The Story of Owen (11 page)

I'd spent most of the month trying my hand at various members of the brass family. The trumpet was first, and while I could manage it well enough, I decided that it was entirely too yellow for the music I wanted to play. I spent a long time with the euphonium, which was similar in sound to the bari sax and usually got the same part in band arrangements. I gave it up in the end, though, because it was so similar to the bari, and therefore wrong for the same reasons. We had a piccolo trumpet that I knew would be wrong before I picked it up, but I was tempted by the range anyway and gave it a go. It was a fluorescent disaster. I ruled out the tuba as too comical and too difficult to feature, and the trombone for being too stretchy, after only a few days of playing them.

I feel I should mention here that I was by no stretch of the imagination competent at any of these instruments. I could make them make noise, and after a couple of days, I could make them make noise on key, but I lacked any finesse. I didn't even take any of them home to practice, not because I didn't want to carry them to my car, but because I wanted to play them exclusively in soundproof rooms where no one could hear me
making a fool of myself trying to play something I was new at. I did have my pride.

The day Mr. Huffman told us about Scotland was the day I cracked open the case with the French horn in it. I'd left it until last because I knew it was the hardest in terms of technique, but as soon as I picked it up, I knew that I was a little bit in love with it. Even if it was wrong for the music I wanted to play, and even if I never got past the “distressed duck” stage of playing it, I loved its coils and slides, the way it fit on my lap, and the way the bell glinted, catching the light as I spun it end over end to empty the spit valve.

I had just mastered the C Major scale when Owen arrived in the practice room. He had his algebra textbook with him, ostensibly to finish his homework, but I knew that he was far more likely to just sit there and listen to me fumble my way through. I wouldn't have let anyone else sit there and listen, but I thought that since I got to watch him learn to use a sword and do all sort of ridiculous drills with it, letting him listen to me butcher “The Old Gray Mare” over and over again was probably fair enough.

“What is that?” he said when I stopped to catch my breath.

“It was ‘Frère Jacques,'” I told him. “I didn't think it was all that bad.”

“No, I recognized the song,” he said, smiling. “I meant what instrument is that.”

“French horn,” I said. “From Germany, of course.”

“So why is it called the French horn?” he asked.

“I have no idea,” I told him. “I think professionals just call it the horn, but I like the ‘ench.'”

“It looks complicated,” he said.

“I think it is,” I told him. “Or it will be, if I ever get good at it.”

“Why all the brass lately?” he asked. Apparently he'd been listening while I talked, because he was getting the family names of all the instruments right now. “I thought you were trying to focus.”

That was the other reason I'd avoided taking the brass instruments home for practicing. Mum and Dad still hadn't given up on my going to university and getting a degree in theory and composition. If I started bringing home a bunch of different brass instruments, that might lead to discussions I wasn't really ready to have yet.

“I'm supposed to tell stories,” I said. “And I need brass to do that.”

“That makes sense.” From anyone else, that would have been patronizing, but since the stories I was going to tell were about Owen, I thought he might appreciate not being left to the mercy of a woodwind narrative.

“It takes a village,” I said, and he smiled.

“So long as you don't expect me to sing,” he said.

“No fear of that,” I told him and went back to torturing the horn.

When the phone rang that night, I didn't pick it up. I had a long and storied tradition of not picking up the phone, or at least I would if anyone ever told stories about me, but had I known of the events that would transpire because of the phone call, I might have answered it. I think it makes for a more active beginning.

“Siobhan!” Dad called up the stairs. “The phone's for you!”

The phone was almost never for me. That's mostly why I so rarely picked it up. I did have a phone in my room, a birthday gift from my grandmother when I turned thirteen because, as she said, now that I was a teenager I might need some privacy. It was enormous and pink and it didn't get a lot of use, but I had to admit it was easier than walking downstairs. Of my for-emergencies-only cell phone, which I had inherited from my mother shortly after getting the car, and which had only spotty reception at best thanks to our living in the middle of nowhere, little can be said.

