The board nods their agreement.
“You’re free to go,” Mrs. Duffy tells me.
Susan Biltmore brings her gavel down on the table again. “This hearing is dismissed.”
“Do us proud in New York!” Mrs. Duffy whispers as I pass her on the way out.
“Thank you,” I whisper back, barely able to conceal my happiness and relief. I try not to look over at Mrs. Adler. It would be impolite to gloat.
The minute I’m outside I call my parents with the good news, then text Emma and Darcy as I race for the dorm. Bursting through the front doors, I take the stairs two at a time.
Frankie and Adele are waiting for me in our room. They leap to their feet, looking at me expectantly.
“Yippee!” crows Adele when she sees my face. “You’re coming to New York!”
We all start talking at once. I’m still explaining Savannah’s brilliant strategy as she comes in.
“Aw shucks,” she says, feigning modesty, then laughs. “Actually, it was my dad’s idea.”
“Thank you, Senator Sinclair!” I exclaim, hugging her.
“You can thank him in New York,” Savannah tells me. “He and my mom are flying up to catch the competition this weekend.” She kneels on the floor and fishes around under her bunk. “Meanwhile, he sent this for you.”
She hands me a box and I open it, laughing when I see that it contains a big packet of chocolate cigars.
“He was sure we’d win, and wanted us to have something to celebrate with,” Savannah explains. “I think there’s a note in there for you too.”
There is. It’s written in Senator Sinclair’s bold black handwriting on official U.S. Senate stationery:
Dear Jessica,
I have absolutely no doubt as to the outcome of this hearing.
Your reputation is sterling with us! You’ve done so much for Savannah—your friendship has made a real difference in her life. Congratulations, and see you in New York!
All the best,
Robert Sinclair
“Hurry up and open those chocolates,” orders Frankie, dancing around the room in anticipation.
I snag a handful of the cigars for my family and put them in my backpack. “I’d better get going,” I tell my friends. “My parents are picking me up in a couple of minutes.”
“See you in the morning at the bus,” says Savannah. “Bright and early.”
“Five a.m. on the dot, Mr. Elton said,” adds Adele.
I make a face. “How could I forget? I think I’ll come in my pajamas.”
“Don’t stay out too late tonight smooooooooching,” says Frankie, her dark eyes sparkling with merriment.
I can feel my face turn red. “No chance of that, actually,” I reply lightly. “Darcy’s got an away game tonight and won’t be home until long after I’m asleep.”
I grab a few things out of my dresser drawer and closet, then say good-bye again and head downstairs. I find my parents in the lobby, talking to the McKinleys.
“So happy to hear that everything turned out all right,” says Mrs. McKinley, putting her arm around my shoulders and giving me a squeeze. “Not that we ever doubted it for a second.”
“Thank you,” I tell her. “For everything.” Savannah told me that the McKinleys were among the faculty and staff members who wrote letters of support.
My brothers are waiting in the van, dressed in their Sunday clothes and looking unusually tidy.
“What’s going on?” I ask.
“You are,” says my father. “We’re going out to dinner to celebrate your victory.”
“Yeah! You beat the Battleaxe!” crows Dylan.
“Mom told us your nickname for her,” Ryan admits.
“Mo-om!” I protest.
“Sorry,” she says, not looking sorry at all. She smiles at me. “How does Harborside sound?”
“You’re taking me out for lobster?!”
My father grins. “You didn’t think we’d go to the trouble of wrestling your brothers into those monkey suits for Burger Barn, did you? This is a major Delaney family victory, and deserves to be celebrated as such.”
Lobster is one of my favorite things in the whole world. I eat mine and half of Ryan’s—my little brother is surprisingly squeamish when it comes to a meal you basically have to tear apart with your hands—plus a giant heap of steamed clams, two ears of corn, some coleslaw, a biscuit with butter and honey, and chocolate cake for dessert.
“To Jess,” my father says, saluting me with a lobster claw. “Our lovely daughter, and a shining example of grace under pressure.”
“A shining example of stuffing my face,” I reply, leaning back in my chair and groaning. “The only thing under pressure right now is the button on my jeans.”
