A party. All my friends would be invited, and I wouldn’t. Stellar.
The more I thought about it, the harder it was to stick with the whole “be fake nice to Natasha” thing. While we rehearsed “Galactic March,” I kept picturing Julia and Gabby and everyone at her house, giving her presents and having fun without me. So when we got to the horn solo and I heard Natasha whisper to Gabby, “I wish this solo was our chair test next week instead of the chorale. It’s so easy!” I was pretty much done.
I sat rigidly in my chair, waiting until Mr. Dante finished talking to the low brass. “Let’s start right at the horn solo, measure ninety-two,” he said, lifting his hands.
I kept my horn in my lap, staring at Natasha’s feet while she played. She sounded great, which only fueled my anger. Discreetly, I lifted my horn to my lips and leaned over and to the side just a little bit. Blowing air into the mouthpiece, I pushed down the spit valve.
Bull’s-eye.
I leaned back in my chair, trying not to smile. Of course, it was a shame to ruin such an adorable pair of shoes. But I felt so much better.
For a second. Then I saw Gabby looking right at me, and my stomach dropped. She looked surprised . . . and disappointed.
Whatever. I lifted my horn again, ready to come in with Brooke and Owen after the solo. It wasn’t that big a deal, right? Natasha’s shoes couldn’t be totally ruined. And she deserved it.
“Holly.”
I looked up at Mr. Dante, and my insides instantly turned to ice.
He’d seen me.
I swallowed hard. “Yes?” Oh God oh God oh God.
He was silent for a few seconds, looking at me with this mix of disappointment and shock that made me want to go hole up in my cubby for the rest of my life. Before he could speak, Natasha shrieked.
“My shoe! What the heck is that?” She stuck her foot out, then stared at me, her mouth open. “Did you empty your spit valve on my shoe?”
Oh God.
Sophie Wheeler squealed in disgust, and behind me, a few of the boys laughed. I could feel Julia staring at me. On the other side of Natasha, Gabby’s eyes were glued to the floor. My face burned.
“Holly?” Mr. Dante said again.
I cleared my throat, but my voice came out all shaky and weak anyway. “It was an accident.”
Could I have said anything more lame? Probably not. Natasha just gaped at me, her leg still extended as if she was trying to get as far away from her own foot as humanly possible.
Mr. Dante studied me thoughtfully. He knew I was lying, I could tell. I shifted in my chair.
“Then I suggest you be more careful in the future,” he said at last. “And I believe you owe Natasha an apology.”
I thought nothing could be more humiliating than Aaron Cook seeing me playing Warlock with a bunch of nerds. Clearly, I was wrong.
“Sorry,” I mumbled, turning toward Natasha but not meeting her eyes.
“Okay,” she said. But as soon as Mr. Dante started rehearsal again, I saw her and Sophie exchange a Look.
Oh my God, Sophie mouthed at her, and Natasha snickered. Sophie made a disgusted face at me before turning back around in her chair.
When rehearsal finally ended (like, a decade later), I just stayed in my chair with my eyes fixed on my folder, trying to not look guilty. Trevor didn’t help by jabbing me in the arm with his trombone slide, causing me to jump about a foot off my chair.
“What?” I yelped. He grinned at me.
“Good one.”
“Huh?”
Trevor looked pointedly at Natasha, who was making a big show of wiping her shoe with a rag. “I did that to Max in beginner class all the time when he got annoying.” He headed to the cubby room, and I stared after him in shock.
I was officially as immature as Trevor Wells. This had to be rock-bottom, right?
“Holly, I need to speak with you in my office, please.”
Wrong.
I couldn’t even look up at Mr. Dante. Leaving my horn on my chair, I followed him to the front of the band hall without taking my eyes off my shoes.
Inside his office, he closed the door, then leaned against his desk. But he didn’t say anything. I fidgeted, staring at the spreadsheet opened on his computer monitor. This was one of my mom’s tactics, too—waiting and waiting until the silence was just too much and I confessed to whatever it was I was trying to pretend I hadn’t done.
