by Phil Stamper
“Around the time he made it into our school’s top orchestra,” he says. His voice drops a bit. “I’d been in it since year ten. I thought that’d be it for our friendship after graduation, but then he told me he got into the academy and that he still wanted to be friends. I started working with Dani at the bookshop nearby, and she and Pierce got close right away at Knightsbridge, so it just made sense for us all to be mates.”
“Ah,” I say. “You still seem super weird about him.”
“Yeah. He cycled through friends a lot in school, so I’ve always assumed he’d get bored with me and move on. As soon as the solo competition between Rio and Sophie heated up, he brought Rio into our group and started to ignore the rest of us. But even if he gets distracted by shiny new friends, he always comes back to me, so perhaps he deserves more credit.”
We’re into the park now, and the hand that’s holding my oboe case starts to sweat. I grip the case harder as I keep an eye out for this group of people.
“That’s good to know, I guess. But he seemed to like me a lot? And I’m not going to that school, so maybe you’re reading into it some?”
“Yeah, that’s probably it. I don’t want to let my weirdness with Pierce affect your feelings about him.”
I laugh, despite the growing anxiety that comes when I know I’m about to meet new people. “Well, you’re doing a bad job. So tell me something good about him.”
“He’s mad passionate. He’s fun; he’s got a wicked sense of humor.” We must be getting close, since he slows down and turns to me. “A couple weeks ago, he convinced the people at the London Eye—that big Ferris wheel on the river—he was a social media influencer, and he got the whole group of us on a private ride.”
Shane nudges my shoulder. “He can be very charming.”
“That sounds more like the guy I met,” I say as a smile lifts my face. “Thanks.”
We approach the group. They’re mostly hidden behind trees, so I hear them before I see them. Trumpets blaring scales, up and down and up until the players run out of breath. A trombone blurting out notes like it was trying to be the loudest. Clarinets trilling faster and faster, with the flutes lagging slightly behind them.
For one bright moment, the vise loosens its hold on my insides, and I feel myself becoming calmer and more ready than I was mere seconds ago. This is my element, my world.
I come into the clearing, where a clarinet player—maybe Rio, maybe Sophie—warms up with a low trill that builds into a powerful glissando. Her hands fly over the keys until she’s able to push the pitch higher with just her lips. It leads into the iconic riff for Rhapsody in Blue, and it’s a little show-offy, but I find myself drawn to her anyway. Her tight braids fall neatly down her back, but her dark skin glistens with sweat. She pauses to wipe her brow with her forearm.
Shane’s ducked off to the side to set his instrument up and take a call from his mom, who I assume just arrived in Italy. I’m alone, but I’ve come so close that Sophie’s looking at me now, so I force myself to keep moving.
“That was fantastic,” I say, beaming a let’s-be-friends smile. “I’m Marty. Shane’s cousin. I don’t know if you know him. I play the oboe. Just moved here.”
“Sophie,” she says. “Nice to meet you, Marty. And yeah, I may have been showing off. I’m in a bit of a standoff for principal chair with this other girl here. It’s really annoying—I feel like I always have to prove myself, even when we’re not in class.”
“Rio?” I ask.
“Oh right, of course you know her. You’re part of her crew or whatever.”
She turns away from me slightly and starts adjusting the neck of her clarinet. I piece together my oboe—which isn’t hard: there’s the bell, two pieces of the main body, and the reed. And I watch her attitude fall.
“I just got here yesterday. I haven’t met her. Only Pierce, and now you.”
“Well, I’m glad you broke the clique to come say hi,” she offers bluntly. “Sorry, I’m being a bit direct. I like your friends, but once Rio got caught up with your crew, I’ve felt this tension. Between all of them. Like Rio’s talking shit and they all think I’m this monster.”
“Huh,” I say. Not adding a ton to the conversation, but noting how we all have our own insecurities here. “If it makes you feel better, no one’s said anything bad about you to me. I got the impression that you and Rio were not the best of pals, but that you were a really good clarinetist. Which you’ve already shown.”
