Don't Blame the Music

by Caroline B. Cooney

  But it scared me.

  Truly, we were on the edge of violence.

  Ashley had cut herself.

  But she would rather have cut us.

  Nine

  ASHLEY HAD BEEN HOME nine days. We Halls were all roughly nine years older.

  In carpool Emily said smugly, “I have a truly brilliant advertising campaign worked up. You got your game plan ready, Beethoven?”

  Her voice was amused. She did not believe for one minute that I would be able to come up with a game plan. “Certainly. And call me Susan. I’m tired of Beethoven.”

  “It suits you, though,” said Emily.

  “It does not. Do I look like an overweight deaf musical genius?”

  “Well …” said Emily, and we all laughed.

  “However,” she continued, “I think you should know that Shepherd is a little worried.”

  “About what?”

  “The music section of the yearbook. It would be a shame to have anything ordinary amidst all the creativity that seems to be coming forth from all the other subeditors!”

  “What makes you think it won’t come forth from me too?” I demanded. So the rest of the staff was talking behind my back! Shepherd had chosen me for the focus of her gossip. Saying to them, “I’m afraid Beethoven won’t know how to handle an assignment of such magnitude.” Saying, “For once I showed poor judgment, didn’t I?” And the rest of them agreeing: “Beethoven won’t produce. At least, nothing to rival what we’re producing.”

  I gripped my books. Their hard ridges bit into my palms.

  “But don’t worry,” said Emily. “Shepherd has some backup ideas in case you don’t have anything by Monday.”

  “Faith,” said Swan to me, “don’t you love it? The way everyone in this town backs a person up.”

  I made a face.

  “I, Halsey Dexter,” he said, “I have faith in you, Susan.”

  “Halsey?” repeated Emily incredulously. “Oh, no. Independence is catching. Beethoven has to be Susan and Swan has to be Halsey.”

  “Are there any cliffs around here?” said Swan to me.

  “I don’t know of any. Why?”

  “I have this overpowering desire to throw Emily off of one.

  “I know the very spot,” said Jeffrey gloatingly.

  “Jeffrey, I thought you were on my team,” complained Emily.

  “You backbite too much,” said Jeffrey. “Nobody is on your team.”

  Emily sank back. We had finally hurt her. I thought it would feel good, but it didn’t. I really think being a nice person is a terrible burden. You can never enjoy revenge. You just feel guilty.

  Sw—Halsey and I exchanged guilty looks. Jeffrey—was this proof of his not being a nice person?—continued to give driving instructions for how to get to the cliff he had in mind.

  And there, striding toward the side entrance of the high school, his head ducked against a fierce wind, was Whit Moroso. Long legs in jeans with unlaced high-ankle sneakers, the usual two or three shirts, with a vest lined in fleece. The vest flapped in the wind. Whit was carrying one thin book. How could he do that, and still get the B average I got? I always carried ten fat books, and Whit managed to get through life on one thin one.

  He was so handsome.

  So dark and inexplicable and expressionless. Did he cultivate that blank look or had he had it from kindergarten? Would it disappear if I got to know him better? Would I be able to see all kinds of things in the slightest crinkle of the eye or quiver of the lips?

  But my only chance to get to know him better I had ruined myself.

  It was Friday. Game Plan Day was Monday.

  I had to approach Whit today, or it would be too late.

  Because the trouble with my record idea was—I didn’t have the foggiest idea how to begin on it. I could have asked Ashley, of course, whose world was cutting records. But what would be a simple query in another family could be suicidal in mine. So Whit was my only source.

  It was nice that my only source was so handsome and so nice and so mysterious.

  Sw—Halsey followed my gaze, I supposed because it lasted so long and involved twisting all the way around in my seat as Jeffrey turned right into the parking lot and Whit walked left into the school. “Jeez, Susan,” he said softly. “I mean, follow up on Anthony. Don’t go falling for some druggie.”

  “He’s not a druggie,” I snapped. But very softly, so Emily wouldn’t hear.

  Emily heard. “Who?” she said. “Who are we talking about?”

  “Nobody,” I said.

