Double Time ✓

31 | calando

I force myself to breathe, to relax and think logically.

I pick up my phone and dial Bay's number, fully prepared for her to tell me to stop being stupid—Keller made a mistake. Of course she's still in the band. See you in the spring, idiot.

When the call connects and I hear, "Yes, Vierra?" in her usual lazy drawl, I nearly collapse in relief.

"What does Keller mean," I grit out, unable to contain this weird concoction of grief and anger and surprise gusting through my veins, "you're not participating in band next semester?"

"Just that," Bay answers tersely. "I don't have the time to spend on extracurriculars anymore. Enjoy, section leader. You'll do great."

Fuck that. "Is it money? Do you want to pick-up more shifts after classes or what?" I wonder. "Is that why you don't have the time?"

"Rude of you to ask."

"Maybe I'm making like you and abandoning civility," I snap back, feeling so euphoric and so furious that I have her voice in my ear, her anger on me, our banter flowing like a living thing again—but only because I'm never going to play alongside her again. "Maybe I don't want to feel like I won by forfeit."

"Well, I'm forfeiting. Be upset or don't."

"Fucking tell me what's going on," I hiss. "Does anyone else know you're not coming back? Other people would like to know about this."

"No-one else knows," she informs me. In a maddeningly casual tone, "And if they would like to know, now you can tell them. Thanks."

"I swear to God, Bay—" I suck in a breath and hold it for five seconds. Why am I so panicked?

Isn't this what I wanted? A percussion section free of vexation and opposition, a band with only good vibes and positivity, a leadership role without rivalry? I wanted this exact situation not even a year ago. I wished for a day like this, an email like the one I just read. Bay admitting defeat.

Calmly, I say, "Fine. You don't have to explain. I'll tell whoever joins the spring ensembles. I just hope you're okay."

This seems to satisfy Bay, because she makes a thankful sort of noise. "Okay, Vierra. Take care." Take care like we're never going to see each other again. Fucking hell. I hate her, I hate her, I hate her.

I pocket my keys and wallet, race down the stairs and poke my head into the living room. Christian is eating a messily-assembled sandwich for lunch, and he only blinks in confusion when I say, "I'm going for a drive. Don't know how long I'll be. Tell Mom and Dad if they get back from work before me. Don't burn the house down."

"What about dinner?" Christian wonders.

"I'll buy something," I answer, tugging my laced-up sneakers over my heel. Then I'm out the door, forcing my car's frozen engine to turn over without warming it up, and blurring down the roads towards Halston University.

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Bay steps out of her residence hall wrapped in a knitted cardigan, hair loose. She crosses her arms around herself, rubbing away the goosebumps. Recent snowfall has been scraped to the sides of all the footpaths, the air brittle and the sky clouded in white.

When I told her I was outside her dorm, she was stunned and then indignant. How dare I intrude on her day of doing nothing unannounced? Tough shit, because I wasn't going to let her throw away her greatest love—music—without at least trying to find a solution. If she didn't want to tell me over the phone, then I guess she'll have to tell me in person.