Don't Blame the Music

by Caroline B. Cooney

But I would rather deal with Ashley than Shepherd.

  Shepherd put the art editor on the spot, but the art editor was much too loose to be bothered. She was your typical free spirit and Shepherd could sail forever and the art editor would never even notice her on the horizon.

  Three cheers for the art editor, Penny.

  Shepherd’s long slender fingers tapped gently on the pale vanilla folders she had marked for each division of the yearbook. Carefully working through them, frowning slightly at each label, she drew out one. My stomach tightened. What would she do to me? She had exposed Wayne like so much hamburger meat. Me she hated.

  I looked Anthony’s way, which was a mistake, because he looked right back, grinned to me, waved and mouthed, “Talk to you later?”

  Unfortunately Shepherd saw this.

  She did not look at me. She merely looked down into her folders, as though she had dynamite there and would blast me away.

  What if my idea wasn’t as good as I thought? Whose opinion did I have, after all, but Whit’s? And nobody in this room was like Whit, and maybe nobody in this room thought like him, either. My idea was very different, very expensive. What if they shot me down? What if they all groaned and said, “Beethoven, be real.”

  What if they laughed at me, the way some of them had laughed at Wayne?

  My hands began to sweat. I wiped them surreptitiously on my jeans. It felt as if the whole room had seen this and analyzed it. Why Beethoven, you’re perspiring, are you nervous—naturally you’re nervous, because you’re stupid, and so is your idea.

  “Now the real innovation in the yearbook,” said Shepherd, gracefully drawing a folder from her collection, “is letters of congratulation. Letters wishing our graduating class best of luck in the future.”

  Was she joking? A bunch of letters was supposed to be an innovation?

  “I’ve written to several famous people already,” said Shepherd. “So far I have replies from seven of them.” Her excitement was genuine. She expected us to be thrilled. We just looked at her oddly.

  But then she began reading them aloud.

  The people she had written to!

  She had letters from the president of the United States, from the premier of Israel, from the mayor of New York City, from a television anchorwoman and a rock star my sister would have died for and from the queen of England!

  I could not believe they had answered! Imagine those people taking the time—or telling their secretaries to—and writing to us, telling us how proud they were of our accomplishments and how much they expected of us in the decades to come. When she held up the letter from the President, and we saw the letterhead

  THE WHITE HOUSE

  Washington

  it was very very impressive.

  Shepherd got a round of applause and she deserved it. Hers was a fantastic idea and it was going to work.

  Shepherd pulled out another folder. She smiled into it, and I knew it was mine. MUSIC, it would say, in neat block letters. And as she removed the folder, and turned to face me, and started to call upon me to rise and shine, I saw that the folder was full.

  Full?

  Full of what?

  This was my section, to be filled with my ideas. What could it already be full of?

  Emily and Jeffrey had told me Shepherd had backup ideas. They had not been joking. What if her ideas were better than mine? What if she let me speak, turned me down, and then whipped out her own brilliant gaudy Harvard-bound idea?

  Shepherd looked at me, letting a little time go by, so the whole room could see she was a little dubious about calling on me. Wayne said, “Whatsa matter, Sheppie? Forget what you’re doing?” He grinned at me, and I thought, So he knew what was going on too. He was just too nervous to combat it. Well, I had an ally. Wayne.

  I stood up. The paper in my hand rattled a little. Shepherd looked at it, cocking her head. I slid past four sets of knees. Wayne muttered, “Give her hell, Beethoven.” It did not seem like the right moment to ask Wayne to call me Susan.

  “So, Beethoven,” began Shepherd. “What do you have in store for us?”

  “I’d like to introduce myself,” I said to her. “My name is Susan Hall and I’m your music editor.” I turned to the rest of them. “This is senior year, guys. I cannot be Beethoven during my senior year. So it’s Susan, okay?” I grinned, but it was bravado. I was more scared than Wayne would ever be.

  The back door to the meeting room opened.

  Nobody turned. Perhaps nobody heard the faint creak. Even Shepherd did not see, because she was reaching into her own music file.

  It was Whit.

  He slouched in the doorway. He didn’t smile at me. He lifted his chin fractionally and winked.