  “Tell me, Swan,” said Emily.

  “I can’t be bothered with people who call me Swan,” said Halsey.

  Another honorable man! I loved it. I leaned over the seat and hugged him, and he grinned, and I said, “You should gave gotten your braces off years ago, Halsey, it’s done wonders for you.”

  “Yeah,” he said. “Yeah, yeah.” But he liked it.

  Trig passed in its usual frightening way, with me having a dim sense of what might be going on, but not a sufficiently strong sense actually to do any of the problems.

  I had no chance to speak to Whit and when I looked his way he never looked mine.

  In Brit lit, we abandoned Chaucer and were steaming toward Shakespeare. Whit sitting silently behind me was almost more than I could bear. Even when I turned in my seat he didn’t look my way, and I was only inches from him. It’s a real skill to look casual about ignoring somebody that close.

  But I took the egotistical way out. I said to myself, He must like me. Otherwise he wouldn’t care enough to pretend I’m not here.

  All I can see is our bodies entwined,

  Both our lives entirely redesigned.

  I spent Brit lit trying different versions of that in my journal.

  When the bell rang I was the only one not poised for the dash. Nothing at our school is sweet, and bells are no exception: raucous, violent, like something in prisons. Two thousand of us leaped simultaneously out of chairs, which scraped the linoleum on dozens of classroom floors, and began yelling and flinging locker doors open and singing our favorite rock songs and turning on the ghetto blasters for the three minutes of precious passing period freedom.

  Except me. I slammed my journal shut, slipped it between two other books, gathered my junk and yelled, “Whit!”

  He kept going.

  I slithered between the desks and leaped for him, catching a scrap of fabric between my fingers. Rough thick wool. Whit stopped to see what he’d caught his shirt on and saw me down there. He said nothing. He simply looked at the place where I was pulling his shirt out of shape, as though this might be my idea of a joke, but it was his idea of stupid and I’d better let go. Now.

  “Hi,” I said.

  “I have a class in sixty seconds, Susan.”

  “I’ll be quick,” I promised. “Incredibly succinct. A model of brevity.”

  “Yeah? No sign of it yet.”

  He did not seem to be joking. Courage and conviction seeped out of me. I glanced around to be sure no yearbook staffers were in earshot. Already the next class was filtering in; Whit and I were blocking the road. “I’ve thought of my yearbook idea, Whit.”

  He shrugged, removed my fingers and walked out of the room. I trotted along like an unwanted mutt. How broad-shouldered he was. The shirts barely stretched across the solid muscle of his back. “I need your help, Whit. Please? Would you spend a little while with me after school? I won’t—I won’t fall apart on you like I did before. I promise.”

  Whit stopped walking and looked skeptically down at me. As one remembering his mother’s lectures on good manners, he said, “What’s the idea?”

  He has no more faith in me than Shepherd, or Emily, or Jeffrey, I thought, and my face burned with embarrassment. Looking away from him, feeling supremely stupid, caught between my crush and the yearbook, I said, “We could cut a record. Record each rock group, the marching band, the concert choir, and the Madrigals. Bind a slip pocket into
the yearbook to hold it. We’d be the only yearbook in the nation with a record in it.”

  Whit frowned.

  Embarrassment had the effect of making it impossible to look at him anymore. I dropped my chin and stared at the linoleum. If things progressed along their usual route, I would now start to cry.

  Great.

  Half the Wet Duet performs again in public.

  “Susan,” said Whit, “that’s a fantastic idea.” He took both my shoulders and shook me a little, excited. A grin spread across his face. It went right into me, like an electrical charge of friendship. Cindy was right. Whit had potential.

  “’Course,” he added, frowning again, “it would be expensive. But then, this is a rich town. People can afford an expensive yearbook. And if Emily’s all she’s cracked up to be, the advertising will carry it anyhow.”

  “Then you’ll help me?” I said.

  He nodded. “Person you have to talk to is Luce. He and Carmine have been looking into making their own record. They want to stay in rock music.”

  “You mean you don’t?” I said.

  “Nah. I don’t care about the band.”

