Archive of Our Own

August 18, 2015

It’s the first day of sophomore year at your new school, and you’re scared. Your name is Laura Hollis and you couldn’t be nerdier; your glasses slipping down your nose, battered flute case sticking out of your bright pink backpack, patches from various science-fiction television shows ironed onto said bright pink backpack. You make your way through the halls, keeping your head down and hoping, praying, that no one notices you. Because everyone knows that homeschooled kids are bullied and shunned- social rejects who rarely turn out like Cady from Mean Girls. The crumpled paper in your hand is your course schedule: and right now it’s telling you to go to Room 104, where you’ll be in Advanced Orchestra with a Doctor Maryne Mitchell. Maryne Mitchell is a pretty name, you think. No one with a name like that can be all that bad, you reassure yourself.

With all the grace of a stampeding elephant, someone much taller than you (which isn’t saying much, seeing as you’re about five one) hurtles by you, a case-less trumpet held high above her head. Rather useless, you think, to be carrying something above your head when you’re a foot taller than everyone else as it is. However, she probably knows where she’s going, and since there’s only so many places where someone with a trumpet could be going, you decide to follow her down a path that twists through the school.

She did turn out to be going the right way, and before long, you’re standing in front of a door that the tall girl (according to the many other girls who called out to her, most of them tall and athletic looking like her, her name is Danny) has just disappeared into. It’s old and battered, and a plaque reading Orchestra stands out on it, a lot newer than the disintegrating wood around it. You glance up- yes, it is indeed Room 104- and inhale deeply. It’ll be fine, you tell yourself, and you slip in.

The room smells like sawdust and glue, and there’s a rough stage made from a collection of fruit crates with a piece of wood placed over it, and for a minute you think that the trumpet girl, no, Danny, you tell yourself) and your course schedule must habe been wrong- after all, why would there be a stage and a lingering smell of theater kids (you don’t know why you associate sawdust and glue with drama class, but you just do) in an orchestra room? But then you look around and see that most of the drama supplies (an impressive collection of wigs and hats, a large stack of heavily annotated scripts, and a couple strings of lights, among other things) are piled into a corner, and the rest of the room is filled with everything an orchestra nerd could ever want; racks of cellos and basses, their scratched (but polished) wood reflecting the bright stage lights still shining, roughly arranged, very battered music stands, piles upon piles of barely organized sheet music with titles from Carmen to Coldplay, and best of all, the sound of musicians warming up all around you.

In the middle of it all is who you assume must be Doctor Maryne Mitchell, who’s simultaneously tuning a viola and shouting at a few rowdy students. She is actually very pretty, just like her name suggests; smooth, pale skin and long bright red hair, accompanied by sparkling mischievous eyes. She looks like she could just be one of the students, save for the baton tucked behind her ear and the “Commander Maryne” snapback turned backwards on her head, where someone had crossed out Commander and written Conductor in its place. She waves at you and you jolt up. It’s not that odd of an action: there’s only about a dozen people in the room, including you, her, and Danny, but it still feels wrong to be recognized by someone who’s not your dad. Steeling yourself, you walk up to her, and she puts her viola down and shakes your hand.

“Flute, huh? You’ll be over there. You’re-” here she glances at a depressingly short list on her music stand, which you assume says the names and instrument of the students. “definitely not Betty, so...Laura?.” Her accent is pleasantly French, which you think you should have guessed from her name. You reply that you are, in fact, Laura Hollis, and she again points you to a seat in the back of the group. This isn’t really that big of a deal- there aren’t that many seats to begin with. The thought hits you again that wow, it turns out not many people are as into classical music as you’d assumed. Looks like you’re in for a ride.

There’s a minute before the bell to start class rings, so you take the opportunity to survey the others in the room as you begin to assemble your flute. There’s exactly three violins- much less than you’d been expecting. One’s obviously first chair; she’s got flowing black hair and a look of superiority in her eyes, and she looks way too “high class” for her pressed Catholic school uniform (you notice that hers, unlike yours, is tailored to her; the hem of her skirt exactly two inches above her knee, her blouse hugging her waist more gracefully than she holds herself, which is like she’s a princess). The others look to be her minions; two nameless violins laughing darkly with the first chair. The viola section is even more poorly staffed- the only chair is filled by someone who, at first glance you think to be a girl (an excusable assumption, seeing as the school is single-sex), but on closer inspection you note to be wearing what you recognize as a subtle non-binary pride bracelet. (You resolve to use they pronouns until further notice). They’ve got short, spiky red hair and are talking to one of the three cellos (much more than you’d been expecting). She’s wearing the uniform sweater with her blouse collar buttoned almost to her neck folded neatly over the pullover, and looks to be relatively approachable. You make a note to at least attempt to talk to her, and maybe her violist friend. The other cellos are a pair of girls who don’t look like friends (one looks tall and muscular, a jock, the other thin and wispy, a geek), but talk like they’ve known each other for years; you hear one of them call the other Natalie. The other two people in the room are trumpets (you note how strange it is to have a stand of trumpets, a stand of flutes, and a room of string instruments), and appear to be what you, with your experience of high school only existing in movies, as jocks. One’s Danny, who you recognize from earlier, and the other is a tall, dark-skinned girl wearing a letterman jacket. You wonder where Betty is as the bell rings, but you’re not kept in suspense very long: she settles into the seat next to you just as Doctor Mitchell stands up.

“Hey, I’m Betty,” she says, nodding at Laura as she takes out her flute. “New?” You nod and introduce yourself quickly as Doctor Mitchell cracks her knuckles and makes to speak. Betty is a blond who appears to be what you’d think of as a popular girl; but she’s in advanced orchestra, so, really.

“Good morning, minions, and welcome to another year in Advanced Orchestra. If you’re here, you’re probably either nerds or have very strict parents, so there’s a pretty high chance you’ve got something in common with us in here, if you’re new.” Here she nods politely towards you. “Here in Advanced Orchestra we’ll basically be doing everything regular orchestra does except, if you can believe it, more advanced. What does that mean? Well, you’ll be practicing more, because we’ll be playing harder things. You’ll also get yelled at more, because I like yelling and we’re going to a competition in May where you will definitely be yelled at, because it’s like the X Factor, but for orchestra. So that’s the low down. Feel free to converse among yourselves while I get out music, which is probably somewhere in this room.” She climbs off the makeshift stage and begins sifting through the messy pile of folders by the wall. You look up from your flute and realize that at least three different people are looking at you.

