Mine. S.A Partridge
time looking at myself in the mirror. The bruises are fading but the dark skin under my eyes is a permanent fixture. Have I brushed my hair today? I doubt it. It’s sticking out everywhere, like I stuck a fork in a socket.
The walls around the cracked mirror are covered in stupid messages and phone numbers. Someone’s left a black Sharpie on the basin. I draw a little hammer on the wall – I like to leave my mark, even in gross club bathrooms.
When I come out, Jules is waiting for me. She’s leaning against the wall, one leg bent back. This was what I was afraid of. She grins at me and extends her hand.
“Not here, Jules, please. Not in front of Brendan.”
Her smile falters. “He doesn’t care, honestly.”
“Yeah, but I do.”
She doesn’t look happy. I wait for her to walk away first, then I hunch my shoulders and skulk back.
I’m suddenly extremely nervous about what I’ve just agreed to and it’s got nothing to do with drug-induced paranoia.
Kayla
RONDEBOSCH, TUESDAY
Recital. Recital. Recital. I’m so nervous.
Lucinda is being nice to me. Almost. I know as soon as this is over she’s going to go back to hating my guts. I don’t care. For now she’s civil, and I can breathe, and this is not going to end up being one huge disaster. Oh, I know Galactus is still out there, his mouth gaping wide, ready to suck me up with the rest of the planet. But he has to wait.
Backstage, the other Music nerds with their perfect hair and expensive designer dresses don’t give me a second look. So everything’s normal on that front. I’m wearing the plainest, yuckiest dress I could find and my gladiator sandals. My hair is tied up in the same high ponytail I always wear. The other girls look so perfect they could belong to any of the most illustrious symphony orchestras; I look like I should be busking in a train station. But somewhere cool, like Prague.
Sebastian walks past like I’m not even here, like he’s done all week. I bend down and pretend to fiddle with a strap on my shoe. I’m nervous as hell already – I can’t afford to be all bleak about him too. I’m surrounded by the sound of instruments being tuned. Clarinet. Oboe. Violin.
I nervously take out my flute and give it a tentative blow. It sounds okay. I know I should really tune my instrument properly so it doesn’t sound too sharp, but it’s impossible to do it here, where I’m circled by enemies and my head hurts from the effort of not freaking out. I need to get out of here. I grab my case and rush outside. The air smells like the sea – my favourite smell. This is a good omen. I take a deep breath and look around for somewhere quiet to practise.
People are starting to come up the path. They’re not supposed to see me. I slip into the shadows and decide to try the back of the building, but I interrupt a couple making out against the wall. “Whoops, my bad,” I say, backing away quickly.
The couple spring apart. The girl glares at me and I realise it’s Julia freaking Montgomery. The guy also stares. Or I think he does. I can’t really make out his face underneath his red hoodie.
I disappear quickly, only to be grabbed roughly by the wrist by my Music teacher, Mr Emersen. “Backstage, now. You’re up first,” he says, exasperated.
“Already? I thought Sebastian and Leo were doing their Mozart piece first?”
“I changed the programme. If you had been backstage like you were supposed to be, you would have known that. Move it, young lady.”
My nervousness swirls around my stomach and my vision swims.
Before I know what’s happening, I’m following Lucinda and her perfect, complicated braid into a circular room with about forty chairs arranged in rows in front of us. Vomit rises in my throat, but I manage a bow and a nod to the audience. I clumsily arrange my sheet music on the stand. Why does paper sound so loud all of a sudden?
Mr Emersen emerges in a blue blazer with ridiculous shoulder pads and addresses the crowd: “Ladies and gentleman, it is such an honour to have you all with us tonight for the second of this year’s Music School recitals. We are so blessed to have such gifted faculty members with years of concert experience under their belts, willing to bestow their wisdom on our students. I’d like to introduce you now to the first of our duos for the evening: Lucinda Pretorius, Mr Brocker’s star pianist, and Kayla Murphy, our youngest flautist.”
The audience applauds and I step forward awkwardly and lift the flute to my lips, waiting for Lucinda to begin. I hope nobody can see that my hands are shaking. I don’t look at the crowd but at my notes. I would die if I had to look up – I can just imagine Lorenda’s nervous, expectant face waiting for me to screw up. Jerome would just be bored. If he even bothered to come to these things. Neither of them are here tonight, but only because I’ve successfully managed to hide it from them for weeks.
Lucinda’s fingers hit the keys and I take a deep breath. As my lips touch the plate, I look up and notice the couple from outside. The guy is staring at me like he’s just seen a ghost.
Did I see something I wasn’t supposed to just now?
I begin my piece, concentrating on the notes, even though my eyes flit up every few seconds to see if he’s still staring at me. He hasn’t looked away once. The part of my brain that’s still able to think has decided he’s really cute, in a rough-around-the-edges sort of way.
I can’t seem to look away. It’s as if our eyes keep finding their way back to each other. I can feel a smile tugging at my lips. He smiles too, then tries to hide it with his hand.
Finlay
RONDEBOSCH, TUESDAY
What the actual –? It’s Blue-haired Girl.
My head jolts up like I’ve been struck by lightning. I grin into my hand while Jules sits still and straight next to me, concentrating on the music. I didn’t have much choice when she asked me to come as her date to her friend’s recital. Could it have been fate? Weed makes me slow. Sometimes I see patterns and connections that aren’t there. It doesn’t help that this place is so formal. But it is her – I recognise the hair. And the face. It’s hard to forget a face as pretty as that. All big brown eyes and tiny button nose. Or did I imagine those too?
I wipe my forehead. I smell like a spice rack.
What are you doing, Fin? You’re here with Jules, but you’re checking out someone else?
It’s the way she’s smiling at me, like she’s telling me the song she’s playing is for me alone. I should force myself to look at Jules. Smile at Jules. But I can’t look away from Blue-haired Girl.
Kayla, the guy said.
She plays really well. I’ve never liked classical music. I haven’t even listened to that much of it, but when she plays it becomes … interesting.
This has never happened to me before. I don’t stare at girls like a crazy person. Thor definitely doesn’t.
Every couple of minutes, she stops playing to wipe her mouth. She has pretty lips. I smile. Then stop myself.
I’m here with Jules.
I sink back into my chair and try and look anywhere else but at the girl. It’s impossible.
What am I even doing with Jules anyway? I shudder and reach up to tie my hair into a ponytail to stop it from falling into my face. It’s greasy. I forgot to wash it again.
Kayla turns the page and starts a faster, more energetic piece. She leans to the left as she gets into it, like her body is following the course of the notes, trying to keep up with them.
This is so bad. I’m grinning again. I realise Jules is staring at me. I cough into my hand.
“What?” I whisper and turn towards her.