Naomi eyes me skeptically. “You’re serious?”
“That’s right,” I say. “I can’t keep lying to my parents like this. I’m losing sleep and I’m starting to hate myself. If being with Scott means I have to make up stories, sneak around and worry all the time about getting caught, then I can’t be his girlfriend anymore. I have to drop him.”
“Holy crap,” she says. “That’s huge.”
It’s Thursday afternoon, less than an hour after detention let out, and Naomi and I are sitting in the storage room at the back of my family’s store. We own the only Indian grocery in the area. We’re surrounded by several large sacks of basmati rice, an unopened case of Nirav Kesar canned mango pulp and a stack of Glucose Biscuits. My father is playing Indian music through the stereo. He’s also burning incense at the front counter, and that along with the combined smell of chili powder, garlic, cilantro and dry curry powder, gives the air the familiar, pungent odor of home. When I’m not helping behind the register or stacking the shelves, my parents like me to study here too. They like to know where I am.
Naomi and I have an American History essay due on Wednesday and neither of us has even started. The topic is Why Do Revolutions Happen? But Naomi has mostly been flipping through one of her Rolling Stone magazines. We have to keep our voices down. My dad is at the register only a few steps beyond the doorway behind me. I can hear him speaking Hindi with a customer. I didn’t tell him about detention, of course. I had to make up a story. I said I stayed late today because of a project. Another lie.
Naomi peers at me sympathetically over her glasses. I know she always had her doubts about Scott, but from the first day I started going out with him she tried to be supportive—and I love her for that. She also knows about my parents’ no-dating rule. She’s heard the story of my uncle Ramesh and aunt Anita back in Calcutta, who practically disowned my sixteen-year-old cousin, Sashmita, a couple years ago when they found out she went out to a movie with a boy.
She knows me. She knows what a mess I am.
“Plus,” I continue, “I don’t have time for distractions. I’m barely keeping up with my schoolwork. Not only do I have to hand in this essay next week but I also have to read chapters four through six of The Great Gatsby, and on Tuesday we have a Trig test, remember? Not to mention Debate and working here at the store. And did I tell you I’m increasing my volunteering at the clinic to twice a week?”
Her forehead wrinkles. “Don’t get sick, Mo. Everybody knows that people who work at those clinics are always catching something. Those places are swarming with germs.”
I roll my eyes. “The point is, I can’t let myself lose my focus. On top of everything else, Mrs. Reznik wants me ready to play Rabbath’s Ode d’Espagne by the talent show. It’s a killer. I’m already freaking out about it.”
“If it makes you so nervous, why don’t you tell her you’d rather play something easier? Why do this to yourself?” After a pause she says, “Look at your fingers. Are you biting your nails again?”
I curl my hand so she can’t see. “This isn’t middle school anymore, Naomi,” I say, looking back down at my notebook. “When we apply to colleges, our grades and everything we do now, it all counts.”
I feel her puzzled eyes on me. She’s heard all about my grand plan, of course. She thinks I’m crazy. “Don’t you think you might be taking things a little too seriously, Mo? You don’t have to be Supergirl.”
I sigh. Naomi means well, but she obviously doesn’t understand. “I’m not Supergirl. Supergirl doesn’t end up with a bunch of losers in detention. Supergirl doesn’t get caught in the bushes in a lip lock with Scott Pickett.”
That’s when I hear a voice from behind me. “Monu, how is your essay going?”
My heart nearly stops. I spin around. My father is standing at the door, a clipboard in his hand, his gaze locked on me. My dad is a big man. He fills the doorway. With his dark, grizzly beard, intense eyes and accent, I can see why my friends used to be scared of him when I was a little girl. I feel my stomach rise into my throat because I’m not sure how long he was standing there.
“Uh …,” I stammer. “Fine, Baba …”
When he nods, pleased, I relax. He asks, “Will Naomi be coming home for dinner?”
Fortunately, Naomi is more composed than I am. “No, Mr. Banerjee, but thanks. My mom wants me home early tonight.”
“Too bad,” he says. “Maach Curry tonight. Plus I got a video for afterwards. It’s an Amitabh Bachchan.”
“You’re kidding! Muqaddar Ka Sikandar?” she asks, pronouncing the name completely wrong, saying Muhk-AY-dar Kay Sick-AND-ar instead of MOOK-uh-dar Ka SEEK-and-ar.
“No. Mr. Natwarlal. We haven’t seen this one.”
I force a smile. Thank God my parents love Naomi and she loves them. She often comes over to our house to watch Bollywood movies with us. She doesn’t always know what’s going on, but she likes all the music and dancing. She can even name a lot of the big stars: Amitabh Bachchan, Shahrukh Khan, Preity Zinta, Isha Sharvani. She knows more about them than I do.
“Well, another time then.” And then to both of us he says, “Keep at the books like your future depends on it. Because it does.”
We nod.
The bell on the door jingles. My dad smiles again and then leaves to greet the new customer. After he’s gone, Naomi and I exchange guilty looks.
A few seconds later she whispers, “So you’re honestly going to do it? Break up with him?”
I nod.
She studies my face. “Really?”
I’m about to nod again, but then my eye catches an ad for zit cream in Naomi’s magazine. The photograph shows a crowd of laughing teenagers chasing each other on a beach in their bathing suits. At the front are a beautiful blond guy and a grinning redhead girl in a pink bikini. They’re running hand in hand and laughing like they just shared the funniest joke ever. Everybody looks so happy, but all I feel is frustration. I can never have a normal relationship—with Scott or anybody else. Unlike a real American girl, I’m going to end up in an arranged marriage, so if I find somebody I really care about, I’ll always have to hide it from my parents and eventually I’ll have to break it off.
To be honest, it makes the whole dating idea kind of depressing.