I follow Sophie’s gaze to find a girl who’s fake punching Pierce across the lawn, her red hair bouncing with every punch. I feel her intense energy all the way from over here, but I still don’t sense much bad blood. But Sophie looks at her almost forlornly, like she wants to be friends, like she wants to be part of the group.
I know that feeling. It was me and Megan against the world for so long, until Skye came along. But even so, we just collected him from another friend group that dropped him. I didn’t have time to make friends—I barely had time to keep the ones I had—over the last year of practicing, studying, and performing, but I’d watch a group of seniors sneak out for lunch, or dress up with silver and blue face paint for our football games, and a part of me would want to be a part of that.
To be in a big friend group, to not feel so alone.
Shane waves me over, so in parting, I say, “Look. If I’m getting folded into this clique, I could try to bring you along too? Pierce and Rio seem super intense. I think I need someone else who’s on my level.”
She laughs. “Don’t worry about it. That group is locked tight; go have fun with the golden ones. We’ll chat at the pub later?”
“The what?”
Shane’s come to collect me, so I never get clarification on “the pub later.” It surfaces more than a few anxieties, namely the following:
Will there be drinking at this pub? I am not old enough to drink, even here.
I was going to FaceTime Megan tonight since she was half-asleep last time, but I guess that’s not happening.
What if I don’t get along with these people, and I’m stuck with them all night? I didn’t even bring my key, knowing I’d be with Shane.
Ugh.
“Marty, I need to introduce you to someone,” Shane says, waving a quick but genuine hello to Sophie before guiding me away. “She pulled marching band music, so there’s obviously no oboe part.”
“Right, so I’m playing off the flute score?”
“You can do whatever you want, but that sounds easiest, yeah?”
Oboes, flutes, and violins are in the key of C. Which means if I was to play off clarinet—a B-flat instrument—sheet music, I’d have to make every note a full step higher in my head as I play. I’ve done it before, it’s not impossible, but it’s not super easy.
“Do they have a horn part?” I ask Shane, knowing that his instrument is all alone in the key of F.
“Dani didn’t get the horn part, so I’m going off the alto sax one.” Alto sax is in E-flat, so that’s a full step down. He shrugs, with only a little bit of bravado. “It’s not like these pieces are particularly hard. I’ll be fine.”
I’m introduced to Dani, who’s a little frazzled making sure everyone has the right piece, but still exudes a ton of warmth. Her golden skin actively rejects the dim British atmosphere, and surrounding her face is long brown hair, which she has to tie up in a scrunchie to play her instrument.
“I hear you’re from America,” she says. “I try to keep up with politics there because of my friend who works over there, and it sounds like a new mess happens every day. Not sure you escaped to a better country, but I will say London and its people are beautiful.”
She talks about London like it’s a new home for her too, but I don’t have time to clarify because we’re suddenly starting. Though Dani got the music, Pierce and Rio take control of the group, telling us our set list. It’s actually pretty epic. Lady Gaga, Kesha, Rihanna—all icons I grew up with.
There’s a moment in
every rehearsal, every performance, where the scattered warm-ups and distracted players all snap into focus, to tune their instruments and start playing as one.
Pierce steps up to play a tuning note for the group, then hesitates. Looks to me.
“Marty, care to do the honors? We don’t often get an oboe in our group. Concert A, everyone?”
My cheeks flush at the offer, and I’m inclined to say no. But I know it’s not just a kind gesture. In orchestra, everyone tunes their instruments to match the oboe, because the instrument tends to stay in tune despite any temperature or humidity changes.
I stand next to Pierce, and everyone slowly raises their instruments to their lips. I play a concert A. It’s spot-on. Pierce joins me, slightly sharp before easing into perfect pitch. One by one, the rest of the instruments fill in, until Shane gestures for everyone to stop. We’re all locked into the same pitch, we’re an ensemble now, and that feeling warms my heart.
I return to my spot as Shane counts us off, and we launch into “Applause” by Lady Gaga. I fade into the background with staccato notes, and Dani and I echo the melody briefly, but we’re just there to support the trumpets. Someone helps us keep beat with a snare drum practice pad.
