The League > jariana (COMPLETED)

four

Justin returned his hand to his lap. His face said, Come on, Ariana, is that all you've got?

I glanced around. Everyone was waiting for the climax: my dark, untold secret. But what was it? The truth felt childish. I had to come up with something big, something that would make them feel sorry for me.

Justin's eyes skirted over Nora, who was staring into her cup, deep in thought about something other than my boring story. She was probably thinking about her tragic family. Workaholic parents, academic pressure, suicide—bigger stuff than my childhood teasing.

I wanted Justin's hand back on my knee. I took a breath and, like any good story, started with a seed of truth. "Tiffany and I were in orchestra together at my old school. She played clarinet, but only because she had the hots for this French horn player." Details make a story leap to life, my ninth-grade English teacher used to say. "Derek Logan," I tacked on. I hadn't known the guy's real name, but the made-up one popped into my head as if it had always been there. "We were at an audition for All-State Orchestra. I knew if I landed principal chair, my application to Barrymore would be a lot stronger."

Justin sighed, a little puff of air that urged me to get to the point quicker, whatever the point was. I closed my eyes, transporting myself back to the practice room, to the chaotic mix of scales leaking through the supposedly soundproof door.

"Right before my audition I got thirsty, so I looked for a vending machine. Tiffany was on the floor in the hallway, draped over the guy." All true. But still, uneasiness sat in my stomach at the detour coming up.

What really happened was that the boy's French horn had been lying on the floor, discarded, not even in its case. Tiffany was spelling out words on his palm with an insanely long fingernail. She'd glanced up and said, "Here comes our virginal viola player. I wonder what she uses that bow for?"

It was a stupid comment, and I'd stood there, searching my brain for a retort. Angry at my stalled thoughts. Why did she have to be in my space, my world, spoiling everything? She shouldn't have even been at All-State auditions; she couldn't pull more than a gurgle from her clarinet.

Then they called my name, which meant it was my turn to audition. Without saying anything, not a word of defense, I'd skidded down the hallway, back to the practice room to get my viola.

"And?" Justin asked. "What happened?"

They all leaned forward like flowers bent to the sunlight. Richie, with his arms squared on his knees; Nora, eyes drifting up like she was visualizing scenarios in her head—ones much worse than reality. Zoe, shaking her head as if Tiffany had already let her down. And Justin's almond-shaped eyes, gliding across all our faces, taking it in.

I wondered what they would think if they knew the truth; that my emotions had swirled through my head, then sunk like a boulder to my hands, making my vibrato heavy and unbalanced; that I couldn't latch on to a reliable rhythm; that the notes had come out sharp and flat and everywhere in between. All because Tiffany had glanced at me wrong.

I couldn't admit this to the League. I had to come up with something recruitment-worthy. Enticed by the captivation in their faces, I invented a different ending. "I was confident and prepared when I went into the audition, but a few measures in, my tuning pegs slipped. I asked if I could start over, but it kept happening. Again and again."

"I bet that was frustrating," Justin said, anticipation glimmering beneath a sympathetic look.

"It was," I agreed. "I couldn't stop the tears. Couldn't even see the sight-reading piece they put in front of me." I was surprised at how fast the lie grew. It started out as a quartet and ended up a full orchestra, kettledrums and all.