But now I try to picture myself breaking up with Scott and I can’t help thinking about his olive green sweater, how it smells so good when I rest my head on his shoulder, or the way his soft hand felt in mine that time he walked me almost the whole way home. And I think Naomi can see that this is what’s going through my mind. She doesn’t say a word. She’s known me since kindergarten. She knows I love my parents and I respect the sacrifices they’ve made, moving us here from Calcutta when I was two, getting used to a new language and working hard every day just to give my sister Madhu and me a better life than they had. She knows I want to meet their high expectations and that I hate the idea of disrespecting our family’s traditions.
But she also knows that even though my family is Indian, the fact is I grew up here in America and deep down I want the same things every American girl wants.
Which is why I can tell she doesn’t believe I’ll really drop Scott.
And to be honest I’m not sure I believe it either.
It’s first thing Friday morning and Naomi and I are heading to our lockers, which are across the hallway from each other. There’s a note taped to mine. Even before I’m close enough to read it I recognize the handwriting and feel a faint throb in my forehead. I’m not sure why, but somehow I know this isn’t good.
It says:
Meet me in my office right away. We need to talk.
—Mrs. Reznik
“Oh my God,” I say to Naomi, showing her the note. “She’s going to make me drop my independent study. I just know it.”
“What are you talking about?” she says, squinting at the piece of paper. “Will you relax? There’s no way Mrs. Reznik is going to drop you. Why would she do that?”
“First I skip her lesson, then I break her detention rules. You don’t know what she’s like, Naomi. She’s kind of a musical drill sergeant. I always suspected she’d drop me at the first sign of weakness.”
Naomi studies my face, concerned. “I believe you’re losing your grip, Mo. Think about it. Before the school cut the budget, running the student orchestra was probably Mrs. Reznik’s life. Now that it’s gone you’re like the closest thing she’s got. She’ll never drop you. I bet giving you lessons is the part of her day she looks forward to most. You even play her favorite instrument for godsakes.”
It’s true. Mrs. Reznik used to be a bassist with the Newport Philharmonic. She traveled around the world. On her desk are photographs of her standing with famous musicians like James Levine and Placido Domingo. But she stopped touring a few years ago and has led the OHS Orchestra ever since. It’s not surprising she’s furious that the school cut the program. She’s a very serious musician. But that, I think, is the real reason she agreed to give me private lessons—she believed I was going to take them as seriously as she did.
At least she did until yesterday. Before I ruined everything.
“Go,” she says, handing me the note back. “She probably has some new sheet music for you or something like that.”
But I’m not so sure. I can feel the panic rising. 
I had no idea why Mrs. Reznik wanted to see me but to be honest when I read the note I was kind of happy. Because I was already late for homeroom and this meant I could get a late pass. I’d already gotten 3 warnings so far this year and Mr. Finnerty said next time he would send a note home. But now I wouldn’t have to see Mr. Finnerty at all. Now instead of having to hurry I could take it easy.
The morning announcements were already droning out of the classroom speakers. The A.V. room was at the bottom of the stairs and when I passed it Lyle Dwarkin was standing on a rickety-looking stepladder stretching for something on a high shelf.
“What are you doing down here it’s homeroom” I said. “Didn’t you hear the bell?”
He craned his freckled head around. “Searching for a laptop projector for Mrs. Abraham.” Of all the extracurricular activities offered at Opequonsett High School the geekiest of all had to be the Audio Visual Club. But not only had Lyle joined, he’d been elected Treasurer. Which meant my buddy was practically High Priest of the Weirdos.
I glanced around. The A.V. room was actually just a glorified closet: a bunch of shelves, a couple of tables, heaps of loose cables and boxes and keyboards and junk everywhere. In the garbage can I noticed a pile of empty Mel’s Organic Frozen Lemonade paper cups. I wondered if any of them were Lyle’s. A lot of the kids from the basement clubs seemed to go for that stuff maybe because it was the only machine nearby. The soda dispensers were at the other end of the building.
“This place is a mess.”
“Not for long. We’re getting ready to organize.” Lyle climbed another rung so I steadied the ladder for him and he pulled a cardboard box off the shelf. “What are you doing down here Charlie?”
With my free hand I showed him the note from Mrs. Reznik. He read it. “Good luck. People get lost down here and never come back.”
Yuk yuk.
The announcements ended and I continued down the hallway. It was cluttered with filing cabinets and unused furniture. 1 of the lights was out and another blinked unsteadily. The doors on either side of the corridor led to other little rooms set aside for the school’s less glamorous clubs: the Chess Club, the Debate Team, the French Club, even the school newspaper. It was creepy. I wondered what Mrs. Reznik did to get banished down here. Overhead somebody was banging on the floor. Probably something to do with the construction of the team locker rooms. Bang. A couple seconds of silence. Bang. A couple more seconds. Bang. The Music Room was at the end of the corridor near the Loading Dock. The noise stopped just as I got to the door. Mrs. Reznik was sitting at her desk hacking away. She always seemed to have this nasty cough. It was kind of gross to listen to. But when she stopped she noticed me standing in the doorway and narrowed her eyes.
“Charlie you’re late.”
“Yeah” I said. “Sorry.”
I would of asked what this was all about but she pointed her finger and said “Have a seat” and to my surprise when I stepped into the room I saw a row of chairs in front of the desk and in them sat Wen Gifford, Olivia Whitehead, Stella Penn and Mo Banerjee. The kids from detention. All at once I realized we were probably about to get chewed out for breaking the detention rules. Mrs. Reznik hacked some more but I barely heard. I was fighting back a full-body blush and trying to think of something charming to say to Mo.
That’s when the voice came into my head again.
Get a grip bro. You’re killing me. You keep going like this and you’ll never get a date. See, in my twisted imagination Aaron was the cool, smooth one, except, since he was dead, he was stuck living vicariously through me. And I was constantly letting him down. Just because you have a secret thing for this girl doesn’t mean you have to act like an idiot around her.
