League of Strays (17 page)

TWO WEEKS HAD GONE BY SINCE OUR FIRST KISS, AND
we’d hung out almost every day since. It was both wonderful and terrible, the latter because Kade didn’t want anyone to know that we were seeing each other.

Our new relationship needs privacy
, he claimed.
If you tell, it will change things.

How?
I’d asked.

In
a million different ways
.

That’s fine with me, I thought. It’s not so bad having him all to myself.

On a Sunday morning, while I focused on the piece I needed to know for the following week’s lesson with Mr. Watson, Kade showed up. The usual way, via my porch. I’d been immersed in the frenetic world of Paganini, my fingers working hard to keep up. I jumped at the rap on my door, the bow flying out of my
hand. It bounced on the edge of the mattress and clattered to the floor. I bent down to pick it up.

Kade laughed as he slid my door open. “That’s one scary song. I could hear it all the way back to your fence.”

Scary? I’d never thought of it that way. It was definitely a fast piece, though I wasn’t even close to playing it at tempo.

Kade took the bow from me and placed it on my desk. He reached for my viola, grasping it by the chin rest. I held my breath until the instrument made it safely beside the bow. “No more practicing,” he said, grabbing my hand. “Boring Sundays are a thing of the past.”

“Wait!” I resisted his pull long enough to scribble
Going out, back later
on a Post-it. I slapped it onto my computer screen before succumbing to his strength.

Out on the street, Kade showed me his new Yamaha motorcycle—a belated birthday gift from his parents. I’d never been on a motorcycle before. I kept my eyes soldered shut the entire way.

We arrived at the entrance to his favorite place, then hiked up a steep path to the peak of the hill behind his apartment building. Lowell’s Cemetery, overgrown with scraggly weeds and dried grass, looked more like a field than a graveyard. It was almost hard to believe that thirty-eight people from nine families were buried beneath our feet, but that’s what Kade said.

“We should have a meeting up here sometime,” I told him. “It’s so quiet.”

He shook his head. “I don’t want anyone to know about it. Just you.”

I lowered my eyes, amazed at how happy his words made me.

Kade lifted my chin with his finger, delivering a kiss that made my heart pound in my chest like a rainstorm.

When I came up for air, he said, “I come here when I get stressed. It chills me out.”

I laughed. “
You
get stressed?”

“Certain people stress me out. Up here, I can scream all I want, and no one can hear me.”

He pulled me close, his lips floating across my neck, my cheek, my ear. Whatever question I was about to ask drifted away, out of reach.

Halfway through Mozart’s “Eine kleine Nachtmusik,” Mr. Watson held up a hand. “Start again from measure three. And remember, it’s an allegro. Lively, Charlotte, not a funeral procession.”

I flipped the chewing gum to my other cheek and began, but my mind strayed from the page. I imagined Kade and me, embraced in a slow dance, his breath in my ear, body pressed against mine. Every part connected …

Mr. Watson flipped the music shut.

I looked at him. “What?”

“That was a soulless rendition, Charlotte. No confidence. No commitment. Have you been practicing?”

“Yes.” Not much, but more than nothing.

“Well, it doesn’t sound like it.”

He removed the viola from my hands and laid it in its case. I gritted my teeth as he snapped it shut.

“Technically, your playing is fine. Emotionally, it’s a flatliner.”

What a jerk. One bad lesson and he was freaking out. This
was probably a sneak preview of what a career in music would be like—a ton of pressure to be flawless. Well, life wasn’t perfect, and like Kade said, living your life was more important than music.

I grabbed my instrument and stomped out of his house, accidentally swinging my case into the shoe rack by the front door. Three dirty sneakers tumbled onto the floor. I didn’t bother picking them up.

I was almost home when the mail truck pulled up beside me. I headed inside, flipping through bills, magazines, and flyers. Mom was vacuuming the family room, which was a good thing because she never heard my strangled scream. Leaving the rest of the mail on the counter, I took a furtive glance around and crept up the stairs. It took me a minute of serious breathing to open the cream-colored envelope with the raised logo in the left-hand corner. A flourish of a B trapped in a red circle.

Dear Ms. Brody:
We are pleased to inform you …

The acceptance letter from Barrymore slipped from my fingers, sailing under the bed. My dream—or rather my
goal
, as Richie would say—had come true, so what was wrong with me?

On
60 Minutes
, which my parents never missed, a famous opera singer told Lesley Stahl, “Great musicians
have
to make music; they don’t have a choice.” Maybe I hadn’t had a choice either—but not for the reasons she’d meant. What if Kade had
been right about my parents, that the dream had belonged to them all along? Was it possible, as much as I’d resisted admitting it, that my viola had simply been a filler for an empty existence? Since my social life had picked up, I’d barely clocked three hours of practice time. Maybe, in the end, Kade had known me better than I’d known myself—music wasn’t what I really wanted.

I stuffed the letter under a book of Vivaldi concertos. Maybe I’d take another look at it in a week or so. Or maybe I wouldn’t. Whatever, I didn’t want it staring me in the face.

One day, when you’re happy doing something else, you’ll thank Kade for his candor, I thought to myself as I left the room.

A week later, Mr. Watson called. I got lucky; Dad was at work, and Mom at a dentist appointment.

“Charlotte, are you all right?” he asked the answering machine. “It’s not like you to miss your lesson …”

I was suddenly bone tired. Tired of Mr. Watson and all his demands. Tired of Mom and Dad expecting me to practice all the time so I could become a musician and play with some lame orchestra in some lame town.

As soon as Mr. Watson finished his epic message, I hit the erase button.

When the phone rang during dinner, I leaped out of my chair. “Hello?” I mumbled, gnawing fast on a tough piece of steak.