Once we have all the notes under our fingers, we run through it again. We get into it, the call and response from sax to trumpet, from clarinets to me and Dani. I can’t help it; a smile is plastered on my face, making it a little harder to play properly, but I don’t care.
We end the song with a stinger—an accented note, where we all play as one. A major chord, a full resolution, and a powerful end. Of course, we’re not all exactly on the beat, plus one of the trumpets tried to play the note an octave higher and fully missed. But a rush of joy surrounds me when we’re done.
We have so many pieces left, but the energy is high. Is this what it’s always like at the academy? Blowing off steam after a long day of classes and work? A pang of jealousy hits me, until I remind myself that I have my own plan.
“You know, Shane’s got it all wrong,” Pierce says. He seems to have materialized next to me as we prepare the sheet music for the next piece. “He loves the hell out of you, but he worries too much about you.”
“Oh,” I say. “He’s … he’s seen me go through a lot, I guess.”
“He’s protective of his friends. I suppose it makes sense he’d think you’d need help fitting in, taking chances, enjoying life here. But I don’t know, Marty. I could hear you across the circle. I hear people perform constantly, and to see you sync in and play so freely, so fully into the music … I don’t know.”
He places a palm on my back as Shane counts us off. I launch into a trill alongside Dani. Before he brings the trumpet to his lips, I hear him say, “You’re truly something, mate.”
Our parts play off each other for a bit, before he wanders back to the trumpets. We lock eyes, for one last second, and then I’m pulled back into the music. A warmth comes over me, and it feels so good I want to cry.
I’ve been in dozens of ensembles, performed everywhere. But now I really feel like I’m part of a group.
TEN
I stand outside the Southey. Where the Alexandria looked more modern, the Southey is an unforgivingly British pub, and that’s the most accurate way of describing it. An aged brick building, stately and reticent with its dark shutters and planter boxes along the awning. A glance at the petunias inside the planters gets me caught up in an all-teeth smile, because the same purple flowers hang in pots outside my Kentucky house.
I grab Sophie’s arm, and wait for the other musicians to pass by. The others are nice and seem more welcoming than she lets on, but there’s something super down-to-earth about her personality that makes me trust her. Maybe even reminds me of Megan—an altogether kinder version of Megan, at least.
After the jam session, she introduced me to the rest of the woodwinds—except Rio—she told me where everyone was from, what they did, and I found it easier to chat with them because of it. They’re one big family, and I’m starting to feel like I fit in, even if I don’t go to school with them.
“Are you sure I’ll be able to get into the pub? I’m …” I lower my voice. “Seventeen.”
“You’re a hard case.” Sophie cackles, in a way that doesn’t make me angry. “Americans, I swear. Keep in mind the drinking age is eighteen here, and it’s not like we’re going to a club.”
She pulls—literally, she’s got my arm—me into the pub. The moment we push through the old wooden door, I feel oddly at ease. Hardwood floors that must date back a century creak under each step, but the word “cozy” doesn’t begin to describe it. Light music pumps through the main room. It’s getting late, but a few old men still sit at the bar, reading the paper or staring at the glowing TV screens.
“We usually take up the back room,” Sophie says. “I got this round.”
“But I can’t—”
“Trust me. No one’s going to give a second glance at a bloke who looks your age. Not here.”
I pass portraits and old paintings as I walk the dim hall to the quote, unquote back room. It’s all so comforting, the charming antiquey feel, the stately old architecture. When I press into the back room, things are decidedly rowdier. This is what I imagine college bars to be. People yelling over the music, standing in big clusters. Giant beers in hand. I wonder if any of these are Americans, taking in their newfound ability to drink legally. I want to fit in, but even for me this isn’t legal. I’m still too young.
I sigh, but I catch Pierce’s eye from across the pub and all the air in the room shoots back into me. He arches his eyebrows, flexes a quick smile, then goes back to his friends. His friends and my cousin.