  I had a cheering section.

  A little on the silent side, to be sure.

  But my own.

  I said, “Our yearbook will not just have photographs and reproductions of letters. No matter how we arrange photographs, that’s all they are—and essentially that’s what any yearbook has. Photographs. And after all, music has nothing to do with photographs. A photo of a marching band doesn’t tell you a thing except the color of the uniform. A photo of Crude Oil doesn’t tell you what their music sounds like. Music is something you have to hear, not see.”

  They were confused. Shepherd was getting her poise back.

  “So we’re going to cut a record.”

  Whit grinned. I had not seen a grin as wide as that since the moment in the electronic music lab. He leaned back against the door jamb and grinned at the ceiling and then back at me, and he was savoring my triumph as much as I was.

  “We’ll tape the four rock bands that have managed to stick together since we were all sophomores. And the marching band, the concert choir, the Madrigal group. I’ve spoken to the recording company, I have the figures and the costs. We’re going to bind a slip pocket into the yearbooks and every single graduate will have a real record of what we did musically.”

  Jaws fell open.

  Eyes widened.

  Whispers began.

  Smiles spread on skeptical faces.

  I referred to my paper. I gave them the cost per unit, on a sliding scale of how many records we might order. The time involved. The taping schedule. The problems of binding slip jackets into the yearbook. How Crude Oil was going to arrange the actual taping. How—

  Anthony was on his feet. In his way, Anthony had more force of personality than Shepherd. When he leaped to his feet, he brought others with him, as if they were bound to his motions. When he clapped they did, and when he stomped his feet, they followed suit. “Way to go!” he shouted, punching the air with his fist like a basketball player who just sank a foul shot. “We really will have the finest yearbook in the United States of America.”

  They swarmed around me, hitting me on the back, hugging me, shouting to each other. Sheppie had told us we would have the finest yearbook in the nation and here was the proof. Beethoven—I mean, Susan, they corrected themselves quickly—had done it.

  Shepherd set down her music folder. Quickly, pretending she wasn’t, she covered it up with her other folders.

  Which meant her backup idea was nothing compared to my idea.

  I looked up to catch Whit’s eyes and share the victory.

  He was gone.

  I was swamped with volunteers to be on my committee. Somebody handed me a piece of paper and I jotted down names and said I would call them. Derek and Wayne gave me hugs and said they loved me. Shepherd very stiffly congratulated me. I told her how exciting the letter from the president was. Anthony said, “Susan, you want to have a Coke with me?

  “Oh, Anthony, I’d love to,” I said. And it was true. I would love to. “But I promised my mother I’d be right home. I have to catch the second bus.”

  “Ugh,” said Emily. “All those disgusting sophomores and juniors. People who’ve had their driver’s license twenty-four hours and carry SAT prep guides around with them.”

  Jeffrey said, “I’ll
take you home, Susan. Forget the bus.”

  Wayne said, “Aw come on with us, Susan. Anthony and Derek and I are going over to Dom’s with Caitlin and Pammy. Come with us.”

  Caitlin and Pammy. The two most beautiful popular girls in the class, giving even Shepherd Grenville a run for her money.

  I almost said yes.

  But my mother had been crying that morning.

  Actually she hadn’t stopped crying since the night before.

  And I had promised to come straight home. Would she understand, if I took an hour to go to Dom’s with Wayne and Anthony and Derek and Caitlin and Pammy?

  Anthony, sensing hesitation, put an arm around me and snuggled. “Come on,” he said. “You know you’re dying to.” He twined fingers in my hair.

  Shepherd stood very still.

  Cindy, my best friend, watched. I knew she celebrated for me. If she was envious, it didn’t show. She was keeping back so she wouldn’t interfere. She knew Wayne and Derek and Anthony and Caitlin and Pammy wouldn’t ask her along.

  I’m a star, I thought. They want me. I succeeded. It’s all in the courage. When I was wimpy and let them call me Beethoven and cringed when Shepherd spoke to me, who needed me? But let me stand up and produce and place demands and I’m attractive.

  You don’t have to dress for a crush, I thought. You have to show off for a crush. They like the ones with spunk.

