by Pearl Love
Ryan passed the stack back to Tyrell after it reached him, and Tyrell retrieved his sheet before handing it to the student behind him. He’d calendared his schedule in his phone when he’d made it, but it didn’t hurt to have a paper copy.
“You took Sketching I too, right?” Ryan whispered, angling himself in his seat so Tyrell could hear him more easily.
Tyrell nodded. “Yeah. You promised to do all my assignments.”
He grinned at Ryan’s chuckle. Unlike himself, Ryan was a surprisingly good artist. He drew comics and had been working on a manga-inspired sports series since they were in the sixth grade.
“Yeah, sure. If you promise to give me all your English Lit notes. I refuse to let some pansy-ass English authors make me fail next year.”
“Gage,” Mr. Crabtree called out.
“Here.”
“Hughes.”
Tyrell responded in turn. Ryan had turned back around in his seat, and Tyrell could see he was doodling something on a blank page of a spiral-bound notebook. Tyrell placed the paper copy of his schedule in the three-ring binder he’d designated to keep his notes. After getting home the previous evening, he’d created file separators for each class arranged in the order of his daily schedule. Kevin liked to tease him that he had OCD, but Tyrell had always enjoyed keeping himself organized. Enough of his life was scattered and beyond his control, so he maintained it wherever he could. And speaking of things that were out of control….
Jeremy was likewise glancing over his class schedule, and Tyrell blatantly took the opportunity to read over his shoulder. He’d gotten as far as seeing that Jeremy was taking band and they had lunch the same period when Mr. Crabtree called Jeremy’s name.
“Present,” he answered before slipping his schedule in a folder and away from Tyrell’s sight.
“So, announcements,” Mr. Crabtree began once he’d gotten through the roster. “The hot-water heater over in the gym building gave up the ghost last week. It’s being replaced, but everyone can look forward to cold showers after PE until next Friday at the earliest.” He paused to allow the groans to die down. “Your list of allergies is due to Ms. Sims, the cafeteria head, by the end of the week. Otherwise, you’ll need to bring your own lunch. Let’s see.” He glanced over the list he held. “Oh right. Homecoming is eight weeks from Friday. The game will be here against River Vista High, and the dance will be held the next day in the auditorium. If you want to be on the Homecoming committee, see Ms. Tinley, the biology teacher. She’s in charge this year.” Mr. Crabtree glanced at the clock, which read five minutes to the end of the period. “You’re free to leave if you want a head start in getting to your next class, but don’t make too much noise in the hall!” He shouted the last as his pronouncement heralded a scrape of chairs against the tiled floor and a scramble of bodies heading for the door.
Tyrell watched as Jeremy took advantage of the early dismissal. If he recalled correctly, Jeremy’s next class was social studies. Jeremy had never once even looked in his direction, and Tyrell wasn’t completely certain how he felt about that. He glanced down at his desk in the process of gathering his own things, but something made him look up once more. Jeremy had reached the door, but before he followed the others headed out into the corridor, he paused and turned back to throw Tyrell a look that could only be described as “enigmatic.”
Stupid PSATs.
Tyrell sat watching the door long after Jeremy had finally disappeared. What in the hell had that been about, he wondered. He absently noted Ryan’s cheerful good-bye and his promise to meet Tyrell in the cafeteria for lunch, but couldn’t remember if he’d actually responded. That strange music was back, this time even louder, the notes and the rhythm filling his head and making him want to hum along.
“…Hughes. Mr. Hughes!”
Startled, Tyrell blinked and looked up at Mr. Crabtree. He realized the bell was ringing. Over the teacher’s shoulder, the classroom clock was showing that he had nine minutes before the start of the next period. He scrambled to his feet.
“Um, sorry, Mr. Crabtree. I was just going.”
“Hold on there a minute, son.” Mr. Crabtree weaved his way through the rows of desks and paused next to Tyrell before placing a hand lightly on his shoulder. His expression radiated friendliness, instantly dispelling any concern Tyrell might have had that he was in trouble. “You okay? You seemed lost in thought.”
“Oh, uh….” Tyrell scrambled for something intelligent to say. “I have Trig next period, and I was just wondering if it would be as hard as Geometry was last year.” Not brilliant, but it was the best he could do on short notice.