But I notice Shane’s not really talking with anyone. He just sips his pint (he’s not legal either!) and listens to Pierce dominate every conversation. I wonder what it’d be like to be Pierce. To always have every eye on you. Does his throat ever get sore just from talking?
“You didn’t get far.” Sophie nudges me in the shoulder and offers me a pint. “I got you cider—that okay?”
I start to pull some pounds out of my pocket, and she forces the cider into my free hand. “You’re good, mate. You can get me back later.”
I stare into the golden liquid filling the glass to the brim. This is a big moment in my life. Drinking alcohol. Years of volunteering with the substance abuse groups in high school, coming down to this. It feels a little hypocritical.
To be fair, I never felt strongly either way. Skye used to hang out at parties and get drunk, but one too many hangovers led to one too many botched tests, which led to summer school. And that’s when he decided to hang out with us. His B-group.
“You all right? You don’t have to drink; I just assumed since everyone else here seems to.”
“No, no, I’m fine. I’ll at least try it.”
I take a gulp of the cider, and it tastes like I thought it would—tart, sweet, and perfectly cold. I read that Brits drink some beer at room temp, which sounds even worse than cold beer, so I’m glad this one’s refreshing.
“One of the saxes has a table at the back—want to find them?”
I look up to Sophie and shake my head. “You said Pierce and Rio are super cliquey, right?”
“Yeah.”
I take a breath, and pretend Megan’s just given me her trademark pep talk. This time, I pull Sophie along. “Let’s put an end to that.”
My cheeks are on fire; my ears must be bright red. Thank god it’s dark in here. They stand at the table, with just enough room for two at the end.
It’s uncomfortable, at first. You could cut the confusion, the tension, with a knife. But though there are a million tiny things that make me uncomfortable and panicked and stressed, I won’t let this be one of them.
“Hiya, Marty! And Sophie,” Pierce says, and gives a quick smile. His eyes dart back and forth between us. “Marty, you’ve met everyone already, haven’t you?”
They still haven’t offered us a s
eat, but I take one anyway, and make room for Sophie. Dani and Shane are at the table too, so I give them a quick nod.
Shane jumps in. “Marty, this is Ajay.” He gestures to a guy with deep tan skin who’s got his arm around Dani. His smile is as immaculate as his undercut. We shake hands.
“And Rio.”
She’s a bit too far away for physical contact, so I send a curt wave her way. She nods, not exactly smiling. She’s glowing, though—her red hair seems to reflect the dingy yellow light. It falls past her shoulders and complements her ivory skin, light clothes, and green eye shadow. I can see Sophie tense up beside me.
“Welcome to the UK, mate,” Ajay says.
“You should hear him play,” Dani responds, then looks to me. “You’re such a strong sight reader. So confident too—I’d love to hear you play a solo sometime; it’s a shame you’re not in the academy.”
“Confident?” I say, blushing. “I … well, I think that’s a first.”
“Don’t be humble.” She smirks. “You know you’ve got talent.”
Her accent is complex, with the lilt of Arabic. Her hair is thick and wavy, and her clothing is on point, and I can’t believe this girl is so put together, yet so close to my age.
“I don’t know about talent, but you’ve definitely got skills,” Rio adds. “That one run during ‘Shut Up and Drive’ was hell—that arranger must hate woodwinds—and you nailed it.”
All eyes are on me. Rio has an incredulous look, while Dani’s pointing at me.
“I told you!” Dani says. “I tapped out about three notes in.”
I respond with a glance at my cider, then say, “It’s nothing, really. There was this arpeggio drill I used to do that was similar.”
Rio laughs. “I bet. Tell me again why you’re not in the academy?”
My cheeks flush with heat. “Decided to take a different path. That’s all.”
The conversation they ease into is stilted, brief, as if they don’t really know what to talk about when they’re not discussing class. Ajay’s explaining how he fell in love with Scandinavian rap, which is a thing I wasn’t aware even existed until now. But otherwise, it’s clear that even if they’re a bit cliquey, this friendship is relatively new and malleable.