  Anthony tugged my hair gently. Cindy grinned, and I knew she was thinking of our conversation about the red and gold of autumn in my hair. “Great,” said Anthony. “That’s settled. Come on.”

  “I didn’t say yes,” I protested.

  “Yeah, but you meant yes.” He started walking with me. I liked it—in fact I loved it—but I wasn’t sure. My mother, crying, touching my sweater with her bitten fingertips, a used Kleenex balled in the other hand, whispering, “Susie, don’t stay late, I need your company. Please.”

  “I can’t, Anthony. I really can’t. My mother needs me. It’s kind of a difficult situation at home right now and I’d love to go with you another day, okay?”

  They didn’t shrug, make faces, or abandon me. They actually looked impressed. It’s Ashley, I thought. They know the difficult situation is Ashley. Ashley adds to my status. I really am a woman of mystery and creativity to them.

  “Okay, okay,” said Anthony, sighing dramatically. “But I’ll drive you home.”

  If this was stardom, no wonder Ashley strove for it. To be sought after! To have people change their plans for you!

  “I just have to go to my locker first,” I said.

  “Okay. Meet you at the front door.” Anthony kissed me goodbye, possessively, as if we were already going together.

  I wasn’t sure what to think of that. But I left the room quickly. I didn’t go to my locker. I had all the things I needed. I ran down two flights and up one long dark hall to the electronic music lab.

  Locked and dark.

  The band room.

  A brass group was rehearsing there. The band leader looked up irritably when I swung the door open. “Sorry,” I muttered.

  The choral room.

  Empty.

  Rows of metal folding chairs arranged for the concert choir sat in dim silence.

  No Whit.

  I walked to the front door. Anthony was waiting for me, smiling.

  Anthony talks easily, I had learned that much. I didn’t need to contribute much to encourage him. “Last time I drove you home, you abandoned me so fast I hardly saw the dust from your shoes,” he teased. “Do I get to come in this time?”

  Oh why couldn’t I have a normal family life like everybody else? Like my own, until Ashley descended upon us? I said hesitantly, “I’d be glad to have you come in, but my mother’s in kind of rough shape. She might have a hard time with company.”

  “You,” said Anthony, “are riding with the most sensitive guy in town. I get one flicker of feeling that your mother doesn’t want me around and pffft! I vanish into the night. Promise.”

  I giggled. “It wouldn’t be you personally,” I explained. “She might be tense or upset and would only want family around.” Actually she might not be too thrilled about having one member of the family around either, but I wouldn’t explain that much.

  “Trust me,” said Anthony, and I trusted him.

  My mother was at the kitchen table. Fingers fastened to a mug, but no steam rising. From the way she sat, I thought the tea had been cold for hours. “Hi, Mom.” I bent to kiss her. “Anthony Fielding came home with me. How about I make you another cup of tea?” She didn’t look that bad, really. She had been doing more thinking than weeping.

  “Hello, Anthony,” she said, smiling at him. He gave her a swift hug, which astonished me until she said, “You’ve certainly grown since you were a Cub Scout in my troop.”

  “You still the volunteer of the decade?” said Anthony, sitting beside her and handing me her cold mug. He gave her a quick Cub Scout salute.

  She beamed. What ability Anthony had to recognize people the way they wanted to be recognized! She talked a little about this year’s volunteer work, and Anthony told her he was doing quite a bit of sailing, but he was into racing now more than cruising and he was trying to talk his father into getting him a new boat.

  I got Cokes for the two of us and stood over the stove waiting for the water to boil for Mom’s tea. They didn’t need me in the conversation. I felt very happy. The kitchen was the place where I had lived for years: untouched by Ashley, filled with friends and contentment. I poured the tea and let it steep.

  “Thank you, darling,” said my mother, getting up. “I have some phone calls to make. I’ll do them from the bedroom.” She smiled at Anthony. “Flower Committee at church. I knew I shouldn’t have gone yesterday. They roped me into it. I couldn’t refuse.”

  “Sure you could have,” he told her. “My mother is a terrific refuser. Saying no is what she does best.”

