Isaac snapped. “Maybe that’s because this doesn’t fucking matter!”
A flinch impacted the circle, and something awful happened. We were punctured and began to deflate. I felt ridiculous, sheet music drooping in my hand. All this—it was kind of silly, wasn’t it? Singing nonsense words until they sort of fit together, trying to massage pop music into a format that lent itself to humor more than anything else? And Trav’s absolute seriousness made it ludicrous, if you thought about it too hard. I glanced around the circle and knew everybody else was feeling it, too. A sudden blast of unwelcome perspective.
“What?” Trav said. “What’s that supposed to mean?” The fury had evaporated from his voice. He sounded hollow.
“What do you think it means? Look at this.” With a toneless laugh, Isaac threw his sheet music on top of the piano and turned on the rest of us. He searched blank face after blank face. “What do you think we’re doing here? Curing cancer? Jesus, what do you think this is? Eight guys standing around making noise.” He rounded on Trav, and for the first time, it was obvious the height Isaac had on him. “I’m done with you, acting like this is life and death.”
I wanted to step in, but this had been coming since that night in the theater, since that first rehearsal when Isaac hadn’t been paying enough attention for Trav’s taste. It had been coming since before I’d even auditioned.
“Forget it. I can’t do this.” Isaac went for the door. The bang when he slammed it made tingles run down my arms.
“Jesus,” Jon Cox muttered.
“I—I can go after him,” Marcus said, “if—”
Nihal shook his head. Marcus fell quiet.
The air was still. One by one, we looked to Trav. There was nothing behind his eyes. Usually, you could see calculations, or judgments, or appraisal. Or that rare dash of happiness. Now, nothing.
“We’re done for the night,” he said, his voice raspy.
Every movement slow and methodical, he collected the music, closed his binder, and left, as silent as a shadow.
It became clear about halfway through Thursday’s rehearsal that Isaac wasn’t going to show.
We managed to do a full run of the set before the hour ended, but the difference in our sound shocked me. With Isaac’s hypersensitive ear, Trav always put him on the strangest notes, those tight harmonies that made some chords sound like they were glowing. Without those parts—and without Isaac’s soaring solo lines, which always made my heart clench, no matter how many times I’d heard him sing them—everything sounded empty. Wrong.
Trav had a hand on the doorknob at the end of rehearsal when Mama stopped him. “Trav. Look, would you like me to call him?”
Trav froze, not facing us. “No.”
Jon Cox sighed. “Man, if you’re waiting for Isaac to crawl back and apologize, we’re still gonna be standing here by the time competition rolls around.”
“No,” Trav repeated, turning now. His eyes were cold chips of black glass. “We’re not waiting for anything.”
The rest of us traded uneasy glances.
“I get it,” Nihal said gently, “but two of our arrangements have eight-part splits. We need eight voices.”
“I’ll consolidate lines,” Trav said. “Rearrange, reteach. We can take Erik off VP for ‘Clockmaker’ and ‘Open Wide.’”
I closed my eyes, collapsing into my armchair. “Trav, we just finished the set. Nobody wants to relearn it.”
“Also,” Mama said, eyeing the rumpled collar that peeked out from Trav’s sweater, “you look exhausted. You’ve put in how many hours? I mean, the Minuets have five arrangers, and—”
Trav pulled his hat on, zipped his Patagonia, and took the doorknob in a stranglehold. “Do you think I care what the Minuets do?” he said. “This is what I do. I’ll handle it. And if Isaac’s not interested in contributing, he can stay out of it, as far as I’m concerned.”
Before we could say anything else, the door was closing at my elbow, the flag rippling in Trav’s wake. I made a hopeless gesture.
Jon Cox and Mama sat down on the sofa in unison. The freshmen just stood there, staring after Trav.
“So,” Marcus said, finally. “Does this . . . has this happened before?”
“I mean.” Jon Cox glanced at Mama. “No, but I saw it coming for sure.”
Mama sighed. “They had issues last year, but last year’s seniors always put them in line.”
I tried to imagine anyone putting Trav in line. It didn’t work.
