6

I’m the last to arrive at our quartet rehearsal. Abby’s sitting on a stool almost completely hidden by her double bass, and she’s practicing a tricky pizzicato passage in the music. It occurs to me that if she’d taken up the cello instead of the bass she might look sexier. She could drape herself over it and wrap her arms around it caressingly.

I cast the image aside as I pull out my flute and fit the pieces together. The rest of the quartet is already set up: Caitlin on drums, Nathan on guitar. Abby bows an A, and Nathan and I tune up while Caitlin pretends to tune her snare drum, which always makes us laugh even though she’s been doing it for three years now.

Nathan’s latest arrangements are perched on my music stand: some “classic” (i.e., old) pop music; some jazz “standards” (i.e., elevator muzak). It’s all kind of corny, but a welcome change from the showpieces I had to learn for last month’s instrumental scholarship audition at Brookbank University.

With the slightest nod of my head, I kick-start the first piece. And even though we’re sight-reading, the ensemble is tight and the sound crackles with energy. As we draw to a close with a room-rattling crescendo, I can tell from their movements and facial expressions that Abby, Nathan, and Caitlin know we’re jamming too. We’re sharing a moment, and to be honest, it’s pretty cool.

An hour later we take a break, and Caitlin and Nathan step outside. They’re the ultimate proof that opposites attract. She’s waif-like, wears colored contacts, and claims to be the world’s first and only Goth-in-red-clothing (because she’s allergic to black clothes dye). He’s fat, wears thick glasses, and parts his hair carefully to one side; in my less charitable moments I’ve wondered if he was put on the earth to reassure me that I could be even dorkier than I am. As couples go, Caitlin and Nathan are an enigma, pretty much keeping to themselves whenever we’re not rehearsing.

“Where were you at lunch?” Abby asks, laying her double bass gently on its side. “I didn’t see you.”

I only hesitate for a second. “Finishing some homework. It was due this afternoon.”

“Oh.” She grabs a couple bottles of water from her book bag and tosses one to me. “That’s good to hear. Nathan said you might be at Brandon’s meeting, but I figured he must be joking. No way would you join in with that stuff.”

I wonder if she knows more than she’s letting on, but she takes a big swig and smiles warmly.

“No, of course you wouldn’t,” she continues. “You’re way too cool for them.” I honestly think she believes it too.

Nathan and Caitlin are coming back into the room when they pause for a brief kiss. As usual, it morphs into a substantial time-out involving hair pulling and tongues. I can feel myself turning red so I look away, but Abby just laughs.

“Do you think Caitlin would be pleased or offended if I said they’re a cute couple?” she whispers.

“I’m not sure ‘cute’ is the word.”

“Of course it is. They’re totally in love and they can’t get enough of each other. What could be cuter than that?”

“But they look kind of weird together, don’t you think?”

Abby picks up her bass. “What’s that got to do with whether or not they’re a cute couple?”

“I just think of cute couples as being attractive, that’s all.”

“Like who?” she says, tuning the lowest string.

“Well, like Brandon Trent and Morgan Giddes.”

Abby’s hands stop moving and she casts me a penetrating stare. “I didn’t know they were dating. Who told you that?”

Oh crap. I’m about to tell her they’re not dating—at least, not yet—but figure that will make things even worse. “It’s just an example,” I say.

“Well, I don’t much like your example. And anyway, what’s with your Brandon fetish these days?”

“I do not have a Brandon fetish!”

I pretend to be engrossed in cleaning the spit from my flute. A moment later Caitlin and Nathan rejoin us, and I escape further interrogation.

We tackle another arrangement and the sound is as crisp as before. But I can’t stop dwelling on what Abby just said. What will she think of me when she discovers that I’m hanging out with Brandon? For that matter, what will Brandon and the other guys think when they realize that I’m playing pop song arrangements with some of the least cool people ever to set foot in Brookbank High?

And then it hits me: I just won’t tell them. The Book of Busts can be my connection to the coolest guys and girls in school, and the quartet can be the secret hobby that keeps me on good terms with my real friends. Everybody wins.

At the end of the set, Abby pulls out one more arrangement and deposits it silently on our music stands. I glance at the title and do a double take: “California Dreamin’.”

“Since this is our last semester together,” Abby says, grinning, “I figured it was time we showcased our award-winning flutist.”

Nathan and Caitlin cheer. I’m speechless.

“Now, I know you’re a perfectionist, Kev,” says Abby in a pretend-scolding tone, “but I had to transpose it to a different key so you could play the low notes. The original version was for alto flute.”

“I know, I know. Bud Shank played it,” I say, still overwhelmed by Abby’s gesture. “But he was really an alto saxophonist.”

“You mean, an alto sax player took the best flute solo in pop music history?” exclaims Abby in mock outrage.

I ignore her sarcasm. “Yeah. How unfair is that? Like sax players don’t have enough cool solos of their own already.” I can almost feel myself reaching for an imaginary soapbox. “And here’s another thing, the solo on—”

“Hey, Kevin,” Caitlin interrupts, smiling, “you know we share your desire to rid the world of the pernicious and divisive effects of flutophobia, but we’ve only got fifteen minutes left.”

Abby blows me a kiss. “Tell me, is it just coincidence or is there a reason pop flute players have porno names? Herbie Mann, Bud Shank …”

“Kevin Mopsely,” chants the usually silent Nathan, like he’s trying my name out for size. “Mopsely … the Mopster … the Mopman.”

Maybe I should be annoyed, but actually I can’t help laughing. In some ways I kind of like it—being a porn star would represent a serious step up from my current state of sexual anonymity.

“Goodness me, Nathan,” exclaims Abby. “I hadn’t realized that behind that innocent exterior lurks a future Playboy editor.”

Nathan blushes and smooths down his already flat hair, then starts plucking the opening notes of “California Dreamin’” on his guitar.

Turns out that Abby’s arrangement is great: not a note is out of place, not a chord is notated wrongly. Even the flute solo is transcribed perfectly. She must have spent ages doing it.

I play my solo with the same whispery, smoky sound that Bud Shank used on the original recording. When the song’s over, Abby decides that we need to play it again, singing the lyrics this time. I look at Nathan, but he just shakes his head.

“You don’t mean … me?” I ask, as my jaw hits the floor.

“Yes!” Abby laughs. “And Caitlin and I will sing the harmonies.”

“But I—”

“You’ll be great, Kevin. Come on, loosen up.”

Nathan is nodding emphatically, so we run it with the lyrics. It’s even better than before, and the back-and-forth lines between Abby and Caitlin and me are really tight. By the end of the song I’m on a complete high, and I can see that Abby is too.

“So, guys,” she says mischievously, “before you go I have some news. And after today’s rehearsal, I think you’re going to be pleased to hear it.” She runs a hand through her long chestnut hair, which reminds me how pretty she is. “The prom committee has decided to let us perform a live set before the DJ takes over. How cool is that?”

Nathan and Caitlin attempt to high-five, fail miserably, and settle on a moist kiss instead. Abby is bathing in the glory of the moment, and the mood is that of Christmas come early.

I smile too, picturing us together for one last performance. I can already see the mathletes bunched in the corner of the hall, applauding wildly as they identify interesting ratios in the structure of the music. I can imagine the cheerleaders showing off dance moves that have the guys drooling. And then I picture Brandon and his posse …

Suddenly I’m having trouble maintaining my smile. I try to look as though this is the best news I’ve had all year, but I’m not sure I’m faking very well. Because in my mind, Brandon’s cohort is standing before the stage, mouths agape at the sight of one of their own playing flute in a dorky quartet at our high school prom.

And this is one gig I won’t be able to hide.