Page 124 of The Way I Am Now
“Oh, I don’t—Iusedto play clarinet in high school, but not anymore.”
“Too bad, we actually need a clarinetist.”
“Like for an orchestra or something?” I ask, puzzled by the strange flutter in my voice.
“Well, it’s not quite that formal. I mean, Iamin the university orchestra—I’m a music major, so . . . first year,” she adds with a shrug. “But there’s this other group that’s open to all students. It’s the Tuck Hill Campus Band.”
“Oh,” I say, feeling my body inching closer, curious.
“You haven’t heard of it?”
“No, I haven’t.”
“Well, it’s kind of an ensemble. But anyone can audition. We don’t really do official concerts; we just perform at different campus events. I guess it’s more about having fun.” She looks around quickly, like she’s caught off guard by her own talkativeness. “It’s nice. We practice together once a week. Low pressure—nopressure, really—compared to everything else, I mean.”
I feel my head nodding, because I know exactly what she means, this fellow first-year student, by pressure. It’s different from high school. Everything’s different here. It’s only at this moment I realize that pressure, that difference, isn’t something I’ve been able to talk about with anyone—not Josh or Parker or Dominic— because they’re all already past the newness of it. But I’m not; I’minit. Right now I’m directly in the middle of it.
“You interested, or . . . ?”
She lets the question dangle there.
“Me?” I double-check. “Seriously?”
“I’m always serious,” she replies, monotone, but then flashes a brief smile. She’s kind of strange, this girl, but I kind of like it.
“Oh God, I don’t know, I’m really rusty. I haven’t even taken my clarinet out of its case in—” I stop myself, because I was going to sayyears, but that’s not true. I’d almost forgotten about my clarinet sitting there, waiting, on the top shelf of my closet. “I did play for like six years, though, before I stopped,” I add, wondering who I’m trying to convince of my worthiness, myself or Chelsea.
“Six years isn’t nothing,” she says. “Rusty’s okay. It’s not like it’s the symphony or anything.”
“Um, all right.”
“I can text you before the next practice if you wanna check it out. It won’t be until after exam week, though. Will you be around over winter break?”
“Yes,” I hear myself saying, making the decision right there on the spot, that I don’t want to go home for winter break. “I’ll be here.”
She hands me her phone to put my number in.
“Okay,” she says, looking at my contact info and adding, “Eden.”
I walk home, sipping on my hot chocolate, realizing I completely forgot about asking for a job application. But I’m feeling pretty good about myself anyway, as the snow starts to fall, glistening as it collects on the ground and sticks to my hair and clothes.
An informal ensemble band, not for grades or credits. I smile to myself as I cross the street, remembering the feeling of being in a loud music room, the part right at the end of every rehearsal, when everyone would just sort of let loose and wail their instruments at the same time, to no particular tune or song or rhythm—just an all-at-once cacophony of sound—for fun.
When I come in the door, he’s standing there at the bank of mailboxes. He’s committed to the beard now. And he’s wearing his green plaid flannel shirt that he once let me wear when I stayed over, and all I can think about is how soft and warm it was.
“Hi-hey,” he says, seeming startled to be standing here face-to-face with me for the first time in a month.
“Hi,” I manage to say back.
He searches my eyes, and I’m pretty sure I’m searching his right back, for some clue of what we’re supposed to do. But I’m unable to look away, unable to speak, unable to move.
“Um,” he utters. “You . . . look . . .”
“Cold?” I offer.
He smiles, and it’s so beautiful I can’t help but smile back. He licks his lips and swallows as he steps closer to me. He reaches for my hand, and I let him. “I miss you,” he says quietly.
I nod and squeeze his hand once before forcing myself to let go and take a step away from him. “I miss you too,” I tell him, because that’s the truth. “But I’m not ready.”
