Page 15 of Silver Sweet

A sign is perched against her violin case.Tips appreciated! Happy New Year!!There’s a QR code and a glass mason jar. I dig five bucks out of my pocket and slip it into the jar.

When the sun sets over the hazy winter sky, I circle back toward Gillies.

They haven’t put away their Christmas lights yet. Red and green bulbs dangle from the ceiling, and garland wraps around the barstools. I’m drinking a beer and jotting in a journal when I see the clock hanging on the wall. My stomach overturns.

It’s 10 p.m.

My phone has been in airplane mode for almost twenty-four hours.

Reality crashes back into me, and I take out my cell. As soon as I turn on data, my phone is a bomb. It buzzes hysterically withnotifications. My heart thrashes against my chest, and I silently pray my parents have been busy all day and forgot about me.

When I see the screen, I rub at my eyes. No, I’m not seeing things.

I have fifteen missed calls from my brother.

Five missed texts—also from him.

Surprisingly, my parents haven’t reached out, which is the only bright spot in this whole mess I created.

I click into the texts.

BIRDIE

HELLO? ARE YOU ALIVE? ANSWER YOUR PHONE!

So you’re not going to believe this, but you’re an idiot.

Actually you will believe this.

You were supposed to fill in for Stewie today, asshole. You no-showed. And guess who’s your emergency contact?

The most recent text he sent was just two hours ago.

BIRDIE

The Nutcracker is my bitch. You’re welcome.

Fuck.

I stuff my journal in my back pocket. Then I grab my black moto jacket off the stool and my helmet off the bar and walk out into the frigid January air.

4

PHOENIX ST. PIERRE

The Whitney Theater is right next to The Manhattan Symphony Hall, and that’s where I find my brother, deep in the belly of the orchestra pit.

I’m hustling down the first row. Paid the usher twenty dollars to let me in to talk to my brother. I don’t know if he believed me even after I gave him the cash. But what am I going to do in here? Eat popcorn off the floor?

The orchestral musicians are all gone except for Birdie. Only people left are stagehands removing Clara’s living room backdrop and some remaining ballet dancers stretching and goofing around on stage.

Yeah, I missed the final performance of the New York Ballet Company’sThe Nutcracker.

It’s bad.

I splay my arms over the pit rail, which is a short wall that separates the orchestra pit from the audience. The look Birdie is giving me would eviscerate just about anyone else, but I’m too used to his acidic nature.

He’s wearing concert blacks: black dress shirt, black pants, black shoes and socks. He rips out his earplugs by the cord they’re attached to.