Mr. Crabtree nodded sympathetically. “Ah. I was never much of a math lover myself when I was in school.” He chuckled. “In fact, I nearly failed algebra and didn’t manage to get above a B in any of my math classes. But don’t sweat it. We have a good tutoring program here, so if you need some extra help, just let me know.”
“Okay.” Tyrell smiled appreciatively and went back to stuffing his things in his backpack.
“You’re a drummer, huh?”
Tyrell frowned as he looked up again. “What do you mean?”
Mr. Crabtree was watching him with a slight upturn to his lips. “I noticed you spent nearly the entire period tapping on your desk.”
Tyrell felt his face heat. “Oh, uh, sorry. It’s a bad habit. My mom hates it when I do it at home.”
The teacher chuckled. “I’m sure she does, but I have to tell you, Mr. Hughes. I was impressed.”
“Impressed?” Tyrell echoed, his frown darkening.
“Yes, at your timing. I don’t know what song you were playing along to in your head, but the beat you were tapping out seemed pretty complex. Have you ever played drums before?”
Tyrell shook his head. “No.”
“I see. Think you might consider it? I’m holding tryouts all week for the concert band, which meets after school.”
“Nah, that’s okay.” Tyrell grabbed his bag and slung it over his shoulder before easing around the teacher. “I’m not really into music, not like that. Besides, I don’t have any experience playing or anything.”
“That’s no problem.” Mr. Crabtree didn’t try to stop him physically, but his gaze prompted Tyrell to pause in his attempt to rush out of the room. “All I ask is that you give it a shot. It would do us both good if you found a way to channel all that musical energy into playing percussion instead of disrupting my class. Don’t you think?” He grinned at Tyrell’s sheepish shrug. “Come to tryouts before deciding you’re not interested. If you still aren’t after that, I’ll say nothing more about it. Deal?”
Tyrell was glad Mr. Crabtree didn’t hold out a hand for him to shake or something equally lame. He shrugged again. “Yeah, I guess.”
“Come to the band room after classes one day this week,” Mr. Crabtree called out after him as Tyrell hurried from the classroom.
“Yeah right,” Tyrell mumbled. He would have been perfectly fine blowing off the suggestion, but as he walked to his next class, he remembered the thrilling performance of the Kendall drumline team. As far as he knew, Winton Yowell didn’t have anything like that. Tyrell reached into his bag for the school handbook he’d stuffed into it the previous day. Flipping through it hastily, he quickly found the section with the descriptions of all the school clubs. Apparently, Winton Yowell had a marching band as well as a concert band. Tyrell wondered if one of those would appeal to him. That was, if he could even pass the audition, which seemed like a long shot.
The intermittent bell signaling the end of the period sounded again, and Tyrell turned his attention to not being late to his next class. He most certainly was not remembering that Jeremy had band on his schedule and absolutely wasn’t wondering if that meant he was also trying out for the after-school program. Tyrell hitched his backpack more securely on his shoulder, his fingers beating the rhythm to the mysterious song in time with his steps.
Chapter EIGHT
JEREMY GLANCE
D up from his sheet music when the door to the band room opened. He was standing next to the door with his back against the wall in a lazy slouch as he looked over his audition pieces one final time. The kid who exited the room was carrying a trumpet case, which explained the loud honks Jeremy had heard coming from inside. The guy wasn’t really that bad, but it was clear he hadn’t been playing long. Jeremy nodded at him encouragingly as the kid returned his glance.
“Mr. Michalak?”
Jeremy poked his head into the room at Mr. Crabtree’s summons. “Yes, I’m here.”
Mr. Crabtree smiled from where he was sitting at the very front of the room. “Great! You’re right on time. Come on in and we’ll get started.”
It was Jeremy’s first time in the band room, and he quickly examined the typical convex row arrangement of chairs as he made his way down to the floor level. Each of the chairs was already accompanied by a music stand, and Jeremy estimated the seating would accommodate about forty or so musicians. Apparently Winton Yowell boasted a pretty sizable concert band. Jeremy grasped the handle of his clarinet case tighter. It would be good to play with an ensemble again. He hadn’t done so since starting high school, and he’d missed the experience a lot.
