“You know when we caught her sneaking around last night? She stole this article about my mom. And then she must’ve gotten her mom to cast it on the news!”
Todd’s black brows cluster, and he stares at his radio. “Piper, I—she did that?”
“This is all your fault. Let’s have a party at Piper’s. Come on, guys, I’ll give you something else to make fun of her for. Well, congratulations. You got your wish.”
“Piper—”
“You practically grill me about my house, and when I tell you, you don’t even care. Now this.”
I stare at a kid hauling a trumpet case into the main doors. “It’s either me or them.” I struggle to breathe against my sprinting heart. “Look, thanks for giving me a ride, but I can find my own way home.”
I grab my case and head toward the main glass doors.
My phone buzzes in my hand. My heels clack on the sidewalk, and I hold my head up. I won’t look. I don’t want his apology. But it trills a second time and my will crumbles.
One text is from Todd. The other is from Joel. And they both say the same thing.
Good luck in there. Except Todd adds Sorry to his.
I clamp my jaw to fight the spongy, angry-nervous shaking inside of me. What a baby Sierra is, whining to Todd like that. I don’t know what she expects him to do about it. And so what if I said something mean to her, she does the same thing to me on a daily basis!
I enter a foyer that’s longer than it is round. Several sets of double doors stand feet away, leading into the vast auditorium where I assume I’ll be auditioning. A few glass-blocked ticket counters sit to the left, and I head toward the card table beside a large sign saying ENTRANTS SIGN IN. A boy with glasses manages the table.
This is my big day, and I won’t let Sierra screw it up. I take a stale breath and head toward the table. I sign Piper Crenshaw on the long list, followed by Interlochen Arts Academy under the heading requesting which school the scholarship is intended for.
Interlochen is what I want more than anything. I know going for a full school year is out of the question financially. It’s like twenty grand, and since Dad died Joel and I barely squeak by. I’ve offered to get a job, but I’m not old enough, and Joel insists I focus on school.
This scholarship audition is my only chance. One of the locals is putting it on, and only one of the entrants gets the money. It’s unlikely I’ll get it, since I’m going against kids shooting for college scholarships, too, and I’m only fifteen. But I might as well try.
It’s my ticket away from high school, from my annoying brother. I can start over. At Interlochen, no one will know about my mom or my kooky house. I won’t be defined by pimples, but by talent.
“Here,” says the boy, handing me a name tag with a number on it. C13. “You’re up at 4:10.”
4:10. That’s in fifteen minutes. My lungs vibrate against the air I try to suck in. This is it.
I move to the side and pull open Facebook, anxious for people’s mundane posts to provide a distraction, which I desperately need right now. A little number one lights up at the top of my screen. I’ve been tagged in a post by…
By…
My eyes read too quickly to grasp what the words say. And then my heart reacts before my brain gets a chance.
It’s a fake profile. My profile.
“Piper Axemurderer Crenshaw. Giving a new meaning to the word Payback.” And with the words is a picture of me—or my face, anyway—on the body of a much buffer girl holding a bloody axe.
The worst, though, are the comments below. It’s gotten twenty-seven likes and about a dozen comments already, some people just plain laughing, some poking fun at my mom:
“What kind of person could do that to someone else? If she’s in prison, she’d better stay there.” And, “I wish my mom was an axe murderer. Then I could be a freak like Piper.”
Mostly, though, they’re about me directly. “Maybe you should just axe yourself. Save us all from having to see your face.” And, “The things our education system allows to attend school.”
Things. They don’t even have the decency to acknowledge I’m a person. And Turcott’s on there too, posting the same thing he’d said to me in the hallway when he’d shown me the YouTube video. “I still know a few people you could hack off for me.”
One girl, not part of Sierra and Jordan’s group, says something in my favor. “You guys are so mean.”
But then a string of comments follow. I read, “Serves volcano face right,” and then after seeing, “What’s she gonna do, MURDER us?” I close the screen.
