Phobic (14 page)

I’m a mess. The time it takes getting my clarinet and homework from my locker is torture. I peer out the skinny window on the school exit. The parking lot is empty, save for a few cars. Even the buses have gone.

With a grimace I recognize Sierra’s lime green Beetle. Her silky hair tussles in the slight breeze. She stands by Todd’s red truck, and his forehead crinkles with concern for her.

I stay inside for a few seconds and then push open into the sunlight. Tears eke down her face. Good grief, she’s crying again. It seems so pathetic. Whatever her problem is, it can’t be as bad as mine. Her clothes all seem intact, so it’s not that. Their voices are soft, and then Todd pulls her into a hug. A green snake slithers its way in my chest.

Squaring my jaw, I make my way to the passenger door, clarinet case in hand. Sierra glares at me on her way to her own car.

Figures, that Todd will listen to her problems, but just shove me off.

Todd climbs into the driver’s seat without saying a word. He cranks the truck to life and shifts. Heavy breaths chug in my lungs. Any minute he’ll look over. Smile at me, like he usually does. Instead, he glances behind him and backs up.

“Did she break a nail or something?” I ask, trying to be funny. A muscle jumps in his jaw. He slides me a look, then focuses back on the road.

My pulse wavers, and the bitterness deflates. Oh no. Maybe this isn’t about Sierra at all; maybe it’s about my house and what I just told him. I should have kept my mouth shut.

The cab is silent all the way into downtown Cedarvale, and the entire time I’m tearing apart inside.

“Todd—”

“Sierra said you were a witch to her. What happened?”

Though he didn’t use the actual B-word, it still smarts like a slap. “How could you of all people call me
that
?” He knows what their nickname for me means. But it’s more than just the nickname. It’s all the horrible things they’ve done and said. And it could just be me, but his tone sounds like he’s taking her side.

That must be what she was so upset about. Doesn’t he care about what
I
told him?

“Pipes, I just meant—”

“For the first time ever I was myself,” I tell him. “My real self; the self I’ve held back from people for years. Just like you told me to be.”

“You really upset her, so I just wondered what happened,” Todd says. His tone sounds less defensive this time. He turns down Bennett Avenue to the Civic Center where my audition is. The building climbs into the sky far above the other ones surrounding it, and cars completely plug up the lot. Todd pulls to the sidewalk off from the large glass doors in the front.

“
I
upset
her
? Sierra’s the reason everyone knows, Todd!” I dig the newspaper article out of my pocket and fling it near his face.

“You know when we caught her sneaking around last night? She stole this article about my mom. And then she must’ve gotten her mom to cast it on the news!”

Todd’s black brows cluster, and he stares at his radio. “Piper, I—she did that?”

“This is all your fault.
Let’s have a party at Piper’s. Come on, guys, I’ll give you something else to make fun of her for
. Well, congratulations. You got your wish.”

“Piper—”

“You practically grill me about my house, and when I tell you, you don’t even care. Now this.”

I stare at a kid hauling a trumpet case into the main doors. “It’s either me or them.” I struggle to breathe against my sprinting heart. “Look, thanks for giving me a ride, but I can find my own way home.”

I grab my case and head toward the main glass doors.

M
y phone buzzes in my hand. My heels clack on the sidewalk, and I hold my head up.
I won’t look. I don’t want his apology.
But it trills a second time and my will crumbles.

One text is from Todd. The other is from Joel. And they both say the same thing.

Good luck in there.
Except Todd adds
Sorry
to his.

I clamp my jaw to fight the spongy, angry-nervous shaking inside of me. What a baby Sierra is, whining to Todd like that. I don’t know what she expects him to do about it. And so what if I said something mean to her, she does the same thing to me on a daily basis!

I enter a foyer that’s longer than it is round. Several sets of double doors stand feet away, leading into the vast auditorium where I assume I’ll be auditioning. A few glass-blocked ticket counters sit to the left, and I head toward the card table beside a large sign saying ENTRANTS SIGN IN. A boy with glasses manages the table.

This is my big day, and I won’t let Sierra screw it up. I take a stale breath and head toward the table. I sign
Piper Crenshaw
on the long list, followed by
Interlochen Arts Academy
under the heading requesting which school the scholarship is intended for.

Interlochen is what I want more than anything. I know going for a full school year is out of the question financially. It’s like twenty grand, and since Dad died Joel and I barely squeak by. I’ve offered to get a job, but I’m not old enough, and Joel insists I focus on school.

This scholarship audition is my only chance. One of the locals is putting it on, and only one of the entrants gets the money. It’s unlikely I’ll get it, since I’m going against kids shooting for college scholarships, too, and I’m only fifteen. But I might as well try.

It’s my ticket away from high school, from my annoying brother. I can start over. At Interlochen, no one will know about my mom or my kooky house. I won’t be defined by pimples, but by talent.

“Here,” says the boy, handing me a name tag with a number on it. C13. “You’re up at 4:10.”

4:10. That’s in fifteen minutes. My lungs vibrate against the air I try to suck in. This is it.

I move to the side and pull open Facebook, anxious for people’s mundane posts to provide a distraction, which I desperately need right now. A little number one lights up at the top of my screen. I’ve been tagged in a post by…

By…

My eyes read too quickly to grasp what the words say. And then my heart reacts before my brain gets a chance.

