The Sound of Letting Go (3 page)

Mr. Orson taps his music stand.

We’re all waiting to get started

because today is Thursday: Jam Session.

We’ll play through tons of music, hardly stopping,

just letting the music roll, feeling good, letting go.

“Before we start today,

I’d like you all to welcome Callum O’Casey.”

“Er, um, it’s just Cal,” comes a quiet Irish brogue

from thin lips, moving so slightly

it takes a moment to realize he’s the one speaking.

“Just Cal for short.”

The other three jazz girls sit up at the sound of his accent,

look sharp toward the saxophone section.

Cal-for-short’s long legs stretch into the aisle.

As he speaks, a dark pink blush starts at his ears,

spreads to his fresh, pale cheeks.

He’s wearing untucked brown plaid flannel and holey jeans.

His baritone sax, slightly tarnished, dull yellow metal,

lies across his lap, braced so lightly in his hand

it seems like he doesn’t even need to hold on.

“Good to have a bari again,
Cal
,”

Mr. Orson says with emphasis.

“Had one graduate last year and we’ve been missing it.”

And we’re off.

It’s November,

which means jazz versions of Christmas carols,

plus the Ellington piece we’re learning

for the Northeast Battle of the Bands competition.

Cal-for-short can read music, man,

because that bari is already coming in strong,

giving the numbers that deep undertow thrum

they’ve apparently been missing,

though I didn’t really know it

until the bari came back.

Lots of guys and all the other girls

stick around after practice to welcome the new player.

But through the glass, I see the back of Dave Miller’s head,

so I close my case, stash it on a shelf, dash into the hall.

“Hey!” I give him a shove.

“Hey back. You missed a good movie last night.

Serial killer with an ax really messed up a town.”

“Sounds like Oscar material.” I smile

an I-am-smart-but-not-too-smart-

for-you-to-think-I’m-sexy smile.

At least, I hope I do.

“After, we drove down to the pits.

Belden brought some great home brew.”

Dave and Josh Belden and the rest of those guys

hang out with the girls who wear bars of black liner

underneath their eyes, who jangle

with boot and belt buckles, chainy stuff.

Their place:

a circle of fire pits near the picnic tables at the town park.

They’ve carpeted it with cigarette butts,

amped up the tables with neatly carved expletives

and the occasional X-hearts-Y proclamation.

I do not wear heavy makeup,

have nothing pierced besides my ears.

My clothes are generic except

for the Sharpie-drawn flowers and music-note stamps

that enhance the canvas of the Keds I wear every day.

I don’t drink,

don’t deface property beyond stickering my trumpet case.

But there’s something about the badassness of Dave Miller

that makes me sorry I missed The Movie House,

wonder about the taste of Belden’s home brew.

With a start I realize that I’ve drifted away,

feel my eyes on Dave’s face,

my expression surely more wistful than sexy.

He is looking at me curiously.

I’ve been silent too long,

dreaming last night had been different,

that I’d been with Dave.

Though now, with him standing in front of me,

I am a total idiot.

“Um, yeah, home brew. How do you make that?”

Dave scratches his already-mussed hair,

which somehow makes it look even better.

“I didn’t make the stuff. I just—”

“Oh, never mind. Sounds like a fun night.”

I start wishing I was in a slasher film,

that someone with an ax would come and strike me down right now before I can say anything MORE stupid than I have already.

I am definitely one of the characters they’d kill off

early in those movies. Right now, it’d be a relief.

Instead of an ax, it’s a sound that comes to my rescue:

the warning bell for homeroom.

“Well, guess I gotta go,” I say.

“Yeah,” he says.

“Um, it was nice talking with you.”

My mouth won’t stop moving.

He gives a little laugh, calls over his shoulder,

“You’ve always been a funny one, Daisy Meehan.”

I watch the back of him for far too long.

“Thank you for gracing us with your presence,

Ms. Meehan.” Mrs. Pendleton glances up from her desk.

“Sorry.” I duck my head and slide into my seat,

embarrassed by my staring-at-Dave-Miller delay.

I’m a good student, rarely late,

and I doubt she’ll mark me tardy.

“Students, I’d like you to welcome . . .”

And homeroom is another rendezvous

with “Um, er, just Cal” O’Casey,

who seems to be appearing everywhere I am.

From the seat in front of me, my best friend, Justine,

turns around to shoot an oh-my-God,

hottest-accent-ever look of awe.

“He’s in jazz band,” I whisper.

Her expression morphs into raging envy.

“I’m gonna learn to play the triangle,” she whispers back.

I giggle. Justine can always make me laugh.

