I can still taste the icky bitter sludge in my mouth. I grab a napkin from the dispenser and start wiping down my tongue while I make disgusting gagging noises. I sound like a cat trying to cough up a fur ball.
A few people turn to look at me and I try to play it off, flashing Lily a sweet, innocent smile. “Be careful,” I warn her. “It’s very hot.”
“Oh,” she says, her confusion fading. “Right.”
I glance around the small coffee shop. I recognize most of the people here as Thunder Creek High students. They’re all talking and drinking coffee like it’s the most delicious thing in the world. How do they do that? How do they not vomit?
And more important, how am I supposed to finish this whole cup I just bought? I know I must like lattes. I’ve seen myself drinking them in pictures on my phone. So what’s wrong with me now? Is coffee an acquired taste?
My gaze lands on someone I recognize from school. I’m pretty sure it’s Annabelle, the girl Clementine is boycotting. She’s standing next to a small counter by the door. I watch as she removes the lid from her cup, dumps four packets of sugar in, and stirs the coffee before replacing the lid.
Sugar!
I didn’t add any sugar. No wonder this tastes like I just licked a rusty metal pole.
Lily sniffs at her cup and is about to take a sip. I reach out and smack her hand. “Sugar!” I say desperately. “I forgot the sugar. Don’t drink it yet.”
I walk over to the counter just as the girl is leaving. “Hi, Adeline,” she says brightly.
I stand there speechless for a moment, wondering how I should respond. If I’m right, and this is Annabelle, didn’t Clementine tell me not to speak to her?
I shake my head. That’s ridiculous.
I’m done following orders from Clementine. Especially when they make no sense whatsoever. If this girl’s biggest crime is parking in an unmarked parking spot, then she definitely doesn’t deserve to be ignored.
“Hey, Annabelle!” I say brightly. “Nice to see you.”
She glances behind me at the table where Lily is sitting. “Where’s Clementine?” she asks.
I shrug. “I don’t know.”
She looks a little bit scandalized by my response. Am I supposed to know where Clementine is? Am I supposed to keep tabs on her at all times? Should I have a Clementine-tracking app on my phone?
The girl glances once again in the direction of our table, then gives me a hurried fake smile, and continues out the door.
Huh. That was weird.
I grab a handful of sugar packets—as many as I can fit in two hands—and two wooden stirrers, and carry them back to the table. Lily watches as I proceed to dump packet after packet into my cup. I don’t even know how many I put in there. I lose count after six.
“Why did you order nonfat if you were just going to add that much sugar?” Lily asks.
I stop stirring. “Uh…I just like the taste better. Otherwise it’s too…you know…fatty.”
She looks like she wants to question me but decides better of it and just starts emptying packets into her own cup.
I stir my drink, which now feels a little bit like sludge with all that sugar in it, and take a sip.
So much better. Now it kind of tastes like a hot milk shake.
“So,” I begin, trying to sound as casual as possible. “How’s Grace doing?”
Lily takes a cautious sip of her drink. “She’s good.” Then her eyes narrow suspiciously at me. “Why are you asking?”
“I can’t ask about my best friend?” I swallow, catching myself. “I mean, my old best friend.”
A lump suddenly forms in my throat. I take another sip of coffee milk shake to shove it down.
“She’s good,” Lily says again, this time with a much more guarded tone. “Are you here to get dirt on her? Are you trying to use me in some kind of prank? Is that why you’re being so nice to me?”
I choke on my drink. “What? No! It’s not a prank. I’m not…” I pause, feeling so flustered. “Is that really something you think I would do?”
Lily shrugs and leans back in her chair. “I don’t know. You guys haven’t talked since you ditched her on the English project back in middle school and she failed the assignment.”
“What?” I screech so loudly, more than a few nosy people look over. I lower my voice and lean in so we’re not overheard. “I did that?”
Lily squints at me. “You mean, you don’t remember?”
I open my mouth to argue. Surely Lily got the details mixed up. Surely I wouldn’t do that to my best friend. But then the memory of that music video I found comes flooding back to me. The Romeo and Juliet retelling starring Rory and Henry. Grace’s name wasn’t in the credits. I did it alone.
It suddenly feels like my chest is tightening around my heart, threatening to squeeze it to death. I can’t breathe. I feel sick. The sugary sludge coffee is rising up in my throat.
I abandoned my best friend.
And she failed the assignment because of it.
Is that why she barely speaks to me? I mean, I wouldn’t blame her. That’s a terrible thing to do to someone.
I realize that Lily is still staring at me, waiting for an answer. “Of course I remember,” I say, trying to keep my voice light. “I’m just wondering what Grace’s side of the story was.”
Lily crosses her arms defensively over her chest. “There’s no side to the story, Addie. What you did sucked.”
“Yeah,” I say softly. “I…I feel really bad about that.” I bow my head and stare at my lap. “Did this, by any chance, have something to do with the fight we had at my birthday party? Did Grace ever tell you about that?”
“You mean the fight about the gift?”
The gift?
What gift?
