“Sixth grade was a long time ago, Quinn. People change,” she says. “Maybe it’s time to let go.”
Erin doesn’t get it. Wesley and his big mouth are the reason my parents are no longer together. That’s not something I will let go of. Ever.
In the background, I can hear her fingers clicking the keys on her saxophone. “You’re practicing?”
“I’m not actually playing. My mom would kill me if I woke her up. I’m working on my finger technique.”
Erin’s very serious about music. I glance guiltily at my clarinet case leaning against the wall in the corner of my room. I haven’t pulled it out since band practice last week. Mr. Aioki is forcing us to meet over the summer so we’ll be ready for the tour, but we’re also supposed to practice on our own, too. And I never seem to get around to it.
“So, how much did you make tonight?” Erin asks.
I dig in my pocket and pull out a few wrinkled bills and some coins, along with the stinky milk rag I forgot to dump in the restaurant’s laundry bin. “Thirteen bucks.” At this rate, I should get to London around my fortieth birthday.
I sit up and grab for the mason jar on my bedside table. It’s nearly full, which makes me feel a tiny bit better. I know without counting that there’s almost three hundred dollars inside. I like to wait until it’s completely full before depositing the money into my account.
“Every little bit, right?” Erin says.
I stuff the money into the jar and the coins make a satisfying clink against the glass. “Every little bit.”
three.
I find Caleb restocking the science fiction section. He’s crouched down, sliding a stack of paperbacks onto the wide wooden shelves.
“Hey.” I nudge him with my flip-flop, and my clarinet case bumps against my leg.
“Hey.” Caleb straightens the books so the spines are all perfectly lined up and then stands. He’s wearing a green polo shirt and khakis with knife-blade creases running down each leg. It’s not even a uniform; this is just the way Caleb dresses. Like a middle-aged man.
“You’re early.” He checks his watch. “Practice isn’t for another half an hour.”
Caleb is the other clarinet player in concert band. He’s better than me—by a mile—but that’s because he actually cares about playing the clarinet.
“I know. I thought I’d check out the travel section,” I say.
He smiles. “Again?”
“I think I’ll actually pull the trigger this time.” I’ve been eyeing an art book on England. I haven’t bought it though because it’s superexpensive and I’m trying to pinch every penny I can. But I’ve decided I need something to cheer me up after last night.
“You can use my employee discount,” he offers. “Twenty-five percent.”
“Thanks.”
Caleb tells me he’ll meet me at the register and I wander to the other side of the store, where the travel books are kept. It’s a small section tucked near the in-store café, so the whole area smells like roasting coffee and banana bread.
I set my case on the floor, grab England’s Greatest Attractions from the shelf, and flop into a squashy yellow chair. Once I’m settled, I open the book to page 67, the place I always start. Big Ben. Looking at the photo makes my heart beat a little bit faster. My grandfather proposed to my gran on Westminster Bridge, at the foot of that famous old clock, more than fifty years ago. It’s the first place I want to go when I finally get to London.
I’m so busy going over the long list of things I need to see and how I’m going to accomplish all of them in the small amount of free time Mr. Aioki is allotting us, that I don’t notice the black Converse sneakers at first. When I look up, it’s straight into a pair of dark gray eyes.
Wesley James is standing in front of me in a rumpled T-shirt, his blond hair all mussed like he’s just come in from a windstorm. The sight of him unexpectedly sends a nervous jolt through me.
“Well, looky here,” he says. He’s holding a large takeout coffee cup.
“You’re not supposed to bring food or drinks into this part of the store,” I say.
The corner of Wesley’s mouth lifts up, a half smile. For some reason I can’t figure out, he seems to find me amusing. “Q, you are way too uptight. What are they going to do? Kick me out?” He takes a sip of his coffee, like he’s daring me to tell on him.
And you know what? I’m considering it.
“What are you doing here anyway?” I don’t like that he’s hovering over me—it’s like it gives him the upper hand, somehow—so I struggle out of the squashy chair. “Are you following me? Because I’m pretty sure stalking is a federal offense.”
“I’m not stalking you, crazy,” he says. “I’m here to see a friend. I happened to be over there”—he points at the café—“when I saw you over here. Thought I’d say hi.”
Oh.
“Okay, well. Hi.” I lean down to pick up my clarinet case. Wesley takes advantage of the fact that I’ve relaxed my guard and plucks the book from my hand.
“England’s Greatest Attractions.” He glances at me. I can’t read the expression on his face, but I immediately feel defensive.
“It’s research,” I say. “I’m going to London. With the school band.”
I have no idea why I’m telling him this. The less Wesley knows about me and my life, the better. He can’t be trusted. He proved that a long time ago.
“Really?” He sets his coffee on the narrow arm of the chair, where it will almost definitely tip and spill all over the pale leather, and flips the book open. He paws recklessly through the pages, flipping past photos of Buckingham Palace and Stonehenge. “Hm. Maybe I should join band. I’d love to go to England.”
“Sorry.” I snatch the book back, almost catching his fingers as I snap the cover closed. “Not possible. It’s concert band. You have to audition to get in.”
“Shouldn’t be a problem,” he says. “I play the tuba.”
“You’re kidding, right?”’Cause it must be a joke. The Wesley I knew was way too cool to go near a tuba. He was more of a guitar or drums kind of guy.
He cocks his head. And there’s that half smile again. “Nope.”
I snort.
“Oh, you think that’s funny? Okay. So what do you play?”
Crap. I really should think before I snort.
“The clarinet,” I mumble.
Wesley makes a big deal of holding his hand up to his ear. “I’m sorry, what? I didn’t hear you.”
“The clarinet,” I snap. “I play the clarinet. Which, as everyone knows, is much cooler than the tuba.” I march away but he trails after me. He follows me all the way to the front register, where Caleb is waiting.
I set the book on the counter. Wesley’s right beside me, all up in my personal space, so I turn around and hiss, “Why are you still here?”
“I told you. I’m here to see a friend.” He extends his hand to Caleb and they do some weirdly complicated boy handshake that makes my heart sink.
Wesley did mention he’d kept in touch with some of the guys from elementary school.