Unspeakable Things(19)
He smiled that movie-star grin, and it made all my worry about what I’d overheard in the bathroom melt away. No way was Connelly someone who could hurt a kid. We all loved him. Lots of my classmates called him Connelly, all informal, or Mr. C. I wanted to be cool like that and had rehearsed it at home. Hey, Connelly! Did you party hearty last weekend?
That’s as far as I’d gotten.
He pointed at my garage-sale clarinet. “How’s the goose whistle?”
“Sweet like ice cream.” I held it up. I’d wanted to play the flute, but Mom and I hadn’t found one despite scouring every rummage sale in the county. The only other option was this clarinet or drums—sticks were cheap enough we could buy them new. Unfortunately, I couldn’t keep a beat to save my soul.
Connelly, which I at least called him in my head, laughed. “It’s a beautiful instrument, you know.”
I dropped into the practice chair. It was a familiar conversation. “A real work of art.”
“You know what Artie Shaw and Benny Goodman had in common?”
“Not smart enough to play the saxophone?”
He chuckled. “You’re not going to make first chair with that attitude.”
“Or these fingers.” I waggled them at him. “Yet the world continues to turn.”
This one got a roar of laughter, loud enough to turn the head of Charlie Kloss, who was waiting on the other side of the glass for his piccolo lesson. Poor kid hadn’t got the memo about what instruments were cool for boys to play.
“Let’s start with ‘Apache.’” Connelly opened my music book and started the metronome before blowing on the round pitch pipe tuner that might as well have spurted glitter for all the use it was to me. I readied my hands for the first note and dove in, making up in volume what I lacked in talent.
We ran through the song five complete times before he was satisfied. “You’re coming along nicely, Cassandra.”
He used my full name. I liked that, too. “Thank you.”
He folded up my practice book and handed it to me, standing as I stood. Our fingers brushed. It was an accident, but he jerked his hand back like I’d burned him.
“Sorry,” I said, fiddling with my clarinet’s keys.
He slid his hands into his pants pockets. It felt like an invisible wall had dropped down between us, and I couldn’t figure out why.
“You in for selling some popcorn?” Connelly asked, ignoring that wall.
I tried to swallow but made a clicking sound instead. “Is that this year’s promotion?”
It was tradition for the fourth to eighth graders to sell food, usually chocolate bars, over the summer to raise money for the fall band trip the high school kids took every year. I rarely sold much because of how far out of town I lived. Most farms were at least half a mile apart, and they could buy their own chocolate bars at the store, thankyouverymuch.
“Yep.” He opened the cardboard box near his feet and yanked out a glossy brochure, its front cover featuring nine varieties of popcorn. He held it out to me, careful to keep his hands far from touching mine. “Instructions inside.”
I grabbed the brochure and walked out as Charlie went in, my eyes pinned to the bright images. It was the best way to hold back the tears. I didn’t know why it had grossed out Connelly to touch me, but there you go. Better to think about the popcorn. I bet the cornfetti flavor was the best, cheerful reds and purples and blues in fruit flavors. I was still studying it as I made my way to the instrument storage room but had to set it down to dismantle my clarinet. Hand-lettered masking tape marked my case, not that anyone would want to steal a secondhand clarinet.
Once my clarinet was tucked away, I peeked toward the band room, my throat tightening. No one was coming, which meant it was all clear. I could look through people’s stuff. I’d been doing it since I could remember, rifling through my classmates’ backpacks and purses and instrument cases. I’d find Lip Lickers, Twinkies that I’d smell, notes. I never took anything. I just liked to hold it. I wasn’t proud of the behavior, so I tried not to think about it too much.
My pulse was hammering nicely as I knelt to pull out Heather’s clarinet case. I knew for a fact she’d stored her new Avon lip gloss in there. It was shaped like a chocolate chip cookie. A couple weeks ago, she’d screwed off the top and shown her friends the two separate flavors—caramel and chocolate—inside. After, she’d tucked it in the compartment in her case where she kept the extra reeds. I wasn’t going to use any of it, I was pretty sure. I just wanted to hold it.
“What’s a good girl like you doing digging in people’s stuff?”
I spun guiltily, shoving the chocolate chip cookie compact into my pocket to get it out of sight. I was surprised to see Clam standing in the doorway. He wore high-water jeans, an oversize belt buckle, and a dated ’70s collared shirt.
“You’re not in band.” It was a stupid thing for me to say, but my chest was fear-knocking too loud to think. My decision to solve the case of who’d hurt him suddenly seemed distant and ridiculous.
Clam twitched and looked over his shoulder. Was someone behind him? His face was shadowed when he turned back. He was small for his age, but he had ropy muscles. He could rip through you like the Tasmanian Devil if he wanted, every kid knew that. I wasn’t afraid of him, though, at least I’d never been before. Clam only beat up boys.