It drove me nuts, because it always worked.
“I’m really sorry!” I burst out after five seconds of unbearably awkward silence. “I don’t know why I did that. I mean, I do know why I did it, but I know I shouldn’t have done it, you know?”
Mr. Dante arched an eyebrow. “And why exactly did you do it?”
“Because . . .” I trailed off, staring at my shoes again. Somehow Because Natasha was being a total jerk didn’t seem like an answer Mr. Dante would appreciate.
I cleared my throat. “I, um . . . I don’t get along very well with Natasha.”
“And?”
Confused, I glanced up. “And what?”
Mr. Dante shrugged. “You seem like a pretty sensible girl, Holly. Do you really think not getting along with someone is a reason to empty your spit valve on her shoe?”
My face grew hot. “No,” I said in a small voice.
“I didn’t think so. You know, Mrs. Wendell told me a lot about you this summer.”
I blinked in surprise. “Really?”
“Yup.” Pulling open his top desk drawer, Mr. Dante pulled out a notebook and began flipping through the labels. The color-coded labels—nice. “I took notes when I met with her after I was hired,” he added when he saw me staring, and I tried to smile.
“Oh.”
“Here we go—sixth-graders, French horn.” Mr. Dante tapped the page. “She said you were very talented, well-behaved, one of her best and most hardworking students . . . and apparently you had a knack for making great concert programs?”
I blushed again, but for a different reason this time.
“So.” Mr. Dante closed his notebook. “How does such a responsible, mature student go from this”—he held up the notebook—“to what I saw from you today?”
I squeezed my eyes shut. Oh my God, this guy could even give Mom a run for her money for the title of Guilt Trip Master.
What could I say? Because Natasha is having a birthday party and probably not inviting me. Because she stole my best friend. Because she got first chair instead of me—which is totally unfair, by the way.
Nope. Not about to say that to Mr. Dante.
“I don’t know,” I said at last, opening my eyes. “I . . . I really am sorry, Mr. Dante. It won’t happen again, ever. I’ve never done anything so—so gross before. Seriously, it’s something my brother would do,” I added with a shudder. Mr. Dante chuckled, and I smiled weakly in relief.
“Glad to hear it, Holly. Thank you.” Opening the top drawer, he placed the notebook back inside. The score to “Labyrinthine Dances” was open on his desk. I leaned forward a little, my eyes widening.
“Did you . . . did you color this?”
Mr. Dante nodded, flipping a few pages so I could see. “I just highlight certain things so I can see them at a glance. Dynamics are green, tempo changes are orange, key changes are blue . . . you get the idea.”
Whoa. The man was a genius.
“You’d better get to lunch, Holly. And listen . . .” I tore my eyes off the beauty of the color-coded score and looked at him. “I appreciate your apology, and I know you mean it. But you need to tell Natasha you’re sorry.” Adjusting his glasses again, Mr. Dante smiled. “I know she . . . pushes your buttons sometimes. But, Holly, you push hers, too, and you know it. And like it or not, you’re going to be in the same section for the rest of the year. Seems like the best thing to do would be at leas
t try to get along, right?”
I nodded fervently. “Yes, sir.”
Back out in the empty band hall, I grabbed my horn and hurried to the cubby room. I meant what I said to Mr. Dante, sort of. No way was I going to try to be friends with Natasha—that was a lost cause. But I’d definitely try to pretend to get along with her during band if it would make Mr. Dante happy. Mrs. Wendell had told him I was one of her best students, and I was going to start acting like it.
I was also going to start color-coding my music, like, immediately.
Outside the band hall doors, a voice interrupted my mental music highlighting.
“So what was that?”
Startled, I turned to see Julia leaning against the wall.
“Oh! You scared me,” I said lightly, but she didn’t smile. Actually, she looked pretty upset.
Uh-oh.
“What was that in there?” she asked again. I shifted my weight from one foot to the other.
“Um, what was what?”
Julia rolled her eyes. “You know exactly what. Did you seriously spit on Natasha’s shoes on purpose?”