  “Mom doesn’t want to say no,” I explained. “Or she would, too.” I didn’t want Anthony to think she was a wimp people pushed around. And right up until she winked at me I thought she really did have phone calls for the Flower Committee. Then I figured out that a girl who brings Anthony Fielding home is a girl who deserves a little time alone with him.

  Anthony switched from sailing to skiing. “We have a nice little condo in northern Vermont,” he said.

  I was willing to believe it was in northern Vermont, but it would not be a “nice little” place; it would be a sumptuous big place.

  “You ought to come skiing with us,” he said. “First snowy weekend we get. How about it?”

  I was thrilled. “Anthony!” I breathed. And part of me thought, But Whit—what about Whit?

  Anthony told me about snowy weekends he had known.

  And Ashley came into the room.

  We gasped in unison, looked at each other in total astonishment, and looked away to keep from laughing. The only good thing you could say about her clothing was that it wasn’t mine.

  Canvas drawstring pants. Torn. High-heeled sequined boots. Rose red. Exotic plumed feathers drifting down her shoulders and a blouse that looked as if it had been savaged by a pack of vultures. She had worked perhaps a dozen chains into her hair, fastening them to an almost hidden barrette, and they clanked and glittered.

  She looked out of order, lost from a costume party.

  It’s the house, I thought. You can’t dress like that in a house built in 1774. For that outfit, you need a wild, sophisticated stage set and bright lights and a background of throbbing loud music. Wouldn’t Whit and Carmine, Tommy and Luce love writing the music for that outfit?

  “Like it?” said Ashley anxiously, as if she actually valued our opinion. “Bob and I put it together. Wouldn’t it look great on a stage?” Her voice was wistful. “I used to spend so much on costumes. Make a fortune on one tour and blow it all on costumes for the next.” She said to Anthony, “You’re nothing if you don’t look fantastic.”

&
nbsp; Anthony recovered nicely. “You qualify,” he said. “That is some outfit! And with stage lights focused on it—fantastic.”

  Ashley beamed and pirouetted, showing off like a child in dancing school. “Once,” she confided, “we had neon tubes put in a clear plastic keyboard. In the drumsticks, too, so that when we dimmed the lights, our instruments went neon red, blue, and yellow. Cost megabucks.”

  She put the radio on. Mom had it tuned to the local station (she likes Swap Shop, the Tidal Calendar and Shoreline Newsline) which merited a glare from Ashley and a quick whiz through the stations back to rock. I didn’t know the piece they were playing. Ash began dancing to it: clumping, really. More convulsions of the skin and limbs. Nothing graceful. And yet she looked very effective doing it: charged with electricity. I thought she probably had been very good on stage.

  If she hadn’t been my sister, I probably would have loved it, too.

  Anthony was mesmerized. You Fieldings have four Mercedes, I thought, but you don’t have an Ashley. Bet you’re jealous, huh?

  “You’re the one who loved my show,” said Ashley.

  Anthony was nothing if not gallant. “Yes. I can still remember it so clearly.” Every cue line she gave, Anthony responded to. He practically had her purring at his feet. He had told me he was the most sensitive guy in town, but anybody who could figure out the right moves with Ashley Elizabeth Hall went beyond mere sensitivity into mind-reading.

  “Wait a second,” said Ashley. “I have to get something.” She smiled at Anthony excitedly, and clicked speedily up the stairs. By the sound of her steps I knew she was in my parents’ room. Now what piece of costuming could she possibly expect to find in my mother’s staid tailored wardrobe?

  “Life is pretty exciting around here, isn’t it?” said Anthony, in what I thought was a classic understatement. I smiled at him and nodded, but I thought exciting was hardly the word to describe it. Anthony kept his eyes on the door through which Ash would return. He was fascinated by her. It must all be very romantic to him. The fallen rock star, come home to lick her wounds. The girl who had been everywhere, done everything, dancing for Anthony Fielding.

  “You know, I was really impressed by your idea for the yearbook,” he said. “So was everybody. But what I couldn’t get over was the picture of you going to Crude Oil for help. That is one tough crowd.” He shook his head. “But now I see why it didn’t faze you. You probably have that type of guy around all the time, huh?”