You'll Miss Me When I'm Gone

Lindsay gives me a little hug, as though it makes up for her recent lack of involvement. “Hey. I know what’ll cheer you up.” She clicks to Netflix on her laptop. “Have you seen this show? Everyone says it’s amazing. Troy’s already on episode four, so if we watch three tonight, I can catch up to him.”

“Sure. Okay.”

Whatever closeness I thought I’d regained with Lindsay tonight was fleeting, but instead of paying attention to the show or wondering how to fix our friendship, my mind turns to Adina.

I don’t want to lose her, too.

Thirteen

Adina

FIRST CHAIR HAS BEEN GETTING cold. I earned it in sixth grade, and the few who’ve dared challenge me since have lost. First chair is a message: I am the best, it says.

Violas are difficult to hear in an orchestra—difficult for the untrained ear to pick out our distinct sound—but if we were gone, you would absolutely notice. That is why becoming a soloist is so crucial. I need to be heard.

“Welcome back, Adina,” the orchestra conductor, Mrs. Roberti, says as I enter the room. “Feeling better?”

I force a smile, turning my lips into a sideways bass clef. “Much.”

Last night at dinner Aba asked if I was sure I was ready to go back to school. I’d been home for a week and a half, and he and Ima have let me skip Saturday synagogue services too. He said I could take a few more weeks, even a month off. He spoke delicately, like the volume of his words could break me. At least he wasn’t badgering me about college again. It was a terrible thought, that I’ve swapped that horror for one that is much worse.

I glanced at Tovah, who smiled at something on her phone before hastily shoving it into her pocket. When her eyes caught mine, she looked guilty, like she’d been caught doing something she shouldn’t have been: smiling, texting, generally feeling as though her world had not been turned upside down.

Spending another day at home would have been a hundred times more claustrophobic than the classroom. So here I am. Back.

We begin a Tchaikovsky piece I played a couple years ago with Arjun, but my bow isn’t as fluid as it usually is, and my fingers stumble up and down my viola’s neck. The orchestra devours my sounds as I fall further and further behind. Finally the bell rings, and I stow my sheet music in my case and take out my canvas lunch bag.

“That piece is so cool.”

The voice belongs to Connor Mattingly: tall, reed-thin bassist. He eats lunch in the orchestra room sometimes, laughing too loudly with the other guy who plays double bass—dick inadequacy, I swear—and a girl violinist.

“Cool,” I repeat. These people don’t understand classical music the way I do. Knowing full well I am acting snippy, I continue: “Tchaikovsky composed some of the most popular music in existence, including The Nutcracker, Swan Lake, and the 1812 Overture, so yeah, I’d definitely call him cool.”

Connor doesn’t catch my sarcasm. Instead he grins, revealing a row of clear braces. “You know, since we all sit in here at lunch, you should eat with us. If you want to.” His friends are already arranging chairs in a circle.

I shove my avocado and cheese sandwich back into my bag. “I’m not that hungry today.” Without waiting for a reply, I scoop up my viola and leave the room.

The hallway is covered with posters for honor society, debate team, robotics club. Orange and black banners cheer, GO, JAGUARS! When I got to high school, I’d already committed my life to viola, and I imagine my single-mindedness made it difficult to make friends. What was the point of wasting time on something I might not enjoy, like a club or a sport? But what if I’d tried yearbook or soccer, or I’d grown close to the other kids in orchestra, and now I had friends to talk to about this? Now there are only a handful of people I can talk to, and all of them either don’t want to talk or talk far too much. Or they don’t appreciate Tchaikovsky.

I don’t have an off-campus lunch pass, but our security’s so lax I’m able to slip out the back entrance without anyone stopping me. I take the bus so Tovah can drive herself home later. I’ve never skipped school before, but I’m only missing fifth, sixth, and seventh. What do precalculus and physics and US Government matter to me now?

I get off the bus in Capitol Hill. Gray clouds press down on me, threatening rain. I hunch my shoulders and take long strides down Broadway, a street crammed with taquerias and art supply stores and boutiques and a couple sex toy shops. I duck into a coffee shop, order a latte, and take a seat near the window so I can watch the rain. The latte foam makes a leaf pattern. I take a sip, and the leaf is gone.

One day I won’t be able to do this: drink coffee, get rained on, enjoy the classical music playing in the background of the coffee shop, play stupid games on my phone to pass the time.

There are an awful lot of things on the one-day-I-won’t list. Mentally, I tear it into tiny pieces.

When I get back on the bus, I reapply the Siren lipstick I tattooed onto my coffee mug and don’t make eye contact with anyone. As kids, Tovah and I used to make up stories about the people we saw. We learned to ride the bus early, like most city kids, before the training wheels came off our bikes. She’d say, “Look at that guy with the ferret on a leash. He’s totally training him to perform in the circus.” And I’d point across the aisle and whisper, “That girl tapping her three-inch-long fingernails against the pole? She’s growing them out to try to break a Guinness World Record.”

The bus goes up, up, up that familiar hill. I have no idea what to expect at today’s lesson, but Arjun did not cancel, so I guess it’s still happening. It’s pouring when I get off, soaking my hair and eyelashes, dripping down my nose. My coat is in my locker at school, keeping my books warm. I’m still early and I don’t want to buzz up yet, so I lurk out front, lucking out when I catch a woman heading out of the building. I jam my boot in as the door is closing.

“I just moved in, and I’m such a scatterbrain. What’s the code again?” I flash a smile, hoping I sound genuine.

“One-nine-four-five,” she says. “The year the complex was built.”

“Right.” I commit the numbers to memory. “Thank you.”

“Sure,” she says, her grin now matching my fake one. “Welcome to the building. The bottom dryer in the laundry room likes to eat socks.”