Chapter 1
I’m not playing my cello; we’re dancing.
My eyes are closed and my shoulders sway, following the lead of my darting head, which bounces with the rhythm of the song in my earbuds: Chance the Rapper’s “Blessings.” It’s got a soulful throwback vibe with brass and piano and drums—and now the harmonizing of my strings. I glide my bow to back up the gospel chorus. When Chance drops in, I match his quick verse with shorter swipes. The notes reverberate up my arms. I tap my heel. I bite my lip. Part ear training, part improvisation, this is a welcome cool down from Bach’s Suite No. 1 in G Major.
I got to school early this morning so that I could practice in the orchestra classroom, because the acoustics are better here than in my bedroom. I’ve been running through the piece there during Winter Break, but now that we’re back at school I’m anxious to finish fine-tuning my technique before the audition.
It seems like blessings keep falling in my lap, Chance finishes. I rest the bow on my knee and pop out my headphones. Someone claps behind me.
“I don’t know what you were playing along with,” Mrs. Lawry says, “but it sounded like a lot of fun.”
I fumble to wrap the white cord around my phone and drop it into my backpack. “Oh, sorry,” I reply. “I didn’t think you’d be in this early.”
“What are you doing in this early?” she asks and sits across from me. Her posture is straight and purposeful. Whenever she demonstrates to the class, her movements are fluid—despite being nearly seventy and wearing glasses as thick as my textbooks. I prefer her critiques over teachers I’ve had in the past, because they’re short and sweet. Faster here. Make this transition smoother. Don’t slouch.
“The door was unlocked,” I explain, returning my cello to its case.
“And you decided to get some extra practice in, even though we have class later today and a private lesson this afternoon?” She crosses her arms, and smiles. “Charlotte, I don’t want you to burn yourself out before Chicago.”
“I won’t.”
“But you want to be perfect.” Mrs. Lawry takes off her glasses and wipes the lenses with her blouse sleeve. “First of all, there’s no such thing. No matter how much you practice. You’re the most talented student I’ve ever worked with. I know I’ve told you that before and maybe you think I say that to all my students.”
She slides her glasses back on. “I don’t. So all you have to do is play like you have during our sessions, and I guarantee you’ll impress everyone at that audition.”
“I can’t come in early, too? You don’t even have to be here, I can—”
“You won’t forget everything we’ve practiced in the few hours that we don’t see each other. We have plenty of time to rehearse.”
I nod and prop my cello case against the wall.
“You should get on over to the assembly,” Mrs. Lawry says. “Go relax.”
There’s nothing relaxing about a gym filled with groggy seniors on their first day back from the holidays. This is not fun; fun for me involves music. Playing the cello or listening to one of my carefully curated playlists. Or, as I was doing this morning, both. Those freestyle sessions calm me down when I’m anxious, and jolt me awake if I’m lagging. I’d rather sneak into class for some extra playing time than stay in bed on a weekday morning.
Is that crazy?
Probably. But it’s a moot point, really, because I have an even crazier idea in mind for the end of this month.
The thought originated on my eighth birthday, when my parents got me a Casio keyboard. My mom played the piano growing up and wanted to teach me, too. I was a stubborn pupil, so she often had to bargain with me—and sometimes outright bribe me—in order to sit down with her for lessons. She quickly discovered that I resisted because I was bored with the workbooks we used. I figured out how to read music pretty early and blew through all of the beginner songs. So my mom stuck her own music books in front of me and we played together.
Mom loves classical music, which means I’ve been familiar with Bach (among the genre’s other heavyweights) for years. I’d play the right hand and she’d accompany with her left. Once I could keep up with both hands, we’d trade off or she would drop in harmonizing chords while I played through on my own. I was at that keyboard with her for the rest of elementary school.
When seventh grade rolled around, I had the option of taking an orchestra class. Mom came with me to meet the teacher and had me play a few measures on the baby grand in the room. It was impressive to hear the heavy keys strike the cords and echo around us, instead of the synthetic notes produced by our plastic electric keyboard. I could tell my mom was eager for me to continue as a pianist like she had been in school.
Unfortunately, the instrument didn’t resonate with me as strongly as it did for her. The piano felt distant; I was disconnected from the music, pressing buttons. I explored the rest of the orchestra classroom that day. Tapped on the drums. Tried to lift a tuba. Then I sat down with a cello. All it took was a couple of draws with the bow and my mind was made.
I joined the class and as soon as I got a cello of my own, I dragged it down to my room to practice at-will. The notes bellowed through the basement, through my bones. I was absorbed in the rich atmosphere that even a single whole-note could create. (Not to mention the ferocity with which I would eventually play a complex Beethoven piece.) Nothing has ever felt as relaxing and comfortable as playing that instrument, and I’ve been playing it nonstop ever since.
So last year, when I started seriously thinking about which colleges to apply to, I decided to focus on music conservatories where I could continue playing and studying music. Juilliard is the first on my list. It’s the only school on my list.