Later, on the way home, my mother reaches over and pats my knee. “Too bad you won’t be able to see Darcy this weekend.”
“Darcy and Jess, sitting in a tree, k-i-s-s-i-n-g,” my brothers singsong from the back of the van. I ignore them, and my mother and I exchange a smile.
“Yeah, well, maybe there’ll be time Sunday night,” I tell her.
“We’ll keep our fingers crossed, okay? Don’t forget we have a get-together planned for your Wyoming friends.”
I have an unbelievably busy weekend ahead. Not only am I heading to New York tomorrow, but our pen pals are also arriving on Saturday night, and on Sunday we’re having a party to kick off their week in Concord, right around the time I get back from Nationals.
The first thing I do when we get home is change into my barn clothes. “Back in a minute,” I tell Ryan, who’s setting up a Monopoly board on the kitchen table. I grab a couple of apples from the bowl on the kitchen counter and run across the muddy yard to the barn. After today’s ordeal, I need a good dose of home.
“Hey boys,” I say to Led and Zep, giving them each an apple. “How are things?”
I pat their velvety noses and visit with them for a bit, then spend some time in the goat pen with Sundance and her daughters Sunbeam and Cedar, the rest of my four-legged family.
“Jess!” calls Dylan a few minutes later. I hear him racing across the barn, and then he leans over the wall of the pen, panting. “Do you want to meet my chicken?”
My brothers are both in 4-H this year. Ryan is raising a goat, like I did with Sundance when I was his age, and Dylan is raising a chicken. Last time I was here it still hadn’t hatched yet, and he was as worried as, well, a mother hen.
“Of course I want to meet your chicken,” I tell him, standing up and dusting off my knees. “Hey!” I add accusingly. “You grew again behind my back!”
I hadn’t noticed in the car or at the restaurant, but Dylan is now taller than I am. Which means Ryan must be too, since they’re twins.
My brother grins, looking pleased. “Shrimp!”
“Who’s calling who a shrimp?” I holler, chasing him across the barn.
He skips ahead of me to the brooding pen, laughing over his shoulder. Inside, frisking in the sawdust under a heat lamp, is one lone little chick. It scoots away from me when I try and pick it up, but I eventually manage to corner it. Scooping it up, I inspect its fluffy black and gray feathers carefully. “A Barred Rock, huh?”
Dylan nods vigorously.
“Nice. They’re my favorite. He looks healthy—or is it a she?”
“I hope it’s a she, because I named it Taylor Swift,” he replies, grinning again.
“Aren’t you worried that she’ll be lonely?”
“Nah, I keep the radio on. She likes country music.”
“As well she should.” All of the chickens at Half Moon Farm are named after Country Western singers. It was my mother’s idea originally, and somehow the tradition stuck. I set the chick down again carefully, and Dylan and I head back to the kitchen and our board game, where I beat the pants off the entire family.
“A fitting end to a triumphant day for you, sweetheart,” says my mother when she tucks me in later that night. I’m way too old to be tuck
ed into bed, so we don’t call it that anymore, but that’s what it is, really. She perches on the edge of my mattress and strokes my hair. “I’m really proud of you,” she continues. “You handled yourself with such maturity these past few weeks. It’s not easy to be accused of something you didn’t do.”
“Thanks, Mom.”
She kisses me good night, and my father pops in a few minutes later and does the same, and then I text Darcy to see how his game went.
BEAT ’EM 3–0, he texts back, and sends a picture of himself and Stewart and the rest of the team, sweaty and grinning. I smile. It’s been a good day for everybody.
The next morning my alarm goes off at four a.m. and I stagger out of bed to the shower. I’m not used to farm hours any more, that’s for sure. Living at boarding school has turned me into a wimp. My parents are already downstairs and dressed by the time I get to the kitchen.
“I know it’s early, but try and eat a little something,” my mother says, handing me a banana and a bowl of cereal. “I’ve packed us some snacks for the trip.”
My mother is coming along as a chaperone. She jumped at the chance when she heard Mr. Elton needed a couple of extras.