“Um. Hi,” you mutter, rather lamely, you think. You process the situation and figure out that the people looking at you are Betty, the violist, and the cello with the sweater. Betty, who seems to have only been wanting your pencil, shrugs and makes a grab for it when you nod. The violist (who’s sitting directly in front of you) extends their hand up for you to shake.

“Lafontaine. You’re new, right?” they say. Their hand is rough, and they smell vaguely like rubbing alcohol and chemicals. You notice the science club badge pinned to the blazer and internally roll your eyes at yourself.

“Yep. That’s me. Laura.” They nod, and you see something- pity, or maybe sympathy- in their eyes.

“What school did you transfer from?” they say. You’re at first mortified by the question, but manage to collect yourself enough to form a coherent answer.

“I was, um, homeschooled actually, and I just moved from Connecticut. So nowhere anyone around here would know,” Lame! But something makes you want to trust this person, and you feel like telling them everything; however, your vague grasp of social norms tells you that’s not a good idea.

“That’s Perry over there. In case you couldn’t tell, she plays the cello. Anyway, you seem normal enough for Perry’s standards- want to sit with us at lunch?” You’re simultaneously terrified and relieved by this question, and so you nod your answer. You assume that’s not enough, however, and start to say something else, when Doctor Mitchell interrupts.

“Found it! SJ, do us a favor and pass these out. So we’re playing, by popular request, Centuries, by- oh, you know who it’s by.” At this, the trumpets high five each other, and Lafontaine pumps their fist, to the disapproving glare of Perry. None of the violins look remotely happy with this decision (or perhaps it’s the first chair who’s unhappy with it). Doctor Mitchell furrows her brow, confused, gears clicking in her head. “Hey, who’s missing? We’ve got an extra part,” she says, waving said extra part around over her head.

“My sister,” drawls the first violin, flipping her hair and plucking at a string on her violin, as if to suggest that if it had been her way, her sister, whoever she was, would be on time.

“Thanks, Mattie- Matska. I’ll play the bassline, then, I guess- oh, speak of the devil.” You hear the door creak openly ominously and see a girl step in. If Mattie (or Matska) hadn’t said something, you never would have connected her and the girl- they look like polar opposites, except for the mass of dark hair. The girl’s skin is pale like snow (unlike her sister’s darker brown) and her uniform is in disarray; her shirt is baggy and verging on untucked, her skirt is rolled so the hem rests a solid four inches above her knee, and her shoes are battered and untied. You note that while her uniform is truly a disaster, it would be unlikely that she’d be given a detention for it (because you of course read the rulebook cover to cover, as well as glanced at other’s uniforms to make sure you wouldn’t stand out too much).

“Sorry I’m late, Mitchell,” the girl mutters, walking over to the rack of basses. Her eyes flash across the room, lingering on you for a moment. Your breath catches for a minute, and you dismiss the feeling immediately. It’s just a girl in your orchestra class, nothing more.

“It’s fine, Carmilla. Don’t make it a habit. Someone pass this back to her stand-”

Your first rehearsal goes fine. You sit with Lafontaine and Perry at lunch, and you discover that Perry’s taking upper level German classes. She offers to take you to your lower level German class after lunch, an offer you gladly accept. From what you’ve seen so far, the school’s layout isn’t exactly logical. You find out that Lafontaine is also a transfer (though from their freshman year), one from the science and math charter school a few blocks down the road.

“My dad thought I needed a more…traditional setting,” they’d said, sharing a meaningful glance with Perry. You didn’t miss the significance of this look.

You got the “dirt” (“Lafontaine!”) on everyone in orchestra. Mattie, or Matska (“Seriously. No one calls her Mattie to her face, you’ll die.”) and Carmilla were the adopted daughters of the dean of students. Mattie embraced her “title”, but Carmilla did everything to cut off any tie she had to the dean. (“She’s kind of weird, like suspicious weird-” “She’s really a very nice person, once you get to know her!” “Yeah, Perr, like you’re on speaking terms with Ebony Dementria Raven Dark’ness Way over there.”). SJ and Natalie (the other cellos) had been caught in an inter-school pot smuggling ring in freshman year, (“They’re not stoners, though, weirdly enough. I think that they were forced into it or something.”) and had grown close over the time they’d spent doing extra community service hours together. Betty had been a bookish nerd through middle school, but changed completely the summer before high school and came back in eighth grade (“Oh, yeah. Some Catholic schools start a year early, if you didn’t know.”) the most popular girl in school (“But, I mean, she’s in orchestra. So she’s an ok person.” “Lafontaine’s exaggerating. She’s really very nice!” “Oh, I’m exaggerating.”). And finally, Danny and Mel (the other trumpet), who were both members of the Summer Society (“It’s a sports club, basically.”), were both very nice people. (“They’re our friends. But I don’t really know about Mel. She’s a little shifty.” “Lafontaine’s suspicious of everyone. Mel’s perfectly fine.”).

The bell rings before Lafontaine finishes telling you about exactly why Danny wasn’t leader of the Summer Society. You and Perry rush off the third floor, Perry warning you that the German teacher hated tardy students.

Your German class includes Carmilla.

October 30, 2015

Tonight is the night of your first ever Riff-Off, and you’re nervous. You and the orchestra have been preparing pieces at random for the last month, Doctor Mitchell throwing in everything from opera pieces to heavy metal hits in the hope that something might come up. You’re competing against four other schools in the city, and the trophy (and the money grant) would bring “glory, and also lots of cash” to Silas Academy. As you wait nervously in the wings of the stage of one of the boy’s schools, Danny explains everything to you. You’d become closer friends with her, at Laf and Perry’s insistence, over the last few months, and were surprised to find her significantly more devoted to her trumpet playing than you’d’ve thought a “jock” would be. She’d even mentioned wanting to play professionally.

“So, it’s kind of like in Pitch Perfect. That girl, Steph, will spin the wheel. Whatever category it lands on is what we have to play from. Then we go around the circle until someone messes up, or doesn’t have a piece. They’re eliminated, and last standing wins,” she explains. She pauses, and then adds, “Actually, it’s just like Pitch Perfect. Someone in administration obviously got a little lazy,” while nervously fiddling with her trumpet. You don’t miss that she keeps looking across the stage to the other wing, where the boys from the host school wait with their instruments.

“Do you…know someone over there?” you ask.

