Now it was Megan’s turn to be surprised. “What are you talking about?”
“Why, the way you love the flute. I’ve heard you play, too. And I’ve seen how you come alive when you’re playing. Believe me, your music reflects that.’’
“I do love it,” Megan admitted, almost as sheepishly as if she were confessing to some secret crush. “My music means everything to me. And,” she said, almost as an afterthought, “so does winning this competition.”
“Well, then, it’s all settled,” Allegra said firmly.
“What’s settled?”
“You’re going to win the competition, and that’s all there is to it.’’
Megan laughed. “Allegra Ferrante, are you trying to tell me you’re psychic?”
“No, I’m not.” Allegra’s expression was serious as she shook her head. “But I don’t need to be able to see into the future to be certain that you’re going to win that competition.” Allegra looked her new friend straight in the eye. “I may not know you very well, Megan. At least, not yet. But I know you well enough to realize that there’s something about you—something I can’t explain—that really, really makes me believe in you.”
* * * *
That evening, after dinner and before the American Philharmonic Orchestra’s concert over at the Wildwood Performing Arts Center, Allegra made a trip down to the pay phone on Ellis Hall’s first floor. She had yet to call home to tell her family how her summer was going, and tonight seemed like as good a tune as any. Besides, she was anxious to talk to her brother, to tell him the good news that had had her spinning ever since the day before.
“I’ll walk down to the lobby with you,” Megan offered when she heard about her roommate’s mission. “We might as well head straight for the bus when you get off the phone. It’s leaving for the concert in fifteen minutes, anyway.”
Megan waited outside the small telephone room while Allegra made her call. She had brought along the music to the Mozart concerto she was planning to play at the competition. In fact, ever since the announcement earlier that day, she had had it with her at all times. Now, when she had three or four minutes to kill, she was earnestly studying it as Allegra watched her through the glass window, listening to the phone ringing far away in New York City.
“Pierre!” she cried at the sound of his hello. “It’s so good to hear your voice. And I’m so glad you’re the one who answered the phone. I’ve got the best news.”
“It’s good to hear from you, too, Allegra. Now what is it that has my baby sister so excited?” he asked teasingly.
Allegra took a deep breath, wanting to calm down before telling her brother about the fantastic thing that had just happened to her. She was talking so fast that she was afraid he wouldn’t understand what she was saying.
“Pierre, I met a bunch of kids up here who are interested in forming a rock band.... And they picked me to be their lead singer!”
“That’s great, Allegra. But when are you going to find the time... ?”
“There’s still so much that’s up in the air,” Allegra chattered on, too excited to listen. “Of course we’ll only be up here for the summer and all, but if it works out, who knows? It turns out that most of the kids live in the New York area—Steve, who’s kind of the leader, is from Brooklyn—so if it takes off, we could continue into the fall.... Oh, Pierre, I’m so happy about this. I can’t tell you what a difference this is making!”
Allegra was talking so quickly and so loudly that she hadn’t heard the click as the extension in her family’s home was picked up.
“What is this wonderful news of yours, Allegra?” her father’s voice suddenly interrupted. “Please, tell me what it is that has got you so enthusiastic.”
“H-hello, Daddy.” Allegra gulped. “How are you?”
“I am fine, but how are you? And what is this exciting thing that has happened to you?”
Her mind was racing. Now you’ve done it, she was thinking. She had gotten herself cornered, and she needed a way out. Outside the tiny telephone cubicle, she could see Megan pacing back and forth. The dreamy, faraway look in her eyes reminded Allegra that it was the chance to compete in the concerto competition that had her flute-playing roommate in such a state.
And then, even before she had a chance to think about what she was doing, she heard herself saying, “Daddy, there’s going to be a concerto competition among the students up here. The winner gets to perform as a soloist with the American Philharmonic Orchestra.”
“That is good news!” Her father was already sharing her excitement—although for the wrong reason entirely. What mattered to Allegra at the moment, however, was that she had managed to wangle her way out of the sticky situation that she herself had created.
At least she felt that way until she realized what she had started.
‘“What a wonderful opportunity for you!’’ her father went on. “Why, you must play the Mendelssohn at the competition. Madame Oretsky was so pleased with how you were coming along with it. I only hope there will be a piano accompanist who can follow you well enough. If you like, I can give Amos Derwood a call to see if he can find someone suitable. Yes, the Mendelssohn would definitely be the best. It shows off your fine technique quite well, and you play it with such feeling.”
“Daddy, I ...” Suddenly Allegra wanted to stop what had been meant to be nothing more than a harmless little white lie from snowballing into something unmanageable. But her father wasn’t making it easy for her.
“I will call Madame Oretsky right away. She will want to talk to you over the telephone soon, to give you some pointers. The second movement will require a great deal of work.’’
“But Daddy, I’m not sure I...”
“Allegra, winning this competition would be quite an honor. Quite a feather in your cap. In fact, it could be just what you need to launch your violin career.”
Allegra opened her mouth. She planned to voice her protest, or at least try, one more time. But she snapped it shut before she had said a word. It was no use, she realized. The little scheme she had constructed had backfired. Now that word of the competition had reached her father’s ears, she wouldn’t hear the end of it until it was over.