He was right. I needed to control my natural impulse to make a fool out of myself. Still, it was hard to forget the rumor Lyle passed on to me when I’d called him the previous night. That Mo was supposedly going out now with Scott Pickett of all people. After that conversation I’d attacked my drums for 2 hours straight.
Relax, man. Be cool. For me.
OK. Enough pressure. I got it.
I forced myself to walk in as casually as I could. The other kids looked as confused as I felt. Wen nodded to me we weren’t exactly friends but we knew each other. I nodded back but didn’t sit near him. Yesterday I’d heard somebody laughing about some embarrassing drawings he’d made and it didn’t seem like a good idea to associate myself with that kind of bad PR. As I took the chair nearest the door I couldn’t help noticing Mo’s hair. It was tied back today, revealing her small, perfect ears.
Even though it was 1st thing in the morning Mrs. Reznik had another cup of Mel’s on her desk. “I’m glad you finally made it Charlie. I was just talking with the others about the music you made yesterday afternoon. And I’m wondering what the 5 of you are planning to do next.”
She stared at me like I was supposed to have the foggiest idea what she was talking about. Her eyes locked on mine and she kept waiting for an answer until eventually I said “Uh … what do you mean?”
“Well surely you’re not going to let it all go to waste are you? That would be like throwing away a windfall! Some musicians spend their entire lives searching for artistic synergy like I witnessed yesterday. Many never find it. Do you know what kismet is?”
I shook my head.
“Divine circumstance. It’s not every day that life just drops into your lap. You 5 have been sent a gift. A band like yours is like a flower demanding the opportunity to bloom.”
Eventually Wen spoke up. “But … we’re not a band.”
“Of course you are. You heard yourselves. Didn’t you sense something?”
She looked at me again. I was beginning to feel pretty uncomfortable. The truth was I did know what she was talking about. I had sensed something when we’d played. It felt good. Natural, kind of. But that didn’t mean we should quit school and plan a national tour or anything.
“Well … maybe we played well together” Wen admitted “but we were just goofing around.”
She jabbed her finger onto her desk. “There. So it wasn’t only me. Now you need to get serious you need to start practicing.” She sat back in her chair and looked around at each of us. “That’s why I asked everyone here this morning. You have a lot of work to do if you’re going to win the talent show and I’m not going to help if you’re not planning to win.”
I wasn’t sure what to say. Was she kidding?
I scanned the faces. Stella was glaring at her desk. Mo chewed on her pinky nail. Wen eyed Mrs. Reznik as if her head might start spinning at any moment. And that strange Olivia girl just picked nervously at the frayed edges of the ancient-looking backpack she held on her lap. It was a tattered pinkish thing with a Scooby-Doo decal. It looked embarrassingly like she might of stolen it from some defenseless 3rd grader.
Suddenly the banging started up again. Only this time it was so loud it sounded like somebody hammering their way through the ceiling. Mrs. Reznik scowled up at the graying tiles. We sat there listening for a few seconds. When it didn’t stop she stood and walked over to a filing cabinet and grabbed a broom from behind it. Then to my amazement she started whacking the broom handle against a metal pipe that ran up from the floor. Whack! Whack! Whack! I could hardly believe what I was seeing. As she swung her arm over and over again she glared at the ceiling.
Eventually the banging stopped and so did she. In the quiet that followed she set the broom gently back in its place and then took her seat again all dignified.
“They must be tearing something down directly above us. Either that or they’re trying to drive us all out of our minds. Can you imagine allowing such a racket above a music classroom? Have you ever heard of anything so uncivilized?”
The 5 of us just sat there. That proved it. This old lady was certifiably nuts.
“Anyway” she said smiling again “what do you say about the talent show?”
I pretended to examine the top of my desk. The whole idea of playing at the talent show with these guys was ridiculous. Mrs. Reznik’s wig was obviously on too tight. Did she honestly expect us to get up in front of the whole school and play kazoos and rubber bands? We’d get laughed off the stage. OK sure I often daydreamed about playing dance music, maybe bringing out the timbales like Tito. But this would never be the polished salsa combo I pictured. Even if we didn’t end up making ourselves look like complete morons, I was sure I’d somehow embarrass myself in front of Mo.
There was no way I wanted any part of this stupid idea.
But I kept my mouth shut. Why should I be the 1st to tell the old lady she was a total moonbat?
It was Stella who finally broke the silence. She wasn’t even looking at Mrs. Reznik. She stared at her knuckles like she was studying them. “I … uh … I don’t think so. I’m not much of a joiner.”
Mo was next. “I’m sorry too I think it’s a really, uh, interesting idea and everything but I can’t. I have a crazy schedule right now Mrs. Reznik I’m taking two extra courses and volunteering at the clinic. Not to mention working at my family’s store. So I honestly don’t have the time to squeeze in a single extra thing.”
Not too busy for Scott though Aaron taunted silently.
A moment later I felt the old lady’s intense eyes on me again. What was I supposed to say? In the end all I came up with was “Yeah I’m really busy too” but even as I said it I realized how pathetic I sounded. I could of kicked myself. Why didn’t I dream up something better? Mo looked at me like I was an idiot.
“And Olivia?”
Olivia’s face went pink. She seemed like a strange girl. I’d seen her walking alone in the hallways, her hands gripping the strap of her backpack as she crept around like some frightened ghost past rows and rows of lockers. She kept to herself and never seemed to say a word. It occurred to me that as low as I was on the social totem pole she was even lower.
It was a long time before she finally answered. But when she did her voice was deep and gravelly and so quiet I almost had to strain to hear her. “The problem is I’m not a real singer. And I’m not comfortable onstage. The biggest audience I’ve ever performed for was at home.” She seemed to have more to say but she looked too anxious to go on. Her face got so red that I wondered if she was going to burst it was almost painful to watch. Finally she said “But singing to thirteen cats isn’t the same as singing to a gymnasium full of people. I can’t do that I get nervous.”
