Friends, Fugues, and Fortune Cookies

by Michelle Schusterman

  “Mom, do you want to see me throw up?”

  She rolled her eyes. “Just something small. Grab a cereal bar.”

  Dutifully, I crossed the kitchen, opened the pantry door, and grabbed the box of cereal bars. “Empty,” I said, showing Mom. “You’d think Chad could take two seconds and throw the box away.”

  Mom snorted. “It’s worse with the pickles. I swore for weeks the pickles tasted like Doritos, then sure enough, one day I caught him fishing around the jar right after eating a whole bag of chips. All the cheese powder was floating around in the pickle juice.”

  I stared at her in horror. “What?”

  “Never mind,” Mom said quickly, adding sugar to her mug.

  I was so never putting pickles on my sandwich again.

  “Anyway, you need to eat.” Mom glanced around. “Maybe a banana?”

  I pointed to the empty fruit bowl, and she sighed again.

  “Right. I’m going to the grocery this afternoon.” She took a sip of coffee. “We have cornflakes, I know that much. And there are a few eggs left—want me to scramble them up?”

  My response was a gagging noise.

  “Holly. You are not leaving this house until you’ve eaten a bite of something.”

  I groaned loudly. “Fine.” Glancing around the kitchen, my gaze landed on the gleam of plastic wrappers over by the phone. I grabbed one and slumped back down in my chair.

  “A fortune cookie,” Mom said wryly. “Breakfast of champions.”

  I broke the cookie open and popped half into my mouth, making a face at her. Then I glanced at the slip of paper.

  FAIL TO PREPARE AND PREPARE TO FAIL

  Awesome.

  By the time we got to the high school (which, admittedly, only took five minutes), I was even more queasy. It turned into full-blown nausea when I looked out of the car window and saw dozens of unfamiliar kids carrying instrument cases and drumstick bags.

  “Good luck, honey!” Mom said, and I smiled and tried not to look like I wanted to vomit.

  “Thanks!”

  Clutching my case and my folder, I pushed through the front entrance with my shoulder and stared around. There was the main office, all dark and locked up at the far end of the giant foyer. Everyone seemed to be heading down the hall on the right, where I noticed a giant sign that said ALL-REGION taped to the wall, with an arrow beneath it. I headed that way, too, suddenly feeling very small. Why were the ceilings in this place so insanely high? Like high schoolers were all twenty feet tall or something.

  Every classroom door had a sign taped to it, too, with things like CLARINET—4 and BARITONE—2 written on them. By the time I reached the cafeteria, I was seriously wishing I hadn’t eaten that cookie.

  It looked like at least a hundred kids were here already. Some were at the tables, opening their cases—a few were already starting to warm up. There was a crowd in front of the wall next to the vending machines, where I saw several sheets of paper taped in a long line. I pushed my way through and squinted until I found French horn.

  Whoa. There were a lot of horn players here. I scanned down the list and found my name.

  Holly Mead (Millican)—Group 8—Room 3—10:52 a.m.

  “Where’s room three?” I spoke out loud without really meaning to. A girl with a blond braid and braces next to me pointed to the paper taped at the very end.

  “That one’s a map. All the rooms are labeled.”

  “Thanks!” I edged through the crowd until I stood in front of the map. French horn—room three turned out to be in D-hall on the second floor. In fact, all of the brass rooms were in second-floor classrooms, and all of the woodwinds were on the first floor. The percussionists were in the band hall and the choir room.

  Turning, I moved away from the schedule and stared around the cafeteria, wondering if Julia was here yet. No sign of her—or Gabby or Natasha, for that matter.

  I headed upstairs and found the classroom with the FRENCH HORN—3 sign. Two boys from another school were already there, sitting up against the wall. The room’s schedule was posted next to the door. I scanned it quickly. Brooke was in group five at 9:32, but Natasha and Owen were apparently in one of the other rooms. I didn’t recognize any of the other names in my group.

