Conrad was different when he got home from Memphis. He was happy. The trip had been a big success. His mother had asked him to come again in June and stay for the whole summer.
“We’re gonna drive to New Mexico to visit my uncle,” he told us at dinner. “Rosemary figured out it’s exactly nine hundred and ninety-nine miles from Memphis to Santa Fe. We’re choosing a one-mile detour so it’ll be an even thousand.”
“Cool,” Leo said. “Uncle Jeff?”
“Yeah.”
“Is he still married to the stewardess?”
“Linda.”
“Right. With the big hair.”
“They’re separated,” Conrad said.
“Your mother could never stand her. Said she was a fortune hunter. Though marrying an orthopedist isn’t exactly hitting the jackpot.” Leo served himself a big glob of mashed potatoes. “Can someone pass me the butter?”
Conrad looked different, too. He stopped buttoning the top button of his shirt tight around his Adam’s apple, which always made him look like a serial killer, and finally started using the dandruff shampoo my mother kept putting in the bathroom. He had made the varsity wrestling team. There was even a girl he liked at school. Leslie. A sophomore who had transferred in midyear.
In June, right before he left for Tennessee for the summer, Conrad, Leslie, and I went to see E.T. together. As we sat in the dark movie theater eating popcorn and watching a small boy communing with a long finger, I realized that, for the first time in a long time, things felt almost normal.
* * *
—
It’s been over six months, and still no quiet tapping at the door, dark shadow next to my bed, whispered threats. I don’t know if it’s because spending the summer with his mom and Rosemary made him realize what a disgusting perv he was, or because he and Leslie are dry-humping all the time, or because the hormones I’m taking change the way I smell. But whatever it is, the pills are working.
I run the eight blocks to school, rain pelting down on my umbrella, dirty puddle water splashing my ankles. I’ll probably flunk the test. I can’t remember why Paul Revere is so important.
December
“There you are,” Mum says, pushing her way through the heavy velvet stage curtains and plonking herself down on a metal folding chair in the now-empty viola section.
“You’re not supposed to come back here,” I say.
“The concert was a great success,” she says, ignoring me completely. “Though that conductor has no sense of rhythm. At these prices, the school really should hire someone more musical.”
“Mom!” I give her a fierce look and mouth Shut up. Half of the school orchestra is still backstage, putting their instruments away. Mr. Semple, our conductor, stands nearby, chatting to the oboes.
“I should have a word with him. He may not know he’s off tempo.”
“If you speak to him, I’ll kill you.” I pull apart the pieces of my flute, thread a white handkerchief through the tip of my cleaning rod, and shove it into the hollow lengths of silver pipe. A thin stream of saliva drips from the head of my flute when I hold it upright.
“And why on earth do a movement from Brandenburg four when you could do five?” She takes a ChapStick out of her purse and applies wax all over her lips. “In any event, Eleanor, you stole the show. Your piccolo solo has always been my favorite part of The Nutcracker: that quicksilverish slide up the scale: Bada bada bada bah . . . blrump, ba ba badladladladl bloom-pah,” she sings, at the top of her lungs.
“Oh my god. Mom. Stop.” I pick up my flute and piccolo and shove them in my backpack.
“The bassoons sounded like curdled milk.”
Leo and Conrad are waiting for us in the lobby outside the auditorium.
“Bravo!” Leo says. “You’ve turned into an excellent flautist, young lady.” He turns to Conrad. “What’d you think?”
“It was fine.”
“Only fine? I thought Elle was terrific.”
“I’m not into classical stuff.”
A few of my friends have run over to congratulate me, twittering with excitement: You were amazing . . . Who knew you could do that? . . . Is it hard? I like my friends, but I know they are not here to see me play a wind instrument. They’re here because Jeb Potter, the hottest guy in school, plays timpani in the orchestra.
Conrad edges his way into our circle. “Hey,” he says to my friends. “How’s it going?” He puts his hand on my shoulder. “I’m Elle’s brother, Conrad.”