“Oh...yeah. Wilson Kirsch, uh, we went out for a little last year. But Summer Socs aren’t supposed to have boyfriends….” She lets the sentence trail off, seeing the look in Mel’s eyes. You see Danny suddenly stand at attention and whip around to see Doctor Mitchell (who’s put away her snapback and is wearing a suit) shoving her way through the orchestra, wielding her baton as a sword. The house lights dim and Steph walks on stage.

“Hello, Styria High! How are we today?” You hear an out of sight crowd clap raucously, and several hastily stifled catcalls. Danny mutters something to Mel about how weird it is that such a huge amount of students showed up to watch a bunch of music nerds.

“Tsk, tsk. So, you all know how it works, so without further ado, here’s our orchestras!”

Styria High is called first, being the host school. You watch a mix of boys (they all embody the “jock” stereotype) parade onto the stage, drawing many more, unstifled, catcalls. You see Carmilla roll her eyes and hide your laughter.

Next is Saint Ana’s School for the Arts, a coed school who, according to Laf, has won the competition three years running. They walk onto the stage with a certain amount of smug character that makes Mattie hold her chin higher, apparently feeling challenged.

Le Fanu Academy is called, an all-boys school wearing suits that make even Mattie’s perfect uniform look shabby. You self-consciously make an attempt to smooth out the wrinkles in your skirt.

S.O.L.E.S. is called next, (Mel tells you that it stands for School Of Lots of Emos we feel Sorry for, but you don’t think that’s entirely true). They’re also coed, and have a conductor that you can’t deny looks very emo, his bangs so long they cover his right eye.

And finally, your heart beating in your throat, Silas Academy is called. You didn’t miss that Silas was the only all-girls school in attendance (Technically, Lafontaine’s non-binary- but you understand that the school doesn’t exactly condone that). You hear no less than a dozen boos and wolf whistles emanate from the mostly male crowd (which makes sense, considering almost half the schools competing are all boys), which makes Carmilla roll her eyes again. The crowd is huge, and it makes you panic slightly, seeing the countless amount of faces in the unfamiliar auditorium. However, as soon as you’re seated, you’re calm again, the magic of being surrounded by musicians overpowering the horror at a crowd watching your every move. Steph, having finished the introductions, moves to the huge wheel positioned at the back of the stage. You notice Doctor Mitchell beginning to sweat as she sees the topics, a few of which you’re well aware the orchestra barely has any pieces for.

“And our first topic is…songs from operas! Hope you’re prepared, because we’re starting with Styria High in ten, nine, eight, seven….” You watch all the conductors, especially Styria’s frantically sifting through their binders. Doctor Mitchell flashes a copy of Carmen’s Habenera to the orchestra, and Betty quickly pulls the copy from underneath her seat. You swallow hard; the flutes don’t mirror the first violins in this piece, giving you more responsibility.

Steph’s countdown reaches one far too quickly, and the Styria High boys begin a quick, though very good, rendition of the Can Can. The S.O.L.E.S conductor flips his hair (which you can now see is dyed with bright red streaks) out of his eyes and quickly pulls a different piece from his binder, which is followed by a flurry of movement in the S.O.L.E.S. orchestra. Someone drops their binder leafing through it for their next piece, and you suppress a laugh when the conductor dramatically turns and points his baton at the culprit with what seems to be all the threat he can muster. Styria High is just getting to the good part of the piece, the raucous, speedy chorus, when the spotlight abruptly shifts to Le Fanu Academy, causing nothing short of pandemonium as the loud boos of the Styria supporters mix with the unexplainably even louder cheers from the Le Fanu students. They perform a passingly good rendition of Toreador (Doctor Mitchell looks nervous) before the spotlight passes to S.O.L.E.S.. You’ve never been in this before, and somehow you still know that they’re going to be “Riffed Off!” as Danny had put it. They obviously had prepared this song significantly less than the Can Can. You can’t help but feel sorry for them: the song is off key, and obviously not an optimal arrangement for the musicians present. They get through only a few second of the song before a loud bell strikes through the boos and jeers of the audience, prompting the conductor to dramatically throw his baton down in despair. Steph prances back onto the stage with a perhaps indecent amount of excitement and yells “You’ve been Riffed Off!” into the mic. You feel a mixture of relief and horror: on one hand, that’s one less school to compete against: on the other, there’s a high chance that you’re going to have to play something next. Steph walks back to the wheel and spins it. Doctor Mitchell is carefully watching the categories, hand poised on the binder. Betty’s already got her stack of music out from underneath her chair, which, if anything, makes you more nervous.

“And our category is…upbeat pop songs! And we’re starting with Silas Academy in ten, nine, eight….” You feel a rush panic surge through you as Doctor Mitchell worriedly picks Pharrel’s Happy from her binder. You, and everyone else in the orchestra, hate this song with a burning passion; however, it’s a very popular song for orchestra, and if you can play it well, you won’t be eliminated.

“Two, one, go!” The resounding first notes of the piece ring through the auditorium, and you can’t help but feel joy because you’re so much better than you thought you’d be, or, at least, than your stage-fright wracked mind thought you’d be. You race through the first few measures, providing the beat for the cellos, something you don’t mind (Perry, SJ, and Natalie are actually very good, and you’re way too nervous to lead the song). And then the chorus happens, and you and Betty are louder than the rest of the group, and you don’t care, because wow, you sound great, your notes ringing and bouncing off the walls of the auditorium. The spotlight moves off you and you put down your flute and breathe a sigh of relief along with the rest of the orchestra. Doctor Mitchell gives all of you a relieved thumbs up as Saint Ana’s launches into a perfect performance of Clean Bandit’s Rather Be. (You’re slightly jealous that Silas didn’t think of that).

As Styria High responds with a relatively upbeat rendition of Riptide, Carmilla catches your eye and winks. You blush the same color as your backpack and awkwardly smile back. She rolls her eyes, but laughingly so. Was she…flirting with you? It couldn’t be. You’ve never talked to her outside of orchestra and German class. You brush off the thought as Le Fanu Academy is riffed off for being ridiculously out of tune during Shake It Off.

Steph’s wheel lands on Overly Dramatic Movie Soundtracks, and this time Doctor Mitchell is ready, holding her copy of Pirates of the Caribbean and putting on a determined face. Unsurprisingly, Saint Ana’s plays first, playing Hedwig’s Theme. It’s less perfect than the other songs they’ve played, and Doctor Mitchell knows it (She’s smiling evilly and tapping her fingers together. It’s kind of hard to miss).