I want to slam my phone to the linoleum. To scream at anyone who dares talk to me. They can’t do this. They can’t. I’ll show them. I’ll ace this audition. Get out of my house, out of this town.
I don’t know why I want it more: to get away from Payback Piper, or from the spaz attacks my house has almost every day. I hate the idea of leaving Joel by himself for a whole summer, but he’s gone so much more now with his internship that I feel like I’m the one getting left behind.
Unsure of how I manage to move, I follow the hallway to another large sign that says PREP ROOM. A girl carrying a skinny flute case opens the door. Chatter multiplies, and I follow her and three others in. People scatter across the open, tiled space. Different instrument sounds ricochet off the walls, including some girl singing. Several of the kids hold nervous looks on their faces.
I pick a corner of the tile-floored, echoey room and ignore everyone else. Squatting to the floor, I assemble my clarinet, putting the pieces together carefully. The keys feel cold, and I smear my clammy palms on my silver skirt.
I reach for my bag but my fingers nudge the cold tile. A wave of dread hits. Chairs, other people’s cases and bags, but mine’s not there. My bag—where’s my bag?
Oh no. My music.
In seconds I’m on my feet, circling my small area. I hold my clarinet to my forehead, then glance around again, frantic. There’s no sign of my purple backpack.
I whip out my cell. I can text him—see if I left it in Todd’s truck. But he’s probably halfway back to his house by now. He’ll never make it back here in time.
I’ll play it from memory. I can. I can do this.
The second hand on the clock moves way too fast. It’s 4:03.
Lights pour into my eyes. I can barely make out the few silhouettes sitting behind a long table in the dark audience, but they’re out there. No eyes, no faces, just blurs.
I get that feeling when you’re surrounded by people and yet still feel invisible. Only this time it’s backward. With only about ten people or so in the gigantic auditorium, all the attention is on me. I am center stage. But none of them know me. None of them care whether I get this scholarship or not. Or why I even want it in the first place. Or about the fake profile and the fact that I just had a fight with my best friend right before this.
My mom would care. Wouldn’t she?
That’s just it. I don’t know.
Anger rushes over me in an instant, pumping my heart like it does when a blood pressure cuff is around my arm and I can feel every beat. She could have been there this time. She should. Be. Here. Not locked away somewhere because she chose to take another man’s life. Because she chose to take herself out of mine.
I can’t think about that right now. I mean, I’m on stage. I look back and nod to the pianist. She starts a slow, ascending melody that’s anything but relaxing. My nerves ring beneath my skin, and I try to summon the exact page of music to my mind.
We cut a huge chunk of the piano part… Eight measures, that’s right. I rest for eight measures.
I work to keep my fingers steady on the clarinet in my hands, trying not to recall the awful things people are posting about me. And about my mom. Mom. She’s not here. So what? I can do this without her.
Two more measures left. I put the mouthpiece to my teeth and blow, willing the notes to come from memory. Music takes hold, swelling through the pores of my body until I can a
lmost feel it in me.
This is why I do it. Satisfaction courses through as the melody flows like water, transforming my fingers into magicians. The sound is pure and rich; it fills the auditorium with the mellowness I’ve grown to love. Mozart spills out as my fingers race along the passages until—
My fingers fumble.
Wait.
I miss the easiest passage—a place I’ve never once messed up on before. Ever! No, not possible. Now, of all times. I’ve played this piece a hundred times before. It doesn’t make sense.
I try to recover, upping the pace of the sixteenth notes to catch up to the piano. Even if I had music in front of me, I wouldn’t be able to see it. The stage lights beam too brightly, barring and spotting my vision. I can’t do anything but play.
My already shaking hands quiver, and the quivering affects my breath, making my tone weak. Hold it together. Hold it. Together.
I make it to the end, but my lips won’t even smile at the judges or thank them for their time. Instead, my lower lip quivers. My song is over. Over.