  Mr. Dante had told us that the judges weren’t allowed to see us, or even know our names. He said they would be sitting behind a curtain, and that we weren’t supposed to talk when we were in the room—the room monitor would just give the judges our number. That way they wouldn’t know who was from which school. It helped me to calm down a little when I reminded myself that at least the judges wouldn’t be sitting there staring at me.

  But four other French horn players would.

  Glancing up at the clock, I sighed and headed back down to the cafeteria. It was even more crowded now, and I spotted a few familiar faces. Leah Collins was sitting against the wall with her music spread on the floor, drumming on the bottom of her shoe. Not far from her, Liam was asleep with his head on his tuba case.

  I set my horn case and music folder down at an empty table on the far end of the cafeteria. It was too early to start warming up now, so instead I just stared at Fugue in F Minor and willed my stomach to stop jumping. But it felt like I’d eaten the paper along with the fortune cookie and now the words were poking and jabbing inside my stomach.

  Prepare.

  To.

  Fail.

  Around me, more and more kids were taking out their instruments and warming up. After half an hour of trying to keep my cookie down, I pulled out my horn and slowly played through a few scales before trying the fugue.

  But the last few measures I’d worked on so hard were just not happening this morning. After a few minutes, I gave up and put my horn back in its case. Might as well go upstairs and get this over with.

  “Holly!”

  Natasha was making her way to my end of the table. I cringed, hoping she hadn’t heard me flub the end of the fugue that last time.

  “Hi!”

  “I just wanted to say good luck before I leave,” she said. “I checked the schedule to see when you were going. Poor Julia’s not until after two. She just went home—her dad’s bringing her back later. We were looking for you earlier!”

  “Yeah, it’s pretty crowded,” I said, glancing around. “So you played already? How’d it go?”

  Natasha wrinkled her nose. “Not bad, I guess. The scales were fine. It definitely wasn’t the best I’ve ever played the fugue, though.”

  Yeah right, I couldn’t help but think. “I’m sure you did great.”

  After we said good-bye, I trudged up the stairs. Several dozen trumpet and horn players were sitting along both sides of the hallway now, some fingering through their music, but most just chatting. I slid down to the floor right across from my room and took out my horn.

  It wasn’t like Natasha to be self-deprecating, even just a little bit. Maybe she just said that to me out of pity. She probably sounded amazing, as always. I figured she’d at least make the concert band—that was the second all-region band. Then I rolled my eyes. Who was I kidding? This was Natasha. She’d probably make the symphonic band.

  I frowned, pressing my valves extra hard as I fingered through the last few measures of the fugue. The pity thing was getting old. I almost wished Natasha would go back to being stuck-up and arrogant like she was when we first met. That would be easier to deal with than this whole “let’s be extra sensitive to poor Holly” routine.

  Closing my eyes, I leaned my head back and tried to take deep, long breaths. I had to focus on this audition. On my third inhalation, I smelled a familiar piney-grapefruit smell and opened my eyes just as Aaron passed me. He stopped four doors down, checked the schedule next to the sign, then sat down against the wall.

  Sadness settled like a rock in the pit of my stomach. He hadn’t even not
iced me. But then again, why would he? It wasn’t like he liked me or anything.

  I was so busy wallowing in my own misery, I barely noticed when a red-haired girl with a horn sat down across the hall from me, and then a boy. When the door to room three opened a few minutes later, I jumped, then shrank back as a group of kids filed out.

  The room monitor, a tired-looking guy Chad’s age in a Ridgewood High School Band shirt, held the door open with his foot and consulted his clipboard.

  “Group eight?”

  Focus, I tried to tell myself, getting shakily to my feet. But I couldn’t stop thinking about Aaron. Aaron and Natasha. Natasha and Aaron. I wondered if she’d found him this morning to say good luck, too.

  Five chairs and five music stands were arranged in a semicircle in the middle of the room. At the front was a long, tall black curtain. I heard someone cough on the other side.

  I sat down in the chair on the far left, not looking at the other kids. A piece of paper was taped to each music stand.

