by Ann Steinke
Fifteen minutes later, Teresa and I were pulling up to my house in the nice section of a town below Pismo Beach. My father’s a contractor, and he built our house. The concrete drive curves in an arch and passes beneath a portico that protects the entryway to the house. It had just started to rain, so I was grateful for the shelter as I got ready to dash inside. “Thanks for the ride,” I said.
Teresa shrugged. “No problem. When’s your car gonna get fixed?” she asked, shifting her eyes toward my Toyota Tercel parked off to the side of the driveway.
I glanced at the car. “When I’ve saved enough,” I said with a sigh. “Maybe next month.”
“Well, don’t worry about it,” Ter said. “You know I’ll take you to work and pick you up anytime.”
“You’re the best, Ter,” I said fondly.
“Aren’t I?” Ter said cockily, and we both laughed.
I swung open the door and clutched the carton of milk close to my body. “See you bright and early,” I said with exaggerated cheerfulness.
Ter groaned. “Yeah. Six thirty. Ugh!”
Smiling at her, I got out of the car, then ducked my head back in. “And don’t forget your violin,” I told her.
“I won’t,” Ter said, grinning at me unabashedly. It’s no secret that Teresa can be a flake sometimes and forget important things, like her instrument for orchestra the next day. “I’ve got it right next to our front door,” she assured me. “That way I can’t forget it.”
“Good thinking,” I said with approval. I closed the door and ran up the steps to the house. Warm light shone through the frosted oval window in the front door. I entered and immediately kicked off my shoes, leaving them on the sisal mat in the hallway.
I found my father standing by the bay window in the living room, looking out. He smiled at me as I came over to join him. I love it when he’s there to greet me when I come home. I love his face, and his round, happy expression. I love his crinkly gray eyes, and the way his salt-and-pepper hair waves back from his forehead. I don’t look anything like him. But people say my mother and I could win a mother/daughter look-alike contest. Both of us are thin, blue-eyed, and blond—although my mother reluctantly admits to having to encourage her hair to remain blond these days.
“Raining,” he commented unnecessarily.
“It’s kind of a fine mist,” I added.
“Yeah. I was just watching it,” he said. “You know what it looks like?” I didn’t answer. My father never pauses long enough so that anyone can. “It looks just like snow if you look at it in the light of the streetlamp.”
“Snow?” I said, leaning over to peer out the window.
I had never seen snow until we moved to Washington State a couple of years back. There I’d seen it for the first time. It had been beautiful, especially against the backdrop of Puget Sound. I could still remember it so vividly—huge moist flakes, like glittering prisms from heaven.
But my mother hadn’t thought the snow was so great. She ached for California. “I’m a Californian, born and bred,” she’d say. “I have to go home.” And my father would then break into song: “I left my heart in San Francisco,” he’d sing, even though it wasn’t in San Francisco that she’d left her heart. That drove my mother nuts.
We finally moved back to the central coast after two years, just this summer. At first I had been sorry to say good-bye to the trees, the mountains, the snow. . . . But then I realized that I’d also be coming back to Teresa, whom I’ve known since second grade. Even back then, we were great friends. And each year after that only intensified our friendship.
To me, Teresa is like light and life. She’s so full of fun and warmth, and she makes up for everything I had to say good-bye to in Washington. Even though there were a couple of girls I grew to like in Washington, I hadn’t been able to find a friend like Ter, and I knew I never would. My friendship with Teresa is so special that we’ve decided we’re like the characters in the Bette Midler movie Beaches. Of course, neither one of us intends to die young. But our friendship won’t die either. We’ve vowed to never let anything come between us.
I linked my arm through my father’s and smiled. “Yeah, if you squint, it looks like snow,” I agreed softly.
“Who’s squinting?” he said, making me laugh.
“What are you two looking at?” my mother said, coming into the room behind us.
My father and I shared a secret smile. “Oh, nothing,” he said, and we both turned away from the window. We knew my mother wouldn’t share our memory of snow with similar fondness.