“So it looks like you’ve come prepared,” Mr. Crabtree said when Jeremy reached him. He glanced curiously at the sheets of paper Jeremy clutched in his hand. “What have you brought to play?”
Jeremy sat the music on the stand sitting in front of the empty chair to the teacher’s right. “A piece by Miklós Rózsa.”
“Let me guess, Sonatina for Clarinet Solo?” Mr. Crabtree chuckled when Jeremy blinked in surprise.
“How did you guess?”
Mr. Crabtree shrugged. “It’s a pretty popular audition piece, but don’t worry. I enjoy it, even if this will be the third time I’ve heard it today.”
Jeremy felt his cheeks warm. “Oh sorry.”
“Like I said, don’t worry. I’m eager to hear your interpretation. But it looks like that’s not all you’ve brought.”
“Uh, no.” Jeremy pulled the title page of his second piece from the stand and turned it around for the teacher to read.
“An Edgar Sampson composition. Interesting!” Mr. Crabtree’s smile broadened to a grin. “All right, then, Jeremy, let’s see what you’ve got.”
Jeremy heartened at Mr. Crabtree’s obvious enthusiasm for the unconventional choice, and he returned his teacher’s smile shyly as he settled in the empty chair and removed his clarinet from its case. He heard something land on the music stand and looked up to see that Mr. Crabtree had set an electronic tuner down for him to use. Nodding his thanks, Jeremy took a few seconds to make sure his clarinet was producing the correct notes. Once he was satisfied, he took a deep breath and closed his eyes, trusting that his fingers had memorized the notes so he could concentrate on the emotion of his musical expression.
The piece began with low, sustained tones before morphing into a more energetic series of broken arpeggios. Jeremy had always preferred songs in minor keys, feeling that the music more aptly captured his outlook on life, especially that of the past two years. Ironically, Chris’s death had made him a better musician even as it sapped his enthusiasm for everything else.
The entire piece lasted about eight minutes, but Jeremy had chosen to jump around a bit so as to hit the more difficult passages. The composition ended much as it had begun, and when the final quiet note died, he lowered the instrument from his lips and looked over at his teacher for his reaction. Mr. Crabtree stared at him for a long, uncomfortable moment before taking a deep breath and clapping, his expression brightening with delight.
“That was marvelous! Simply wonderful.” Mr. Crabtree reached out and clapped a friendly hand on Jeremy’s shoulder. “I can tell you’re a natural on the clarinet, Jeremy. Your finger technique is flawless, and I have very little to say about your embouchure and breath control. Fantastic!” He sat back after a final pat. “The first chair spot is yours if you want it.”
Jeremy felt energized by the sincerity of the praise. He didn’t really like much about himself, but he’d always taken particular pride in his musical ability. “Thanks, Mr. Crabtree. I really appreciate it.”
“Well, I meant every word. Now, about that Sampson piece.”
Jeremy frowned. “You still want me to play it for you?” He glanced up at the clock sitting above the desk at the very front of the room. “My time is almost up, and if I’m already in—”
“I’m sure you put a lot of work into preparing it for me, so please. I’d love to hear it. I’m quite fond of swing music.”
Jeremy grinned. “Me too! Okay, here goes.” Now that he’d been accepted, any pressure he’d felt had drained away, and he attacked the big-band number with gusto. Even though he was the only one playing, Jeremy had no difficulty in imagining the other instruments. Some time ago, he’d discovered himself to be a natural at jazz improvisation, so he confidently played the flourishes Benny Goodman had made so famous as well as adding a few of his own.
By the time Jeremy finished, Mr. Crabtree was laughing out loud. “I’m going to make a professional out of you someday, mark my words! That was fantastic, Jeremy. Thank you for playing for me. I think I might actually be able to get through the rest of today’s auditions without killing myself,” he said with a teasing chuckle.
Jeremy smiled. “I’m glad you liked it. Do you have many other auditions today?” he asked as he packed away his clarinet.
“A few. Some people I hope to have audition can’t make it today, so I’m extending tryouts through the end of the week.”