Wen and I looked at each other. Thirteen cats? She sings to them?
“Oh but Olivia” Mrs. Reznik said in a gentle voice “everybody gets nervous onstage. You’ll get over it.”
“No you don’t understand. Once when I was in the 4th grade musical I threw up all over the other kids. I was only in the chorus.”
I tried to picture the 5 of us onstage, Scooby-Doo Girl vomiting all over Stella’s ukulele.
Mrs. Reznik frowned again. “What about when you sang in detention?”
Olivia took so long to respond that I wasn’t sure she’d even heard the question. Eventually she looked up from the frayed edges of her bag. “That was … different. I can’t sing in a band.”
After that everyone went quiet.
Until Wen said “Well I guess that counts me out too after all we can’t exactly bloom if it’s only me.” I think he meant that to be funny but Mrs. Reznik gave him a withering glance and he looked down.
Mrs. Reznik didn’t say anything right away. While everybody sat in yet another awkward silence she took a long thoughtful sip of her lemonade slush. To tell the truth I couldn’t wait for the bell to ring so I could get the heck out of there.
“Reaching for greatness is never easy” she said finally. “And I understand that we all have our own obstacles to overcome. Still I can’t help thinking that you’re missing the point. This is a challenge worth taking. Something happened yesterday, something special. Call it luck call it celestial alignment, whatever you wish. Whatever it was, who knows when or if it’ll happen to any of you ever again. And I’m sure each of you knows what I’m talking about. You heard yourselves.”
My foot tapped nervously. I wouldn’t of admitted it to anyone but part of me felt like maybe there was something to what she was saying. Glancing around the room though I wasn’t so sure. Did I really want to associate myself with Olivia Whitehead the silent nutjob? Or Wendel Gifford who’d publicly shamed himself into social exile? Or Stella Penn the she-warrior with a fondness for starting riots in school assemblies? Not that I was exactly Mr. Popularity or anything, but that only made the problem worse. Except for Mo, we had to be the most hopeless bunch of high school rejects ever.
Sure, I always wanted to be in a band. But not this one.
“Wait a minute Mrs. Reznik” Wen said out of the blue. “Didn’t Mudslide Crush win the talent show last year? Don’t you think they’ll enter it again this time?”
“I know they’re going to” Mo said. “Scott told me.”
And there it was. Scott told Mo stuff. This didn’t exactly prove what Lyle said about them but it was pretty good evidence.
“So we can’t win” said Wen. “Mudslide Crush is really REALLY good. They have a huge following. Even if we did pull something together and competed, we wouldn’t have a snowball’s chance.”
Mrs. Reznik waved her hand like she didn’t buy a word of it. “Nonsense. Look, I’ve been surrounded with music and musicians my entire life and believe me I can tell an ensemble onto something revolutionary from one that’s merely competent.”
I couldn’t believe she said that. Merely competent? Mudslide Crush? She was talking about a band that everybody practically bowed down to. They had a huge following.
Mrs. Reznik set down her empty cup. “Consider this. Music is a manifestation of ourselves. Of our unique voices, whether as individuals or groups. Think about that. Your collective voice is 1-of-a-kind. It’s so strong, so extraordinarily honest. How can you stifle it? Don’t you want to stand up and show everybody who you are?” She leaned forward. “Aren’t you tired of letting others carry the day? Aren’t you ready to be heard?”
I couldn’t figure this lady out.
“Think about it” she said. And then in a voice that sounded like she was trying to be diplomatic she added “Mudslide Crush is fine. You 5, on the other hand, should aim higher. You could be”—she squinted her eyes like she was searching for the word—“stupendous. You’re going to shake things up around here. I have a feeling about this.” 
I was lying across the sofa listening to “A Night in Tunisia,” the bebop fighting it out with the explosions from George’s video game. For appearance’s sake, I’d set my American History textbook on the coffee table and my spiral notebook on my lap while my other hand fingered the valves of my trumpet and tried to keep up with Dizzy Gillespie. In my head I’d even worked out my own little staccato two-bar riff that contrasted with Dizzy’s wandering melody.
My American History essay was due the next morning but, needless to say, I was having a hard time getting started.
Sydney wasn’t exactly helping. Through the doorway I could see her at the kitchen table constructing a sculpture out of an old boot, a jar of peanut butter and a pile of colored feathers. From the sofa I had a terrific view of her bare shoulders and her long, narrow neck. Plus, every now and then she’d get up from her work, shuffle into the living room, and hover over me until I looked up.
“How was school today?” she’d ask fake-casually, or, “Should I open a bag of chips?” This time she said, “It’s a nice afternoon, want to go for a walk?”
I shook my head and immediately looked back down.
After a moment she backed away a couple steps. “If I make brownies, would either of you eat them with me?”
“No thanks.” I kept my eyes on the blank page. When I’d returned her sketches last Thursday afternoon, I couldn’t even look her in the face. She, on the other hand, had tried to laugh off the mix-up.
“Are you kidding?” George asked, his round, cherubic face glancing up sweetly from the massacre on the screen. He’d been defending the universe ever since he came home from school. “I’d eat them.”
Sydney smiled at him before padding back out of the room. I couldn’t stop myself from sneaking another look. Tight jeans today.
A moment later I laid back, closed my eyes and let the music distract me from my thoughts. Thank God for Dizzy. Now there was a player with chops. Sure, Miles was a genius, if you were in the mood, and Satchmo was everywhere, but if you were looking for a fearless, no-holds-barred improviser, an innovator who could take a melody to the highest registers and then completely change direction on a dime, nobody topped Diz. He was one of a kind.