“Same with the year before that,” Mama said. “Trav’s a transfer, so he joined the same year I did, which made it sort of weird. Maybe it would’ve been better if they’d been freshmen together.”
I caught the two freshmen trading a glance. Erik looked startled, like he hadn’t considered the fact that he’d be in the group with Marcus for four long years.
“Okay, um,” Marcus said. “I’ve got this composition homework to do, so . . .”
“Me too,” Erik said. He cleared his throat. “You, um, you want to work together?”
Surprise and doubt warred on Marcus’s expression. Eventually, he said, “S-sure, that’d be, yeah. Let’s.”
“Right.”
They headed out, both their heads ducked. Nihal hopped up on one of the arms of my armchair. We sat opposite Jon Cox and Mama, silence suspended between the four of us.
Nihal nudged me. “What ended up happening the night of the prank?”
“What prank?” Mama asked.
“Um.” I cleared my throat. “Me and Isaac had this plan to get the Minuets back after Bonfire. We were gonna steal the Golden Bear—”
Jon Cox spluttered. “You what?”
“—but Trav found out, so nothing happened.” I glanced at Nihal. “I’ve been thinking, though. What if this whole thing is because of, you know, what happened after the other weekend? I mean, Isaac seemed fine before he found out I’m . . .”
Mama shook his head. “No, don’t worry. It’s not that.”
“How do you know? It—”
Jon Cox waved his hand. “Because he’s been rooming with that cello kid for three years. Harry whatever. And cello kid is pretty much the gayest person this side of the Mississippi.”
“Oh.” I fell quiet. The theory evaporated, landing me back on square one with a thud, and with an unexpected rush of relief.
At my elbow, Nihal let out a breath, and I knew he’d been wondering the same thing.
Another lapse. Brows stayed furrowed. Lips buttoned shut.
“What if he doesn’t want to do the retreat?” Jon Cox said. “Who’s going to drive?”
Nihal nudged me. “Do you have your license, Julian?”
“Yeah, but I can’t drive more than one person. And I’m not allowed to have anyone younger than twenty in the car until March.” I frowned. “Actually . . . Jon, how are you allowed to drive more than one person?”
A guilty look crept over Jon Cox’s face. He threaded his fingers through his golden hair.
Mama jumped in, just like at the Dollar Sale. “It’s, uh, different in Massachusetts. The—”
Jon Cox sighed. “Leave it, Mama.” He glanced at me, his blue eyes guarded. “I turned eighteen in August.”
“What? How are you a sophomore?”
“I got held back. Twice.”
I opened my mouth to reply, but nothing came to mind. Sure, some Kensington kids couldn’t have cared less about core classes, but they’d still tested into this place. The whole point of this school was excellence.
After a second, I wiped the surprise from my face. Stop. God. I hated getting snobby about grades. None of my friends back home got good grades, and I didn’t judge them for it; it was dumb to hold Kensington kids to a different standard.
“Jon’s dyslexic,” Mama explained. “It was worse in elementary school.”
“Oh.” I looked back at Jon Cox, who was shrinking back into the sofa. Tiny things fell into place—the way Trav always taught Jon’s parts last, and with
uncharacteristic patience. Jon Cox’s deeply smothered insecurity. The way he was always reading the same book for weeks at a go. “I mean,” I said, “but you can’t help that.”
Jon Cox let out a mumbling laugh. “Not according to some people.”
“Fuck them,” Mama said.
Jon Cox didn’t look satisfied. His expression grew doubtful, as if his own thoughts were hounding him. I wanted to say something reassuring, but nothing came to mind. “Right,” I said, clearing my throat. “Okay, so. We’ll just . . . hope Isaac comes around?”
“That’s pretty much my plan,” Mama said, standing.
The four of us collected our things, huddled down in our jackets, and shuffled out together into the icy clutches of campus.
It wasn’t until Nihal and I were alone and halfway up the hill, coated in snow to our knees, that I spoke. “I know nobody wants to say it, but if Isaac doesn’t show for the retreat, the driving thing is going to be an issue.”
“Yeah,” Nihal said. “He’s also loud. Next to everyone else in the competition, seven people will sound anemic. We’re already so small.”