“Got it,” I said, after I'd picked up. “Hello?”

“Hi, Siobhan,” said a bright voice. “It's Sadie.”

“Hello,” I said again. Then I felt stupid so I added: “How are you?”

“Great, great, thanks,” she said. “Anyway, a bunch of us are going to the Taggerts' on Saturday night for a party. Do you want to come with?”

“Pardon?” I said, entirely surprised.

Sadie did me the courtesy of repeating the question in exactly the same tone, without dumbing it down to monosyllables.

“Um, I'll have to ask my parents,” I said, stalling. I knew they'd be thrilled.

“Great!” she said. “Tell me tomorrow, and then I can come and get you on Saturday!”

“Okay,” I said. I felt really awkward again and heard myself say, “Hey, thanks for inviting me.”

“No problem,” said Sadie. “I'll see you tomorrow!”

“Bye,” I said, and we hung up.

It was, I thought, one of the weirdest things that had happened to me. At least, so far this week. And it held that distinction until Saturday at six o'clock when the doorbell rang.

“Sadie Fletcher!” my mother said very loudly when she opened the door. I was sitting at the table in a nest of staff paper, and I jumped. “I don't think I've seen you since you girls were in preschool.”

That was entirely not true. Before the amalgamation, there had only been about six hundred students at TSS. Mum saw Sadie every year at commencement, when I played in the band and Sadie won several awards, despite not being a
graduate. Also, Sadie's dad was an orthodontist, and there was an unspoken camaraderie among all the medical practitioners of Trondheim, largely on the grounds that, including the nurses and the dental hygienists, there were exactly twenty-three of them. It was possible that Mum hadn't spoken with Sadie since we were five, but not seeing her just wasn't an option.

“Oh, you know how it goes,” Sadie said easily, kicking off her shoes and lining them up on the mat. “Siobhan and I just got so busy.”

That was one way of putting it.

“Siobhan's in the kitchen,” Mum said. “Go on in. Have you eaten?”

“Oh yes, thank you,” Sadie said.

“Well, there's pop in the fridge,” Mum said. “Siobhan can show you where the glasses are.”

By now, Sadie was all the way across the front hall and halfway through the living room. When she saw me, her smile faltered a little bit.

“Hi,” I said. “I'm sorry I'm not quite ready. I thought we would be going a bit later.”

“Oh, no, we are,” Sadie said. “Am I interrupting you? I didn't even think about that.”

“It's fine,” I said. I had already filled the last measure with rests, a sure sign that my muse was gone for the night. “I'm at a good place to stop.”

“That's so cool,” Sadie said. “Anyway, I'm here because I realized that I don't think you've ever been to a party, and I thought maybe you'd want some help picking what to wear.”

Until that precise moment, I had planned to wear the jeans and polo shirt I already had on, with whatever coat was hanging
by the door on my way out. Sadie was wearing jeans, but she had clearly put some effort into the rest of her outfit. I quickly decided that I was on alien territory, and it was probably best to take whatever advice the locals were willing to give me.

“That would be great,” I said. “Let's go upstairs and assess the damage.”

She laughed, and we headed for the stairs. As I walked past the TV room, Mum gave me a thumbs-up and a huge grin. I did my best not to roll my eyes.

“It's too bad Owen can't come,” Sadie said, settling on my bed and picking up one of the pillows to fiddle with it. I stepped into the closest, which was a walk-in, and hoped that I was not about to embarrass myself too badly.

“Yeah,” I said. I had hoped to have some backup. “His dad tries to be home on Saturday nights. They don't get to see each other all that much, with school and his dad's patrolling.”

“Have you met him yet?” Sadie asked.

“Yes,” I told her. “Will it be cold? I mean, should I be looking at sleeves or what?”

“Sleeves for sure,” Sadie said. “It won't be freezing, but it is an outside party in November. What's Lottie like?”

“She's fantastic,” I said, pulling off several hangers at once. “She's much more herself in person than she is on TV. Of course, she's herself on TV, but she's real in person. She can't cook very well. What about these?”