I suddenly remember Grace coming over the night of the fateful slumber party and saying something about saving my gift for the party tomorrow. She seemed so excited about it.
That’s what caused our big epic fight?
Seriously, how bad could the gift have been?
Did she give me poison ivy?
I want so badly to ask Lily what the gift was but I’m afraid it will only make me look even more insensitive than I already do. So I just mumble, “Yeah. That fight.”
“Why did you ask me to hang out?” Lily asks, her tone still cautious and full of suspicion.
I bite my lip. Honestly, I just wanted answers. I wanted the truth. But now I’m not sure I can handle any more of the truth. Every time I learn something about the past four years, I hate who I’ve become even more.
“I don’t know,” I whisper. “I guess I just missed Grace a little. And you remind me of her.”
Lily looks surprised by my answer but I can see her softening a bit. She uncrosses her arms and gives me a sympathetic look. Then she says in a tender voice, “I doubt she’d ever admit it, but I think she might miss you, too.”
On Monday morning, I wake up early, before the sun is even up.
After I dropped Lily off at her house last night, I walked to the park and sat on one of the swings, thinking long and hard about everything. All the things I’ve learned about myself over the past few days.
Then I made a decision.
I have to stop fighting reality. I have to stop trying to change the past, because the past can’t be changed. Whatever I did in the last four years can’t be undone.
The truth is, Grace and I aren’t friends anymore. We aren’t twelve years old anymore. We’re new people. Different people, which means I have to handle things differently.
I have to fix things differently.
And that’s exactly what I intend to do. Just because things have changed for the worse, doesn’t mean they can’t be repaired.
Starting today, I will fix this friendship.
I know Grace and I got into a huge fight on my twelfth birthday and then another fight at my birthday party. I did a horrible thing by ditching her on the English project, but that was years ago. I
figure the reason we’ve continued to drift apart since then is because we have completely different interests. And the only way we can drift back together is if we start sharing some of those interests.
I spent half the night poring over our high school yearbooks from the past two years, studying every club, activity, and honor society that Grace Harrington is a part of. If I can just join one of those clubs or activities, then I’ll be able to show Grace that we still have loads in common. That we can still be best friends, despite the mistakes I’ve made in the past.
I’ve narrowed it down to three possible options:
1. Join the marching band.
2. Join the science club.
3. Get accepted into the Math Honor Society.
Okay, I admit that last one is pretty much a long shot, given that I can’t even pronounce Trigo…whatever-the-heck-it-is, but that’s okay. One of the other ideas will work. I’m sure of it.
I text Clementine to tell her I’ll be going to school early today to work on a special project, which is not technically a lie. Saving my friendship with Grace is a special project. A very, very special project.
Clementine doesn’t respond, which I figure means she’s still sleeping. It is pretty early. But I didn’t really have a choice about getting up this early. According to the Thunder Creek High School website, marching band has practice an hour before school starts today, and I want to be there at least twenty minutes before that.
Another thing I did last night was watch YouTube tutorials on how to drive, and now I’m feeling much more confident about getting behind the wheel again, even if the idea does make my palms sweat just a little bit.
When I get downstairs, the house is quiet. Everyone is still asleep. So I grab a piece of fruit, pour some cheese puffs into Buttercup’s bowl, and head out the door.
I have to walk about ten minutes to get to my car because it’s still parked near Clementine’s house, where I left it on Friday. I unlock the doors and get behind the wheel, taking a huge breath before turning the key in the ignition and putting the gearshift in reverse. According to YouTube, the secret is to only use one foot for the gas pedal and the brake pedal. I was trying to use both pedals at the same time. Not good.
I carefully ease my foot off the brake and onto the gas pedal. The car inches backward ever so slowly.
This is good. This is very good. This is progress.
Because I’m going backward, I pull the wheel the opposite direction from where I want to go. This was another key lesson in those videos. Who would have thought you have to steer left to go right?
I inch backward and forward, again and again, until I’m in the middle of the street, facing the right way!
Success!
Now I just have to survive the next two miles until I get to school and I’ll be home free. Or school free. Or school imprisoned?
Whatever.
With my foot firmly on the brake, I push the shifter into drive and once more ease onto the gas pedal. The car responds, crawling forward. I let out a giddy yelp.
I’m doing it! I’m driving! And not crashing!
Fortunately, the drive to school is pretty straight. There are only two turns and three stoplights total. It does take me about twenty minutes to go two miles because I’m driving at about half the pace of an elderly turtle, but what counts is I get there in one piece. And my hands aren’t shaking like leaves in a hurricane when I arrive. I find a parking spot in the second row and hurry to the football field, where I see members of the marching band already starting to congregate with their instruments.
As I get closer, I spot Grace standing in the center of the field, playing a few scales on her trumpet to warm up. I walk right past her, causing her to lower her trumpet and stare incredulously at me, and approach the only adult on the field, Mr. Reynolds, the director of the marching band. I recognize him from his picture on the school website. He’s standing off to the side of the field, flipping through a binder.
I have my speech all prepared. I practiced it multiple times in front of the mirror last night.
