough. I pull Mama’s “nice things” out of my closet and dump nail polish all over them. Better, but still not enough. I rip the full-length mirror off the back of my door and raise it above my head, ready to smash it through the window.

Then I giggle. It scares me a little, this idea I have.

Should I do it? Am I brave enough? And what will people say?

I lean the mirror against the desk to retrieve my scissors from the middle drawer. The tips gleam in the light from the ceiling as I draw a figure eight on my wrist. I could just
poke
them through the pale flesh
there
and
there
. The blue rivulets create a roadmap to self-destruction.

But no, I like this idea better.

When I’m finished, my “wild” hair spreads out around me on the floor like a ring of fire, inch after inch of flame licking at my ankles. I run my fingers through what’s left of my shorn hair and grin.

***

Shortly before Christmas, an official-looking envelope with a Boston return address appears on my bed. It contains all the information I need for my audition—hotels, directions, times, and instructions. Every waking hour, I practice for the audition, think about the audition, or think about practicing for the audition.

I only see Isaac at church. Which is why I’m more than a little surprised to see Dave Gaston on the back stoop. I barely get the door open before he starts in on me.

“Wow, you look like shit. No, wait! Don’t close the door. Love the new ’do, but dang, when was the last time you ate?”

I shrug.

“You’re skinny as a rail, and are those sandbags under your eyes? No matter. I’m here to rescue you.” He drops into a deep bow, but not before he flashes a devilish grin.

“Nice to see you, too, smartass.” Part of me really wants to shut the door in his face, but I can’t help giggling.

“Seriously, Juli, you look like hell. What’s up? You
gonna
let me in? I’m like a vampire. You have to invite me first.”

We head into the kitchen, and I pour him a glass of sweet tea.

“Audition.”

He nods.

“I only have a couple of weeks left. I’m scared to death. Isaac hasn’t spoken to me in over a month.” I tap my fingers on the counter. “Speaking of Isaac, does he know you’re here?”

“Why? Do I need his permission to see you? I thought we had a little something going last time I was in Mobile.” He raises an eyebrow and takes a sip of tea.

“You’re such a schmoozer. How come you don’t have a girlfriend?”

“Who says I don’t? For all you know, I have one in every town between here and Boston.” He winks. “No, Ike doesn’t know I’m here. I just got in last night, and he had stuff to do this morning, so I’m loose on the town. I thought you and I were friends, but I can leave if you—”

I burst into tears.

“Whoa, hey, kitten. No need to cry. I’m not going anywhere.” He pats me on the shoulder at first, and when I cry harder, he puts his arm around my shoulder and pulls me in. I see him glance at the door.

“You’re right,” I say. “I do look like shit. I
can’t sleep. I can’t eat. I have nightmares. I’m such a mess that my friends don’t call. I just—” I blubber all over him, and I can’t stop.

“Yeah, I remember how it was. That’s when I started drinking. I was even hung over at my audition. And they still let me in, so you’re golden.”

The worst is over and I hiccup. I try to wipe my nose with my hand without him seeing.

“Hey, no snot on my shirt, okay? We haven’t been to first base, and I have strict rules about that.”

I smile despite myself and get a tissue.

“You know what you need?” he says. “A break. Tell you what. Me and Ike and some of his family are headed down to Dauphin Island tonight.
Bonfire on the beach, that kind of thing.
Why don’t you come?”

“Yeah, like they want me tagging along. I’ll be fine, but thanks for the invite.”