That thought brought me back to what Mrs. Reznik said on Friday morning. On the one hand, I kind of liked the idea of being a part of a new, experimental quintet, especially since there would be no Marching Band for me. On the other hand, I knew we would never actually win the talent show, and a part of me still wanted to hide under a rock until graduation. That day, nobody’d sat with me at lunch and as I’d stood in line, two senior girls glared at me like I was some kind of juvenile offender. Azra and Floey were nearby and they hadn’t talked to me either. They were avoiding me.
I didn’t blame them.
If high school was a garden, I was poison ivy.
Not that it really mattered if I wanted to try this band thing. I got the feeling that the other detention kids wanted to make music together about as much as they wanted to eat fertilizer. Still, I spoke with Olivia in class later that day and told her she really did have an amazing voice. I wondered if she changed her mind then maybe the others might consider changing theirs.
If we did end up going onstage, maybe I could hide behind Charlie or something.
Just as the album ended, Sydney walked in again from the kitchen. By then George had finally turned off the computer and gone to his room. “You have a lot of homework tonight, hun?”
Hun?
“No,” I lied. “I’m almost done.”
“Great. I need a break. Mind if I watch a little TV?”
I gave up on my essay for now. “Fine. Whatever.”
She plopped herself down on the other end of the sofa and folded her legs. Not only could I smell her perfume, but the light from the window made her eye shadow sparkle. My mother, a high-flying executive who lived in Manhattan since the divorce seven years ago, hardly wore any makeup at all. What was my dad doing with a woman who painted her eyelids glittery blue?
Sydney picked up the clicker and turned on some afternoon talk show. A few seconds later she said, “Oh, I discovered a bag of Fig Newtons. Want one?”
“No, thanks.”
“Sure?” She leaned toward me, raised an eyebrow and held out a cookie. “They’re reeaaally good.…”
The way she was looking at me, her big amazing eyes locked on mine and all playful and pleading—well, let’s just say it was all I could do to look away.
“Uh, no,” I said. “Honestly, I’m not hungry.”
“Okay.” She pulled back the cookie and put it in her own mouth. “Suit yourself.”
I decided to try and focus again on my essay but I couldn’t keep myself from sneaking glances at her. After a few minutes, I got up and locked myself in the bathroom. When I went back out there again, I decided, I’d be stronger. I wouldn’t even look at her. 
Dear Ted,
I know it’s only been a few days since my last letter, but I was in a used bookstore this morning and I saw this collection, Tomorrow’s Castaways: The Complete Essays of Phineas Fletcher. Do you remember reading me his Little Castaways stories when I was five? Remember “The Red Canoe”? I used to spend whole evenings imagining you and me in that canoe drifting merrily to wherever the river happened to carry us. I haven’t thought about that in years, and suddenly here was this collection. It felt like a good omen (I know, I know—you don’t believe in omens, but I do) so I grabbed it. Anyway, I thought it might brighten up your cell.
I’m concerned about Nancy. As I write she’s purring like a lawnmower but lately she hasn’t been mixing as much with Barbara, Hillary or Laura, who she used to adore. But then again she’s about two decades older than them in cat years. I think she’s feeling her age. Plus, I think the poor thing lost some weight. She’s like a feather on my legs.
Brenda, on the other hand, is in a frantic mood. Not only did she agree to put up a table at the church fair this weekend (I went down to the beach and collected a bagful of quahog shells to paint and sell as ashtrays) but she’s also working on four rush orders, including personalized announcements for a triple bar mitzvah in Michigan. It’s a big job with all new artwork so I’ve hardly seen her in days. Last night she even worked through “I Love Lucy.” But we’re glad business is finally picking up.
You asked how many friends I have at my new school. Well, if you count the lunch ladies and the librarian I guess I’m up to three. Yup, I’m practically in the running for homecoming queen (ha ha). The truth is, it’s pretty tough here. Seems like most of these kids have known each other since birth and, as you know, it’s always been hard for me to open up. I want to make friends, of course—you have no idea how much. It’s just that I feel like the only return item in a store full of happy customers. I’m trying to fit in but I keep freezing up. But I’m still on the lookout for a kindred spirit. Well, I guess there is this one boy. His name is Wen. Very serious, a Scorpio I think. For some reason I’m okay around him. Maybe because he kind of reminds me of you.
Oh, here’s a good one—ready for a laugh? Mrs. Reznik, the music teacher, wants me and Wen and three other kids to perform in the school talent show. Can you imagine? Me, with my voice, singing onstage? Just the thought gives me the shakes. I told her no, of course. And the weirdest thing is, since then Wen has been showing up at my elbow a couple times a day asking if I’m thinking about doing it. He says he actually likes the way I sound.
Clearly, the boy must be out of his mind.
By the way, to preempt the question I know you’ll ask: Yes, I like him. He’s very cute. And funny. Okay? Satisfied? Not that anything’s going to happen, of course, but at least now you don’t have to bug me about him.
Anyway, gotta go. The girls are meowing at me so I guess it’s feeding time. See you next Saturday.
Miss you.
Your Diva Daughter (ha ha),
Olivia 
There I sat, wispy-headed and silent, barely listening to my sister tell a long, dull story. Wednesday was Family Night. My mother had recently discovered the idea in a discarded domestic bliss magazine, and this week she’d dragged the entire household to some chichi French restaurant on the East Side of Providence. As my mother and Leonard sat in rapt attention, Clea went into excruciating detail about a project she was working on for business class. It had something to do with bubble wrap, but her story was sprinkled with incomprehensible phrases like “supply chains,” “activity based costing” and “price erosion,” all of which flew completely over my head.
This wasn’t a new phenomenon.
Perhaps I’d ended up in the wrong family. Had there been a mix-up at the hospital, maybe a botched adoption from Planet Stupid?
While Clea droned on, I was relieved to see that I wasn’t the only uninterested person at the table. For a while I amused myself watching the step-monkeys stuff straws up their noses and pretend to be walruses.