I stop in front of him and he looks down at me, squinting from the sun that’s just rising over a nearby hill. “Can I help you?” he asks.
“Yes,” I say, “I play the trumpet and I’d like to try out for the marching band.”
His brow furrows. “Tryouts were two months ago, at the beginning of the semester.”
I nod. I have already anticipated this response and have planned accordingly. “Yes, I realize that but I read the bylaws for the district’s extracurricular activities online and it says that if a student has been absent for a large majority of the semester due to illness or transferring schools, he or she can audition as long as he or she is able to catch up with the rest of the team or group.”
This is actually true. I really did look it up.
“So you’ve been absent?” he confirms.
“Um. Yes.”
Okay, so technically I haven’t been ill and I didn’t transfer schools but my memory has been absent for the majority of the semester so I think that counts.
“And can you catch up with the rest of the group?”
I nod confidently. “Absolutely!”
“So I take it you’ve been in a marching band before?” Mr. Reynolds asks, looking unconvinced.
I swallow. “Yes. Obviously.”
Okay, this part is a lie. I haven’t been in a marching band before. But last night, my trusty new friend YouTube provided me with several videos of marching bands and it doesn’t look that hard. So they walk while they play. What’s so difficult about that? And yes, it’s technically been four years since I played the trumpet, but actually for me, it’s only been a few days, so I should still be able to play well enough to pass a silly little audition.
Mr. Reynolds sighs and flips to a different tab in his binder. “Well, we are actually short a few players in the brass section. Do you have your instrument?”
I hold up the dusty box with my trumpet in it. I found it in the basement last night, after I came up with my brilliant plan to resurrect my friendship with Grace.
“Fine. Why don’t you jump in with them for some box drills and let’s see how you do. We’ll start with scales in G major and work our way up.”
My stomach lurches.
Ugh. Scales.
I hate scales.
Which one is G again?
“Okay!” Mr. Reynolds calls into a megaphone. “Everyone line up!”
All the people standing around chatting are suddenly zooming across the field, getting into positions. I look to Mr. Reynolds for help. “Martinez is out sick today. Take her spot on the thirty, fourth from the left.”
I give him a blank look.
He sighs. “The big gaping hole behind the tuba player.”
I turn and look at the field, where a hundred people have just instantly formed a perfect rectangle. I notice a hole three rows back from the front. “Right!” I call out, pulling my trumpet from the box. “Got it!”
I run to the empty space and take my position.
“Ten-hut!” Mr. Reynolds calls.
What?
I look left and right. The trumpet players on either side of me have raised their trumpets up to their mouths in a sharp, succinct movement, their postures suddenly rigid.
Did I join the marching band or the military?
I try to match their stance.
“One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight!” Mr. Reynolds counts off, and before I can even get my fingers in the right spot, everyone around me is moving. Marching forward in small, even steps, while flawlessly playing the G scale.
I hurry forward, still trying to remember where my fingers are supposed to go. But by the time I start playing, I’m already two notes behind. I play the next notes quickly, trying to catch up, but I can hear the sound in my ears and it’s totally off.
Was I supposed to tune this thing?
The girl to my right shoots me a glance out of the corne
r of her eye.
I do my best to ignore her and keep marching. When I get to the final note in the scale, I’m pleased to hear it sounds more or less on key, and I’ve even managed to sync up my steps with the group.
I did it!
I made it!
It’s over!
I stop playing and lower my trumpet before quickly realizing that I’m the only one. Everyone else is still playing. They’ve started a new scale. The problem is, I have no idea which one it is. It’s definitely not G major again. Is it A minor? My fingers fumble around the pistons but I can’t seem to get them right with all this marching. I pause for just a second to set up my alignment and that’s when the entire swarm of musicians changes direction.
Without any warning!
Just a second ago, everyone was marching straight, and now they’re all marching to the left. The girl next to me—the one who gave me the stink eye for playing the wrong notes—slams into me and I go tumbling into the grass, my trumpet falling from my hands.
I expect the whole group to come to a halt, out of respect for the downed player, but they don’t. They just keep marching. There’s an entire parade of trumpet, trombone, and tuba players stomping toward me. I cover my head and scoot back, trying to avoid getting trampled. Some of them step on my toes. Others bang my forehead with their knees.
“Stop!” I call out, but no one can hear me above the raucous scales.
I have no choice but to try and escape. Taking advantage of the small gap between feet, I push myself up, just managing to get onto my knees, when the swarm changes direction again and now they’re all marching backward. I get smacked in the face by someone’s butt and tumble to the ground again.
I quickly crawl out of the way to avoid more collisions with more butts. It seems that crawling is the only way I’m going to make it out of here alive, so I scramble on all fours to the right, because that’s where there appears to be the fewest bodies. But just as I’m about to escape the horde, they change direction a third time and start marching right.
“Ahh!” I scream as the throng of stomping feet comes at me again. I crawl faster. They march after me. Like a pack of zombies.
Addie Bell's Shortcut to Growing Up Page 15