My mother raised one eyebrow and gave us one of her I-don’t-believe-you-but-I’ll-let-it-pass looks. Then she turned to me. “How was work?” she asked.
I shrugged. “Oh, you know. Workish.” I don’t like talking about work. Work is a necessity—not exactly an agreeable topic for conversation. “Well, I’d better get some sleep. Tomorrow’s the first day of school,” I said. “I can’t believe it came so fast. Seems like we just moved back here. But that was two months ago.”
“Yes, but it seems like we’ve always been here,” my mother said with deep satisfaction.
“That’s because we have,” Dad put in dryly.
When the building business on the central coast had become a little tight, my family had moved up north because supposedly things were better up there. As it turned out, business was better there, but the difference wasn’t enough to offset Mom’s homesickness. Then things started to pick up again in California. Fortunately my father had left his partner in charge at home, so all he had to do was move his base of operations back. We moved back into our house, which we’d rented while we were gone, but business in California isn’t so great that my parents, who both work, can buy me anything I want. “Only the have-tos,” they like to say, which is why I have to work.
I gave Mom a peck on the cheek and hugged Dad. “See you in the morning,” I said and headed for my room.
CHAPTER TWO
“It just never works out,” I said to Ter the next morning on our way to school. I had assumed my usual traveling position in her car—feet firmly planted against the underside of the dashboard, left arm across my body, a white-knuckle grip on the door handle. My head was pressed against the seat back for stability, and the position was excellent for looking out the windows at the landscape.
“What never works out?” Ter asked, braking at a stop sign just barely long enough to be considered legal.
I turned to look at her. “Have you ever noticed that when you have to go somewhere awful—like to the dentist for a filling—and you want the weather to match your mood, it never cooperates?”
I saw her mouth turn up at the corners. “Yeah, I’ll bet there’s some unwritten law about that,” she said. A pedestrian stepped off the curb and Ter slammed on the brakes. My head snapped back, and I stared out the window while we waited for the person to get across. Then Ter accelerated and looked at me. “So?”
“So today’s a gorgeous day,” I said, pointing out the window. “And we’re on our way to school.” It was one of those days my grandmother calls “wine and roses” days. I’m not sure why that description is supposed to be appropriate, but despite my lack of understanding, I couldn’t get that phrase out of my mind on a day like today. The sky was so blue, it hurt to look at it. The ocean seemed close enough to touch. It somehow seemed unfair that on such a day, we had to return to school.
“It should have been raining today,” I said. “Or at least foggy. I don’t feel like going to school.”
“I hear you, but at least you’ll get to see everyone you haven’t seen since you got back,” Ter pointed out.
“I’ve seen almost everyone at Taco Bell. And Jojo and Cathy have stopped by lots of times,” I said. “Anyway, I think there should be a policy that school is never held on good-weather days, only bad-weather ones.” I’m not against school on an intellectual level. I actually appreciate the value of learning and I get mostly As. But I’d much rather learn at home, on
my own time. Say, after I’ve spent the whole day doing something fun, like going to the beach or shopping. “To have to spend a beautiful day like this one cooped up in classrooms is criminal,” I concluded.
“I agree,” Ter said, nodding. “We should go driving on the beach. . . .” Her voice trailed off and she scowled. “But there’s no one to do it with, anyway.” She meant no guys, and her disgust at this realization was made evident by the level of malice with which she negotiated a turn onto Elm. My right shoulder slammed into the door.
“Ouch!” I cried.
“I’m sorry,” she apologized sincerely. I stifled a grin and rubbed my shoulder. Ter is impossible. Even on the first day of school, boys were uppermost in her mind. But at least that kept her from dwelling on the fact that we’d be spending the better part of a beautiful day trapped in classrooms.
We arrived at the school with depressing speed, and Ter parked the car in the student lot. Small clusters of kids were standing around in front of the main building, probably catching up on the latest news before the warning bell rang. As I scanned the crowd for anyone I might recognize, the diversity of the faces I saw suddenly struck me. One of the really nice things about returning to school on the central coast was that the student population was so mixed. Here there were Caucasians, Chicanos, blacks, and Asians. I had missed that variety up north.
