I have to admit, I’m tempted to buy one of them. I watched the Royal Wedding with my grandmother, right before she was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s. I spent the night at her house and we got up ridiculously early to watch it live. Gran made cranberry scones and we wore fancy hats with feathers, like we were invited guests.
I stop at a long row of chocolate bars. Walnut Whip. Flake. Curly Wurlys. Because they’re imported, they’re, like, three bucks a bar, but they’re worth every penny. I pick up a couple of Fry’s Peppermint Creams—Gran’s favorite—and a small bag of liquorice allsorts, these fancy pink and yellow square candies that look so much better than they taste. But Gran loves them, so I add them to my pile.
A box of shortbread, a tin of orange pekoe tea, a jar of marmalade all make their way into my basket.
I’m not even sure Gran’s allowed to eat any of this stuff. According to Celia, she’s on a pretty strict diet. They should let her eat whatever she wants, in my opinion. I mean, it’s not like it really matters. It won’t help her get better. Nothing will. So what difference are some empty calories going to make?
I bring everything up to the front. The lady behind the register puts down her copy of Hello! magazine and rings up my order. When I get back outside, Dad’s leaning against a streetlamp, hands wedged in his pockets. His hair is messy, sticking up in tufts, like he’s been working his fingers through it. I hand him the bag.
“You sure you don’t want to come with me? I know she’d love to see you,” he says, peeking inside.
“Some other time,” I say, backing away before he can give me a hug.
Right now, I really want to be alone.
seven.
Mr. Aioki’s at the podium, arms raised, when there’s a knock on the band room door. I lower my clarinet, glancing around the room to see if anyone is missing, but there are no empty chairs. Everyone is here.
He stalks to the door and opens it a crack. From where I’m sitting, I can’t tell who’s on the other side.
Caleb rests his clarinet across his knees. “I’m surprised he answered it,” he says.
So am I. As a rule, Mr. Aioki does not abide interruptions. We could be in the middle of an earthquake and he’d make us keep playing, that’s how seriously he takes concert band, so it is kind of odd that he wouldn’t just ignore whoever was at the door.
“Maybe he’s expecting someone,” I say.
A moment later the door swings fully open and Wesley James enters the room. Lugging a huge black tuba case.
This can’t be happening.
Mr. Aioki grabs an extra chair and tells Wesley to squeeze between Alisha and Jiao, our brass section. Wesley smiles apologetically as the second row shuffles their seats around to accommodate him.
I’m pretty sure I’m having a heart attack. I’m all sweaty and my chest feels tight. I’m clutching my clarinet so hard the keys leave indents on the pads of my fingers.
Mr. Aioki taps his baton on the podium. “Everyone,” he says. “You’ll notice we have a new addition. Normally, I wouldn’t accept new members into concert band this late in the year, especially this close to a tour, but Wesley James is a special case.”
Oh, he’s a special case all right.
I turn around to catch Erin’s eye. She shakes her head sympathetically.
“Mr. James is transferring to West Seattle High in September and, as luck would have it, he plays the tuba. And as you all know, our brass section could use a bit more support.”
Alisha and Jiao play the trumpet and the trombone, respectively, and they are very competitive. Like insanely so. No way will they be happy Wesley’s joining their ranks.
“Let’s take five to give Mr. James a chance to set up.” Murmurs break out around the room as Mr. Aioki starts to shuffle through a stack of sheet music.
“Hey, man,” Caleb says, turning around in his chair. Wesley plunks into the seat behind me, his tuba case knocking against the legs of my chair. “You passed the audition!”
“Yeah, I’m psyched.” Wesley flips the latches on his battered case. The hinges squeak as he opens the lid.
I give him a black stare. “Why are you here?”
Wesley pulls out his tuba, his eyes narrowing thoughtfully. “You know, you ask me that a lot,” he says.
That’s because he’s always turning up where I least expect him. He’s like bedbugs: irritating and impossible to get rid of.
“You only joined because of the trip,” I snap.
“Well … yeah,” he says. “Isn’t that why we’re all here?”
My crazy must be showing because Caleb is giving me a strange look. Probably wondering why I’m being so hostile to his new best friend. I grab a felt cloth from my case and start furiously polishing my clarinet.
“You must be a stellar player,” Caleb says. “Aioki doesn’t let just anyone in.”
“I’m all right,” Wesley says.
I roll my eyes. Aioki wouldn’t have accepted Wesley if he wasn’t a better-than-all-right tuba player, no matter how much support our brass section needs. Ugh, his false modesty is gross.
Wesley tunes his instrument, his cheeks billowing as he blows a quick puff of air into the mouthpiece, oblivious to the fact that everyone in the room is sneaking looks at him. Especially the girls. Even Erin. I catch her eye and she mouths, “He is so hot.”
Her reaction irritates me, although I’m not sure why. Fine, Wesley’s hot. So what? Caleb’s hot, too. Sort of. And a much better match for me than Wesley James.
My cheeks flush. Why am I even thinking about Wesley in that way? Being with him is not something that’s ever going to happen—never, ever. The thought should make me feel sick, instead of warm all over. God, what’s wrong with me?
When Wesley’s finally done tuning up, Mr. Aioki steps back to the podium and we start with “America the Beautiful,” a little off-key at first. I play it automatically, running through the notes without thinking, my mind on how much my life is full of suck.
I haven’t told Mr. Aioki—or anyone else, for that matter—that I can’t go on the tour yet. For the past few days, I’ve been holding out hope that Dad would find another way out of his mess, that I wouldn’t need to help him, but no such luck. I gave him the money last night. So it’s official. I’m not going to London.
But Wesley James is.
It’s not fair.
What really gets me is that he’s not even sorry about what happened between us five years ago. He hasn’t even tried to apologize for ruining my life. It doesn’t even matter to him.
By the time we play the first notes of Beethoven’s Symphony no. 5, I’m really fuming. Wesley needs to be taught a lesson. He has to take responsibility for what he did.
And then suddenly it comes to me.
I may not be able to do anything about Wesley going to my school or being a part of concert band or even having the same circle of friends, but there is one thing I might be able to do.
Get him fired.
*
My mind is still buzzing, working through my plan, while Erin and I wait in line for our after-practice caffeine fix.
“Quinn? You in there?” She snaps her fingers in front of my face. “Have you heard anything I’ve said in the past five minutes?”
“Sorry,” I say. “I was thinking.”
“About Wesley?”