Page 7

“Look, you really have to use your entire diaphragm,” I say, demonstrating taking a deep breath. “Use your abs and blow. Take a deep breath and try again.”

The poor freshman gives me a confused look but tries again, blowing into his clarinet. Thomas makes a spluttering, sad excuse for a sound, then lowers the clarinet and sighs.

“I’m gonna fail band,” he says miserably. “I can’t fail band, then I have to go back to PE. I can’t run, I can’t play basketball, I can’t do anything, I need this.” He’s one of the handful of freshmen who transferred into band after a semester of PE, hoping for an easy A.

I want to reach in my pocket and fidget with my lucky TARDIS key chain, but I don’t know where it is. I take a calming breath—for myself, not Thomas—and say in my steadiest, most supportive voice, “It’s going to be okay.”

From my left, my best friend Erica looks over her saxophone at Thomas.

“You gotta blow, dude! Come on, why do you think we get PE credits for this?” She waggles her eyebrows at him and pantomimes marching while sitting in her seat, her black curls bouncing wildly with each step.

“And remember, next year you gotta be able to play songs while marching. In step. To the very complicated routine.”

Thomas whimpers, and I glare at Erica, who’s completely ignoring her own section to hang out with us.

Not that the saxophones are doing much. Only Ariana, the section leader, is actually practicing, and the other saxes are goofing off.

The band is all scattered, some in their usual seats and some in practice rooms or outside, working in their own section on our pieces for state.

Erica lifts a perfectly manicured eyebrow and plays a cartoonish wah-waaah at Thomas.

“It’s okay, we can work on this,” I say in a soothing tone, putting on my best section-leader face. “You can come in at lunch for extra practice, okay?”

“We have a Key Club meeting today at lunch,” Jenn pipes up next to me as she thumbs to the next page of sheet music in her carefully organized folder.

“I thought you were gonna go over the schedule for this weekend’s community service.

You know, since we have limited seats in the vans.

” My other best friend is already multitasking, her calm focus radiating from her precise movements.

Jennifer Torres has been voted “most likely to succeed” of our class every year consistently, her sweet smile and smooth brown skin gracing the yearbook pages.

“Sweet, hey, are we gonna have time up at Echo Mountain after the cleanup to hang out and chill?” Erica asks.

“Yes, but the focus is on picking up trash and maintaining the trail,” I say.

With the popularity of the Key Club and the prospect of a free mountain field trip, a lot of people signed up for this event.

But the two vans I booked last week have only enough room for twenty-four students and we’ve got thirty-nine signed up.

Jenn glances at me nervously, and I pat her on the shoulder.

“Don’t worry, I’ll let them know they can have first dibs on seats on the next trip,” I say, squaring my jaw.

A lot of people are gonna hate the news, but that’s okay.

I’m used to it. Jenn is a great president; she’s led Key Club into a record-breaking number of volunteer hours.

But she hates being the bearer of bad news.

So that’s my job. Jenn has the warm and sweet personality everyone loves, but I’m the reason anyone gets anything done in our service club.

Our partnership works for us: I love logistics and hate attention; Jenn is probably going to be a senator one day.

Erica’s in Key Club with us but has no ambitions for leadership whatsoever, despite my cajoling for her to help.

She’s been working on her webcomic for years, and it has a huge following; Erica’s already set on her plans for art school while Jennifer and I are in the old-school race for four-year universities.

Jenn is in the running for valedictorian, as am I. We’ve been neck and neck ever since middle school, both of us aiming for those sweet leadership positions that will make our college applications stand out.

Erica used to laugh at us about how Jenn and I could have been the most bitter rivals, but where our interests converged we’ve divided and conquered, working together to be the best, most college-dream-worthy students ever.

Jenn is the Key Club president and captain of the tennis team; I’m student body president and editor in chief on the yearbook staff.

I’m also first chair clarinet and in a handful of other clubs, but that’s small-fries compared to the big stuff.

“Yes, the meeting starts at 12:15. Once everyone is seated, I can let the volunteers know the vans are full and they can have first priority for the next event, then I’ll come back to the band room to help Thomas and Sarah between 12:20 and 12:40.”

“Okay,” Jenn says, relieved. “Wait, did you bring a lunch? I don’t think we’ll have time to stand in line if you wanted—”

There are granola bars in my backpack somewhere. “I’ll be fine.”