“You want to track him down?” I said. “Tomorrow after classes, maybe?”
“We can’t. I have transcribing to do, and you have to go to that meeting with Graves.”
We broke onto the cleared sidewalk. “How about tonight?” I said. “I could sneak out after check-in. Ten o’clock?”
Nihal checked his watch. “I can do that. I’ll meet you at his room.”
I knocked on Isaac’s door, using only one knuckle to dampen the noise. The Wingate prefect couldn’t see me on this hall—he’d chase me out.
After a second, the door creaked open to reveal Isaac’s roommate, a light frown on his face. It was the first time I’d seen Harry: a pale, scrawny kid wearing white Converse and neon yellow jeans, which made him look just a little bit jaundiced. “Isaac’s not here,” he said.
I loosed a sigh. Of all the nights Isaac had picked to sneak out to work . . . good thing Harry was actually home for once, then.
Nihal glanced at me. “We can wait in my room for a bit.”
“Yeah, word.” I looked back to Harry. “Did Isaac say if he was getting back before lights-out?”
Harry frowned. “No, guys, like, he’s not here. He left Kensing ton this afternoon.”
After a beat of uncomprehending silence, I said, “He what?”
“Yeah.” Harry adjusted his glasses, the thick black rims framing owlish blue eyes. “They let him out before afternoon classes.”
“Why?” Nihal said, sounding as blindsided as I felt. “Where did he go?”
“Back to the city,” Harry said. “He didn’t tell you? His dad was in a wreck, and there’s been, like, three different surgery complications. He still hasn’t been discharged.”
“What?” Nihal spluttered. My mouth was wide open. I couldn’t help it.
“I thought he would’ve told you. At rehearsal, or whatever.”
We were quiet for a minute.
“No,” I managed. “Nothing. He didn’t tell us anything.”
Friday afternoon was cold and dark, 3:30 p.m. disguised as 3:30 a.m. Erik, Marcus, and I met in front of Arlington Hall to sort out the competition order. I passed between the twin statues of lions that flanked the stairs, following Erik, who looked like a turtle, shelled in an olive coat that was absurdly big for him. His parents must have expected a growth spurt soon, but judging by Victoria’s height, they might be waiting a long time.
The freshmen dipped easily into conversation, but secrecy had its hand across my mouth. Nihal and I had agreed not to tell the others—it wasn’t our information to dole out. If Isaac didn’t want the Sharps knowing, that was his business.
Still, I couldn’t help thinking about the way he’d been acting. Guilt tinted my recent memory blue. I’d read his attitude as hostile or sullen. This had been the last possibility on my mind. It felt wrong, all the others still trapped in that blue space, unknowing.
We clanked through the front doors and traipsed through the foyer, where murky-looking oil canvases hung on the wall that curved down to the box office. A door to the auditorium was propped; we filed in. A trio of people glowed at the edge of the stage, shirts and skin whitened by the lights.
The three of us traded a look and broke into a jog. We were fifteen minutes early to the time Dr. Caskey had given Trav—why were people already here?
But as we neared the stage, I recognized Connor, and it all cleared right up. Dr. Caskey must have given his son an earlier time than the rest of us. Just nepotism. Nothing complicated.
I clomped up the reverberant steps at the side of the stage, Erik and Marcus trotting up afterward. We flocked toward the table at the edge of the stage, where a pair of Minuets—Connor and his lanky ginger henchman—were talking to Dr. Caskey. Dr. Caskey had a well-groomed thatch of salt-and-pepper hair topping a face that looked uncannily like Connor’s, right down to the self-satisfied look that seemed built into the architecture of his expression. The two Caskeys loomed over the redheaded Minuet like twin skyscrapers.
“Gentlemen,” Dr. Caskey said, scanning us. “Welcome. Let’s get your time slot squared away.” He had a confident, genial tone of voice that didn’t match the hardness of his blue eyes.
“Connor, Oscar,” he said, waving a dismissive hand. As we approached, they cleared away from the table to reveal a poster with six slots. The last—of course—was taken: NEW YORK MINUETS.