I hold the slim clarinet in one hand and push along the hallway past the hundreds of other applicants each holding their instruments, from French horns to flutes to violins. It sucks—I’m the one everyone will talk about when this is over. Splatter it over that ludicrous profile page.
Did you see that clarinet girl, the one who sulked her way down the hall? She must have really sucked.
It makes no sense how I can have missed that spot. If I hadn’t forgotten my music—hadn’t been so consumed with something I have no control over, it never would have happened.
I go back to my corner and swab out my clarinet before putting it in its case. My clarinet, those lovely pieces of wood and silver; my companion for the last five years. It’s almost as bad as Todd picking Sierra over me.
For some reason the thought of Todd hugging her makes the shame reemerge, harder than before. I slam the lid shut. I have to get out of here.
The tile floor is cold on my bare knees. I do a weird sort of push-up and stand, smoothing my skirt. And I gasp. Todd’s head nods above most of the others in the room. He’s scanning faces, looking for me.
I search the room, looking for an escape. But those doors are my only way out. Before I know it, Todd’s brown DCs stop right in front of me.
“Hey,” he says, hands in his pockets. His mouth has this adorable, sad smirk. “So, you knock their socks off?”
Fabulous. Instead of speaking, he took a LOSER stamp and pounded it against my forehead. Worst of all, I’m sure he’s seen the fake profile. But if he has, he doesn’t mention it. Ugh, I’m deleting it the first chance I get. I sniffle and try to shuffle past him, but he grabs my arm. I shirk out of his grasp.
“I told you. I don’t need a ride home.”
“Piper, I’m sorry. I had no idea Sierra did that.”
I roll my eyes, only to find his vulnerable, entreating gaze hasn’t once left my face.
“I only brought it up to ask what happened. Really. I was just trying to act like I—” He looks down at his hands. “Well—I don’t like her anymore.”
I’m beyond confused. A sound clogs out of my throat, halfway between a sob and a laugh. “Feelings aren’t like brakes in a car, Todd. You can’t just stop.”
I punch through the doors, down the hall and outside. The air has cooled slightly, and traffic streams down the busy street. Sniffling again, I pound the sidewalk toward the bus depot. Those judges must think I’m such an idiot. Not to mention the key to my personal jail has just been taken and chucked into the deepest sea. Some nerve Todd has, showing up here and acting like nothing’s wrong.
I should’ve found my pianist to thank her for taking the time to help me, but I’ll send her flowers or something later. I can’t go back there.
I’m about a block down when several horns bleep. Todd, in his little red pickup, inches slowly on the street beside me. He’s the beginning float in a piss-people-off parade. At least three cars are stuck behind him. He rolls down his window and pooches out his bottom lip.
“Go away,” I call, but a smile tugs at my mouth. A small laugh leaks out at the train of cars he’s collecting. Another horn honks, and some guy yells, “What’s your problem!”
“You’re gonna get jumped, you know,” I tell him.
“Guess you better get in,” he answers.
I glance again at the line of cars behind his truck. No doubt, he will probably tail along with me the whole way to the bus depot. Shaking my head, I scamper onto the street and climb in. I fold my arms and sink back into the seat. The sight of my backpack on the floor sends more stings to my eyes.
“Piper,” Todd begins.
“I don’t want to talk.”
“Fair enough.”
He presses on the gas, and the honking behind us subsides. It’s silent the whole way home, and Todd watches his lap as I climb out of his truck.
“Hold up,” he says as I’m about to slam the door. The sound of his voice razzes me. He unbuckles and gets out, scampering around to the sidewalk. He brushes a few curls from his eyes.
I want to stay mad, to stomp away, but his pleading gaze melts me. It sizzles straight through to my core. “I know you don’t want to talk, so just listen, okay?”
I huff, but grapple my case with both hands and lean against his truck. I blink with deliberation, hoping he reads it as, don’t push your luck.
“The only reason I brought Sierra up earlier is because I was worried about you. It just came out wrong—you telling me all that about your house, and then her whining at me… I didn’t mean to snap or anything. I didn’t have time to process and it came out wrong,” he says again.