Sadie made me hold up each shirt in front of myself while she looked at me with a pursed smile, her head cocked to one side. When I got to the wine-red poet shirt Mum had bought me for a Mozart revue a few years ago, Sadie squeezed the pillow in glee.

“That one, for sure,” she said.

“Really?” I hadn't even picked it up on purpose. “It's practically a costume.”

“It's perfect,” Sadie said. “And I don't think you've ever worn it to school, so it's essentially new. You'll look like an artiste, with just the right amount of pirate, plus you can wear a thermal underneath it and be warm.”

“I didn't know that was the style of the time,” I said, somewhat dryly, but I stepped back into the closet to change.

Sadie cracked up laughing at that. “You are something else,” she said. I was pretty sure she meant it as a compliment. “Now, what were you planning to do with your hair?”

In the end, I sat in front of her on the bed while she did something involving twists and every hairpin I could scrounge. She talked the whole time, about the kids from school who would be there, and how there would probably be a fight if any of the Saltrock kids showed up, which was inevitable, since news of the party had been all over school for half a week. It was almost 7:30 by the time she was satisfied with my appearance.

I would like to add at this juncture that it's not that I am sartorially deficient in some way. I am perfectly capable of dressing myself for concerts and school, though I do tend toward the simple end of the scale of fashion. I might not ride the cusp of trendiness, but I wasn't exactly a candidate for
What Not to Wear
. Sadie was determined that I was going to make an impression, though (which I knew because she told me, halfway through the hair-pinning), and for reasons passing my own understanding, I let her. It's possible that I was in shock.

Anyway, I went to look in the mirror and Sadie produced a curling iron from her purse, which she plugged in and turned
on herself. I had to admit, Sadie was good at this. I looked different, but I didn't look like a doll.

“I don't think either of us should bother with makeup,” Sadie said, wrapping her hair around the iron. “It'll be dark.”

“Works for me,” I said. I did not get along with makeup on the best of days. “Thanks for this. I look much better than I'd planned to.”

“You're welcome,” she said.

I came back to sit on the bed and watched her finish her hair.

“Have you met Hannah as well?” she asked after a moment.

“Oh, yes,” I said. “Hannah is amazing too, but in a different way from Lottie. She's a lot more practical. She was the one who convinced my parents that it was safe for me to hang out with Owen so much. And it was her idea that I learn to use a sword.”

Something flashed in Sadie's eyes. At the time, I thought it was the lamplight reflecting on the metal tube of the curling iron, and I didn't think any further on it.

“That sounds like a lot of work,” she said, voice neutral.

“It really is,” I said. “My arms and legs are killing me, but I think I'm developing actual muscles.”

I rolled up the belled sleeves of my shirt to show her. The muscles were still mostly in my imagination, but we both pretended we could see results. I could certainly feel them.

“I think I'm done,” she said, reaching for the plug. She gave the iron a few minutes to cool down and then packed it back into her bag.

We headed downstairs to say goodbye to my parents. Mum made a lot of noise about my hair, and Sadie was modestly
appreciative of the praise. Then Dad admonished us not to do anything stupid, like leave the car idling for warmth or light a fire or drink and drive, and we promised to do our best to survive the evening.

“Be home by eleven, please,” Mum said. “And give us a call if you need anything, no questions.”

“Your parents are pretty cool,” Sadie said, as we headed for her car.

“They're thrilled I'm socializing,” I told her. I pulled the shrug Sadie had insisted I bring in place of a coat around my shoulders. I was probably going to freeze to death. “They'd probably be okay with this even if we were going dragon baiting.”

Sadie laughed again, and for the first time I genuinely began to wonder why she was doing this. She had been disappointed when Owen had told her he couldn't come, but her enthusiasm hadn't flagged at all when it came to going to the party with me. I had originally suspected that she had invited me as a courtesy to Owen, but her actions since finding out it would just be the two of us indicated otherwise. I had a moment of irrational fear that once we got the party she would ditch me.