Ter and I got out of the car with the same eagerness of someone about to have a leg cut off. We’d already compared class schedules. Except for study hall and English, we had only orchestra at the end of the day in common. The warning bell rang.
“Good-bye!” Ter cried as if we were going to be parted forever.
“Good-bye!” I laughed, and we hugged. Kids flowed around us, and we joined the current, each heading her own way.
The last period of the day rolled around, and Ter and I were standing outside the door to orchestra with our violins in our arms.
“It’s going to be so great having you back in orchestra with me,” Ter said, hugging the case to her chest.
“I know. Now you’ll have someone to keep you on key,” I teased.
Ter wrinkled her nose at me, then turned and entered the room first. I followed, but rammed right into her when she suddenly stopped short.
“Ter!” I yelled.
“Oh, you’re not gonna believe it!” she said, squealing.
“What?”
“They’re here,” she breathed.
I squirmed around her and peered into the room, which was filling up with kids. But I saw nothing that should merit such excitement from her. “Who?” I asked. “Aliens from Mars?”
“No, you idiot,” she answered. “Those two hunks from last night.”
I looked where she was pointing and saw them. The dark-haired guy was sitting behind the drums as if he belonged there. The blonde stood next him. They were talking, and the blonde was looking around the room. As we stared at them like jerks, standing right inside the door, his gaze passed over us, then whipped back. He said something to his friend, and the dark-haired one looked in our direction too. That was when I glanced behind us to see who was standing there. I had expected to find two gorgeous girls waiting for us to get out of their way, but only Daniel Nguyen was waiting there, looking annoyed. Dan had been first-chair violinist ever since I had joined orchestra, and he was probably disgusted that we were keeping him from getting to his seat. I pulled Ter off to the side, allowing Dan to stalk into the room.
“Come on, Ter. Let’s get set up,” I said, dragging her over to our assigned chairs in the violin section. We had looked up our seats on a chart outside the room. Ter and I were going to be sitting right next to each other, just like old times. As I made my way across the room, I tried not to look back at the two guys. The effort seemed superhuman.
Ter wasn’t even trying not to look at them. Stumbling over a chair she didn’t see, she said, “I can’t believe those two are in orchestra. I can’t believe it.”
I pushed her down in her assigned seat and took my own. Opening my violin case, I said, “Ter, get a grip. Forget about them. I’ll bet they’ve got girls who volunteer to do their laundry.”
Ter shook her head, clearing it. “Yeah.”
“Ter, just get your violin out. Tune it up,” I instructed as if I were speaking to a particularly dull child. “And remember—Carlos.”
“Yeah. Carlos, Carlos,” she chanted.
Jojo Marsh, our conductor’s daughter, and Cathy Miller descended on us at that moment. Jojo bounced down the risers and reached up to hug me as if she hadn’t seen me only three days before. Cathy trailed behind her, moving as slowly as ever. “Hi, guys!” I said, returning Jojo’s hug.
Then Mr. Marsh began rapping his baton against the conductor’s stand, and Jojo and Cathy immediately scampered back to their places. I looked at him and found that he looked exactly as he had two years before. He was frowning down at us as usual. He always frowns. Ter jokes that his facial muscles are permanently stuck in frown mode, and that if you sneak up on him while he’s sleeping, you’d still find the same expression etched on his face. We once asked Jojo to test this theory about her father, but she just laughed. He tapped the podium with his baton one last time. “All right everyone, places, please.”
It was several minutes before everyone had calmed down. Out of the corner of my eye, I watched the blond guy move from the drum section to the other side of the room. Then I noticed him pause near our one harp player and take a seat. He played the cello! I couldn’t believe it. He didn’t look like the cellist type. In fact, someone who looked like he did, the typical California surfer type, didn’t seem to fit in orchestra at all. Well, life is full of surprises.