“Pull those out, Andrew!” my mother eventually snapped, practically leaping over her plate of half-devoured roasted duck to pull a plastic tube from the boy’s nostril. “Tim, sit quietly in your chair! All right, tell me again Clea—what did your professor say about the destination-enhanced consolidation?”
Leonard wasn’t talking much, typical for him. But he took this break in the story to cram a hunk of braised tuna into his mouth.
“Yuck,” I said. “How can you eat that?”
Either he didn’t hear or he was ignoring me. Still, I couldn’t help picturing the poor fish with a hook in its mouth. Some people argue that fishes can’t feel pain, but of course they can. Studies have proven it. Just because you can’t see the agony doesn’t mean it isn’t there.
I picked at my dinner—asparagus with grilled goat cheese. Back when I first went veggie, my mother worried it would backfire, as if her foolish daughter was certain to give herself some nutritional deficiency or something. “She’s always getting these ideas that don’t work out,” I overheard her saying to Leonard at the time. “Like when she was four and decided to put her hand on the hot stove to see what it would feel like. Or the time when she was ten and she got it into her head to stand up on her bicycle seat and ride downhill. She broke her arm in two places! Did you know that she once stuck a fork into an electric socket just to see if her hair would stand on end? Sometimes I don’t know what to do with the girl. She can be so stubborn. She gets these crazy notions and doesn’t think them through.”
Wrong, mother dear. More than four months of no meat and so far I still had all my teeth.
I was surprised out of my reverie by a cold feeling on my arm. I looked down and realized that one of Tim’s spastic moves had knocked over his water, which now was soaking into my sleeve. I jumped back from the table.
“Pissant! Look what you did!”
“Don’t make a scene, Stella!” my mother hissed. She dove across the table, righted the cup, and hurled a linen napkin on the dark stripe that was expanding on the tablecloth. “It’s not the end of the world. Just wipe yourself off!”
I clamped my mouth shut. Formerly easygoing, my maternal forebear had lately become the Queen of Stress.
Before long the step-monkeys were fooling around again and Clea’s narrative had picked up right where it had left off. I once again found myself on my own, with the choice of watching the step-monkeys try to knock each other off their seats, listening to a seemingly endless story I couldn’t follow or watching my mom and Leonard devour their cuisine of cruelty.
With this family, was it any wonder I’d hacked off my hair?
As Mom nodded in time to Clea’s droning voice and Leonard stuffed his face, my thoughts crept back to the conversation with Mrs. Reznik.
Revolutionary. That was how the old lady described the music those kids and I had made in detention. It was a ridiculous word to use, of course. It was just a stupid commercial played on weird instruments. But still, the word had been turning around in my head all day. And even though at first I’d been appalled by the thought of doing the talent show, I now found myself toying with the idea. After all, playing that dumb song had probably been the most fun I’d had since arriving in this godforsaken part of the country. And it wasn’t as if I had anything else to look forward to in my life at the moment.
Eventually, Clea put her monologue on pause so she could go to the bathroom. After a minute or so of silence my mother said, “What about you, Stella? Anything special going on at school?”
I was surprised at the question. It was the first time all week that my mom had expressed an interest in my life. But then again, I hardly ever saw her anymore now that she was busy being the big-shot biochemistry boss. Back in Arizona we used to do things together, just the two of us. We’d ride the Rio Salado bike path or go out to coffee and chat. Now everything was different. “Support me in this, Stella,” she’d said as we’d packed our bags. “The timing might not be ideal, but this is an opportunity of a lifetime, a chance for me to do something I really believe in.” But now that she’d dumped me into a new state and left me to fend for myself in an unfamiliar school, where was her support for me?
Just as I was about to open my mouth to answer the question, my mom’s cell went off. “Sorry,” she said, checking the screen, her forehead wrinkled with concern. “It’s the lab. I have to take this.” She put the receiver to her ear.
It was while watching my mother listen to the phone that I had a revelation. I may have chopped back my locks, but there was still something very, very wrong with my life. And if anybody was going to fix it, it wasn’t my family. I was on my own.
For some reason a question occurred to me: What would Sista Slash do? Surely that outspoken crusader for human rights, personal dignity and self-reliance wouldn’t take this wholesale relegation to the backseat of life without a fight.
And that’s when I made my decision.
Revolutionary. It meant causing a shift or change in the status quo. And that was exactly what I needed right then.
After my mom finally folded her phone shut I said, “Mother, in answer to your question, as a matter of fact there is something special going on at school. Or at least there’s about to be.” For dramatic effect, I speared an asparagus with my fork and brought it thoughtfully to my mouth.
“And? So what is it?”
Everybody was looking at me now. I let them wait. “I’m going to join a revolution.”
My mom looked puzzled. Tim and Andy glanced at each other and rolled their eyes. After a long quiet moment, Leonard, his mouth still full of dead tuna, said, “Well, good for you, Stella.”
I got the distinct impression that they all thought I was nuts. But just as I was about to explain about the band, Clea appeared at her chair again. Even before she sat down she plunged right back into her story and everyone’s attention returned to her as if there hadn’t been any break at all.
On the outside, I kept calm. On the inside, I felt like the fish on Leonard’s plate. 
Thursday afternoon I find another mysterious note, this one tucked between the strings of my bass, a folded piece of neon-yellow paper with my name on it.
FLUKE OR DESTINY?
WHICHEVER IT WAS, WE NEED TO TALK.
COME TO BRUNO’S PIZZA PLANET TODAY AFTER SCHOOL.
—S
“Weird,” says Naomi. “It’s from Scott?”
“I don’t think so,” I say. “Doesn’t look like his handwriting.”
“No? So who’s ‘S’ then? And what’s this about fluke or destiny?”
“I don’t know.”
I can practically hear Naomi’s imagination whirring into overdrive. “Hmmm …” she says. “A mystery. Okay, let’s consider the possibilities. Sarah Obinsky? Sabina Boch? How about Seth Levine. Maybe he likes you and thinks you’re destined to be together?”