“I didn’t spit on them,” I said defensively. “I—it was from my horn, and—”
“Whatever.” Julia’s arms were tightly crossed over her chest. “So was it on purpose?”
I waited a second too long to respond. My stomach dropped at the look on her face.
“Oh my God, Holly.” Julia closed her eyes briefly. “I mean . . . why would you do that?”
I swallowed hard, but it wasn’t enough to stop the lump rising in my throat.
“I don’t know,” I said at last, my voice all wobbly and weird. “I wasn’t thinking, I was just . . . I was upset.”
“Why?” She said it flatly; no sympathy. I took a deep breath and thought about what Mr. Dante said.
“Because Natasha kind of . . . pushes my buttons. Sometimes.”
“What?”
“Come on, Julia,” I cried, exasperated. “You can’t seriously be this blind. She’s awful! She’s full of herself, she’s obnoxious, she’s constantly talking about—”
“Holly!” Julia was gaping at me. “Look, I just left the cafeteria because Natasha and Sophie were bad-mouthing you. But I’m not going to stand here and listen to you say all this stuff about Natasha, either!”
“But what I’m saying is actually true!” I said, my eyes burning with tears. “She’s—”
“No, what they’re saying is true,” Julia snapped. “That you were so jealous of Natasha that you actually dumped spit on her shoes. Right?”
“Jealous?” I wiped my eyes furiously. “I’m not jealous—see, she thinks she’s—”
“Really? You’re not jealous she got first chair?”
I just stood there, mouth open.
This was unreal. It’s not like Julia and I had never fought before . . . but it was never anything like this. And she was actually defending Natasha.
“Look, Holly.” Julia’s eyes were watery, too, but her voice was firm. “I told Natasha and Sophie I thought it was an accident. I told them you’d never do anything so disgusting. And I’m not going to listen to Natasha say things like that about you, ever.”
When I didn’t reply, she continued.
“But I’m not going to listen to you talk about Natasha like that, either. She’s my friend, too, Holly. And I . . .” Julia looked away for a second. “I just can’t deal with the two of you . . . being like this.”
I stared at the linoleum, Julia’s words ringing in my ears.
She’s my friend, too, Holly.
Never mind the third-grade talent show, the countless sleepovers, the four years of best friendship. Two weeks with Natasha at Lake Lindon had been enough. It didn’t matter that the girl clearly hated me—Julia still considered her a friend.
So what did that make me?
“Fine,” I said at last. “But you know what, Julia? She’s not my friend. And if hanging out with her is that important to you, maybe you should just do it without me.”
Julia looked surprised for a second, then her mouth set in a firm line.
“Fine.”
“Fine.”
Turning, I headed to the bathroom without looking back.
Chapter
Fifteen
By the time Mom dropped me off at Spins for the band party, it was already pretty crowded. I hovered in the entrance, looking for familiar faces. Spins was part pizza buffet, part arcade, and it was kind of dimly lit. There were definitely a lot of advanced-band members here already, and I recognized a bunch of seventh-graders who were in symphonic band. There were several kids I didn’t recognize, but judging from their height, I figured they were in beginner band. (Seriously, was I that short in sixth grade?)
Mr. Dante was in a booth chatting with the parent chaperones. For, like, the millionth time, I thought about Julia sitting at home and tried to push the image out of my mind. I couldn’t believe I’d yelled at her like that after band. At the same time, I was still a little too hurt by what she’d said to call her (although I’d picked up the phone without dialing about a dozen times before leaving for Spins).
Ignoring yet another wave of guilt, I spotted Gabby and a few girls by the drinks. I started heading their way, then stopped.
By the time I’d gotten home from school, I’d convinced myself that what happened during band wasn’t that big of a deal. But now . . . Half the kids in this room had been there to witness my humiliation. I edged back toward the doors, a blush heating my cheeks. I couldn’t face everyone. Maybe I should just quit band and join the choir or something. My singing voice wasn’t bad.
Then I shook my head. I was being ridiculous. Like I would ever do choir.