Mr. Marsh called for order once again, and I wrenched my mind from the fascinating subject of beach boys who play string instruments. During the next thirty minutes Mr. Marsh handed out music and discussed the year’s program of concert dates. Then we practiced for the last fifteen minutes.
At the end of the period, Dan turned to me. The disgusted look that had been on his face at the beginning of the period had now assumed even greater intensity. “Everyone played as if they’d all had lobotomies over the summer,” he commented.
“Well, we can’t all be perfect like you, Dan,” Ter chirped at him. She was joking, of course. I knew it.
But Dan didn’t. He smiled in that superior way of his. “Yes,” he said haughtily. “But it’s obvious no one’s even tried to keep up their practice over the summer.” He rose, picking up his violin as if it were made of some precious substance, and put it in its case. I think he loves that violin more than any human being is supposed to love anything.
I turned away and began packing up my own instrument and collecting my music. Dan has always annoyed me beyond measure. Ter tells me again and again that the only way to deal with him is to ignore him, but Dan makes that impossible. His ego is so big, kids are constantly trying to deflate it. I’m sure it can’t be done, but everyone keeps trying anyway.
Ter and I began threading our way toward the door, talking to Jojo and Cathy. We stepped through the door, and suddenly found our progress impeded by the two guys we’d been trying to pretend we hadn’t noticed. The blonde stood in front of me; the dark one had Ter blocked.
Cathy gave a little cough. “Well, uh, we’ll catch you guys later,” she said, reaching out and snagging Jojo by the arm. Jojo winked at me before being pulled away, and while Ter and I watched the girls amble away, smiling over their shoulders, I prayed the guys hadn’t noticed their silly behavior.
Up close I had a chance to really study them. The taller blond guy was dressed in a printed shirt and baggy gray pants. He had hazel eyes with laugh lines etched at the outside corners. The other guy wore blue jeans and a plain white T-shirt. His eyes exactly matched Ter’s—a dark, fathomless brown.
“Hi,” the blonde said, flashing a smile so perfect it could only be the result of braces. I’m always very conscious of people’s teeth, because my eyet
eeth are spun a quarter-turn. They look like fangs, but my dentist tells me the defect isn’t enough to merit braces, since every other tooth in my mouth is fine. So I really envy people who had gotten braces.
“Hi,” I said. Really, really intelligent dialogue, I thought.
Ter moved into action. “Hi. I don’t think I remember you from orchestra last year,” she said to the blonde. Then she smiled her beautiful smile at the dark-haired guy in front of her, and he returned it.
“I’ve been here,” the dark-haired guy explained. “But Scott just rejoined orchestra this year after being out of it for a couple of years.”
“Oh, yeah?” Ter said brightly. She nodded her head in my direction. “Then you have something in common with Krista. She’s been out of town for two years.”
Boy, talk about cut to the chase. Ter wasn’t wasting any time.
Scott looked at me. “I’m Scott Hunter.” He smiled, waiting.
“I’m Krista Stevens. “This is Teresa Martinez.”
“Yeah, I remember,” the other said, looking at Ter. “I’ve seen you in orchestra before. I’m Lou Pacheco. Drums.”
“Right.” Ter’s glowing eyes advertised interest. “I kind of remember you,” she said slowly, “but you seem to have changed somehow.”
Lou looked a little uncomfortable, and a lopsided grin spread across his face. “I used to wear glasses,” he explained. “I’ve got contacts now. And I started working out with weights last year, trying to develop some muscles.”
“Oh,” Ter said, admiring the muscles under discussion. For some reason, her gaze only seemed to increase Lou’s discomfort, which surprised me. I would have thought a guy who worked out would be glad to be admired.
“I noticed you play violins,” Scott said, looking at me. “Must be tough playing next to our friend Dan.”
I looked at him, realizing that he was at least five inches taller than me. Over six feet, I estimated. “Yeah,” I said. “Sometimes his head gets in the way of my music, but I manage.”