  #5—Scales

  B# (Concert E#)

  A# (Concert D#)

  E# (Concert A#)

  “Number one goes first, then two, and so on. Play the scales first, in the order they appear on your sheet,” the room monitor instructed us. “Then the étude, Fugue in F Minor. If you need something, raise your hand and I’ll come over—don’t talk to the judges, okay?”

  We nodded.

  “Okay. Number one, you’re up.”

  He stepped back. The red-haired girl, who was sitting in the chair on the far right, cast a nervous glance at the rest of us and lifted her horn to her lips.

  Number five—I was last. Stellar.

  The red-haired girl started out pretty shaky on the scales, but sounded stronger on the étude. Still, I knew I could play it better. Alone, in my practice room, when my fingers weren’t trembling with nerves.

  “Number two, go ahead.”

  The next boy started playing the étude first, and the room monitor had to stop him and remind him to play the scales. I winced. How embarrassing.

  I realized I was tapping furiously on my knee, and clenched my hand in a fist. Relax, I told myself. Think about something else.

  But that didn’t help, because of course the first thing I thought of was Aaron walking right past me. Aaron dancing with Natasha. Aaron, Aaron, Aaron . . .

  “Number five?”

  Startled, I glanced up to see the room monitor looking at me expectantly. Instinctively, I opened my mouth to respond, but caught myself just in time.

  Raising my horn to my lips, I took a deep breath and played through the three scales. I could hear the scribbling of pencils on the other side of the curtain as I adjusted my music stand and stared at Fugue in F Minor. Lifting my horn, I began to play.

  But I wasn’t really seeing the notes or thinking about tone or counting rhythms. It was ridiculous, but I still just couldn’t stop thinking about Aaron not even noticing me in the hall. And Natasha, feeling so sorry for me. Gabby buying me M&M’s, Owen bailing on Prophets day, Julia nervously rambling on and on . . .

  And then, before I knew it, it was over. Blinking in confusion, I set my horn in my lap.

  “Don’t forget your folders,” the room monitor was saying. “And please don’t talk on your way out.”

  I followed the other four kids out of the room, heart beating so loud I barely heard the monitor call for group nine.

  “Hey, Holly!” Victoria waved to me at the end of the hallway. “Did you play already? How did it go?”

  “Um . . . fine!” I replied. “Good, I think.”

  Which was a total lie. Because somehow I had played the entire fugue and not heard a note.

  Chapter Ten

  When I talked to Julia on the phone Saturday night, I told her the same thing I told Victoria.

  “Fine! I did fine. I think.”

  “I’m sure you did better than fine,” Julia said. “I mean, geez. You practiced before and after school practically every day this week. You could probably play that music in your sleep.”

  Which was true. But I still wasn’t nearly as confident in myself as she seemed to be.

  It poured rain on Sunday. Since Julia was visiting her aunt, I spent the whole day watching movies and reading. Or really, pretending to watch movies and read. In reality, I was just going over and over my audition in my head. I remembered sitting in the chair and looking at the scale sheet, and the room monitor telling me to start. I remembered finishing and leaving the room.

  But the fugue was still just a blur.

  I mean, I remembered some details, like little fragments. And I was fairly certain I hadn’t stopped or stumbled at any point, or made any constipated moose sounds (as my brother so often said I did). I didn’t do badly.

  That didn’t mean I’d done great, though. Or even good.

  By Monday morning, the rain hadn’t let up. When I walked into the band hall to put my horn up, I heard Aaron’s voice, turned abruptly, and went back into the hall. Then I waited out of sight until the bell rang and he left before shoving my case in its cubby and getting to English half a minute late.

  I was officially pathetic.

  Anyway, trying to avoid Aaron was pointless. Because when fourth period came, I still had to face the Triangle of Extreme Awkward. And today it would be even more awkward thanks to the all-region results, which Mr. Dante had posted on the window of his office.

