“So . . . what’s going on?”
Nihal cleared his throat and held up a sheet of paper. A fine-tipped pen hung behind his ear, casting a shadow across his eye. “I printed the recategorization petition and filled it out. I talked to Dr. Graves, and frankly, I think it would kill him if the Minuets got to tour instead of us, so he signed it. Isaac’s going to visit Student Life and file it tomorrow before they close up for the semester.”
I frowned, uncomprehending. “But the dean needs to sign it. Caskey needs to sign it.”
“No. A cappella groups aren’t discipline-exclusive, so a dean needs to sign it.” Nihal passed me the paper. Beside Graves’s slapdash pair of initials, a tight spiral of a signature was coiled up at the bottom. “So I made a visit to your housemother, who, by the way, is exactly as scary as you’ve claimed, and who also seems pretty interested in this whole thing. She called it avant-garde found theater, which sounds vaguely complimentary.”
“I’m going to get this filed tomorrow,” Isaac said. “I’m going to stay in the Student Life office until I see them get it done myself. We have the signatures. Caskey can’t stop it from happening.”
I clutched the paper for a minute, waiting for some sort of inevitable contradiction, maybe, for one of the guys to speak up. No, we don’t want you. No, no, no. The retraction, the rejection.
All my plans had come undone. Everything was exposed. It didn’t seem possible that this was where it got me.
Why was I so afraid, all of a sudden? Nervous like I hadn’t been in months?
“But I—I have a flight home tomorrow,” I said. “I can’t cancel it.”
“We talked to the Aural Fixation guys,” Isaac said. “They can take care of all that. The only thing is whether you want to come with us.”
My hold tightened on the corner of the flag in my hand, and I snuck the word out into the air: “Yeah.” It hung there for a moment, hesitant, before settling. Then smiles started creasing faces, heads started bobbing, and the inimitable relief of crossing some sort of finish line rushed into me, cold and overwhelming.
December 31
I jogged downstairs to the hotel lobby to find that nightmares do come true: Isaac and Michael were leaning against the wall by the stairwell, talking. As I approached, they cracked up about something or other, Michael’s nose crinkling up at the bridge, Isaac’s unconcerned laugh bouncing off the metallic lobby’s slopes and edges. I immediately assumed that they were comparing notes on the way I kissed and that my defects were hilarious, but I would never find out, because everybody is too polite to tell someone they’re a bad kisser.
This had to happen at some point, I figured. For two weeks, they’d managed not to talk. I was lucky I’d made it this long.
Michael and I had talked the first day of tour. The talk had consisted of two parts: 1) an elaborate eight-minute apology he’d clearly scripted and figured out how to perform, which probably would have made your average audience-goer shed a tear but which left me weirdly indifferent, and 2), the realization that I had nothing to say to him, because time was the rope that hung into the pit of heartbreak and I’d finally climbed over its lip. I had no desire to look back over the edge. Some things are made to end. Storms, and winters, and hurts.
This was our last stop, the New Year’s Eve show in London. Tomorrow, Aural Fixation was headed to Germany, and the Sharps were flying back to the States on a horrifically early flight. I was almost looking forward to it. At least it wouldn’t have the distinct scent of urine that had permeated the back of the bus over the past few days.
Our voices were all but shot. We performed only twenty-five minutes a night, but constantly being around each other, we were talking our vocal cords into disrepair. Something about traveling, too—the bus’s recycled air, maybe, or inhaling the grime of cities after the Kensington fresh air—had us all drinking hot water with lemon out of thermoses and mumbling about “saving voice,” like complete caricatures of ourselves. Trav had taken to carrying around a whiteboard that read “Vocal Rest: Do Not Talk to Me,” which resulted in everyone asking him increasingly insulting questions, trying to get him to crack.
“Hey, blue jay,” Isaac said as I passed him and Michael. I’d been determinedly staring at my feet but couldn’t stop myself from looking up at the sound of his voice. He looked like a hug feels, soft black jeans cuffed and dark sweater pushed to his elbows.
“Hey,” I said, pausing midstep. With Michael’s eyes fixed on me, I felt an urge to prove something, to show him how I’d moved on, to show him that this new relationship was important, too—that my entire life could still be full of important things without him. A lot of pressure for a three-second interaction.
I took a long breath and let it go. Isaac was smiling, and I smiled back. I was happy. That mattered by itself.
I walked forward, past the long stretch of welcome desk that gleamed bright purple in the light of dangling bulbs. I passed ten-foot-high panels of surrealist wall art, all incomprehensible jumbles of facial features and landscapes where seas dribbled into skies. I skirted the deep rock pool sunk into the lobby floor, which was guarded by a shin-high glass perimeter. I was convinced that this hotel’s designer had been given the directions, “Imagine an acid trip that looks like it’s worth eighty million dollars.”
The rest of the Sharps were seated in a far corner of the lobby, where a trio of weirdly shaped sofas faced a wall-mounted TV. Jon Cox, Mama, and Erik were riveted on an American football game. Somebody in white hurtled into somebody in black. The ball popped free from his arms, and Mama let out a small, anguished wail, capsizing backward into the sofa. How had they even found a channel that played football on this side of the Atlantic?
“Hey,” I said, sitting beside Nihal, who was on his phone for once. Mostly, he didn’t approve of phones in public. “What are you doing?” I said, reaching over to flick at his screen.
He dodged, frowning at me. “Oh, just avoiding harassment, as always.”
I grinned. “Ready for the concert?”
“I suppose you could convince me to sing tonight.” He issued a belabored sigh.
“Just . . .” I waved a hand. “Just do your texting, millennial.”