Out of the nearly three hundred seniors gathering for this morning’s Last Semester Rally, I’m the only one applying there. All of my essays, test scores, and letters of recommendation have been submitted. At the end of the month, I have to attend a first-round audition in Chicago. The thought scares me to death. Which it should; everyone is nervous about auditions and college admissions in general. That’s not why I think I’m crazy.
I’m crazy because I don’t perform solo. Period.
I can practice with a teacher. I can rehearse during class. I can even manage to play on stage with the school orchestra. But I cannot be singled out in front of an audience. It’s my nightmare.
Mrs. Lawry knows that I freeze under the spotlight, and thankfully has never pressed the matter. She doesn’t call on me during class. If anything needs work, we address it during private lessons after school. She accommodates my issue, but her standards cannot be compromised. She’s performed with several regional symphonies and is a hawk for technical details.
In the middle of junior year, after our rehearsals together had been progressing well for some time, Mrs. Lawry insisted that I perform a solo during one of the school showcases. I made every excuse I could, but she encouragingly pushed me nonetheless. She thought the fear was only in my head, that I was more afraid of stage fright than actually scared of being onstage. I knew better, and refused. She threatened to drop me from orchestra class if I didn’t participate.
So, in front of an auditorium filled with half-interested students, and nothing but my cello and a wooden chair with me, I sat staring into a blazing spotlight. And sat.
And sat.
It was a lifetime’s worth of fear and anxiety, packed into the longest minute and a half of my life. I could see Mrs. Lawry, standing by the curtains, waving signs of encouragement. No. She was waving for me to get off the stage. But none of my limbs would cooperate. Finally, I heard applause. Someone deep in the back rows was clapping, mocking me. Everyone else was too embarrassed to make a sound.
So, given that impeccable track record, it’s reasonable to assume that I will do fine at the Chicago audition.
Why can’t I buy into that delusion?
As I enter the gym, I hear snippets of conversations. Catching up after the holidays. Sharing news of early acceptance. Making plans for summer road trips. There’s so much energy and excitement buzzing through the wooden bleachers.
Why aren’t they all terrified? Why is no one ever as terrified as I am?
A better question: if I think everyone else is crazy, does that mean I’m really the crazy one?
“Charlotte?”
I turn. He stands beside me, his eyes so wide I can see the whites all the way around his deep brown irises. His black hair explodes from the top of his head like a confetti popper, while the rest of him is neatly put together in khakis and Doc Martens.
“Charlotte,” Wyatt says to me again. This may be the most we’ve talked since he moved here last year. “I, uh . . . I can’t believe this is happening.”
“What’s happening?”
He starts to answer, then drops his shoulders, and the intensity fades from his face. “I don’t know yet.”
I look around. No one else is watching us, so I don’t think this is a prank. Wyatt looks around, too, wide-eyed again, like he’s never seen the inside of the gym before. Like he’s lost in a dream.
“Well, when you figure it out . . .”
“This is really happening,” he says, smiling now. “I can’t believe it.” Almost laughing, he repeats the phrase a couple more times to himself as he walks up the steps and files into a seat in the bleachers.
I see Karen, Natalie, and Aiden standing on the gym floor along the front row. They beckon me over. As I walk toward them, I can’t help but scan above for another look at Wyatt. What an odd encounter . . . But he’s nowhere to be seen, lost to the mob of students swarming the stands.
“What’s the point of this pep rally again?” Natalie asks, pulling her blonde hair back and cinching it into a ponytail.
“To celebrate our final semester of high school!” Karen replies in her Student Council always-end-with-an-exclamation-point voice.
“And to remind us not to completely check out,” Aiden adds as he hugs Natalie from the back and kisses her cheek. He’s one of the few guys tall enough to stand above her like that. “Although you might have checked out a while ago.”
“Not true!” Natalie squirms and grabs his elbows, but Aiden twists and pulls her down onto the bench with him. Its a relationship of tangled limbs and knocking joints.
“Kinda true,” Aiden continues to joke.
“I’m a scholar-athlete.”
“Emphasis on the athlete.”
“Are you saying I have senioritis?”
“And I hope it’s not contagious!”
As much as we pretend that we’re over high school, all of us spend a lot of time here. Karen helps plan these rallies, organizes fundraisers, decorates the hallways and lockers for events, coordinates photo opportunities with the yearbook, and tries to make sure we have a fun and memorable four years—which is why she’s such an amazing Student Council President.
Natalie, meanwhile, practices with her club volleyball team here every afternoon, and our gym hosts her home matches plus a regional tournament. She’s been competing in one sport or another since she could kick a soccer ball. Her growth spurt in sixth grade narrowed her focus to basketball and volleyball, with the latter taking over a couple years ago. She has a scholarship at the University of Minnesota Duluth waiting for her after graduation.
Aiden isn’t at school after class, but he’s not far away at his dad’s auto body shop, pursuing his own passion. He’s obsessed with cars, and underneath his grease-stained fingers and scraggly beard, is a total nerd. He can walk you through the evolution of the carburetor if you let him, and nothing seems more fun to him than swapping stories with guys at car shows. Aiden is also our main ride, in a midnight blue 1975 Chevy Chevelle that he brought to life piece by piece.
“You guys,” Karen sits down beside Natalie, “this is a big deal.”