“They’re getting tired,” Betty whispers to you after the first minute or so, and it’s true. Your heart leaps when someone plays an out of place F sharp, and you feel instantly guilty for it, because it’s human error, and you shouldn’t feel happy that someone made a mistake. But it is money for the orchestra if they win, which hopefully means not playing on top of fruit crates because the wood floors are “too ancient” to be touched.

The spotlight whips to you, and before you know it, you’re playing the discordant final twenty measures of the medley. Somewhere a world away, you hear the audience clapping along and internally grin (externally grinning might mean a wrong note). You’re surprised the spotlight let you play through to the end; either you’re very good, or very bad and the spotlight operator is waiting for you to mess up so you’ll be riffed off. Nevertheless, you get to the last note, Doctor Mitchell cuts it off, and there’s the classic, magical moment of silence while her hands rest in the air before the audience claps and the spell is broken. The spotlight moves on to Styria, but you still cling the last remnants of that moment (You don’t want to sound sappy, but it’s what you live for).

Styria High seems to have been waiting for this moment: they eagerly jump into the theme from Star Wars. It’s loud and booming, and their overly large band section isn’t missed in the beautiful flourishes from the winds and crashes of “gunfire” from the drummers. You make a mental note to ask Doctor Mitchell about looking into getting a percussionist.

You know it’s not possible, but you have the burning feeling that Saint Ana’s is going to be riffed off. However, you also know it’s just as likely you will. You can feel the familiar sense of burning panic rising up into your throat again and swallow, hard.

Steph bolts back onstage before the spotlight can spring back around to your orchesta (You’re relieved) and grabs the microphone, the spotlight finding her.

“Alright, well, seeing as we just had some truly awesome performances from our final three, and we also don’t really want to hear anymore Overly Dramatic Movie Soundtracks, we’re going to be historically riffing one lucky school off by popular demand! Up first in the Applause-O-Meter that’s really just my ears is Silas! Make some noise for Silas, everybody!” she calls. Surprisingly, the clapping and cheering is almost deafening. You grin, and even catch Carmilla smiling. You catch her eye and wink. She, looking surprised, winks back. You congratulate yourself on successfully flirting, and then internally wince, because you’ve just flirted with someone you barely know.

Next is Styria, and an unsurprisingly large amount of people clap. Carmilla rolls her eyes again, and Mattie’s eyes flash darkly. Finally, you hold your breath as Steph reads out the name of Saint Ana’s. Actually surprisingly (you weren’t expecting a crowded room of mostly jocks to have actual taste) there’s only polite, quiet applause. Steph groans and attempts for a sympathetic smile.

“Also historically, we’ll be moving on to our first final two match without Saint Ana’s. Now we’re going to give our contestants a few minutes to prepare for the final round, so consider this an intermission.” Almost instantly, the crowd jumps up and filters out to the lobby, all talking excitedly. Doctor Mitchell looks out at the orchestra and grins. She looks exhausted, you can tell, but she also looks overjoyed with victory so close. She motions for you to all put down your instruments and follow her off the stage.

Backstage, the losing schools have cleared out already, save for Saint Ana’s, whose musicians all look at you like you’ve “murdered their ten thousand dollar purebred puppies” (Mel’s words, not yours). You all stand in a corner crowded around a couple ropes and pulleys and various instrument cases.

“All right, here’s the part where Commander Maryne gives an inspirational speech. ‘Cept I’m not very good at inspirational speeches at all, so I’m just gonna wing it. Here’s the deal: you guys have to win this. I’ll be chill if you don’t, but honestly, those Styria boys’ only advantage is that they’ve got a million other idiots cheering for them out in the audience. But I know you’re way better than them, so just go out there and do your best, which is way better that the Styria kids. You got this. Seriously,” she finishes, shrugging. Her snapback is back on, pulled from apparently nowhere, and she simultaneously looks more confident and more worried than before. “Let’s win this thing,” she adds, and puts her hand into the center of the circle. A couple of people raise their eyebrows, but more, including you, immediately stack your hands on top of hers, and they grudgingly do the same.

“Five-four-three-two-one, Silas! Let’s go Vamps!” you all shout, parroting the familiar cheer sung often throughout the school and throwing your arms up into the air. From the other side of the stage, you hear the very, very, loud “Styr-i-a, Styr-i-a, go Zetas!” You think to yourself that you all sound like rival football teams preparing for a game, which is ridiculous when you consider that you’re all really just orchestra nerds, no matter how cool some of the Styria kids try and seem. The orchestra disperses, and Laf calls you over to your group of friends.

Danny, Mel, Laf, and Perry are all sitting around Perry’s cello case, whose hard, mint green, shell makes a perfect makeshift coffee table. Perry looks slightly affronted, but Laf jabs their elbow into her side and grins affectionately and she smiles back and shrugs, giving up.

“We haven’t won in three years, just so you know, Hollis,” Danny tells you. Mel rolls her eyes and coughs.

“Yeah. Not since Mitchell took over,” she mutters darkly. Danny gives her a sharp look.

“She’s really a great conductor! It’s not her fault,” says Perry. “Not that I’m implying that it’s our fault!” she adds quickly.

“Perr’s right. Saint Ana’s just gets all the recognition. And we didn’t even go year before last,” Laf says, coming to Perry’s defense instantly before Mel can say anything else. Mel rolls her eyes again.

“Anyway. I happened to notice crushes-on-vampires here and Carmilla exchanging some very significant looks. Got anything to say for yourself?” Laf says, their eyes bright. You sputter an incoherent reply and they laugh.  

Fortunately, the lights flash before anyone can say anything else, and you and Betty grab your flutes and shuffle back onstage. You only have to wait a few seconds before Steph clambers back onstage, this time with a large, overly dramatic pointer. Across the stage, you notice a tall clarinet who vaguely reminds you of a golden retriever winking at Danny. She makes a violent gesture with her trumpet and Mel laughs darkly.

