My clarinet rests in its case, but not for long. It’s time to practice, time to smell wet cork and my own breath, time for my brain to disconnect and my fingers to move of their own volition, music seeping out from under my bedroom door until Mom calls me down to dinner. And maybe even after that, if I play softly enough that they can’t hear.
Six years ago Mr. Hunter brought us into the high school band room, our little sixth-grade bodies small enough to fit into the instrument cages. He showed us every instrument, played a B flat major scale on each one, sent little slips home to our parents explaining financing options and the pros and cons of new versus used.
I knew what I wanted, even then. An unswerving dedication fired in my soul at the sight of the clarinet. I’m not like Lilly, who started out on trumpet, said it hurt her lips too much and tried a sax, flaked out and switched over to the flute, which she’s stayed with for two years—but I’ve seen her casting looks at the oboes lately. I’m not like Brooke either, happy to stand in the back and hit bells, drums, timpani, freshmen, anything that gets close to her mallets.
They chose music because we always did things together, from dressing up like triplet bunnies at Halloween to making a pact that our boyfriends always had to get along with one another or it was a deal breaker. Lilly’s talents extended from the orchestra pit to the stage, even if she had yet to snag a lead role, while Brooke had transposed her penchant for hitting things into a decent softball career.
Me, I live by one thing. And I do it well.
I snap the joints together and tighten the ligature, ignoring the slight scream in my wrist as I do. My hands have crackled since seventh grade, the tendons forever swollen and stiff. Mom keeps warning me that I’m doing permanent damage. Dad doesn’t comment because he always has earplugs in.
It’s together now, resting on my lap, the last rays of the evening sun slipping through my window and bouncing off the keys. I love how it looks so complicated, spikes of silver flaring, empty holes of nothingness, a mass of wood and metal that almost seems vicious until you hear its voice. Low. Melodic. Lulling. It can convince you of anything if you listen to it long enough. My hands find their place and do their work. They must want Brahms tonight because that’s what my ears get.
There’s nothing better than letting your brain go dead. I use it so much, taxing it to the limit with facts, theories, definitions—whatever I need to regurgitate for the next test. Then I push everything I dedicated my mind to for the week out the back door to make room for the next batch, the next test, a red A+ bleeding onto the white of whatever paper I wrote last.
It’s my hands that know the clarinet, not my brain. It unclenches, resting lightly in a fluid bed as Brahms rocks it to sleep, the curtains of my eyelids drawing shut to give it peace from the daylight.
My phone goes off.
I jolt, knocking my teeth against the mouthpiece. The reed cracks and I suck back a word that I’d yell at Brooke for saying. I settle for growling deep in my throat as I dig through the mass of covers on my bed for the phone. It dings at me again, lighting up enough for me to see it under the pillow where it slipped when I tossed it on the bed.
There’s a text from an unfamiliar number, with a monosyllabic message.
hey
I don’t hesitate with my response. A few years ago Kate Gulland accidentally sexted with her boyfriend’s dad because of a single-digit mix-up. She said it made Christmas dinner incredibly awkward.
Who is this?
There’s no answer. I stare at the screen until the opening bars of Beethoven’s Eighth that I use as my background begin to blur into each other. I roll onto my belly, phone still in hand but composure shattered. Full-on practice mode is my favorite place to be, but it’s not an easy one to get to. Recapturing the semiconscious state that I prefer will take a full ten minutes, only to be interrupted again as soon as dinner is ready.
The phone vibrates in my hand, light bouncing off my palm.
Isaac
I roll my eyes.
Whatever, B. Give your little bro his phone back.
Brooke’s time would be better spent perfecting the new cadence on her quads than screwing with me over text, or next week the woodwinds are going to march right into the brass when we try to pregame. I turn off my phone as Mom’s voice sails up the stairs.
Dad likes to say the only things you can count on in life are death and taxes, but I’ll add our seating arrangement at dinner to that. Dad at the head, Mom at the foot, me to his right. There are scuff marks on the wall behind me where I’ve shoved away from the table too hard, the back of my chair scraping away slivers of wallpaper and digging into the drywall underneath. Seventeen years’ worth of minor arguments and a few dashes for the bathroom are imprinted there, marking my place.
I’ve charted the conversation while staring at the empty chair across from me. I know what to expect the moment my butt is in my spot, so I have my answers preloaded, my mouth ready to convince them I’m present and accounted for while my hands work through some fingering, tapping on the dead silence of fork and spoon.
“How was school today?” from Mom is a middle E, simple and sweet, a good warm-up for more complicated things to come.
“Fine. We played insert current band piece here and Brooke said, ‘fill in with best friend’s witticism of the day.’” One note up, the F, all throat, which is fitting, since this is the most I’ll say in the dinner hour.
Mom says, “How was work?” This is my cue to launch into the A flat major scale, because I’m not needed here. Dad will talk about foreign and domestic taxes, 529 payouts and offshore banking, then complain about people who don’t understand these things. He fills his plate while he talks, making sure none of his food touches.
Much like the chairs around the table, safe distance is always assured.
He’ll ask how her day was next, and Mom will talk about a long phone call with a friend, reiterating it almost word for word. I once made it through all twelve major scales while she informed us about someone’s spinal fusion. I don’t remember whose.
Sometimes I wonder what Mom’s day is like once Dad and I are gone, if she’s relieved to see our backs or if the house feels empty without us. Her coffee cups have permanent rings on the inside, her levels of determination rising as they drop. I imagine her day, starting with getting everyone else moving, ending with turning out bedroom lights. Though she always has something to say at dinner, I’ve noticed that Mom’s stories are never about her.
My fingers have stopped moving, a spoonful of mashed potatoes paused halfway to my mouth.
“Sasha?” Mom asks. “Everything okay?”
“My day was fine,” I say, and a line of worry forms between her eyebrows. I’ve interrupted the flow of dinner, said a line from the beginning here at the end, where it doesn’t belong.
“How are you?” I ask, and the line deepens into confusion. Dad always asks how her day was, which is something else entirely.
“I’m . . .” Mom shakes her head, not able to improvise an answer to an unscripted question. “I’m fine,” she says. But her voice goes up at the end, turning it into an uncertainty.
Dad clears his throat. “Sasha.”