“Seth Levine does not like me,” I say, fighting a smile. Seth is the senior class president. He doesn’t even know I exist.
“How can you act so nonchalant about this? Somebody sent you a secret message and you have no idea what it means or who it’s from. Aren’t you intrigued?”
I nod. Of course I am. I just can’t figure it out.
“So are you going to show up to Bruno’s?” Bruno’s Pizza Planet is a popular hangout a block from the high school.
“I’m not sure,” I say, still staring at the message. And that’s when an idea hits me. “You don’t think … ‘S’ could be Stella Penn, do you?”
Naomi’s forehead wrinkles. “Stella? I don’t know. Anything’s possible, I guess.”
I hope not. I don’t think I want anything to do with that giant, scowling girl. With her freaky hair, towering height and that bizarre jacket she always wears around the school, she blends in about as well as a chainsaw in a chamber orchestra. Even worse, she seems like some kind of political fanatic.
“That’s all I’d need. What if Stella has some crazy idea like maybe we should play that song until they stop killing whales or something?” I crumple up the note and shove it into my pocket. “That’s it, I’ve decided. It’s too weird. I’m not going.”
But of course I do go. Even though I have Trig homework, even though I ought to be doing the pre-lab questions for Biology tomorrow, and even though I’ve been planning to go to the library to research the Battle of Brandywine Creek (I’m doing a four-page extra-credit essay for Mr. Dewonka), I’m too curious to keep away. After my last class ends I stay late to talk with Mr. Prichard because my Social Studies presentation is coming up at the end of next week and I’m completely flipping out about it. But after that I hurry over to Bruno’s. Five minutes later I’m rushing through the front door.
For midafternoon, the place is pretty busy. I scan row after row of tables that look like flying saucers, more than half of them full. With a star-painted sky, giant papier-mâché craters and aliens and weird lights that glow in ghostly neon, Bruno’s is decorated to feel like you’re eating in outer space. Even the little stage area where Bruno sometimes features local musicians—mostly acoustic guitarists playing quiet, eerie chords—is decked out to look like the moon. Bruno’s Pizza Planet is a junk food joint with extraterrestrial ambitions.
It takes me a moment to spot anybody I know, but then, under the Milky Way, I see her waving me over.
S for Stella. Mystery solved.
I almost spin around and head back outside, not only because I figure that anything to do with Stella Penn means trouble but also because sitting with her at the circular booth in the corner are all the other kids from detention.
But Stella calls to me before I get a chance. “Mo!” she shouts across the room. “We’re all signed up!”
I’m not sure what she means, but her piercing screech temporarily halts the conversations at the other space ships.
“For the talent show!” Stella calls, as if it should have been obvious. That’s when I notice that there’s something different about her appearance today. Then I realize what it is. Her short, spiky hair is no longer black. It’s green. I also notice the Patties sitting at a booth at the opposite end of the room. Patty Norris and Patty Keane are juniors, Ray Beech and Dean Eagler’s girlfriends. They turn and I’m sure they see me but they don’t say hi, even after I wave. It bothers me but I don’t let it show.
I approach Stella’s table as calmly as I can, like meeting up with this unlikely crew is something I do all the time. Sitting next to Stella on one end of the rounded bench is Wen. He’s nodding his head and I’m wondering if he’s in on this with her. Aware that the Patties are probably watching me, I set my backpack by the table but I don’t sit.
“But, Stella,” I say. “We already talked about this. It’s not going to happen.”
“Sure it is. I wrote our names down on the sheet. It’s official.” She takes a sip from a paper cup of what looks like frozen lemonade. “That’s why I asked everyone to come here today. Mrs. Reznik is right. If we’re going to win, we have a lot of work to do.”
I’m not sure how to react. She’s obviously out of her mind.
I glance around the table. Wen is still smiling, but it’s kind of a nervous smile. Charlie is eyeing Stella uneasily as if her head might start spinning at any moment. Olivia just stares at the table like she’s imagining she’s somewhere else.
Stella curls her lip at all the silent faces. “Look, this is our cosmic shot at immortality. The winner of the talent show wins respect, right? Don’t you want that?”
For a few seconds nobody answers. “Well okay, maybe …,” Charlie says finally, as if he’s worried that this green-haired oddity might bite him, “but even if that’s true—and I’m not saying it is or it isn’t—we won’t win. We’re not polished enough.”
“No problem,” says Stella. “All we need is a little experience. Which is why I also signed us up for the Halloween Bash.”
This is getting weirder and weirder. “But … how did you pull that off?” he asks. “How did you get anybody to even consider us for the Bash?”
She grins. “It’s amazing what a vice principal will agree to if he thinks his biggest problem student is finally working on something productive. Why don’t you sit?” She levels her gaze at me and points to the empty seat. “Join us.”
After a moment’s hesitation, I do as I’m told. When I’m seated I notice the Patties aren’t there anymore. Their stuff is gone too. They must have packed up and left. “Let me get this straight,” I say. “You lied to Mr. Brenigan and now he thinks we’re some kind of rock band or something?”
“To quote Sista Slash, ‘To make good stuff happen, you sometimes gotta finesse your way around the system.’ ” I can see it in her face now. She is completely serious.
“But Stella,” says Charlie quietly, “playing rubber bands and banging on desks in detention isn’t exactly the same thing as having a band. Other than Mrs. Reznik, nobody thinks we can actually perform in front of an audience, right?”
“I’m not saying we should play rubber bands and bang on a desk. We’ll use our real instruments. You have real drums, right?”
I turn to him. To tell the truth, I have no idea if he does or not. But he nods.
“Okay then,” she says as if she just proved a point, “so why shouldn’t you play them in front of an audience?”
