Time Bomb(13)

Cas stared at the closed door—heart pounding, palms sweating. Finally, she lifted the clarinet to her mouth to once again focus on the music, but instead she kept thinking about the boy who had just been in the doorway.

Frankie was popular. Always had a girlfriend and a crowd of people around him and could do no wrong—kind of like a modern-day prince. Which was fitting, since he’d been on the homecoming court last year—something several kids had said was unfair, since everyone was certain he was the one behind the chickens found in the cafeteria the week before. But no one ever said anything too loudly, because everyone knew he needed to be on the field if their team had a chance of going to state. She hadn’t thought he’d known she existed.

The star of the football team knew her name. Cas wasn’t sure how she felt about that, or if she wanted to feel anything. To keep herself from thinking too much, she took a deep breath and picked up playing where she had left off—before Frankie had interrupted.

Low notes as open and full as she could make them. High notes that floated on the air. All the while, she watched the window in the door of the practice room in case someone appeared—telling herself she didn’t want to be interrupted, but deep down wishing that someone else would come. When she got to the end of the piece, she played it again. Waiting . . .

It was stupid. There was no reason to think someone else would stop by and care that she was in here. But Frankie’s visit had made her think maybe, just maybe, there was hope.

Every time she’d believed that things would get better, she’d been proven wrong. She’d found reasons to hope and always ended up feeling worse when the disappointment crashed down on her. But maybe if there was one more sign that she should reconsider what she came here to do today, she would. She would walk away from her decision. She’d try to change things another way.

She played the piece again. Louder. The notes cracked under the pressure. Or maybe it was her soul that cracked each time the tone broke.

She played louder still, no longer caring what the music sounded like. Only caring about the volume. She wanted someone else to hear. To know that she was in this room. To care that she was . . . that she just was.

After the fourth time through, Cas lowered the instrument onto her lap. No one had heard. There was no other sign.

Cas wiped the tears from her cheeks and sat there for several heartbeats as the hope she’d felt faded, leaving the familiar hollowness of disappointment behind. Carefully she took the clarinet apart, removed the reed from the mouthpiece, and put everything back in the blue-lined case. Cas unzipped the side pocket of her bag and pulled out the note she’d written dozens of times over the last few months before tearing each of those earlier versions into little shreds. She placed the envelope on top of the clarinet before closing the lid and running her hand over the outside of the sleek black case. The clarinet was one of the only things she truly loved. It was always there. It never judged.

Taking a deep breath, Cas picked up her bag with one hand and the clarinet case with the other, then headed out of the practice room.

The band room was empty. Open instrument cases sat on chairs and were strewn across the floor, along with dozens of backpacks. The music-office windows were dark. Everyone must still be at marching-band practice. Would Frankie laugh when he saw them stumbling around in the heat and think of her?

Probably not.

Frankie had asked if she thought she was too good to be a part of marching band. He’d said those words without sarcasm or a snide tone, and she wished he’d been right.

She waited for several minutes, thinking that if the band finished practice and came back in—if someone said hello—she’d change her mind. Last year, when she’d first stepped into this room, she’d been certain her family was correct. That everything from before wouldn’t matter. That things would be different here, because this place was different.

They’d lied.

Nothing was different. And at some point, it would get worse, just as it had before. She wanted to blame her mom for saying it would be okay if she dressed differently and her father for saying she just had to act as if she belonged and she would. They didn’t understand, and they refused to listen when she tried to tell them. They didn’t get that she didn’t fit in.

She wasn’t skinny like the popular girls. She used to always say the wrong thing, so now she just said nothing. Frizzy hair. Stupid laugh. Pimples on her forehead that no cream could make go away.

This summer she finally realized it wasn’t the other kids that were the problem or her father or mother or her annoying shrink. There was only one constant in all of it.

Her.





11:19 a.m.





Frankie





— Chapter 9 —


FRANKIE WATCHED VINCE CARTER throw an unsteady spiral to a talented running back who didn’t have a chance in hell of catching the crappy toss. Vince still had a hell of a lot to learn.

Of course, the trick there was that Vince had to be willing to learn. Frankie’s father had suggested Frankie work with Vince, since their families went to the same church. Okay, it was less of a suggestion and more of an order, but Frankie had gone along with it because Vince did have talent, and Frankie liked the idea of training the guy who would eventually replace him once he graduated. It was just too bad Vince was a pain in the ass and believed that he was better than everyone else—including Frankie—and had no problems telling people so. The kid didn’t think he had to put in the work to reap success. Not like that girl, Cassandra. Even if she had a stick up her butt about talking to him, Frankie admired her sitting alone in that claustrophobically small room, practicing her ass off to be better than everyone else at the one thing she was passionate about.