Notes From An Accidental Band Geek (15 page)

Jake stepped closer.

“Do you like this song?” he asked. His Kermit the Frog collar brought out green flecks in his eyes. He smelled soapy and faintly of Funyuns.

I nodded, unable to speak.

Jake took my right hand in his left, and brought it close to his shoulder. He slipped his other hand around my waist. I rested my profusely sweating palm on his shoulder, trying not to put any pressure on it in case the sweat soaked through his T-shirt. Our feet stumbled as I tried to figure out how this worked.

“Sorry,” I said, stepping on his shoe. I was mortified. My hands were producing a catastrophic flood of fluid, my back was starting to sweat, and the smell of Funyuns became overpowering. Breathe, I reminded myself. Just breathe.

“Let me lead,” he whispered.

“I’m not sure how!” I whispered back, face flaming.

“Just relax. Listen to the song.”

I did what he said, focusing on the lyrics. “Couldn’t smell your perfume in the air/Didn’t see the flowers in your hair/Didn’t know to trust that you were even there.” I’d heard the song a million times before—it was on the radio every ten minutes, how could you not?—but hadn’t realized how sad it was.

And while I was contemplating Theo Christmas’s lyrical choices and emotional state, somehow, magically, I found myself slow dancing with a boy. Jake led us in a lazy circle of our little area of the dance floor. Unlike some of the other mashed-together couples, a foot of space was still between us, but we were slow dancing. I was
slow dancing
. With a
boy
!

And before I could stop myself, I realized how crazy that would make my dad. I stifled a grin at the thought of what he would say if he knew . . .

And forced my thoughts back to the present. This wasn’t about what my dad would think or do—this moment was
mine
.

Jake’s right hand rested on my back, hot as a stove burner. His left, clutching my right, I couldn’t feel at all. I had it in a death grip and mine had gone numb. I loosened my fingers.

“Thanks,” Jake said. “I was afraid I’d have to get it amputated at the end of the song.”

“Sorry!” I whispered. “I had no idea.”

“You don’t have an idea about a lot of things,” he said.

My stomach felt like Jell-O. “Such as . . . ?” I said.

“Such as someone sitting a few chairs down from you at All-State might be impressed by your playing and your smile.”

“Really?” I squeaked. I was in danger of fainting again.

“Or how cute your pig ears and annoying personality are.”

“Oh.” Breathe, Elsie, breathe, I admonished myself.

Luckily, Jake seemed to be done with torturing me with compliments and revelations. My head was spinning and I kept reminding myself to breathe. I didn’t know what else to think, other than that I really, really liked him.

Jake steered us closer to Hector and Sarah, who were doing a dramatic, tragic imitation of a couple dressed as
Dusk
vampires that were clearly very serious about their love. We bumped into them and all of us laughed.

“Nice!” Jake said after Sarah dipped Hector. We broke apart to applaud them, and then Jake took my hand again. It was so easy . . . like he’d been holding my hand forever. I just wished I’d had a squeegee to mop it up before he grabbed it.

The song wound down, and Jake pulled me close.

“Elsie-Chicken,” he whispered in my ear. The back of my neck prickled. “You are a fabulous Miss Piggy.”

“And you are a fine frog,” I said, trying to sound cooler and calmer than I felt—which was awkward and jangly and nervous-y.

The song ended, and Jake squeezed my hand. I smiled, firecrackers exploding in my chest. Was this real? Would it change things ?

These questions and more bounced around my head to an andante beat. Jake led us off the dance floor and back to our corner of the caf. My smile was sandblasted on.

That is, until I spotted Punk watching us from the far side of the room.

23

I didn’t know what to do. Should I go over to him? Apologize? Pretend like I didn’t see him?

From where I was standing, it was hard to see the expression on his face, and I didn’t want Jake to see him either. Even though nothing happened, I knew that would be a bad idea. I had no idea if Punk was angry or what. My giggly, whirly mood disappeared in an instant. My sweaty palms, not so much. Maybe the best thing would be to get Sarah and let her figure the whole thing out.

But when Jake and I got back to Sarah and Hector, Steve and AJ came over to us, a few color guard girls in tow, deciding that they needed to make a spectacle of whatever had happened—or not happened—as we danced.

“Tell us, Mr. Hopper. How does it feel to dance with a back-from-the-dead zombie chicken?” AJ waved an imaginary microphone in his face as Steve pretended to snap paparazzi photos. Jake’s hand still firmly grasped mine, even though I tried to pull away.

“Let me tell you,” Jake said, staring straight at me while speaking into the “microphone,” “it was
clucking awesome
!”

Everyone—including me—busted out laughing. The laughter gave me an excuse to take my hand back. It wasn’t that I wanted to let go of Jake, but I needed to collect my thoughts, my appendages, and dry my sopping palms. Again.

I moved a step or two away from his side and smiled when he glanced at me. I wanted him to know that I wasn’t mad or anything, but I seriously needed to get some control back.

A few minutes later, the DJ played the last song. Jake was refereeing a heated discussion between Hector and one of the guys who played sousaphone over which family-friendly
Star Wars
aliens were more lame: Ewoks or Jar Jar Binks. Although he shot me an apologetic glance, I was grateful not to have to dance with him—or anyone—again. Too stressful.