“Hey, Holly!” Gabby waved, holding a plate piled high with cinnamon breadsticks from the buffet in her other hand. Next to her, Victoria Rios, a trumpet player, and Leah Collins, a percussionist, were eating slices of pizza. Taking a deep breath, I headed over.
“Hey,” I said nervously. Gabby smiled at me.
“Love your dress.”
Inwardly, I sighed in relief. She wasn’t going to mention the spit-valve thing.
“Thanks!” I couldn’t help but stare at Gabby’s plate. “Seriously, do you ever eat anything but sweet stuff?”
“Nope,” Victoria answered immediately. “One time in fifth grade I dared her to eat a pickle at lunch because she’d never had one.”
“You were in fifth grade the first time you ate a pickle?” Leah exclaimed, picking the olives off her pizza.
Gabby nodded, swallowing. “Yup. Vic bet me a week’s worth of chocolate pudding that I couldn’t eat the whole thing. So I did. Then I puked. Totally worth it.”
We laughed. “You can’t blame her for all the candy, though,” Victoria added. “You should see the food situation at her house.”
“What do you mean?” I asked, and Gabby’s eyes widened.
“My mom is insane,” she said emphatically. “There is, like, zero sugar in our kitchen. And, oh my God, the stuff I have to eat for dinner. You would die.”
I giggled. “It can’t be that bad.” But she and Victoria both shook their heads.
“Holly, you know what my mom made for dinner last night?” Gabby paused, wrinkling her nose. “Tofu lentil casserole and beet salad.”
Leah and I looked at each other. “Okay, that sounds pretty gross,” Leah admitted.
“And I have to drink carrot juice with wheatgrass every morning before school.” Gabby pointed her cinnamon stick at each of us in turn. “Any of you ever tasted wheatgrass?” We shook our heads. “Pick a bunch of grass from your front yard and stick it in a blender with some carrots. That’s what it tastes like.”
I made a disgusted face. Suddenly Gabby’s Red Hots obsession was making a lot of sense.
“Hey, t
here’s Natasha!” Leah said suddenly.
I glanced up, heart pounding. Natasha was standing alone at the entrance, apparently oblivious to Leah’s frantic waving. Squinting, I realized her dress was a lot like mine. Too much like mine. It was pink instead of blue, and the little belt was brown instead of black, but other than that they were almost identical. Ugh, she was even wearing boots kind of like mine.
“Gonna spit on those boots, too?”
Alarmed, I stared at Victoria, but she was laughing. “What? No!” I cried, the stomach knots back in full force.
“Oh, leave her alone, Victoria,” Leah said, smiling at me. “Holly wouldn’t do that on purpose! That was an accident, right?”
“Right.” I smiled back shakily. Gabby gave me a sideways look, cramming an entire cinnamon stick into her mouth. As soon as Leah and Victoria started talking to a few guys getting sodas, Gabby leaned closer to me.
“Okay, so what’s up with you and Natasha? Seriously.”
“Oh, just . . . nothing.”
Choosing another cinnamon stick, Gabby rolled her eyes. “Holly. Seriously.”
I sighed, exasperated. “Look, have you ever talked to her? I mean, really talked to her? She’s, like, the most stuck-up person on the planet!”
Now Gabby looked totally mystified. “Really? We sit next to each other in computer lab. I thought she seemed pretty cool.”
She couldn’t be serious. For a moment, I was too shocked to say anything. It was one thing that this girl had Julia fooled. They shared a cabin at band camp; they kind of had to become friends. But I thought it had to be pretty obvious to everyone else that Natasha was a mega-phony.
“Look how she is in band,” I said when I finally found my voice. “She’s such a know-it-all! Always talking about how easy everything is—she even said “Labyrinthine Dances” was easy, remember?”
Gabby shrugged. “I don’t know; I guess I never noticed.” She dragged the last cinnamon stick across her plate, scraping up all the frosting. “Holly—and don’t take this the wrong way—but are you maybe just mad that she got first chair instead of you?”
I Heart Band Page 8