“Welcome back, Styria! It’s now time for our final round, and time to introduce our musicians! First chairs, stand up please!” You and Betty look at each other, confused. She shrugs and motions or you too go ahead. Your throat closes in panic again, and you almost refuse. Glancing around, you see Perry and Laf smiling reassuringly. From the poorly populated bass section, Carmilla coughs and smiles at you. Somehow, that is all you need, and you stand up. Steph’s spotlight moves to Kirsch, who somehow had been elected first chair for winds (your understanding is that there are much too many sections of the winds to introduce each one) and he clicks his tongue at Danny, who is also standing, winking obnoxiously. You catch Danny smiling fondly for a half a second before Mel throws him a deadly glare. The spotlight pans to your orchestra, first introducing Doctor Maryne, who bows and tips her snapback, then shining on Mattie, Laf, Perry, and Danny in turn, reading their names at lightning speed. The flutes, predictably, are called last.

“And finally, heading the flutes is newcomer Laura Hollis! Now let’s spin this wheel, these stage lights are hot as hell.” You hear some creative individual in the crowd yell about how it’s because you’re already there.

Steph approaches the wheel and spins it, and everyone in the whole room holds their breath. Doctor Maryne has her hands poised on the binder again, and her conductor’s baton is bared like a sword. There’s a dramatic drumroll from Styria as the wheel ticks to a category ingeniously named “Bad Pop Punk Songs of the 2000s and Beyond”. You all have pulled out Centuries before Doctor Maryne can even get it on her stand, and you see the Styria kids scrambling through their folders. You appreciate that most orchestras (aside from maybe yours and S.O.L.E.S.) don’t usually put this much preparation into this category.

“And we’re starting with Styria in ten, nine, eight, seven, six fivefourthreetwoone go!” shouts Steph, and Styria starts with a slightly more sloppy than usual rendition of Radioactive. It’s not meant for their orchestra; well, to be fair, not many pieces are meant for an orchestra that’s mostly winds and brass. Steph cringes slightly and waves to the spotlight operator. Panic, again, as the spotlight passes to you. You’re fully aware of the large amount of violin and flute solos in this pieces, and Betty’ll expect you to take them. Doctor Maryne counts off and you hear the piece bursting into existence, see your fingers moving without actually controlling them. You vaguely register Carmilla and Perry finishing their solo and see Doctor Maryne glancing over at you and Mattie.

You know it’s “emo”, but you swear you can hear Patrick Stump and Suzanne Vega’s voices underneath your melodies.

Your solo ends and Steph cuts the spotlight. Doctor Maryne leaves the song on the end of the riff, and it’s so powerfully beautiful you want to cry, but you don’t, because you’re still onstage, and they haven’t announced the winner yet.

“It’s time to pick our final winner! We heard some really great pieces tonight, but I think we can all agree the winning title goes to-” she pauses, waving frantically offstage to a teenager holding a folded piece of paper. The kid hands her the paper and shrinks offstage. “Drumroll, please…,” she says, nodding to the percussionist again. “…Silas Academy!”

It’s general pandemonium as shouts of dismay and excitement echo through the auditorium. Steph shakes Doctor Maryne’s hand (or rather, Maryne awkwardly turns her fist bump into a handshake at the last minute) and Styria’s conductor looks disappointed. To their credit, the Styria kids are clapping along with the crowd. You cheer with your friends as Steph brings out an oversized check to present to an overwhelmed Doctor Maryne, and you’re actually happy.

Apparently attending the orchestra party at the local pizza place is mandatory, a fact you had to explain to your harried dad as he groaned about curfew and safety into the phone. After reassuring him you’ll be with Perry (they seemed to get along very well, for some reason) and you’ll only be going to pizza, nowhere else, he finally gives in, and minutes later you’re all piled in the bed of Danny’s pickup truck (a fact you conveniently forgot to mention to your dad). Carmilla, whose bass, along with Perry, SJ, and Natalie’s cellos, was the only instrument which wouldn’t fit in the cab, is protectively huddled over her bass. It’s kind of cute, you think, considering she always tries to be so careless about everything she does. Carmilla catches you staring at a stoplight and waves you over. Blushing madly, you scramble over the cellos, trying your hardest not to touch them (Perry would murder you).

“Hey, cupcake. You cold?” she says, her low voice somehow audible over the loud, surprisingly tuneless singing of Centuries coming from the cab. You notice that you are, actually, very cold, shivering in fact. You shake your head at her, but your shivering gives you away, and she laughs and gives you her battered sweater. It’s warm and soft, and you’re surprised with the amount of loving care it’s obviously gotten. You would have expected Carmilla’s clothes to be the last thing on her mind.

“Thanks,” you mutter shyly, and shrug it over your shoulders as the truck starts up again, bringing with it another gust of wind. You notice the pockets of the sweater have thumb holes cut into them and laugh. It’s really adorable that she’d think of that- in fact, you’re actually kind of mad you didn’t think of it yourself.

“Something funny?” she says defensively. You shake your head rapidly and hold up your hands. She points at your thumbs and rolls her eyes.

“You’re something else, sweetheart,” she says sarcastically. You grin and internally high-five yourself for holding a whole conversation with a girl you (maybe) like.

Danny pulls into the back lot of the blessedly relatively empty pizza place, and, in doing so, runs over a pothole. Somehow, you end up with Carmilla’s arm around your shoulders. It takes you both a few seconds to realize what happened, and sadly, when she does, she removes her arm right away, blushing. You look at her for a second, and then it clicks that people are getting out of the truck, and you scramble to get out, Carmilla laughing softly. You haven’t really heard this laugh before, and it’s cute- if, you know, you’re into the whole vaguely vampiric laugh that sounds like an I’ve just found my next prey laugh.

While the horrified looking hostess counts everyone in your group (the final number is somewhere around sixty nine), Laf and Betty sidle over to you, the latter wiggling her eyebrows.

“Crushes on vampires, huh?” Laf says, chuckling. You start to protest-

“Laura, you literally have her sweater on. That’s some romcom material. What happened? I thought you liked Danny,” Betty says. She’s not wrong- you did like Danny, or Danny liked you- likes you. It’s all very confusing, and you try to express this to Betty, but she just laughs knowingly. You look over at Danny and see that she looks like she’s having an internal struggle over talking to Kirsch. Ignoring Betty, you cross the room to Danny. She’s significantly taller than you, and short of pulling on her sleeve, you’ve got no way of signaling her without (you shudder at the thought) speaking.

“Danny!” you call up, awkwardly, and she starts and looks down at you.

“Hey, Hollis. What’s up?” she says, still glancing distractedly at Kirsch, who’s happily arm wrestling with a couple of his “bros”.

