Erik went red. He shifted in his chair and looked back at his phone. “Okay, forget it. I don’t care.”
I restrained a sigh. I don’t care—people always used that as a get-out-of-jail-free card for arguments, as if by pretending the whole thing meant nothing, they could hide their obvious losing hand.
Mama ran a hand through his flyaway hair, which settled over his heavy eyebrows. For a second, I thought he was going to backtrack, cave, and answer the question. But he shook his head and looked back at his staff paper. “Handel’s my favorite composer,” he said gently, “and I have two little sisters, and I’m from Kansas City. Just some stuff to start you off with.”
Erik didn’t look up from his phone, but it was obvious that he wasn’t concentrating on the screen at all.
We got to the bonfire as the sun dipped red toward the horizon. Buffet tables stretched down the parking lot, which had been cleared of cars, leaving a plain of asphalt to catch the sunset in its jagged fissures. The fiery crown of the bonfire roared up ahead. Teachers unsettlingly dressed in jeans and casualwear were hauling hay bales into rings around the fire, a safe distance back from the blaze. Once we’d heaped our plates high with food, the seven of us tugged a few bales together to sit.
Trav hadn’t shown. He’d been silent on the group text since last night. Isaac, on the other hand, was here, making quips with the sort of snappy preparation that made me sure he was more bothered by the fight than he would ever admit. The amount of food he shoveled into his face stunned me. He didn’t even have time to hog the spotlight, he was so busy putting hot dogs and rolls away.
A few teachers manned the bonfire, standing close to ensure that nobody threw anything in. It had become an unofficial student tradition, trying to distract the teachers long enough to sneak something into the fire. In my freshman year, Michael had done it to impress me, darting up while Mr. Yu’s back was turned. He’d sent his empty plate arcing up into the inferno like a grease-stained Frisbee, turned back to me with that triumphant smile, and pressed a kiss on my eyebrow.
That memory didn’t hurt anymore, which was strange. It just twinged. Pressure on a paper cut.
Nihal and I shared a bale. Erik perched to our right, and for once, his blustering attitude had vanished. He didn’t talk, didn’t sneer when Marcus talked, and didn’t jump in with opinions on every tiny topic. Most noticeably, he didn’t look at Mama once.
When a hand fell on his shoulder, Erik jumped, spilling water all over his khakis. “Shit,” he said, wadding his napkin against his leg. He looked up at the girl the hand belonged to and scowled. “Thanks a ton.”
“No problem,” the girl told Erik with a grin. “And wash out your mouth, child.”
I looked up at her, too. Victoria Taylor, I realized. Her sudden proximity was a shock. Victoria, the music director of the Precautionary Measures, was a Kensington celebrity, as well as a real-world celebrity: one of those rare ex–child stars who had actually kept her life together. She’d been the lead of a sanitized cable sitcom for three or four years—and she’d looked totally different onscreen, preteen pigtails and bubblegum-pink smile. Now, sharp black eyeliner drew her hooded eyes up into wings, and rippling golden-brown hair fell to her waist. Her left ear had about a half-dozen piercings.
The other guys had stopped talking to each other. Victoria glanced around the circle. “Hey, Sharps,” she said, all casual. The family friend at the reunion. “How’s it going?”
“Pretty well,” Mama said. “You know Erik?”
One of her eyebrows rose. “Yeah. He’s my brother, so, like, we’ve met a couple times.”
Jon Cox made a noise that made me worry, for a moment, that he was choking to death. “He’s your—?” Then he fell silent, staring at his plate, embarrassment written all over his face. It made him look like a different person. Victoria studied him for a second, looking baffled.
“He, um,” Jon Cox mumbled. “He didn’t mention.”
“Yeah, I hope he’s been good,” she said. “Mom was so worried about him making friends, since he has all the social skills of a dying moose.”
Marcus sprayed a bit of Sprite from the corner of his mouth, and I traded a delighted glance with Nihal. Even Isaac stopped eating to laugh.
Erik’s cheeks went bright red. “Victoria,” he said through gritted teeth. His voice cracked dramatically, flipping from bass to soprano and back within the space of four syllables.
Victoria shrugged, a wicked gleam in her eyes. She had an impossibly commanding presence, for someone who couldn’t have been more than five feet tall. She’d worn flats at the Measures’ last concert, and with all the other girls in heels, she’d been about a head too short to blend in.
“Erik’s been a real problem,” Isaac said, tapping his chin in mock thought. “The Measures are probably gonna have to take him on as some sort of fake alto.”
Nihal chimed in. “He set off fireworks during rehearsal the other night.”
“Yeah,” I said, “and he eats string cheese without peeling it into strings. So messed up.”
Victoria laughed. “A new low.” She looked me over with curious eyes, glancing from my hair down to my clothes. I picked hay out of the bale, suddenly self-conscious.
“Eh, he’s been fine,” Mama said, breaking the stream of criticism. “Nothing we can’t fix.”
Erik, whose ears were bright red by this point, looked Mama’s way. After a second too long, one corner of Mama’s mouth lifted, and he went back to his food.
Nobody seemed to notice the tacit forgiveness bouncing across the circle, but I knew that was it. The weird fight was done and forgotten, and thank God. We didn’t need any more clashes.
“Well, good, since you’re stuck with him,” Victoria said, flashing a smile. She had brilliantly white teeth. “You know what? We should all go into town for a group dinner sometime. Sharps and Measures. Best of pals.”
“Absolutely,” Isaac said. “I’ll get you in touch with our schedule-master.”
“Ah, Traveler,” Victoria sighed. “Where is he, anyway?”
Isaac shrugged. “Probably making a blood sacrifice at his shrine to the Yale Whiffenpoofs.”
The others laughed, and I spluttered along, more at the name than anything. The Whiffenpoofs? I could only guess that was an a cappella group, although it sounded more like a breed of dog that rich blonde ladies kept in their handbags.
Someone called Victoria’s name a few hay bales over, and she said, “Gotta run. Later, guys.” She flashed chipped red nails in a wave and jogged off.
Everyone watched her go, and then turned back to the center of the circle. An immediate air of conspiracy sank over us. Jon Cox hissed to Erik, “Victoria Taylor is your sister?”
Erik didn’t look pleased about it. “Yeah, duh.”
Isaac spoke through a mouthful of burger. “Jon’sh been in love wiff your shishter f’r like a year.”