“We’d better get going,” I tell her a few minutes later, anxiously checking the clock on the wall. “Mr. Elton said for us to be there at five o’clock on the dot.”
Our group’s director has arranged a tour of Juilliard for us this afternoon, so we need to leave Concord early to get there by lunchtime.
“In a minute, honey,” she replies, sipping her coffee.
“Why don’t you go brush your teeth?” my father suggests.
“Fine,” I tell them, dashing upstairs and returning shortly with my suitcase. “Can we go now?”
“Sure,” says my father. He turns to my mother. “You get your things, Shannon—I’ll do the breakfast dishes.” He stands up and stretches, then starts clearing the table. As I tap my foot impatiently, there’s a knock at the back door.
“Would you get that, Jess?” my mother asks. “It’s probably Josh.”
I open the door, expecting to see our farmhand, but to my complete surprise, it’s Darcy who’s standing on the doorstep.
“Someone order a limo?” he asks, grinning at me.
“We figured you wouldn’t mind if Darcy gave you a ride this morning,” my father tells me. “I’ll bring your mother along shortly.” He gives me a hug. “Break a leg, honey. I wish I could be there to hear you too.”
My little brothers have a big swim meet tomorrow, and he has to drive them out to Springfield for it. My parents are in what they call divide and conquer mode this weekend.
Darcy picks up my suitcase and I follow him outside. He puts it in the trunk, then opens the passenger door for me.
“Such a gentleman,” I tease.
“Only the best for my favorite diva.”
The drive from Half Moon Farm to Colonial Academy is a short one, but Darcy manages to make it seem longer by driving super slow. I tell him all about my meeting with the Community Justice Board, and he tells me all about his hockey game.
Eventually, though, even with him driving about five miles per hour, we reach the gates of Colonial Academy.
“Nice ride,” he says, peering at the luxury bus idling on the street ahead.
“Yeah, well, I guess Colonial is sending us off in style.”
I start to get out, and Darcy grabs my sleeve.
“Wait,” he says, leaning over and kissing me. “I hope you have a great trip. I know you’re going to do well.” He reaches into his jacket pocket and takes out an envelope. “Read this right before your solo, okay?”
“Sure.”
“No peeking beforehand.”
I promise him I won’t, and he passes it to me. The envelope is thick; there’s something besides just a note inside. My curiosity is piqued, but I obediently tuck it into my backpack for later.
“I’d better go,” I tell him. My parents beat us here, and I can see my mother talking to Mr. Elton, who keeps glancing at his watch.
“Keep me posted?” asks Darcy.
I nod, and he kisses me again, then gives my braid a tug. “For good luck,” he tells me. “Not that you need it—you’ve worked hard for this, Jess.”
He carries my suitcase to the bus for me and I climb aboard and slide into the seat beside Savannah. Darcy stands there on the sidewalk waving as we pull away.
“Who’s that?” I hear Dinah Robertson, an alto who’s sitting behind me, whisper to Adele.
“Her boyfriend,” Adele whispers back.
“Lucky Jess.”
Uh-huh, I think, smiling to myself. You’ve got that right.
The bus ride is long and boring—just highway and more highway. Savannah and I sleep through most of the first half of it, then play cards and talk with our friends and practice our competition pieces for the rest.
“Sounding good, girls!” my mother calls from the front of the bus.
Shortly before lunchtime we spot the city on the horizon. I don’t come to New York very often, and I always forget how huge the skyscrapers are and how small they can make a person feel. I stay glued to the window, gawking as we head up the Henry Hudson Parkway into Manhattan. A few minutes later we cut over onto Broadway, then turn onto 65th Street, pulling up in front of a modern glass-and-concrete building with a sign over the entrance: THE JUILLIARD SCHOOL.
“Wow,” I say.
“Look at this location!” echoes Savannah, who’s been to New York a lot more often than I have. “Lincoln Center is right around the corner. And the Metropolitan Opera, too!”