Thomas goes back to practicing scales, and the rest of the clarinet section seems to be doing well on the new piece. I finally have a second to relax and I lean back in my chair, exhaling.

Erica grins at me. “So. Date Saturday, you know what you’re gonna wear?”

I groan. I have no idea what to wear, let alone if the date is actually still happening.

I feel so stupid. She hasn’t texted me back yet.

Maybe it was a fake number. Now in the light of day, that one, amazing, magical encounter yesterday definitely doesn’t seem real—I’m half convinced I could have made up the whole thing.

That amazing smile, the scent of vanilla wafting off her hair, the perfect coffee…

Jenn beams. “I’m so excited for you! Did you hear back yet?”

“No.” I pull the napkin out of my pocket, puzzling over the squiggles again.

I looked at these over and over again last night, and finally Jenn and Erica convinced me they really were numbers and not just some weird symbols.

Maybe I got a digit wrong somewhere. “Are you sure this is a phone number?”

Jenn nods. “Of course it is! She probably is busy at school or is nervous, just like you. You’ll hear from her later today.”

“Or she was unimpressed by your hey nice to meet you! ” Erica says. “Can’t believe you went with that after all our brainstorming last night.”

Jenn bops her on the arm with her music folder. “It’s sweet and simple!”

Erica laughs. “Speaking of sweet, look what I have for you, Brenda.” She pulls a sheet of paper out of her music folder.

“Oh,” I sigh happily. It’s a sketch of my two favorite characters from Halfway Hollow , Rochan and Amelia, staring lovingly into each other’s eyes.

Rochan is dressed like a tweedy professor with elbow patches on her jacket instead of her usual sleek demon-investigator outfit, and Amelia has on an apron and a baseball cap, holding a coffee cup. “Thank you.”

Erica waggles her eyebrows at me. “You going to finish that fic?”

I groan. “Erica—”

Jenn pats me on the shoulder. “You don’t have to if you don’t want to.” She looks back at Erica and gives me a sheepish smile. “But I have to admit I do want to know what happens next.”

The three of us got into Halfway Hollow fandom at the same time together when we were in middle school.

That ridiculous fantasy show was everything to the three of us: all the fumbling romance and teen angst and cheesy special monster effects.

We used to watch the new episode together each week, and when the show was suddenly canceled, we were devastated.

I had endless ideas of how the heroes would defeat the monsters and wrote copious amounts of fanfiction.

Erica drew art inspired by my fic, and I would write inspired by her art.

Jenn didn’t love writing as much as I did, but she was a great beta reader and even organized a few exchanges and holiday events in the fandom.

I haven’t had time to write or do fandom stuff with school and the Plan kicking into high gear once we got into high school, but we still make time for our weekly D&D sessions.

The bell rings, and I’m about to stand up when the shaking suddenly starts.

First it’s the floor, and then it seems like the whole room starts thrumming with a steady energy. The chatter and laughter stop, and even Ms. Collete freezes for a few seconds as everyone looks at one another in slight alarm.

We’ve all felt this before—the short shake that’s over so quickly you can barely register it—something we wait to laugh about with friends after, checking on social media and seeing who posted first, Did you feel the earthquake?

As if a few seconds of shaking truly qualify.

But this doesn’t feel quite the same.

The shaking doesn’t stop, and in fact it gets more intense, and pencils clatter off music stands and then a few topple over.

“Earthquake!” Ms. Collete announces, as if she doesn’t believe it. “Take cover! Stay calm! Remember the drills!”

All the safety drills we’ve learned since kindergarten said to duck and cover, but this is band and there aren’t any desks. I scramble off my chair, taking my clarinet with me as I try to lie down with my head under the chair. At least it’s something.

Everything in the classroom is rattling now, all around me is movement. Thomas is whimpering and Erica’s under her chair, gesturing rapidly for Thomas to do the same.

“Get down!”

“Where? Would a closet—”

“My tuba!”

“The chair is too small!”

“Use anything! A book!”

A few kids have gotten into the doorways of the practice rooms, bracing themselves, but most people have tried to take cover under their chairs or are frozen where they sit.

The chair is barely big enough to offer any scant protection for my head, and I know if the ceiling gives way that this will barely do anything.