That’s when I jump in again. “For starters,” I say, looking around the table for support, “what would we play? The smile song over and over?”
Nobody says anything. Finally, Wen shifts in his seat and opens his mouth for the first time. “I don’t know. Maybe it isn’t such a crazy thought. We could learn other songs, right?”
I can’t believe I’m hearing this. Are Charlie and I the only sane people at the table? “Hold on, Wen. You actually think this is a good idea? How can we possibly come up with enough music to perform at the Bash? Halloween is less than a month away! I, for one, don’t have a lot of time to spare right now. I’m taking eight courses this semester!”
“I’m just saying it’s an interesting thought,” Wen says. “That’s all.”
Stella doesn’t seem fazed by anything we’ve said. She picks at a scab on her elbow. “Sure, we’ll learn plenty of other songs. I have a bunch of ideas. I was talking with Mrs. Reznik about this. We’re not going to be just some throwaway pop band. We won’t play any trash. No Desirée Crane–type sellout crap for us, only music that makes a difference. Our stuff will need to be”—she pauses for a moment, deep in thought—“important. Know what I mean?”
I don’t, but Wen nods.
Olivia still hasn’t said a word. I look over at her, wondering what she’s thinking. Trying to interpret her expressionless face, though, is like trying to read a blank wall.
I realize I’m biting my nails again so I stop myself.
But then it hits me. In all the excitement, I forgot the most obvious reason in the world why we can’t do this. The details of the Bash aren’t public knowledge yet, but I happen to have inside information. “Wait a minute. Hold on. How can we play the Halloween Bash when I know for a fact that this year’s band has already been chosen, and it’s going to be Mudslide Crush, same as last year?”
I turn to Charlie to get his reaction. My guess is he’ll recognize this as an injection of indisputable reality into this otherwise crazy conversation. But he looks away. His face reddens and he suddenly seems focused on a satellite hanging on the wall.
Across from me, though, Stella hardly bats an eye. “Mudslide Crush is going to play at the Bash. But Mr. Brenigan agreed that we will too. We’re splitting the night.” She grins again. “We play first.”
I open my mouth to answer, but I can’t think of what to say. I’m amazed.
Suddenly I’m looking at Stella in a new light. In her short time at our school I’ve seen her stalking the hallways, always alone, a supersized girl with an attitude as big as New England. She’s always seemed like trouble, maybe even a little unstable—definitely a person to avoid. And yet, sitting with her now I can’t help admiring her confidence. She really thinks we can pull this off. And the more I listen to her, the more I wonder.
Plus, I have to admit that the idea of sharing a stage with Scott and his friends wasn’t completely unappealing.
“But I just can’t,” says a quiet, scratchy voice to my right. “For one thing, my voice isn’t very strong. It doesn’t take much straining for me to go hoarse.”
“But you wouldn’t have to strain, Olivia,” says Wen. “We’ll get microphones.”
Olivia doesn’t seem convinced. “I’ll freeze up. I already told you, I get nervous. I’m not a real singer.”
“Listen, Stella,” Wen says, looking a little less optimistic than before, “maybe this idea just isn’t realistic. We shouldn’t do it unless all five of us are in.”
Stella sits back in her chair, looking thoughtful. For a long time, nobody speaks.
“Okay,” she says finally. “So like Mrs. Reznik said, it’s not going to be easy. But tell me this, guys”—she scans our faces—“aren’t you tired of living on the sidelines?”
No one answers. Stella looks directly at me but how am I supposed to answer a question like that?
“What’s the biggest problem with our school? I’ll tell you. It’s that most kids don’t step up. Why is it okay that only a chosen few are seen as important and everybody else is a nobody? Why do we accept the way things are? Are we afraid to make our own decisions?” She looks around the table. “I don’t know about you, but after I’m gone I don’t want to be remembered as just another face in the yearbook, another kid that people vaguely recall passing in the corridor.” She presses her big hands on the table. “Don’t you want to show the jocks, the popular kids, everybody you know, that you’re not somebody to overlook, that you’re exceptional? Aren’t you guys tired of being nobodies?”
I think for sure somebody’s going to protest but no one does.
Stella leans forward. “Look, Wen and I are in. Who’s with us?”
I glance around. I realize that the near impossibility of getting our act together in only about three weeks actually excites me.
Even so, I’m still surprised when, after a long, painful silence, I hear my own voice say, “Okay. I’ll give it a shot.”
Everyone turns to me. I feel my face heat up. I know I’m probably making a terrible mistake so I quickly add, “But only if everyone else agrees. And I’m only committing to one practice, that’s all. After that, if it feels like it’s going to work out I’ll keep going, but if it doesn’t I’m out.”
Wen is obviously surprised. Stella is beaming. After a moment Wen spins to his left. “Come on, Olivia. You can do this. I know you can. Say you’ll give it a try.”
Olivia looks up and takes a deep breath. For just an instant too long, her eyes linger on Wen. It’s subtle, but I notice. And I recognize that look. “Okay,” she says, practically whispering. “If everyone else wants to do this, I’ll try. But I can’t make any promises.”
Now all eyes are on Charlie. After a while he says, “Looks like it’s up to me then.” He laughs, but it’s an uneasy kind of laugh. “On the one hand, I’ve always wanted to be in a real band. But on the other hand, I think this might just be the stupidest idea I ever heard.” He laughs again, but everyone is still waiting. “Hey, guys, I don’t know what to say. I’m the worst in the world at making decisions.” Then an idea seems to come to him and I watch him reach into his pocket. “Tell you what,” he says, pulling out something and holding it up. It’s a quarter. “Let’s do it this way. Heads we go for it. Tails we don’t.”
And believe it or not, that’s how it happens. Charlie tosses the coin and we all watch it spin in the air. I hold my breath. By the time it lands in the center of the table all five of us are leaning forward, practically craning our necks to see what it says.
George Washington.
Everybody’s in.