Marcus fidgeted, looking between Erik and me. “What do we do?” he murmured.
“Trav said second-to-last,” I muttered back.
Erik picked up the pen and reached for number five, but Dr. Caskey said, “Wait.”
Erik looked up at Dr. Caskey, who had a foot and a half of height on him.
Dr. Caskey showed his teeth. A manufactured-looking smile. “The program needs genre separation, so we need some distance between the men’s groups. Fourth or earlier, please.”
Erik let out a slow breath. “Cool.” He and Marcus looked at each other, then, in unison, they faced me.
“Why are you looking at me?”
“Because you’re a junior?” Erik said.
I shook my head. “Okay. Maybe first? What if we did first? It’s better than getting lost in the middle, probably.”
“Totally, yeah,” Marcus said. “That makes sense. Do that.”
I picked up the pen and scribbled SHARPSHOOTERS into the first slot.
“Thanks for stopping by,” Dr. Caskey said. “Have a good break, fellas.”
We headed for the backstage door, passing between the stripes of deep blue curtain that hung stage left. “That was bullshit,” Erik muttered, looking mutinous. “Trav’s going to be so mad.”
“Yeah,” Marcus agreed. “Yeah. But he can’t really do anything, I guess. Dr. Caskey is the dean.”
“This better not throw our chances,” Erik grumbled.
I opened my mouth to reassure him, but something interrupted: a sensation of sudden warmth blooming between my legs.
I froze. My period wasn’t supposed to come for another week. These sweatpants, light gray, weren’t going to hide stains, and I couldn’t remember if I had a tampon in my bag. I’d never wished for period cramps, but good Lord, a little heads-up would have been nice.
“You good, man?” Erik said.
“Yeah, I’m fine,” I grunted. “You guys go ahead. I’m going to use the bathroom.”
“See you later!” Marcus chirped, and they headed for the stage door. I moved for the greenroom, trying not to waddle too much. What was the best way to walk when you were trying not to bleed everywhere? Unclear. Someone should’ve done studies on this.
The Arlington greenroom planners had taken the name too literally, with rich emerald-green carpeting and walls painted a light mint. The L-shaped room had sofas along every available wall, the boys’ restroom to my right. I darted around the bend, hunting for the girls’.
There it was,
tucked into the corner of the L. Please, I prayed, pushing inside. In Palmer, the bathrooms under the stage were always stocked with pads and tampons, lined up along the mirror like a feminine hygiene buffet. I didn’t know why they were there, but I’d raided those supplies more times than I could count.
I flicked on the lights. This bathroom wasn’t equipped. It had been a slender hope anyway.
I swung into a stall and sat for a while, contemplating the terrible timing. Now I had to deal with my period on the retreat. How was I going to get rid of a shitload of bloodstained objects without the Sharps noticing?
Only one option, really: Bring a bunch of plastic bags and hide it all in my suitcase. Smuggle my used tampons back to school after the retreat like contraband.
Sighing, I double-checked the front pocket of my backpack. Empty. Time to make one of those makeshift pads out of toilet paper, position it awkwardly in my underwear, and pray it held up until I got home, then.
Makeshift pad made and applied, I flushed, washed my hands, and left the bathroom. My phone buzzed as I crossed the greenroom threshold. I paused to check the group text.
Trav (3:36 p.m.): You didn’t even try to request he change the order? You didn’t ask him why the Minuets knew to get there so early?
He might have backed down if he thought you were going to bring this to other teachers.
Trav (3:36 p.m.): I asked you to do one thing. You might have taken a bit of initiative.
Shit. Usually, this would be the point at which Isaac would dive in to calm him down. None of the rest of us knew how to handle this. The others were probably resenting Isaac right now for disappearing.
I found myself wanting to be angry at him, too—as if by not telling us, he deserved the resentment. Of course not, though. He didn’t owe us the down-low on his dad’s medical procedures.
I tapped Isaac’s contact on my phone screen and opened a new text. Seeing our text history was a weird flood of memory—the rapport we’d had before the Golden Bear disaster, before the dance.
I typed a message. The words didn’t come smoothly.
Noteworthy Page 19
