Wild Cards. Джордж Р. Р. Мартин
rippled through the small theater. It was a bare-wall, flat-floor theater. Between the bands, the chaperones, the parents, the music teachers, and the judges, they filled up about half of the space. Priscilla had explained that they were in the Carlos Alvarez Theater just for orientation and master classes. The actual performances would take place in the main auditorium.
“Most of you have put videos up on YouTube, so I’m guessing y’all are familiar with each other’s bands. But I’m going to introduce everyone just the same.” She looked down at her notes then said, “From Texas—and third-year attendees—the Plano Originals. Please stand up so we can see you!”
A group of five teenagers stood. They all wore matching outfits except Kimmie. Michelle saw her pop up and sit down quickly. The rest of the band could have been in a Ralph Lauren catalog. They were clean-cut and fairly reeked of money and privilege. There was enthusiastic applause from the entire audience, including the Mob. The Originals waved like conquering heroes, then sat down.
“Folsom Funkalicious Four, from Folsom, Louisiana.” A quartet seated in front of the Mob stood. A gangly girl who had a cloud of umber curls flourished her drumsticks, then did an insanely fast riff on the back of the seat in front of her, then turned around to look at the Mob. Michelle flashed her a smile and the girl got a look on her face like she was about to faint. She whipped back around and sank down in her seat.
“All right, settle down,” said Dr. Smith. “The Modesto Melody Makers from California are here in the front.” Michelle was tickled to see that the Melody Makers were all girls except for a single dark-haired boy.
“Oh. My. God! It’s Mindy-Lou Gutiérrez!” Michelle heard Sean say. “What’s she doing here? I heard she was going to drop out of school and start playing professionally.”
“Nah,” Asti replied. “I heard her family wasn’t going to let her. They’re super-strict.”
“Well, doesn’t really matter. She’s going to have record companies lining up no matter what.”
Mindy-Lou was pretty, very pretty. Michelle assessed her with the eye of a professional model. With her brown hair and brown eyes and six-foot frame she would be a lethal combination on her looks alone. According to Adesina and Yerodin, Mindy-Lou was also all kewl and hep to the jive. Though Adesina was quick to explain that they totes lifted hep from Cab Calloway. And jive was, well, a jazz thing. Michelle looked at them blankly.
“Lubbock High School Jazz Band. Detroit Detonators.”
When the Detonators were introduced, a pretty girl wearing a black Detonators tee with a dramatic silver cross around her neck blew a few bars of “Satin Doll” on her trumpet. Appreciative laughter ran around the room.
Each band stood as their name was called and the audience gave them all warm applause. “The Seattle Wailers—I see what y’all did there—and finally, the Xavier Desmond High School Jazz Band.”
The Mob stood up. There was a smattering of applause, and then someone in the back of the house yelled, “Go back to New York, you freaks.” Michelle saw that the Plano Originals applauded at the catcall, but she did note that Kimmie hunched farther down in her seat, jammed her hands under her armpits, and looked as if she’d rather be anywhere else.
“That’s enough of that,” Dr. Smith said, tartly. She frowned, yanked the bottom of her jacket down, and then glowered at the audience. “The Xavier Desmond High School Jazz Band got here the same as the rest of you did. Blind auditions.
“And while we’re at it, there are some people who are protesting the Xavier Desmond High School’s participation. You are to ignore and not to accost them in any way. We are an inclusive organization with our sole measure of merit being music.”
The Funkalicious Four started clapping, led by their drummer. The Modesto Melody Makers followed suit, and after them, the Lubbock High School Jazz Band. The chaperones for those bands were applauding as well. But there was only a mixed reaction from the rest of the bands. Some sat stone-faced. Others clapped but without enthusiasm. The Plano Originals glared at the Mob.
Adesina said loudly as the applause was waning, “We’re just the Mob. It takes less time to say.”
“Moving on,” Dr. Smith continued. “You all know our judges: Buddy Robins.” A lanky man with a shaved head and light brown skin stood. He wore a blue Henley top and black pants. His eyes were kind and he gave a wave to the kids. Adesina and the other bass players gave excited yelps. The bands applauded him warmly.
“Pipe down,” Dr. Smith said. “Regina Carter, Mary Halvorson, and Wynton Marsalis.” The bands erupted with excited applause. There was whooping and excited clapping. Michelle knew from Adesina that the judges were heroes to the kids and even Michelle had heard of Wynton Marsalis. “There are a few announcements, then we’ll meet up at the mixer at seven and everyone can get acquainted.
“As you all know, we have a special visitor at the mixer this evening—film star Haley Mok, Jade Blossom from season one of American Hero.” The Folsom drummer gave an excited squeak.
“Sheesh, LoriAnne, fangirl much?” asked the boy sitting next to her.
“C’mon, Howard,” LoriAnne replied. She hiccuped and then gave another excited squeak. “This is, uhm, kewl. Is that how you say it?”
“Yes, but you’re not a gamer so you just sound weird,” he replied.
LoriAnne slunk down in her seat.
Dr. Smith continued, “She’s here to promote her new movie, Lord Jim, and one of you was lucky enough to win an evening with her.” She pursed her lips. “Cesar Chao, the judges chose your essay. You’re the winner! Stand up so everyone can give you a hand!”
A short, raven-haired boy stood. His shoulders were hunched and there was a chagrined expression on his face. The rest of his band catcalled and clapped. But the chagrined expression didn’t stay. He looked around at his bandmates and glared. Their applause died and he sat down.
“I can’t believe Jade Blossom is here,” Michelle hissed. “She’s awful.”
“Shhhhh, Mom, please.” Adesina gave Michelle her very best you’re-embarrassing-the-hell-out-of-me look.
“That’s all the announcements I have, ladies and gentlemen,” Dr. Smith said. “You’re free to go. And I’ll see you at the mixer at seven o’clock.”
ROBIN FOUND HIMSELF AT a sprawling Tex-Mex place on the San Antonio River Walk, eating corn chips and drinking a margarita Jerry Jeff had ordered for him without asking if he wanted one. Robin told himself he would not have rather faced down the mob again. He would not have rather been stuck in Dr. Hastings’s lab again, being experimented upon. He told himself that as he scooped another tortilla chip in salsa, keeping one hand underneath as he brought the chip to his mouth, to save his khakis from red sauce.
Jerry Jeff ate with a mannered disregard for manners, one elbow on the table, hat cocked back, jacket rhinestones glinting. “After the second album did so well, we figgered Grandpappy’s ranch started to feel a bit small, so we found a nice big place, you know, rolling grass range, this house like you would not believe. And Jim Anne took to it real well, and the kids, they just can’t get enough of the place.” His face got a dreamy look, and—were those tears in the corners of his eyes? “But now you’ve got me going on and on about my business, and you haven’t said word one ’bout yours! My money was always on you, you know, in the pool—there were big things coming your way, Mister Rubberband.