We pile out of the bus and follow our choir director inside. Mr. Elton leads us to our first stop, lunch in the dining hall, which is like an upscale cafeteria. Then we meet up with a tour guide from the admissions department who shows us the rest of the campus—the dance and music and drama centers, the library, the concert halls.
“This place is amazing,” I whisper to my mother, who’s traded in her usual farm mom look for black pants and turtleneck, black leather boots, and a floral-patterned spring raincoat. She looks really pretty. “No kidding,” she whispers back.
As we walk around, something inside of me stirs to life. I can picture myself going here. The realization comes as a bit of a shock—I’ve always thought I wanted one of those traditional New England–style college campuses out in the countryside somewhere. New York is a City with a capital C. It’s about as far away from a farm as you can get. The whole place pulses and thrums with activity, and being here feels like having a bucket of cold water poured over my head.
I love it.
Our last stop is the admissions office, where we’re told more about the classes that are offered. I didn’t realize that Julliard has a liberal arts program, too. For some reason I always thought you’d just study music or dance or drama at the conservatory and nothing else. They even have something called a Scholastic Distinction honors program that sounds like it’s right up my alley. I feel a tingle of excitement as we’re all handed brochures. I can’t wait to show mine to Emma and Darcy.
We pile back on the bus for the short ride to the youth hostel near NYU where we’re staying. Savannah and Adele and I are sharing a room; our fellow MadriGals are in a trio of others nearby. Mr. Elton and our chaperones are down the hall.
The students from the other schools start to arrive as we’re getting settled. Nationals is a big deal, and we’re competing against finalists from six other regions—the Great Lakes, Northwest, Mid-Atlantic, Midwest, South, and Southwest. The hostel fills up quickly, and the halls are soon buzzing with activity.
“We’ve drawn last place for tomorrow,” Mr. Elton tells us a little while later when we meet him downstairs in the common room. “The drawback is that you’ll have to sit through all the other performances before you sing, but the advantage is that you’ll be the final group to leave an impression on the judges.”
We troop over to one of the practice rooms at NYU to run thr
ough our pieces. We’ll be singing two: a traditional nocturne called “Radiant Stars, Above the Mountains Glowing” that Mr. Elton chose to showcase our voices in the pure a capella form. For our second number we’re cranking it up a bit with Aretha Franklin’s “I Say a Little Prayer,” which will allow us to show our range and add a little “flash and sparkle,” as Mr. Elton likes to call it. Dinah will even be doing some beat-boxing. This second one is the arrangement with a couple of breakout solos, when I’ll be standing on my own in the spotlight. I’ve already got butterflies thinking about it.
By the time we get back to the hostel, it’s time for Savannah and Adele and me to change for dinner. We’re heading to some swanky hotel on Central Park where Savannah’s parents are staying.
“Too fancy?” I ask, eyeing myself in the mirror a short time later.
Savannah gives my dress—a pale blue Wong original I borrowed from Megan—the once-over. “Nope,” she replies. “It’s perfect. Besides, nothing’s too fancy for New York.”
“I look like a cupcake,” moans Adele, nudging me aside and tugging unhappily at the neckline of her white dress. “I knew I should have brought the red one!”
“You do not look like a cupcake,” I assure her. “I love the ruffles—they’re adorable.”
“Not exactly the look I was going for,” she mutters.
“Adele, you look adorable!” my mother exclaims when we meet her downstairs in the common room. “You’re just as pretty as a cupcake.”
Savannah and I dissolve into giggles, and Adele shoots us a look.
Dinner is magical. A taxi whisks the four of us across Central Park to the Sinclairs’ hotel, where they’ve booked us a big table in the restaurant off the lobby. It’s filled with glittering chandeliers and white linen tablecloths and helpful waiters who fall all over themselves once they find out that Savannah’s father is a senator.
We’re looking over the menus when one of the other customers sidles up to our table. “Larissa LaRue?” she asks my mother in a low voice. “From HeartBeats?”
My mother smiles up at her. “Let’s just say maybe in a former life.”
“I knew it was you!” the woman crows. “May I have your autograph?”
Wish You Were Eyre Page 13