Even when I’ve been up half the night, alone in my room,

listening to the music-less sounds of Steven smacking walls,

my parents fighting over whether to restrain or medicate,

then, if it ends, their clumping staggers down the stairs

to dose themselves with wine.

“Care to share the joke, girls?” Mrs. Pendleton says.

“Oh, I was just saying that maybe someone

should buddy up with Cal,

help him find his way around the school.”

Another thing about Justine: she’s got a pair.

“And that’s funny?” the teacher persists.

“Depends on the buddy, I suppose.”

Justine smiles with mock sweetness.

No girls like Mrs. Pendleton.

She is too pretty, too young;

her firefighter husband is too cool, too cute;

and she steals the attention of too many junior boys

from us junior girls.

Not that it’s her fault.

She’s all ambitious young teacher,

struggling to awaken us country bumpkins

to the wonders of environmental science.

There’s a picture of Mr. Pendleton on her desk,

and I’ve caught her texting him during class

on more than one occasion.

I look over at Cal O’Casey,

wondering if he’s fallen victim to the Pendleton charm,

but he is looking down

at his brown, lace-up shoes,

which might be stylish in Ireland

but are simply geekishly adorable in Jasper, New Hampshire.

He may not be ready

for Justine’s American sense of humor.

“That’s a nice offer, Ms. Jenkins,”

Mrs. Pendleton says to Justine.

“Would you care to be said ‘buddy’?”

“I, um—that’s okay.” Cal drags his eyes up from the floor.

“I think I can manage a’right.”

A couple of girls actually swoon over his last, Irish word.

Justine sticks her chin out, her eyes set.

I know she’s willing her pale, freckled skin not to blush.

I make a mental note that, accent or not,

Callum O’Casey is a bit of a jerk.

Some days I just can’t bear all those stories they tell

in Advanced Placement United States History—

they call it A-PUSH, like that makes it cooler.

It doesn’t.

Not that I disrespect the Declaration of Independence,

the Constitution, all those rebels, free thinkers,

George Washington, Ben Franklin,

Thomas Jefferson, Andrew Jackson.

I get it. They wanted freedom.

Well I do, too.

But you can’t really have freedom

without making someone else a kind of prisoner,

can you?

Justine and I sit at the same table every lunch period,

where we’re joined by a few band friends of mine,

some drama types she knows,

and the occasional Extremely Serious Schoolboy—

the kind she and I seem to attract— the ones who rule

the Student Council and Entrepreneurship Club.

Today the lunch is turkey and gravy,

which is gross to look at but which I secretly like.

I like the fake mashed potatoes,

made from hot milk and potato flakes,

a product that would never see

the perfect interior paint colors of our house.

I like the tiny chunks of turkey,

the tasteless peas, and the whitish sauce.

I like the cookie that comes on the side:

cool, nearly stale, chocolate chips firm.

I like not having to think, to choose;

just slop it on my plate

and I’m all good, thank you.

Today, Ned Hoffman from

Students Against Drunk Driving

is making eyes at Justine.

I poke my fork into the smooth white mound of lunch,

look across the aisle. Callum O’Casey is being lit upon

by three blonde cheerleaders,

I guess because his accent charms, because his red hair

stands out in the crowd.

Though I kind of think they wouldn’t let him

get into their pants—an honor

reserved for the Varsity Football starting line.

I lean away from Ned, who is earnestly telling Justine

about some flower sale fund-raiser

attached to the upcoming Black-and-White Dance,

strain to catch fragments of Cal’s description

of his cultural exchange program:

how lucky he was to be allowed to come,

even though the school year had already started;

how he’ll be staying with the Ackermans,

his host family, until June. Just like in homeroom,

his expression is a little strained, his cheeks a little pink.

He seems surprised and confused

by the attention he’s getting. I guess he doesn’t know

how exotic he seems here in Jasper.

“Well, I think you should sell pink roses, too.

Red is just so . . . dramatic,”

Justine says loudly, returning my attention to our table.

“Don’t you think, Daisy?”

“Um, yeah.” I nod, remind myself

that Cal was rude to my friend—who, right now,

might need a rescue from her determined suitor,

and who loves things that are pink.

“Pink flowers are terrific.”

“See?” Justine’s flashing eyes refocus on Ned.

Instructions about what girls like pour from her lips,

keeping any more of Cal’s words from reaching my ears.

I close my eyes and imagine the music of Cal’s brogue,

the lilt

the tempo of an Irish folk tune,

the kind my parents tell me they used to listen to

when they first fell in love—

as if they are in love anymore.