“We know, we know,” Natalie says. “And there will be plenty of nostalgia and looking back and saying goodbye—but I can’t do that all semester long. We’ve gotta enjoy ourselves. We’re seniors. We own this school!”
“I can’t be a little sentimental?”
“No. Not until at least prom. In the meantime, we have fun.”
“Okay.” Karen’s voice doesn’t inspire confidence that she’s taking Natalie’s advice to heart. “But I am going to miss this.”
“Not all of it. There has to be something you won’t mind leaving behind.”
Karen squints, as if struggling to come up with a response.
Natalie raises her eyebrows. “C’mon, one thing.”
After looking around for a long handful of seconds, Karen replies, “I won’t miss this gym. No offense, Natalie, but every time I come to your games, it smells like Old Spice and stale farts.”
“Those farts might be fresher than you think.” Aiden waves his hand in front of his face.
“Gross,” Natalie cringes, pinching his knee.
Aiden leans forward and kisses the top of her head again. “Kidding, of course. I think your games smell lovely.”
“That’s more like it.”
“You’re so whipped,” Karen rolls her eyes.
“Lucky for you,” Aiden replies, “otherwise who would drive you around?”
“You’re right, my boyfriend’s too busy soaking in chlorine to ever drive me anywhere fun.” She winks as, on cue, Scott approaches, perpetually out of breath.
He’s at school all the time, too, since his mornings and afternoons are spent diving from a platform, spinning around at an insane speed, barely splashing into the water, then getting out and doing it all again. Rinse, repeat. For hours. The guy is committed. Which I appreciate, because he gave me an early ride this morning for my attempted cello practice.
Scott nods wordlessly, tucks in next to Karen, and gives her a kiss. He always has a smile, but rarely opens his mouth to talk. Karen does enough of that for both of them.
“Are you bummed this is our last semester?” Karen asks.
He shrugs.
“Your apathy is noted and appreciated, Scott,” Natalie teases, then turns to me as I finally take a seat next to them. “How are you feeling?”
“I’ll get excited, too.”
“That’s the tepid enthusiasm we know and love from you, Chuck.” Natalie has been a jock for as long as I’ve known her, and can’t resist tagging me with a nickname.
“Go easy,” Aiden chimes in. “This is a hectic time of year.”
“I can’t wait for it to be over. Applications, admissions, decisions . . .”
“And then prom!” That’s definitely something Karen can get behind. She’s already looking forward to the Planning Committee elections that take place next week.
As with everything related to student government, there will be elaborate campaigning—we’ll hang signs, pass out stickers, make silly T-shirts, and give away cookies during the countdown to election day. All the effort seems only to annoy the student body (minus the homemade treats, maybe), but there is nothing Karen likes more. And she wants to make her last semester the best yet.
After that, she’s heading to the main University of Minnesota campus in Minneapolis with Scott. Aiden and Natalie will be here in Duluth.
And I’ll be in New York City.
That’s the plan.
Dancers. Thespians. Musicians. I’ve read through the brochure dozens of times, but I flip through it at my locker nearly every day anyway.
“You should audition.” Wyatt stands beside me, leaning against the row of lockers. He smiles and offers an exaggerated nod; his bundle of hair bounces independently from his head.
“What’s up with you? Can you read my mind?”
Wyatt’s brow creases with seriousness. “No. I don’t think so. But I do know that you’ll audition for Juilliard, even if you’re having second thoughts about it now.”
“I will, huh?”
“It’s a fact.”
“And how do you know that?”
“I know a lot of things. But I’m not sure how to explain how I know them quite yet. Sorry, Charlotte. There’s a bunch of stuff that I want to tell you, but I haven’t figured out how. Not yet. But I will.”
I’ve never seen anyone take mushrooms before, but I have an idea what it looks like. A few of the band kids would eat them when they went camping. From what I understand, it makes you hallucinate. See things that aren’t there. Hear voices. Think that you’re another person.
Something tells me Wyatt has taken some mushrooms. His fingers rub nervously and his eyes flutter. I don’t want him to have a bad trip.
“Maybe you should go home,” I suggest. “Want me to walk you to the nurse? They’ll give you an excused absence.”
Wyatt’s hands calm and his eyes settle. Good. I want to help him without scaring him. Then he looks over to me. Focused. His pupils are not dilated. Maybe he hasn’t taken any drugs after all.
“The thing is,” he says. “I feel fine. I feel great, actually. Better than I have in a long time.”
“That’s good,” I say.
“Thanks for letting me ramble. I do have something to tell you, but it may take a while, and I’m not sure how to say it yet. I’ll have to figure that out. Hopefully soon.” He points the brochure in my hands. “In the meantime, just know that you’re going to audition for Juilliard.”
I nod. He smiles. I smile back; I can’t help it. Finally, he backs away and disappears down the hall.
“What did he want?” Natalie asks as she opens her locker next to me.
I can only shake my head. I have no idea.
That was the longest conversation I’ve ever had with Wyatt, and it was a strange one. He seemed confused and out of it, sure, but I feel like he also sees things more clearly than anyone.