Jeremy wondered at the teacher’s odd turn of phrase. “Hope to have audition?” he asked, his curiosity getting the better of him. “You mean you want someone to join who doesn’t want to or something?”
Mr. Crabtree’s lips curved upward in a cryptic smile, but he didn’t elaborate. Jeremy shrugged, deciding he didn’t care about anyone who had to be cajoled into being a part of an activity that meant so much to him. He stood and straightened his sheet music before picking the paper up off the stand.
“That’s a very interesting piece of jewelry.”
Jeremy blinked at the non sequitur and glanced down at his pendant. “Oh, uh, thanks. My brother gave it to me,” he said simply. He didn’t like talking about Chris, preferring to hold his brother’s memory close, as though by doing so he could protect him in death as he hadn’t been able to in life.
“Your older brother?”
Jeremy nodded and continued gathering up his things.
“Did he play an instrument too?”
A wave of irritation swept over Jeremy. He stared at his teacher, narrowing his eyes in annoyance. “Yeah,” he replied tersely. He shouldered his book bag but paused, curiosity briefly overcoming his desire to escape. “How did you know?”
“Just a guess. That pendant seems like it’s very precious to you, considering this is the second day in a row I’ve seen you wear it.” Mr. Crabtree smiled at Jeremy serenely. “Be sure to take good care of it.”
Jeremy frowned again. Unsettled, he met Mr. Crabtree’s gaze but could read nothing in it to explain his uneasiness. Maybe it was just Mr. Crabtree’s way of trying to bond with him. Chalking it up to an awkward show of friendliness, Jeremy nodded and mumbled a good-bye. As he left the room, he passed a pretty redhead with pale skin and prominent freckles across her nose. She was holding a flute case and smiled at him as she went in for her audition.
Jeremy had been fifth down on the schedule, and when he pushed out the door of the Academic and Arts building nearest the band room, he was greeted by bright late-afternoon sunshine and a wave of oppressive heat. The grounds around the school were nearly deserted, most of the other students not involved in clubs or sports having already gone home. A whistle sounded from the far side of the Phys Ed building, and he figured one of Winton Yowell’s many teams must be practicing. He felt a modicum of sympathy for whoever had to run around in this disgusting weath
er.
A bead of sweat promptly formed on his temple and ran down his face before trailing over his neck. Jeremy grabbed the collar of his T-shirt and fanned in a futile attempt to combat the heat. The asphalt soaked up the sun’s rays and reflected it back at the miserable populace like the world’s most efficient oven. While gathering the energy necessary to walk to the bus stop, a brilliant notion occurred to Jeremy. He looked up at the street sign and made a quick calculation based on his knowledge of the layout of the surrounding area.
The previous year, when his sister Anna had been visiting schools, Monica had often insisted Jeremy accompany her, perhaps hoping to persuade him that there was something waiting for him beyond the hell of high school. Anna had eventually settled on UIC, which wasn’t that far from Winton Yowell. Jeremy hadn’t been overly impressed by the campus, though Anna had insisted it was a very good school, but there was one thing he did remember. Mario’s Italian Lemonade stand on west Taylor was a Chicago institution and had some of the best damn frozen ice he’d ever tasted.
Jeremy headed in the opposite direction of the bus stop, already salivating as he imagined the chill of the flavored ice—his favorite was the piña colada mixed with lemon—melting on his tongue. The stand was over a mile from the school, and though it seemed a nearly insurmountable distance in this heat, Jeremy didn’t have any place to be right then. If he took his time, he might actually make it to Mario’s without melting into a puddle along the way.
Racine Avenue was a busy thoroughfare a couple of miles west of the heart of downtown Chicago. The street bustled with road traffic, though like Jeremy, the few pedestrians braving the heat weren’t going anywhere in a hurry. He caught a red light at the corner a couple of blocks south of school and fanned himself with his sheet music as he waited for the light to change. The vigorous movement of his arm made his pendant bounce against his chest, which brought to mind his odd exchange with Mr. Crabtree. Why had he been so interested in Chris? Although he’d told himself his teacher was merely trying to be friendly, Jeremy couldn’t shake the feeling there had been more to Mr. Crabtree’s questions than mere curiosity.