When the lights came up, the four of us filed to the doors with the crowd. Headlights brightened the turnaround at the front of the school as parents lined up to collect those of us unable to drive.

“So,” Jake said. And as soon as he said it, my palms started weeping.

“Yeah,” I said, willing my hands to dry. Jake gave me this cute half smile and my insides coiled tighter than the tubing of my horn.

“This was . . . nice.”

Now I was a blushing and sweating Miss Piggy. Awesome. I probably smelled like a pig too, come to think of it. And that made me sweat and blush even more.

“Yeah.” I couldn’t think of anything else to say.

“My mom’s here,” called Sarah from a few feet away.

“Her mom’s here.” Somehow, Jake had gotten closer to me while we were talking. His arm brushed mine, searching for my hand.

Suddenly, the night was too much: Punk, the dance with Jake, everyone seeing us together, the general weirdness of the situation—it became overwhelming. I needed some time to think.

“Okay!” I called, louder than I needed to. “See you on Monday,” I said with extra cheer in my voice. Jake’s stunned expression stabbed me in the heart.

“Yeah,” he mumbled, stepping back.

I brushed past him and raced to Mrs. Tracer’s car. Sarah was already in the front seat. I hopped in back, heart pounding. As we drove away from HeHe High, I couldn’t help but feel relieved that the night was over. When not behind my horn, I’d probably spend the rest of the weekend reliving and analyzing every moment of it.

Unfortunately, my parents had other ideas. I’d forgotten that we had dinner plans on Saturday night—friends of my mom invited us over. I didn’t see why I had to go. The Abates’ kids were in college and there’d be no one there for me to talk to. But Mom insisted that Mr. and Mrs. Abate wanted to “see how much I’d grown.”

Dad had gotten a sub for his BSO gig; not that it mattered. He was late getting home from his practice studio, which made
us
late leaving, which made Mom really, really annoyed.

“Tell me why you are early for every single gig you play, but you can’t seem to be
remotely
punctual for anything else,” she groused from the front seat. Dad was driving like a maniac, as if he could break the space-time continuum and get us there before we were supposed to have left or something.

“I just got involved in the music.” He glanced at me in the rearview mirror. “You know what that’s like, right, hon? When you are so into what you’re playing that everything else disappears?”

I totally did. But he wanted backup, I wanted to be anywhere else.

“Not exactly,” I said, scowling. Mom gave a victorious “
Hah
!”

I stared out the window to avoid the hurt in his eyes.

When Monday rolled around, I didn’t feel better about anything. As a matter of fact, I’d spent the remainder of the weekend so worried about what would happen when I saw Jake that I barely ate or slept, and felt awful. I even avoided the computer, in case he IM’ed me. My mom, convinced I was coming down with something, force-fed me some awful tea that my great-grandmother swore cured colds.

“Mom, seriously, I don’t think I need this stuff,” I croaked after a sip that made me gag.

“Finish the cup,” she admonished. “You’ll thank me later.”

It tasted like black licorice and old shoes, but I choked it down under her watchful eye.

“Elsie,” she said, once the cup was emptied to her satisfaction—no standing liquid, just a few dribbles at the bottom, “your father and I are concerned about you.”

Inside, I groaned. Just what I needed, Mom and Dad on my case. I was stressed out enough. It was times like these I wish I had a younger sister or brother to distract them.

“I’m just busy,” I replied, staring into the teacup. “That’s all. There’s nothing to worry about.”

“Well, we want to make sure that you’re still making good choices and taking care of yourself. You are under a great deal of pressure and we’ve noticed a change in your behavior.”

Hmmm . . . like freaking out when you and Dad dragged me away from my friends at the band competition, instead of going quietly? That’s what I wanted to say. Instead, I just sat there, trying to look innocent and fighting the building aggravation.

Also, if I remembered correctly, “making good choices” and “taking care of myself” were parental code phrases for not doing drugs—illegal or otherwise. My mom goes on streaks where she watches every one of those newsy TV shows—you know, the ones where they devote an hour to profiling some girl who stole her friends’ ADHD medicine at a slumber party, then raced into the street while hopped up and got hit by a truck—and then she gets all uber-parental on me. If this weren’t my life, it’d be really funny.

Mom went on, “We’re also concerned that marching band might be taking up too much of your schedule. You’re doing schoolwork and practicing at odd hours.” She folded her hands on top of each other.

Whoa—was Mom suggesting that I needed to quit marching band? What would happen to my chances at Shining Birches if I did
that
?!

“I am making excellent choices, Mom,” I replied, struggling to keep my voice even, “
and
finishing my homework, doing fine in all of my classes, and still able to practice my horn. Seriously; I’m okay.” As I spoke, I gathered my lunch and books, working my way toward the door. “The tea is making me feel better already!” I raced to the bus stop before she could make any more helpful suggestions.

24

My day didn’t improve at school. Sarah pounced on me the second I stepped off the bus and dragged me to the bathroom before homeroom, her chandelier-like earrings swinging the whole way.

The door closed behind us with a soft
whump!
muffling the noise from the main hall.

“Soooooo?” she said, stretching the word like melty cheese.

“So what?” I replied as innocently as possible. I tugged on my treble clef necklace charm.

“So, about the dance!” she cried. “I was dying to talk to you all weekend but we spent two days on Cape Cod and I couldn’t get a second of privacy.” She wrinkled her nose. “Spill it.”