For a fleeting moment she thought of going ahead with it but playing so badly that the judges wouldn’t even seriously consider her. But she knew that she would never be able to disgrace herself—not to mention her father and her mother— in that manner, not for any reason.
No, she thought, her mind moving quickly, I have to give it my best. That’s just the way I am. Besides, considering the other kids who are going to be in the competition, chances are slim that I’ll ever win. Everybody else up here is just too good.
She glanced out the window one more time. This time she happened to catch Megan’s eye. Her roommate flashed her a big smile, her blue eyes lighting up in a way that Allegra hadn’t seen before, showing just how much the upcoming competition meant to her.
It was then that Allegra realized that the hardest thing about all this was going to be telling Megan that she was going to be in the competition after all.
Chapter Seven
“Tonight,” Tiffany said aloud to the reflection in the full-length mirror on the back of the bedroom door, “I’m going to show these kids what it means to have some real style!”
She stepped back to take one more good look at herself. And she had to admit she liked what she saw. This was the evening of the American Philharmonic Orchestra’s first concert of the summer season, an event to which all the students participating in the Wildwood program were invited. And Tiffany had pulled out all the stops.
She was wearing a slinky black minidress, a tight-fitting strapless designer creation she had secretly “borrowed” from her mother’s closet when she was packing. It was complemented by very high-heeled shoes, a pair she had bought for the junior prom but, in the end, found too painful to wear. Tonight, though, she didn’t care how much they hurt. She was out to make a statement,
and carrying it off successfully was all that mattered.
She hadn’t stopped there. Her long blond hair was twisted up into an elegant French knot, fastened with shiny rhinestone barrettes. For jewelry she had put on virtually every good piece she owned, starting with the real diamond earrings her father had given her for her sixteenth birthday and ending with the gold bracelet she had asked for and received for Christmas six months earlier. Wanting to complete the picture, Tiffany had carefully put on more makeup than she had ever worn before—heavy blue eye shadow, dark red lipstick, even a pair of false eyelashes—and the result was that she looked like something out of a magazine advertisement.
“This will let those children know who I really am,” she said triumphantly.
And then she doused herself with French perfume, picked up her small needlepoint evening bag, and headed for the yellow school bus that routinely shuttled all the students in the summer program to the Wildwood Performing Arts Center a few miles away from the campus.
She loved knowing that she looked fabulous. Grown-up, too. Why, the last time she had gotten this dressed up, Evan had told her she looked at least twenty-one.
Evan. Just thinking about him brought a lump to her throat. She still couldn’t believe how he had thrown her over. And for Heather, no less, a girl who was supposed to be one of her best friends....
Oh, who needs him? Tiffany thought. She blinked away the tears that had started to fill her eyes, vowing never to cry over Evan again. Or over any other boy, for that matter.
Besides, she reminded herself, you have other things to think about right now. Like showing these kids what Tiffany Forrester is all about.
As she headed out the door of the dormitory, however, her heart practically stopped beating. The other kids who were heading toward the bus were not at all dressed up. In fact, the groups of two or three who chatted together as they strolled toward the driveway in front of the dorm were wearing shorts or jeans with T-shirts. There was only one other girl who was wearing a dress, as far as she could see, and hers was a casual cotton sundress, worn with sandals.
“Oh, no!” Tiffany cried aloud. She glanced down at her glittering bracelet and her high heels with dismay. Was it really possible that she was the only one who considered going out to a concert a special occasion, one that called for getting dressed up in one’s finest, most glamorous clothes?
But this was no time for rationalizing the situation. She decided on the spot that the only thing for her to do was turn around and sneak back into the dorm, preferably before anybody caught sight of her.
But it was already too late.
“Hey, Tiffany!” called Betsy, her stand partner. She was dressed in a pair of white cutoffs and a sweatshirt. “Over here! Come sit with us on the bus.”
Tiffany froze. She was still considering whirling around and just running away. But now that Betsy had spotted her, she would have been even more mortified.
So instead, she stuck her chin up in the air and, doing her best to balance in her painfully high heels, sauntered over to where Betsy was standing with two other girls from the orchestra. Joan, a quiet dark-haired girl, played the viola, and thin blond Lisa was a trumpeter.
“Gee, Tiffany,” Lisa said with a gulp. “You sure look dressed up.”
Tiffany couldn’t tell if she was paying her a compliment or insulting her. Not that she cared, of course, she was quick to remind herself.
“Well, we are going to a concert, after all,” she said loftily.
“Yes, but aren’t you afraid you’ll be uncomfortable, sitting outside on the grass?” Joan asked in a gentle voice.
“You’ll have to be really careful not to tear your stockings or break your heels,” Betsy chimed in.
Tiffany just stared at them. “What are you talking about?’’
“You mean you didn’t know?’’ Joan glanced over at Betsy for a fleeting second. And the look on her face was one of alarm.
“Know what?”