“Um…nothing! I was just wondering if, you know, you maybe wanted to sit with us when we eat. You seem kind of…distracted right now.” Was that proper wording? You seem to have gotten your point across well enough, because she snaps out of her reverie for a second to look you in the eye, apparently considering the offer.

“Alright. Sounds good,” she says, and then, sighing, adds: “I’ve just been really weird about the Kirsch situation lately. He’s been trying to talk to me, but Mel’s kind of been pushing him away- like I understand why, but…,” she says, trailing off to look at you. “I’m sorry, I’m rambling-”

“No, it’s fine! Anyway-” You’re spared the slightly awkward moment by Doctor Maryne yelling over the crowd for everyone to move, because the terrified hostesses have moved together a couple of tables, hopefully enough to fit sixty nine starving orchestra kids.

You’re swept up in the ensuing stampede, and you’d be fine with that, except you feel indebted to a certain bassist whose sweater you’re wearing. (And also, you may just have a crush on this vampire). You hang back, slipping out of the crowd around a bunch of Styria kids yelling “Pizza or death!” at the top of their lungs repeatedly. Danny and Mel, all arguments forgotten, are “accompanying” them on imaginary trumpets, and Danny stops to raise her eyebrow at you. You ignore her and find Carmilla, who’s hanging behind the pack of people. She’s looking slightly wistfully at them, and for a second you forget where you are and get caught up in how she looks, and you don’t know why someone just looking at something is so breathtaking, but it is, and you can’t stop staring at everything about her- the curve of her neck, the tilt of her head, the sweep of her bangs- until she looks down and rubs at her eyes. You steel yourself and walk up to her.

“Hey, cupcake. How’d your first performance go?” she says, slightly faster than her usual drawl. She’s nervous, and it’s pretty cute. You smile and roll your eyes.

“You don’t have to pretend to be all nonchalant, Carm. I can see you being all mopey-vampire-emo over there,” you say. The words come out of you in a rush, and you’re not entirely sure why you said it. It’s probably because you feel a weird sympathy to this dark, seemingly friendless girl, having once (not too long ago) having been the weird, friendless girl yourself.

“I-” she murmurs, but you cut her off-

“You can sit with us, if you want! We won’t mind!” You know that’s sort of a lie, but maybe you can make your friends see that Carmilla really isn’t who they think she is- well, maybe she is, you don’t know.

“Uh- okay.” You smile and lead her over to your table (well, your area of the row of tables). Lafontaine looks confused, and Mel and Danny look downright offended. Perry, however, at least makes an attempt to look welcoming (even though you know that she’s slightly weirded out by her).

“Hey guys! Carm can sit with us, right?” you say, giving them a pointed look.

“Of course she can! Here’s two chairs,” Perry says before Mel can cut in. You and Carmilla sit down next to each other, and you notice Carmilla moving to pull out your chair before catching herself. You catch her eye and smile, and she looks awkward, but- at least you think- a little happy.

The waitress brings over pitchers of water and lemonade, again dispelling the awkward silence. Laf says something about the chemical composition of the lemonade, and suddenly you’re all talking like usual. Carmilla is predictably silent, and when the conversation rolls around to the music from the concert, you elbow her until she says something about how great Fall Out Boy’s new album is. You grin, which she seems to take that as encouragement, as she begins to chip in a little more heartily (albeit sarcastically) to the conversation.

You, the rest of the Silas Orchestra, the Styria kids, and a few assorted kids from the other schools eat your way through countless pizzas before one in the morning, when a few harried parents begin dragging kids and their instruments out the door (to the waiter’s reliefs). Perry’s dad has just opened the door to the restaurant, looking careworn, when Kirsch (who’s joined Danny, much to Mel’s distaste) loudly proclaims that your entire “squad” should come to the Halloween dance at Styria because “it’s gonna be lit, dudes”. Lafontaine agrees by saying “we’ll come” and you know that they’re talking about them and Perry. Kirsch looks expectantly at Danny, who nods and jabs Mel in the stomach. Mel, to her part, mutters something about only coming to keep an eye on Danny. Kirsch looks at you, and you laugh.

“Sure, why not,” you say, even though you know it’s probably a horrible idea.

Kirsch turns his puppy-dog stare to Carmilla next. She, predictably, rolls her eyes.

“C’mon Carm. I promise if it’s bad you can go home,” you say. She starts a little at being called Carm, and does a quick sideways glance at you. You attempt what you think is an encouraging smile, but probably just looks like a sarcastic grin. Finally, after what seems like an eternity but is probably really just a second, she nods.

“That’s so cool! I’ll text you,” Kirsch says, his eyes lighting up in a childish glee you can’t help but find adorable.

At around three in the morning, due to your dad being stuck at the police department and Carmilla’s mom stuck in traffic coming home from some work meeting (though you’re not sure what kind of work meeting lasts until two in the morning) you and Carmilla somehow turned out to be the last Silas kids in the restaurant (Mattie flatly refused to come to the after party). You’re sitting outside on a long bench, which looks out onto the busy street the restaurant sits on. You’re still wearing her sweater, and, gladly, she doesn’t seem to mind. You’re tempted to lean your head on her shoulder, but you feel horrified at even the thought.

“I like the holes you cut in your pockets for your thumbs. It’s actually pretty smart,” you say, holding the side of the sweater out in front of you, your thumb poking through the pocket.

“Thanks, cupcake. There’s ones in the cuffs, too,” she says, and she picks up your hand. Your heart jumps into your throat, and you again notice how beautiful she is, the light from the streetlamps reflecting off her hair instead of the traditional, cliché moonlight. She guides your thumb through the hole in the cuff and smiles at you.

“And that’s how it’s done, cutie,” she murmurs. That’s a new nickname, you think. You like it. You’re looking at her, and for some reason, even though you barely know her, you’re tempted to lean up and kiss her (though maybe it’s just the sleep deprivation talking). You can’t tell exactly, but she looks like she’s thinking the same thing. You’re summoning your courage, when suddenly a car horn beeps from the parking lot. You look up and, for the first time, you’re disappointed at your dad’s poor timing.

“Uh- I have to go…,” you say quickly, making to get up. You don’t know if it’s true or if it’s just wishful thinking, but she looks disappointed.

“See you tomorrow, then. Bye, cupcake,” she says, and the breath rushes out of you because you can’t help but be overwhelmed by everything she does. There’s no denying that you have a crush on her now, you think, and you know that Betty and Laf are going to laugh like crazy when they find out.