  Hovering in the band-hall entrance, I watched as more and more kids crowded around the results. I took my time getting my horn out, feeling sick. I knew there was no way I actually made either of the bands—not when I was competing against all those eighth-graders from other schools, and I couldn’t even get first chair in my own school’s band. But what if my performance had actually been horrible? What if I came in last? Out of every horn player in the district?

  My legs felt like rubber as I slowly crossed the room. Trying to avoid eye contact with anyone, I slipped between Liam and Leah and found the concert band list.

  French Horn

  1. Adrian Walters (Jacksonville)

  2. Jin Sheng-Yen (Hudson Park)

  3. Natasha Prynne (Millican)

  4. Kieran Holland (Forest Hill)

  My eyes started to burn. I couldn’t even bring myself to look at the rest of the list to see how far down I was. Taking a step back, I heard someone yelp and mumbled an apology. Blindly, I tried to make my way through the growing crowd around the results. I’d almost made it when someone grabbed my arm.

  “Holly!”

  I faced Gabby, blinking rapidly. She was beaming, shaking my arm and jumping up and down.

  “What?” I said dumbly.

  “What do you mean, what?” she yelled, laughing. “Symphonic band! Both of us!”

  She had to be joking. Even though that would be a seriously evil joke. But I turned back to the window to look. My legs went all shaky again when I found the symphonic band list.

  French Horn

  1. Tanya Riding (Forest Hill)

  2. Thomas Plank (Bryant)

  3. Nikhil Bansal (Forest Hill)

  4. Holly Mead (Millican)

  I’d made it. I’d made the all-region band. The first one.

  I just stood there, mouth hanging open, while Gabby bounced around me. A few hands patted me on the back, and a couple of kids said, “Congratulations, Holly!” But I couldn’t move for anything.

  Was it a fluke? I couldn’t help but wonder. I mean, I’d never beaten Natasha on a chair test . . . and suddenly I wasn’t just a few chairs ahead of her in all-region, I was in the more advanced band.

  “Okay, folks. Bell rang two minutes ago.”

  At the sound of Mr. Dante’s voice, everyone headed to their seats. My legs finally started to cooperate, and I trailed behind Gabby to my chair. When I got
there, Natasha was sitting in it. I stopped, waiting for her to stand.

  “Nope—you sit here now,” she said with a grin, patting the chair to her right. “All-region audition results counted as a chair test, that’s what Mr. Dante said. Remember?”

  Whoa. I was first chair.

  I sat down between Natasha and Gabby, still sort of in shock. Julia caught my eye and mouthed Oh my God!, beaming. Owen was taking his seat—three seats away from me now, instead of two. He’d probably be happy about that.

  Gabby leaned really close and whispered in my ear. “Dude, we’re the only seventh-graders from Millican who made the symphonic band!”

  I let out a weird, shaky laugh. This was so not sinking in.

  Suddenly, I remembered Natasha. Just what our friendship needed—more awkwardness.

  “Thanks for practicing with me so much,” I said quietly to her, just as Mr. Dante stepped up on the podium. “I guess it paid off for both of us!”

  “Totally,” she agreed, smiling. Was it my imagination, or did the smile not quite reach her eyes? “And, hey, congrats. Seriously. I’m really happy for you.”

  “Thanks,” I said. And it looked like she meant it, too. But there was something else, something about the way she looked at me that took a minute to figure out. Natasha was . . . surprised. Surprised that I’d finally beaten her at something.

  Well, I was surprised, too. And proud.

  “So as you’ve all seen, Millican did phenomenally at all-region on Saturday,” Mr. Dante said. “I’ve heard all of you working hard on that music over the last month, and I’m proud of everyone who auditioned. And, hey—we had a total of nineteen students in this room make one of the all-region bands!”

  Wow. I suddenly realized I hadn’t even looked to see who else had made it, other than Natasha and Gabby. Instinctively, I looked at Julia. When she noticed me, I made a little pointing motion at her. Did you make it? Grinning, she nodded and held up two fingers. Second band.