  I couldn’t believe it. He had had a taste of success and he didn’t want to follow through?

  Whit grinned. From the way he smiled down at me I actually thought he was going to kiss me, and I had time to think that yes, I wanted that, and yes, he was worth kissing—but he rocked back on his heels. “Some people want an audience,” he said. “I guess your sister was like that. That’s what she wanted for her birthday and for Christmas and everything else. An audience.”

  I stared at him. It explained so much! It wasn’t just fame that Ashley craved, it was the audience itself: people applauding her performances. Even an audience of three—us, her family—meant somebody watching her. She didn’t care if they liked it. They just had to watch.

  I suddenly understood one reason why my parents blocked her way. They didn’t think she ought to have an audience. A sweet girl doesn’t take center stage. It wasn’t the electric guitar or the wild dancing they objected to—it was their daughter before an audience.

  But why not? I thought. What’s wrong with it? Why couldn’t she have that? Out loud I said, “Why don’t you want an audience, Whit?”

  “I did at first. Then I found out that listening is more fun than performing. Plus, I like money. I’m going into construction with my father. Rock music is no way to earn a living.” He laughed. “I guess I don’t have to tell Ashley’s sister that.”

  I’m Ashley’s sister, I thought. Not Susan. I want an audience too, I guess. People who applaud me, not lose their thoughts to my sister. “You do think the record’s a good idea then?” I said.

  “Yes. And remember what I said about Shepherd. Don’t let her know about this. You and I will meet Carmine and Luce to get a few details. Check with the record company they’re dealing with. Prices. Numbers. You need a real report for the yearbook meeting. Neat little folders and columns and stuff. That’s Shepherd’s kind of thing. But don’t tell a single other person about your idea. Shepherd would love to do you in.”

  “I’m not sure why,” I said.

  Whit laughed. “Sure you are. Sweet suave Anthony glanced in your direction and successful sultry Shepherd can’t stand it.”

  I began to laugh. It was so neat to think that Whit had watched, and understood, and cared.

  “Keep laughing, kid,” said Whit. “Beats all those tears you keep shedding.”

  “I’m sorry about the other day.”

  “Don’t worry about it. After you left we talked. I mean, it’s natural your nerves are on edge. Look at all the stress you’re under.”

  Whit, Carmine, Tommy, and Luce understood—while Cindy, Anthony, Jeffrey, Emily, and Shepherd had no concept at all?

  The bell rang. Passing period was over. We would both be late to class. As crimes go, it’s not much of one. And after Ashley, I have a lot more perspective on minor versus major crimes!

  Whit gave me a totally unexpected hug and turned and ran down the hall to his next class.

  I stared after him. I could feel the hug pressure from arms that were very strong, from a person enough taller that he had to bend to hug. I should hug more often, I thought, or better yet, be hugged more often.

  Shivers of pleasure ran over me. I could hardly wait for school to be over so I could join Whit in the band room.

  When the final bell rang, I had already decided that Whit and I would go together. I had planned out several dates, and several substitutes in case he had different ideas. I was thinking of my clothes and decided that dating Whit called for an entire new wardrobe. One, preferably, that could be kept hidden from Ashley.

  Whit was not there.

  Carmine was.

  Hulking, stupid, unwholesome. Acne growing on his face like fungus.

  I didn’t walk all the way into the band room.

  “Hi, Susan!” said Carmine eagerly, waving at me. A little boy’s gesture in a big man’s body. “Whit told me. Great idea. You’re really clever, you know? Whit said you were, but I didn’t believe him.”

  Another ego boost. Carmine had had to be argued into thinking I could be clever. Carmine, who probably couldn’t even spell clever.

  I walked closer. This was, after all, the boy who had made up the melody—a very good melody, too—when we composed to my poem.

  “We’re going over to Ransom Recordings and Printings. They do like you know any kind of reproducing at all, you know? Books and papers and letters and records and tapes and you name it, you know?”

  “Sounds perfect,” I told him.

  He beamed. “I called Mr. Ransom. We have an appointment and everything.” Carmine looked surprised by this. “I didn’t think he could fit us in on such short notice,” Carmine confided, “and a Friday afternoon, and all, but Mr. Ransom said it was no problem.”