You say goodbye and hurriedly bolt over to your dad’s car before you can embarrass yourself.

“Sorry I’m late,” he says, smiling apologetically. “Held up at the hospital after work with your mom. Have a good night?” he says, and you almost tell him everything that happened, but some little nagging part of you tells you it’s a bad idea.

“Yeah,” you say, as you turn onto the main road, “It was great.” You see Carmilla sitting on the bench, and wave to her. She smiles slightly and waves back.

Carmilla actually comes to the Halloween party.

December 13, 2015

            It’s the day of the Christmas concert, and you’re happy. You, Laf, Danny, Mel, and Perry, have ordered pizza to the school, and are shivering outside of the school waiting to pick it up. It’s unusually cold, Perry informs, you, for this time of year (though you, being from frigid Connecticut, are perfectly fine with it). Your breath fogs in front of you, and the ground is slick with lingering frost. The school looks beautiful in the misty air- the trees surrounding it are bare, and the top of the roof is almost lost in fog before plunging into the clear blue sky. It’s particularly pretty, you think, not at all like Connecticut.

            The pizza driver’s car pulls up through the horseshoe in front of the school, prompting Danny and Mel to shout, and Perry to bolt up to the car to get it as fast as possible so you can go inside. The harried-looking pizza driver hands over the boxes, and drives away as fast as possible, though if it’s because of the chill or fear of Danny and Mel’s chanting, you can’t tell.

            Laf makes the executive decision to eat the food outside, because “logically, everyone’s going to pounce on us for this” even though everyone except you (really, Connecticut’s much worse) complains about the cold. So, you walk around the school through the parking lot to get to your favorite lunch table. It’s right by the playground, in an area of the school rarely frequented by high schoolers during lunch, so it’s perfect. Not that it would matter, anyway- the school is verging on deserted, seeing as school let out an hour early.

            When you arrive at your table, a small group of eighth graders are sitting on top of it. You can hear them from fifty feet away complaining about their boyfriends. Danny rolls her eyes and gives them a stern look. They see your group and don’t hesitate to clear out. You’re not entirely sure why your ragtag group is intimidating. Maybe it’s Laf’s haircut, or Danny and Mel’s mildly threatening athletic physique, but you know it’s probably just because of the air about you. Mel’s dubbed it the “sophomore swagger”; a potent mix of unkemptness, exhaustion, and simply being older that tells freshmen and eighth graders to not mess with you.

“You didn’t have to leave!” Perry calls after them, but they’re already gone, their blond ponytails swinging out of view behind the doors leading into the main cafeteria. Perry clicks her tongue in disapproval and sets the pizza down on the table. Laf does a wave for silence and, having achieved the apparently necessary silence for pizza, opens the box. It steams slightly in the cold, and Danny and Mel instantly set on it. Perry clicks her tongue again and begins neatly arranging slices for you, her, and Laf.

You can’t help but love the way you feel, surrounded by these people; even though you’ve only known them for a few short months, you just know that they’re right for you. It feels like...a family. Not like your family though; your dad, no matter how hard he tried, couldn’t be two people at the same time, even though you love him more than anything. This family just seems...happy.

You spend the next half hour eating and watching the choir kids, all dressed up in long black gowns, lazily begin to trickle back to the school. Next come the choir boys from Styria High, wearing sharp suits and ties. You hear Danny make a comment about how you’re going to look in your pullover sweaters next to them. In all reality, your pullover sweaters aren’t too bad- just, compared to the suits that the Styria boys are wearing, you’ll look like, to use a word from your recent “b-o-r-i-n-g” (Betty’s words) vocabulary set, heathens.

About half an hour before you’re due in the orchestra room, Lafontaine suddenly starts and drops her pizza. You all turn and see that a woman wearing high, high heels that she should definitely not be able to walk over the uneven pavement inis walking down the path from the parking lot, clearly making a beeline for your table. She looks threatening, to say the least- a sharp, short haircut and an overly professional suit paired with icy blue eyes that seem to look directly into your soul to name just a few horrifying elements of her. You don’t miss Lafontaine dropping Perry’s hand and moving several inches away from her on the bench, a look of absolute terror in their eyes. The woman approaches your table, and you can hear her heels clacking against the pavement from here, smell her strong, expensive perfume from here, feel the chill of unfriendliness coming from her from here, and suddenly you know why Laf never has anyone come over to their house. It’s because, as is confirmed within seconds, she’s their mother.

“Hello, Susan,” she says, her voice clear, enunciating every syllable with what seems to be a practiced air. You can feel the mood of the table change in an instant; Laf stiffens, and you can tell they’re trying very hard not to react to what must be their birth name. Danny’s eyes darken instantly, Perry takes a sharp breath, and even Mel grimaces. Lafontaine, despite all this, tries for what at least seems to be a cheerful tone;

“Hi, Mom. Uh, what’re you doing here?” they say, trying their very best to be casual. Their mother laughs, a high, tinkling one, so different from what her voice and demeanor would suggest; it sounds like bells, like a laugh out of a storybook.

“I just wanted to stop by and say hello to you and your friends before the concert,” she says, nodding to you all in what would be a respectful way, if she wasn’t obviously faking a smile. “Oh, and to drop off this makeup. You want to look pretty for those boys, don’t you?” she says, and you know you’re not the only one stifling a laugh. Danny chokes on her breadstick, and Mel elbows her in the stomach, prompting her to turn her breathless laughs into what sounds approximately like a dying cat.

“Yeah. Thanks, Mom,” Laf replies, taking the lipstick and blush she hands them without a hint of humor. You can tell they’ve been through this routine before. And then the deadly eyes, so unlike their child’s, turn to you, and all the wind goes out of you. You’re still getting used to this whole real-life thing.

“And who is this?” she says, her voice a polite, fake, smile. Lafontaine takes the opportunity to drop the makeup into a their backpack, where you know it’ll never be found, so Perry answers.

“That’s Laura. She plays the flute.” You feel like it’s required to stand and shake her hand, and so you do. It’s like ice, her long bright red painted nails trailing on your wrist like claws. You mention something about how nice it is to meet her, and she starts at your accent.