“Charlotte? Thank goodness I’ve reached you. I was getting concerned,” Mr. Watson said.

“Uh-huh,” I responded.

Mom and Dad glanced up from their plates. I turned my back
to them, cupping a hand around the receiver. “I’m fine. Really. I just need a break. When I find the missing passion in my life, I’ll let you know.” I hung up.

“Who was that?” Dad asked when I sat back down again.

“Nobody.” I stabbed a fork into my asparagus.

I couldn’t pretend to be someone I wasn’t. Not for my music teacher. Not for my parents. Not even for myself. My stomach heaved, threatening to revolt. I didn’t remember to excuse myself until I was halfway up the stairs.

SNEAKING AROUND WITH KADE WAS FUN, BUT IT WAS GET
ting harder to hide the crazy joy I felt inside. We’d been seeing each other for almost six weeks now, but no one else knew. If it were up to me, I’d blurt the news over the PA system. Then Kade and I could hold hands and stroll through the hallway like a normal couple.

When Zoe called to invite me over for a sleepover, I knew I was in trouble. Even so, I agreed.

When we hung up, I ran to the banister. “Hey, Mom!”

She appeared at the stairs, different-size knitting needles in her hand. “What’s wrong?”

“Remember that girl I told you about, the one who’s helping me with those logarithms? She invited me for a sleepover on Saturday with this other girl, Nora, OK?”

“Whoa. Slow down. Does she have a name?”

“Zoe.”

“I didn’t realize she was a friend,” Mom said.

“She wasn’t, but now she is.”

“Well, I haven’t met Zoe’s parents …”

And if I could help it, she never would. “Mom, I’m a senior. I’ll be on my own in a few months. Can’t you trust my judgment?”

I felt guilty saying this. I’d never been less trustworthy. But it worked. Mom’s face crumpled, the giveaway that she was thinking about college. Me, going away. I’d seen the book in her bedroom:
Surviving Empty Nest Syndrome
.

My voice got soft. “Anyway, her mom’s nice. She’s a manager at Safeway.”

Or used to be. After the puking incident, Zoe’s mom was put on “medical leave.” Because of her many years of service, her supervisor promised she could keep her job—as long as she got help.

“What will you be doing?” Mom asked.

“I don’t know. Hang out. Talk. Listen to music.”

“Oh, that reminds me, wasn’t Barrymore supposed to let you know by now? It’s already the middle of April. Didn’t they say they’d notify you by the end of March?”

I smacked at an imaginary mosquito on my arm to hide the surprise on my face. I guess I knew she wouldn’t forget about Barrymore, but I’d purposefully avoided thinking about this moment. Which left me totally unprepared.

“I didn’t want to say anything—I know the waiting part is awful—but I think I’d better give them a call in case it got lost in the mail.” That was just like my mother to want to take over, to
fix everything. That’s how she controlled me, I realized, through all her “help.”

My hand tightened around the banister. I straightened with resolve, coming to a conclusion. “I’ve already heard. I don’t think I’ll go.”

The words sounded faraway, as if someone else were speaking. Surprisingly, I felt nothing. Not disappointment. Not even joy at having made a major decision. Just nothing.

My mother, on the other hand, was feeling too much. She shrunk back, the knitting needles slipping from her grasp and clanking against the leg of Dad’s recliner. “Charlotte,” she gasped. “How could … ? But why … ? This has been your dream since the sixth grade …”

“Dreams change.”

“But you love the viola!”

I glanced down at my fingernails. I’d never had them long, not once in my life. “Not as much as I should, Mom.”

Her eyes roamed about the room as if it could enlighten her. “Does this have anything to do with these new friends, Dora and Zoe?”

“Nora,” I corrected. “And no, it doesn’t. I just don’t have a passion for music. I think it’s better to find out now than in my senior year at Barrymore, right?”

That gave her pause. “Have you thought this through?” Strangely, she didn’t look angry. She seemed personally injured, which was worse.

“It’s OK, Mom. I don’t have to commit just yet. They give you time to think it over.”

I thought about my acceptance letter, filed under a book of concertos. I hadn’t noticed when a response was due. Not at that moment, anyway. I still had time.

“Let’s discuss this with Dad and Mr. Watson—”

A wave of frustration washed over me. “It’s my life!” I said. “Not yours. Not Dad’s. Not Mr. Watson’s.”

All those times when I’d practiced instead of playing outside with the neighborhood kids, instead of taking ballet classes like other girls my age—that had been my mother’s influence. If it hadn’t been for her, I would have quit in the fourth grade when all my bow could do was bump into other strings—as clumsy as a baby learning to walk.

“My parents couldn’t afford to send me to my first-choice college,” Mom said. “I went to State, like everyone else in my family. It was a decent education, but it wasn’t my dream. I just wanted you to have what I didn’t.”

My insides were a yawning tunnel, a feeling I could only label as homesickness. How was that possible with my own mother right in front of me? It felt like I was on a different continent.

“I know, Mom,” I said. “But this is my decision. For now, at least.”

I had a sudden urge to erase the disappointment from her face. Make her proud somehow. I could only think of one thing that would work; she’d love to know I had a “boyfriend,” though the word felt too carefree to apply to whatever it was I had with Kade.

In the end, I couldn’t tell her. Too much information about my life might put her in a coma. Or worse, she’d panic and share
the details of my love life with Dad. So I kissed her on the cheek instead.

“Will you at least keep up with your private lessons?” she asked, curling a wisp of hair behind my ear.

I nodded, unable to wrench that last nail out, the one that kept her hopes alive. Although I knew it was only a matter of time before Mom noticed that Mr. Watson’s bills had stopped coming.