“Okay,” I mutter, because I don’t know what else to say.
He peers down at his hands. “And for what it’s worth, I thought you sounded amazing up there.”
My lids press shut. He was in the auditorium. He saw me blow it.
“Look at it this way. At least you’ll be staying with me this next summer.”
“Todd—”
“It’s not like you can’t try again.”
“I don’t want to talk about this.”
“Just get over it, Pipes. You’ll get it next time.”
“I don’t want to be nonexistent!” I shout, not knowing where the words come from. “There is no ‘next time,’ Todd. I’m sick of being defined as ‘that girl with the zits,’ ‘that girl with the creepy house.’ ‘That girl whose—’”
I swallow and my voice deflates. I’m about to mention Mom, but it’s too much to deal with right now, especially after that profile, so I shift gears to another scab, one that doesn’t ache quite as much.
“’—dad just died. If I can’t do this, then what am I good for?” Music has always been an out for me, something I could pour my soul into. Make the clarinet sing so others would pay attention to it instead of how much ‘the girl whose mom committed murder’ was hurting.
Todd’s gaze never leaves my face. I know, because I can feel it more than anything else. Penetrating like a laser beam. His voice is so soft I wonder if he really speaks or if I make it up.
“I know you feel abandoned, Pipes. But in case you didn’t notice, I’m still here.”
I go straight up to my bedroom. I stand there on the rug, staring at the antique dollhouse in the corner, the lacy curtains, the marble-topped dresser and mirror, and my modern additions to the room like posters and a nail polish collection the size of Sally Beauty Supply.
I don’t even undress, just crawl into bed and ignore my empty stomach, not caring that the sun hasn’t set yet or that Joel is nowhere in sight. My thoughts won’t settle, and it’s no wonder. I lose it at school. Spit back at Sierra exactly what I’ve always wanted to say to her. Yell at practically everyone in my greenhouse class. Then something else freaky happens in my house.
I should have known Sierra would retaliate, but I never imagined she could do something so cruel. And my audition. Why, why did I mi
ss that spot? Music has always been my safe haven, and now it’s failed me too. Except I’m the one who messed up, but that’s beside the point.
Before, I had no problems with the way things were. My house is quirky. It always has been. I just accepted it, like the way someone would accept their grandma for wearing leg warmers and orthopedic shoes. But I don’t approach the house. I don’t ask it what happened. I don’t touch its walls, trying to find some answer.
And Todd. This blistering in my chest is partly from him, but it shouldn’t matter. I shouldn’t care if he likes Sierra. Although, he said he didn’t like her anymore…
In a rage I pull open Facebook on my phone and delete my account. Who needs it? Then I go into settings and report the fake profile. That should take care of that. Except it doesn’t make me feel any better.
I need to get over it. Accept that I blew the audition, so now I’m doomed to this house. Huffing, I toss the covers back and wander the rooms aimlessly, not wanting to hold still. In the kitchen all I can see is the rug, and in the library, that door chars my nerves. I go to the parlor, thinking of how people sat and played cards and wasted their lives away in here instead of accomplishing things. Maybe that’s what I should do. Waste away.
Black and white, aged photographs hang on the wall above an elegant table. They’re constant reminders that this was someone else’s house before it was mine. As far as I know I’m related to them somehow, I’m just not sure on the how part.
I’ve never stopped to notice them before, but for some reason the faces hold my interest this time. In fact, one sticks out more than the others, and it’s not because of the placid, sterile look on the girl’s pretty face.
She’s in a staring match she’s determined to win.
A dusting of chills spreads over one corner of my shoulder, and they bubble there like I’m being touched by a cold hand. I can’t break my eyes away from the girl. The longer I look, the colder I feel. And the more frightened she looks. She stares off like the others around her, but the line of her hawk eyes, the tightness in her jaw and the way her neck looks constricted—it’s as if she’s being forced into the picture and taking it could end her life.
Phobic Page 10