It’s a fake profile.
My
profile.

“Piper Axemurderer Crenshaw. Giving a new meaning to the word Payback.” And with the words is a picture of me—or my face, anyway—on the body of a much buffer girl holding a bloody axe.

The worst, though, are the comments below. It’s gotten twenty-seven likes and about a dozen comments already, some people just plain laughing, some poking fun at my mom:

“What kind of person could do that to someone else? If she’s in prison, she’d better stay there.” And, “I wish my mom was an axe murderer. Then I could be a freak like Piper.”

Mostly, though, they’re about me directly. “Maybe you should just axe yourself. Save us all from having to see your face.” And, “The things our education system allows to attend school.”

Things. They don’t even have the decency to acknowledge I’m a person. And Turcott’s on there too, posting the same thing he’d said to me in the hallway when he’d shown me the YouTube video. “I still know a few people you could hack off for me.”

One girl, not part of Sierra and Jordan’s group, says something in my favor. “You guys are so mean.”

But then a string of comments follow. I read, “Serves volcano face right,” and then after seeing, “What’s she gonna do, MURDER us?” I close the screen.

I want to slam my phone to the linoleum. To scream at anyone who dares talk to me. They can’t do this. They can’t. I’ll show them. I’ll ace this audition. Get out of my house, out of this town.

I don’t know why I want it more: to get away from Payback Piper, or from the spaz attacks my house has almost every day. I hate the idea of leaving Joel by himself for a whole summer, but he’s gone so much more now with his internship that I feel like I’m the one getting left behind.

Unsure of how I manage to move, I follow the hallway to another large sign that says PREP ROOM. A girl carrying a skinny flute case opens the door. Chatter multiplies, and I follow her and three others in. People scatter across the open, tiled space. Different instrument sounds ricochet off the walls, including some girl singing. Several of the kids hold nervous looks on their faces.

I pick a corner of the tile-floored, echoey room and ignore everyone else. Squatting to the floor, I assemble my clarinet, putting the pieces together carefully. The keys feel cold, and I smear my clammy palms on my silver skirt.

I reach for my bag but my fingers nudge the cold tile. A wave of dread hits. Chairs, other people’s cases and bags, but mine’s not there. My bag—where’s my bag?

Oh no. My music.

In seconds I’m on my feet, circling my small area. I hold my clarinet to my forehead, then glance around again, frantic. There’s no sign of my purple backpack.

I whip out my cell. I can text him—see if I left it in Todd’s truck. But he’s probably halfway back to his house by now. He’ll never make it back here in time.

I’ll play it from memory. I can. I can do this.

The second hand on the clock moves way too fast. It’s 4:03.

Lights pour into my eyes. I can barely make out the few silhouettes sitting behind a long table in the dark audience, but they’re out there. No eyes, no faces, just blurs.

I get that feeling when you’re surrounded by people and yet still feel invisible. Only this time it’s backward. With only about ten people or so in the gigantic auditorium, all the attention is on me.
I
am center stage. But none of them know me. None of them care whether I get this scholarship or not. Or why I even want it in the first place. Or about the fake profile and the fact that I just had a fight with my best friend right before this.

My mom would care. Wouldn’t she?

That’s just it. I don’t know.

Anger rushes over me in an instant, pumping my heart like it does when a blood pressure cuff is around my arm and I can feel every beat. She could have been there this time. She should. Be. Here. Not locked away somewhere because she chose to take another man’s life.
Because she chose to take herself out of mine.

I can’t think about that right now. I mean, I’m on
stage.
I look back and nod to the pianist. She starts a slow, ascending melody that’s anything but relaxing. My nerves ring beneath my skin, and I try to summon the exact page of music to my mind.

We cut a huge chunk of the piano part… Eight measures, that’s right. I rest for eight measures.

I work to keep my fingers steady on the clarinet in my hands, trying not to recall the awful things people are posting about me.
And about my mom.
Mom. She’s not here. So what? I can do this without her.

Two more measures left. I put the mouthpiece to my teeth and blow, willing the notes to come from memory. Music takes hold, swelling through the pores of my body until I can almost feel it in me.

This is why I do it. Satisfaction courses through as the melody flows like water, transforming my fingers into magicians. The sound is pure and rich; it fills the auditorium with the mellowness I’ve grown to love. Mozart spills out as my fingers race along the passages until—

My fingers fumble.

Wait.

I miss the easiest passage—a place I’ve never once messed up on before. Ever! No, not possible. Now, of all times. I’ve played this piece a hundred times before. It doesn’t make sense.

I try to recover, upping the pace of the sixteenth notes to catch up to the piano. Even if I had music in front of me, I wouldn’t be able to see it. The stage lights beam too brightly, barring and spotting my vision. I can’t do anything but play.

My already shaking hands quiver, and the quivering affects my breath, making my tone weak. Hold it together. Hold it. Together.

I make it to the end, but my lips won’t even smile at the judges or thank them for their time. Instead, my lower lip quivers. My song is over. Over.

I hold the slim clarinet in one hand and push along the hallway past the hundreds of other applicants each holding their instruments, from French horns to flutes to violins. It sucks—I’m the one everyone will talk about when this is over. Splatter it over that ludicrous profile page.