“Alright, alright,” Mr. Carter shouts, standing up and lifting his palms until there’s silence. “Next sound I hear out of someone’s mouth that’s anything but encouraging, and you’re out.” He sits back down and nods for me to continue. A smile lights my face, and I take a seat.
I’ve chosen a more contemporary piece, at my own risk, but it speaks to me, and I need to feel that joy to sit up here and play in front of such a hostile audience. My eyes wander the crowd and catch on Zayd’s emerald gaze, sparkling as he leans forward and rests his chin on his folded hands. Tristan and Creed are easy to spot, sitting on opposite ends of the auditorium. Their pull is equally strong, and I flick my gaze between them before refocusing on the Lyon & Healy harp in front of me. It’s a beautiful instrument, easily worth more than my father’s house … err, Train Car.
Closing my eyes, I center myself and take a deep breath.
My fingers begin to move, playing How Hill by Patrick Hawes, written for royal harpist Claire Jones. The tune starts off nice and light, like sunshine through clouds, and I do my best to convey that feeling in my playing, a smile curving across my lips. Pedal harps are no joke, one of the most expensive instruments out there. To rent even a shitty one, Dad had to work a second job. He brought me here, to this place, and even if I’m upset with him for Parents’ Weekend, I love him to bits.
That, too, I try to put into my music, feeling the vibrations on my skin, like I’m bathing in sound. The song slows, stops, and picks its way back to life, the upbeat tune reminiscent of rain on a warm summer day, feeding the parched earth. I lean into that feeling, forgetting for a moment where I am, and who’s watching me.
The song finishes with a little flourish that fades out, softens, and says good-bye with a kiss.
Exhaling, I drop my arms to my sides and look out at the audience.
Zayd’s mouth has dropped open, and before I even get a chance to stand up, he’s on his feet and clapping. I’m a little … shocked, to say the least. He’s been nothing but rude to me, and now he’s clapping? Mr. Carter stands up, too, and then everyone else follows suit.
Tristan doesn’t clap, and neither does Creed, but they watch me with a certain level of appreciation that’s impossible to hide. My cheeks flush, and I take a small bow before scurrying offstage.
Later that night, when the results are posted online … I get first chair.After the Halloween party, and the orchestra auditions, I’m left with two weeks of jibes, elbows, and crappy notes taped to my door, but that’s pretty much it. I swear, I can feel the three Idol guys watching me, but mostly, I’m ignored. Becky and Harper are the worst, carving the words Working Girl into my locker. When I walk up and catch them doing it, they don’t even look sorry.
Zack’s been messaging me on and off, just random things, but I’m so puzzled over why he’s bothering to text me that I don’t respond much. About a week after the auditions, Miranda is hanging out in my room and happens to see a series of texts come in. She digs her claws into me and refuses to let go until I tell her everything, about Zack being the ringleader of the bullying I suffered in sixth, seventh, and eighth grade. How he was the one that found me after I took the pills. How we briefly dated.
She leaves the subject alone for about … three days before she brings it up again. I’m able to avoid her questioning for the most part by pretending I’m embroiled in schoolwork. It’s mostly true, too. With the workload pushed on us before our first official break of the year, I’m worked to the bone. It’s a relief when I turn in the final assignment of November.
The first day of fall break is a blur of activity, students saying their goodbyes, packing trunks up and leaving in the shiny black academy cars. I watch them go from the cozy penthouse where Miranda lives with Creed. The first time she invited me up here, I refused because I didn’t want to end up running into that jerk. She promised he was barely here, and so far, she’s been right. I haven’t had a single run-in with Creed in or around the apartment.
“So you’re leaving Monday?” I ask, and Miranda nods, stuffing her volleyball uniform into a duffel bag. The Cabots are out of the country for the rest of the month, so Miranda’s going on an academy-sponsored athletics giveaway. I’m not exactly the sporty type, and Dad is out of town on a job, so … I’m stuck here. “I feel like Harry in book one,” I groan, putting my face in one of the decorative pillows lining the window seat. “Left alone at Hogwarts for break.”
