I scooched back to the left. Not all the way, though. Four inches.
Callum studied his music. And I thought: The best thing about him is that serious face.
At last Ms. Fender walked to the front of the room. “All right, guys. Musician posture: backs straight, chests open, feet on the floor, eyes on me. Let’s take ‘Pirate Medley’ from rehearsal letter B. I want to hear crisp, clear notes and a steady beat. Samira, would you please play the first two measures—”
Pet Number One rose from her chair to play.
A few seconds passed as we all listened to Samira’s clarinet.
And then I became aware of something behind my head. It was a feeling like when there’s a mosquito buzzing around you in the dark: you can’t see it, but you have this general sense of annoying bug somewhere around your body.
The back of my neck tingled; I reached behind to grab my ponytail.
And my hand smacked into something.
Dante’s nose.
“Ow!” he yelled, falling backward.
I gaped. “What were you doing?”
“Nothing,” Dante said. He rubbed his nostrils.
“You guys,” Annabel Cho whispered loudly. “Shut up! Samira is playing—”
Dante ignored her. “I just forgot my music, Mila, so I was leaning over to read yours.”
“I don’t believe you!” I hissed.
“Well, you should,” Callum said. “Dante is a very truthful person.”
On either side of Dante, Luis Garcia and Daniel Chun were snickering. Annabel was scowling, and two seats over, Liana Brock was making her face go blank, as if she hadn’t seen anything, which was totally impossible.
A cold wave of sweat passed over my body.
How is this happening?! I thought we just agreed that this stuff was over.
And why hasn’t anyone stopped it? Luis, Daniel, Annabel, Liana—
Samira finished playing. The way she took her chair and huffed, you could tell she was annoyed by the disruption.
So was Ms. Fender. “Is there a problem over in the trumpet section?” she demanded. “Some reason to be rude to a fellow musician?”
It took me a second to realize that by “fellow musician” Ms. Fender meant Samira, not me.
“Sorry,” I said. “Dante was crowding my chair just now.”
“I didn’t mean to,” Dante insisted. “I was just trying to read the music. And Mila didn’t need to react like that anyway.”
“Overreact,” Callum said.
Ms. Fender crossed her arms. “Dante, please explain to me why you needed to read Mila’s music.”
Yeah. Go ahead. I’m listening.
“Because I left mine in my locker. By accident,” Dante added. He looked embarrassed.
“Well, I expect you to come to band fully prepared,” Ms. Fender scolded. “And if you folks can’t respect a band member when she’s playing, and you can’t sit still in your chairs without acting like kindergartners, then we’ll need to make some changes. Am I being clear?”
It sounded like she was including me, like she thought I was one of the kindergartners. I could feel my cheeks burn.
“Sorry,” I said again.
“Sorry,” Dante repeated.
Callum made his serious-musician face. “It won’t happen again, Ms. Fender.”
“Well, good,” she said, pressing her lips.
Maybe Ms. Fender believed that, but I sure didn’t.
SNEAKERS
So that was how I knew that it wasn’t over.
I mean, if nothing else had happened these past few days, I might have thought Dante’s excuse was believable. But even if he’d left his music in his locker by accident, he didn’t need to read my music; he could have looked on with Daniel or Luis. Or he could have peeked over Callum, who was actually his friend.
Also, Dante wasn’t blind; if he was really reading off my music stand, he didn’t need to have his face practically in my hair. Not to mention the fact that he could have tapped me on the shoulder or something, to ask if I minded him sitting so close.
Plus, the way Callum had been scooching over—at the time, I wasn’t positive it was happening, but now, looking back, I knew it was. Even though he’d told me, Okay, Mila, we’ll stop doing whatever we’re doing, it was as if he’d said: Actually, on second thought? Nothing has changed. And nothing you do will make any difference.
Talking to us. Or not talking to us.
Ignoring us. Or not ignoring us.
Oh, and the bus home? Don’t take it if you don’t want more trouble.
So when the bell rang for dismissal, I didn’t even consider getting on. The thought of sitting next to Dante or any of the others, getting shoulder-bumped, or crowded, or squeezed when I got off, having the creepy mosquito-near-my-head feeling again—it just wasn’t possible. The walk home was about two miles, but I was wearing sneakers. I needed to be home in time for Hadley’s bus, but if I moved fast enough, I could make it okay.
I mean, probably. Unless her bus got there extra early.
I gave my old and dirty laces one last retie, buttoned my tablecloth shirt up to the top, and started walking.
LATE
When I got home, Hadley was sitting on our front stoop with Cherish Ames, a kindergartner on our block who still sucked her thumb, and Cherish’s mom, who had dyed-blond hair that reached down to her waist. I mean, it was nice, but definitely strange-looking for mom hair.
As soon as she saw me, Cherish’s mom stood, swishing her hair. “Well, there she is! See?” she said to Hadley. “I told you Mila hadn’t forgotten!”
“Why would I forget to come home?” I asked. Did that sound fresh? I wasn’t sure.
“Well, honey, you’re four minutes late.” Cherish’s mom did a smile at me that was all teeth. “And Hadley was extremely worried.”
I glanced at my sister. She was eating Oreos—not the cheap kind Mom bought (which I called Store-eos) but the real kind. Cherish’s mom must have packed them in her bag, maybe to distract Cherish from thumb-sucking.
“Well, I had to stay after school to finish a project,” I lied. “But thanks for sitting with Hadley.”
“No problem. But Mila, next time you have a project”—she said the word in quotation marks, as if she could tell it was a lie—“please call me, so I’ll know to watch out for Hadley. Can I have your phone? I’ll put my number in your contacts.”
She held out her hand. So it wasn’t a choice: I gave her my phone, and she entered her number with blue-polished fingertips.
Then she gave it back to me and, in one motion, yanked Cherish’s thumb from her mouth.
“Not in public, muffin,” she said in a drippy voice. “Okay, bye, Hadley honey.”
“Bye,” Hadley said.
I opened our front door with my key. The two of us went inside, and Hadley sat down in the dinette.
I got some milk from the fridge and poured myself a glass. “You want some?”
Hadley shook her head, but I gave her a glass anyway.
“What kind of a name is Cherish?” I said. “It’s like naming someone Mommy Loves You. No wonder that kid still sucks her thumb.”