“This performance is some special fund-raiser or something, since it’s the American Philharmonic’s first concert of the season. So all of us kids who are in the summer program are going to be sitting on the lawn for tonight. The Performing Arts Center is an amphitheater, of course, and it has seats inside. But it’s also great listening to concerts out on the huge lawn that surrounds it. It’s wonderful, sitting under the stars....”
“Outside?” Tiffany blinked, unable to believe what she was hearing. “Sitting on the lawn?”
Lisa held up the towel she had had tucked under her arm as the four of them walked toward the bus. “See? I brought this to sit on.”
“I brought a blanket,” Joan said. “We could share, if you want to.”
Tiffany couldn’t remember the last time she had felt this miserable. Being here at Wildwood was turning out to be even worse than she had ever dreamed. Once again she considered turning around and just going back to the dorm. But the other three girls were already ushering her onto the bus.
And then, as she stepped up onto the top step, teetering on her high heels, she heard somebody whistle.
“Wow! Aren’t you dressed to kill!”
She looked up only long enough to glare at Mark Jackson, who was sitting way up in the front of the bus. Like the others, he was dressed in jeans and a T-shirt. As she walked by him, following the other girls toward the back where there were still empty seats, she couldn’t resist muttering, “Just because some of us know how to dress ...”
But before she had a chance to finish her sentence, another boy, a percussionist named Todd, joked, “Uh-oh. I sure hope you brought some mosquito repellent.”
Tiffany’s head jerked up. “Mosquito repellent?”
“Oh, boy. They’re going to love chomping on those bare shoulders of yours!’’
One of the other boys leaned over to Todd and whispered something. The two of them then broke into loud, raw peals of laughter.
By that point, Tiffany didn’t know if she felt like telling them all exactly what she thought of them or curling up in the corner of the bus for a good cry. Fortunately, once she was sitting down, sharing a seat with Betsy while Joan and Lisa took the seat right in front of them, she drifted out of the limelight, at least for a little while.
The concert seemed to go on forever. She barely listened to a note of it; she was too busy tugging at her short dress, trying to keep as much of her legs covered by the flimsy fabric as she could, sitting in an awkward position on the corner of Joan’s blanket.
When she wasn’t pulling at her dress, she was swatting at the hundreds of mosquitoes who were acting as if they had just been invited to a banquet, one at which her flesh was the main course. She also discovered that here in upstate New York, when the sun went down the temperature dropped considerably—certainly enough for her to get so cold that she was shivering.
Then Joan leaned over and, in a sympathetic voice, suggested, “Would you like to wrap the blanket around you? You look like you’re freezing.”
“No, I’m fine,” Tiffany snapped. “Really.”
The last thing I need right now, she was thinking, is to look like the victim of a natural disaster, sitting here wrapped in a tattered, old gray blanket.
As it was, she was certain she was still the center of attention—and not a shred of it anything even close to admiration.
When the concert was over, she was one of the first people back on the bus. She made a beeline for the rear, taking the corner seat and hoping that no one would notice that she was there. At least it was warmer in the bus, even if her arms and legs were covered with swollen pink mosquito bites. A scratchy feeling at the back of her throat, meanwhile, warned that a cold could already be on its way.
“There you are, Tiffany!” Betsy said brightly as she came onto the bus a few minutes later. “Joan and Lisa and I were looking everywhere for you. We couldn’t imagine where you’d disappeared to.”
“What was your hurry?” Lisa asked pleasantly.
In a
softer voice, one that no one was meant to hear, Joan said, “She was probably freezing.”
Tiffany was sure she heard some of the kids laugh at Joan’s comment. She was glad when the bus’s light went off as the driver pulled the door closed and the group headed back to the Clayton College campus.
But Betsy’s loud voice pulled her out of the anonymity of the darkness.
“So, Tiffany, what did you think of the concert?”
“It was very nice,” she replied sullenly.
“Oh, I just loved it.” Betsy went on and on about which pieces she had enjoyed most, which musicians in the orchestra were her favorites. “In fact,” she finally concluded, “I think that was one of the finest concerts I’ve ever heard. How about you, Tiffany? What was the best concert you ever heard?”
“Oh, I don’t know. I’ve heard so many,” Tiffany replied without really thinking. “At home, I go to concerts all the time.”
She hadn’t meant to talk loudly, but for some reason her voice carried exceptionally well in the bus. In fact, just about everyone around her, almost the entire back half of the bus, was looking over at her. And from what she could make out in the light from the street lamps the bus passed, the expressions on their faces were, for the most part, amused.
Wanting more than ever to impress them, she went on. “My father is always taking me to concerts in the city. Why, we go to Lincoln Center practically every night, for heaven’s sake.”
“Really? Who have you heard perform?” Betsy asked, trying to be friendly.
“Oh, uh, everybody worth hearing.”
“Like who?” Betsy urged.
“Well ... well ... I don’t know!” Tiffany sputtered. She could feel her face turning red.
“What are some of your favorite pieces?” Lisa asked.
“I ... uh ... Oh, gosh, I like just about everything.”
“Everything?” Joan asked. She sounded puzzled. “How can anybody like everything?’’
Going Solo Page 8