  Carmine did not know that nobody would dare be busy when Carmine wanted to drop by.

  Carmine took my arm and led me to the door. “Is Whit coming?” I said nervously. “Nope,” said Carmine. “He wanted to, but he hadda make up a test or something. Said to say hi and keep it a secret.”

  Should I go? If there was any type that your mother warns you against, it’s Carmine’s type. Especially my mother. “Why is he so sure it needs to be a secret?” I said.

  “He don’t like Shepherd Grenville. But then, who does?”

  In my crowd nearly everybody liked Shepherd. I was not sure who made up Carmine’s crowd. One of the good things about a high school this size is you can just avoid the thousand or so kids you think are rotten.

  Carmine led me to a car that was an equivalent of the one in which Ashley arrived home. I prayed that nobody I knew would see me in it. I could just hear Emily, laughing gales of laughter for the rest of the carpool year. Beethoven loves Carmine—in catchy singsong. And if my mother ever saw us, she would have cardiac arrest. Bad enough that daughter number one had fallen down the sewer—here went daughter number two.

  I shifted uneasily on the seat. The upholstery was very torn. I kept feeling as if little rodents probably had burrowed into the openings.

  Oh, well, this was Whit’s friend. I trusted Whit. He had been kind to me, said nice things, was helping me. Carmine fell into the category of calculated risk.

  Mr. Ransom of Ransom Recordings and Printings was a tiny man, about Ashley’s size and weight. Carmine towered over him, but to my astonishment, they were old buddies. They laughed, greeting each other, and sort of punched each other and did this little dance of greeting that involved fists and footwork.

  I really do think that men are very strange.

  Mr. Ransom immediately shoved a chair beneath the backs of my knees, so that I had to sit down or topple. Carmine perched on his huge messy wooden desk, shoving papers out of the way, and playing with the sharp point of a spindle.

  “Now the cost per unit,” said Mr. Ransom, “no, dear, don’t write this down, I’ll give you a she
et on it.”

  He flung open a file drawer—the room was lined with anonymous unlabeled file drawers—and threw a piece of paper at me. Being paper, it just fell to the ground. Carmine loped across the room like a puppy to retrieve it, stabbed it with the spindle and brought it to me with a flourish.

  “Now the way we record,” said Mr. Ransom, “no dear, don’t write this down, I’ll give you a sheet on it.”

  He talked with the speed of a typing class dictation record, but he interrupted himself every line or two to insist that I should not write anything down. Clearly on slow days he entertained himself by drawing up fact sheets. Carmine was kept busy retrieving. Eventually Mr. Ransom tired of this method of communicating with me and began making paper airplanes of his fact sheets.

  I grabbed the one that almost flew by my ear. “But we can do it, right?” I said. “My idea is possible?”

  “Possible? My dear, it’s brilliant. Of course you can do it. All it takes is money.”

  Well, I would let Emily worry about that. Anyhow, Shepherd had just asked for innovative and unusual ideas; she hadn’t said they had to come cheap.

  The next paper airplane sailed way above my head, and in spite of a valiant leap Carmine missed it too. It sailed on into the receptionist’s office. She hardly missed a beat typing, but merely hurled it right back.

  “I would like to work here,” I said to Mr. Ransom. “This is my kind of place.”

  “You would, my dear? No money in it, my dear. Hustle, hustle, hustle, that’s the name of this game. Long hours, low income. But it’s fun, the way I do it. I think life should be fun. I mean, who needs it if it’s not fun, you know what I mean?”

  I knew what he meant.

  “Now you give me a call, dear, when you know what you’re doing. These figures aren’t precise. I could do a little better for the high school. Went there myself, you know. Thirty-nine years ago. Isn’t that astonishing? Got my fortieth reunion coming up. May as well impress their socks off, you know. Show ’em the Yearbook of the Century. Our yearbook was probably the most ordinary one of the century. We could make a display, my dear, what do you think of that? Like a seesaw. You can be up. I’ll be down.”