Page 5 of The Breakaway

I smiled when I saw my water bottle washed out and drying on the rack. It didn't matter how late Logan got home or how terrible he was at remembering to do the actual dishes. He always cleaned out my water bottle for me. He'd done it ever since I moved in—a true act of love since he thought it was ridiculous and used his own hockey water bottle for months at a time without washing.

"It's only touching your mouth," he told me as I cleaned it out after school one day. I told him that my own mouth touched plenty of food andhismouth during the day, and the idea of sucking on that nozzle grossed me out.

I shared food from the same fork as Crystal and Maddie and licked wing sauce off my fingers, but for some reason, a water bottle nozzle was where I drew the line. I threw on my coat, grabbed a granola bar and my water bottle, and threw them in the bag with my folder of music. I popped in my morning mix tape with Ace of Bass, Lisa Loeb, and new Bryan Adams—always Bryan Adams. It made me feel like my morning walk through the tundra was a movie soundtrack which fueled my cinematic brain.

I picked up my violin case and exited the townhouse. I walked the two blocks to campus and entered the GRB science building, immediately turning down the first corridor and entering the tunnel that connected to the Rosza Art Center and concert hall. It wasn't snowing, but it was just chilly enough that I preferred finishing my journey inside.

I didn't use the tunnels by myself often—very murdery—but that morning, there was a stream of students with the exact same idea. I found Lily and Caleb immediately by Caleb’s rust-orange hair. Lily's brunette waves were pulled up into a messy bun on top of her head, and they were wearing comfy uniformssimilar to mine. Caleb's pajama pants had pickles on them, which was especially classy.

"Rehearsals on a Saturday morning should be illegal," Lily groaned.

Caleb took a drink of his coffee. "Six months left, and then you'll have rehearsal every day of the week."

Lily laughed. "You don't know that."

Caleb gave her a look. "You're joining a band, Lily. Learning an entire six albums' worth of music. I know you're good, but you're notthatgood."

Lily scoffed. "I'm already working on it. And when my recital's over, I can set my own schedule—three days a week max."

I laughed, mostly to cover the twinge of jealousy in my gut. Lily was first chair and was asked to audition for Stellaluna, an indie bluegrass band out of Toronto. As of three weeks before, she'd been hired on for their upcoming '95 tour in Canada with the possibility of going international with the group. Playing violin had never been cool, and Lily was about to make it kick-ass.

"Have you heard anything from Franck?" Caleb nudged my elbow.

I shook my head. "I don't think she’ll make any decisions yet."

He nodded. "You're probably right. I would expect an invitation by February at the latest."

That had been my prediction as well. Ms. Franck had high standards and borderline hubristic opinions on musicianship. She'd chosen Lily for first chair weeks into fall semester the year prior. After hearing her play twice.

I wasn't offended that I hadn't received the same treatment, even though I knew my playing was up to snuff. But I was starting to get nervous. With Lily graduating, I always assumedI would be next in line, especially since I already had two years under my belt. But a few incoming students this year were good, and her decisions weren't always linear.

"I still can't believe she chose Mabel for that cello solo." Caleb lowered his voice.

"I know," Lily whispered. "She's improvising all over the place, completely bastardizing the integrity of the primary melody."

I, as a rule follower, couldn't have agreed more. And that was also why I was starting to get nervous. I was a damn good violinist, but if Ms. Franck was looking for riffing, that was not in my wheelhouse.

We pushed through the doors and walked through the cavernous entryway, our voices and shoes echoing off the steel and glass of the art center. We found our seats in the concert hall and tuned our instruments. All chatter died when Ms. Franck arrived, looking like she was ready for a Paris runway and not a collection of pajama-clad students at eight o'clock on a Saturday morning.

"Instruments in tune?" she asked in her thick Eastern European accent. "Spirits in tune?" she asked when we all nodded our heads the first time. "Alright. Let's begin."

For the next two hours, we played, we stopped. We listened to her criticisms. We corrected. By ten o'clock, my fingers were burning, my shoulder was aching, and the migraine was creeping up the back of my skull as predicted.

I didn't connect with Caleb and Lily after rehearsal, but that was fine because I'd forgotten to eat my granola bar. All I wanted was to head straight home and fall back into bed for a few hours after popping an unholy amount of NSAIDs.

But when I walked into the house and found Logan sitting shirtless at the kitchen counter, I knew that wouldn't happen. "What's wrong?"

He stared at a letter, his eyes wide. I dropped my bag and violin case, slipped off my shoes, and hurried over to him. He turned the letter toward me.

I scanned it. "This is an email."

"Yeah. I know. I printed it off."

"You printed off an email?"

He nodded and tapped the paper impatiently. I started to read.

Subject:Official Invitation to Hockey Canada November Selection Camp

---