“Are you not from around here?” You take a minute to process the question before you realize that yes, you’re not from around here. You reply in the negative. “From the North, then?” she says, and you nod. She smiles another fake smile, and lets your hand drop. “Susan’s always making new friends. She says she’s not a social butterfly, but, to make friends with a northerner….” Every time she says “she”, you can see Laf bite their lip. Perry looks pained and you watch as her hand twitches, clearly wanting to reach over to comfort them but too afraid of their mom. You clench your teeth, partially because of the jab at New England, but mostly because of the misgendering Laf’s dealing with.

“Thanks, Mom,” they say. Their lip is bleeding, you notice. Perry gasps and dabs at it with a napkin. You want to help, but all you can think to do is get away from Laf’s mom, so you sit down. Lafontaine’s mom sighs and sweeps her business-like hair behind her ear.

“Well, the office probably needs me. I’m leaving dinner in the fridge, Susan.” She smiles another fake smile, and turns on a dime and starts walking back to the parking lot. You wait until she’s out of earshot, and sigh loudly with the rest of the group. Laf looks murderous.

“I hate her- I hate her so much,” they say, staring with such force at the table that you wouldn’t be surprised if the metal began to melt. Perry sighs and tries for a positive smile.

“Well...it’ll only be two more years, and then we’ll be gone-” she says, but Laf cuts her off, and their eyes look like they’re on the verge of tears.

“But what if, Perr? What if we don’t get in anywhere out of state? What’re we going to do then?” They calculate for a second, and then, utter fear in their voice, “What if you get in up north and I don’t?” Perry sputters for words, and you want to say something, to comfort them, but they quickly compose themself. “I’m sorry. You guys don’t wanna hear this. We should just...go get our instruments.” And they get up suddenly and begin shoving trash into the boxes. Mel cracks her knuckles and points over her shoulder to the parking lot, making a violent grunting noise. Laf smiles slightly at this, and they finally crack a grin when Perry takes their hand and smiles reassuringly. It’ll be okay, her smile seems to say. It’s so different from the cold, calculating, fake smile of Laf’s mom, you think.

You can’t imagine what it’s like growing up with a mom like that- for five long years, your mom’s been in a hospital, kept alive by a thousand whirring machines. You saw her exactly twice a year; once on her birthday, once on Christmas, though you knew that your dad secretly went off to see her at least once a week. Every time she’d raise her head a little and smile, though you weren’t sure who she was smiling to. It had been an accident- one minute, she’d been on the way home from school, listening to what the wreckage identified as Johnny Cash’s Greatest Hits album. The next, your father had told you, a car from the other side of the nearly deserted highway had careened across the road and crashed into her side door. Could’ve been much worse, they’d said- the doctors- she could’ve died. But the accident had damaged her brain, leaving her with about as much of an awareness of the world as a newborn child. You have very vague memories of watching her pore over thick textbooks full of diagrams of brains and words like “neurodegenerative” and “cholinergic”. According to your father, she was studying the causes of Alzheimer’s disease. The irony of this isn’t lost on you.

Laf and Perry finish dumping the trash and walk back over to the table. Lafontaine’s eyes are still misty with tears, you can tell, but they’re trying their best to hide it. Perry straightens her skirt and claps her hands together.

“So, should we head over to the orchestra room?” she says, obviously trying to change the rather dismal subject. Danny and Mel nod and stretch, and you reply in the affirmative.

The walk back through the long, long hallway to the orchestra room would be saddening if not for Danny and Mel’s very rowdy spirit. The fact that you all are practically alone (everyone either at sports or at home) in the school has begun to set in, and, logically, that means that you’re free to do essentially whatever you want. Mel lets out a loud war cry that echoes down the hall, reverberating off the stone floor and thick, cracked windows. A few solitary students sitting on the pews (rudimentary benches to fit your school’s minimal budget) look up in confusion, but, upon seeing who it is, either roll their eyes or yell a greeting. You pass SJ and Natalie sitting on top of a windowsill next to the library, and they jump down and join you. Perry makes an attempt to greet them, but they only look to each other with worried glances and keep talking hurriedly. They smell strongly of marijuana smoke, and you can’t help but wonder if Laf was wrong.

The door to the orchestra creaks in its usual loud and ominous (or perhaps just old and broken) way as Laf pushes it open. Carmilla’s in there already, tuning her bass. She nods to them and keeps tuning. You’re again struck by the thought of how amazing she looks- her long black hair tumbling gracefully over her shoulder, the contrast of her smooth, perfect pale skin against her hair’s vivid raven black, and the concentration in her eyes as she begins to warm up with a Bach Gigue. She’s obviously talented, and you wonder why she’s not enrolled at Saint Ana’s. Well, you think to yourself, you know why she’s not at Saint Ana’s. Her mom, the dean, would never allow that. From what you’ve heard, she’s not the nicest of women.

You shake your head slightly and sit down at your stand, which is conveniently (or inconveniently) positioned such that looking to see Carmilla would require a great amount of neck-craning, seeing as there’s a layer of violas and cellos to look through. You clean your flute methodically. Betty plops down in the chair next to you moments later (you wouldn’t admit it to anyone, but you missed her coming in because you were too caught up with Carmilla) and smiles to you in her usual way. She’s really grown to be a pretty good friend of yours, and even though you’d never hang out outside of school, it’s kind of nice to have casual friends. It’s a concept you never had before you came here- perhaps you’d have people that you saw at your dad’s favorite coffeeshop regularly, or maybe, when you were younger, before your mom got into the accident, you’d have kids who maybe you played with at the park- your life was composed of one close relationship with your dad, who, while the fact still remained that he was altogether scarred from the not-really-a-death, not-really-an-“alive” of his wife, did his best to make sure you were happy. It’s a nice feeling, you think, to have people who you don’t have to be with all the time to know that they’ll have your back.

Everyone is almost completely warmed up when the door opens, making again the long and low creaking noise, and Mattie walks in, flanked by her two nameless minions. Her skirt is, as usual, pressed and her socks are, as usual, pulled up to her knee. She’s even wearing a blazer.

Her entrance causes the mood within the room to flip like a light switch. Whereas before the room had been full of soft chatter mixed with the almost ephemeral sound of instruments warming up, full of a warm, simple feeling of happiness and anticipation, her entrance changed the mood to stiff and silent. Carmilla stops playing instantly, and despite your better judgement, you lean out to snatch a glance of her. She looks angry, you think. Perhaps that isn’t the right word, though- you don’t think she’s just angry per se. She looks like she’s disappointed, and, at a closer inspection, scared. Mattie smirks at her and walks over to her treasured first violin stand, trailing her finger daintily over the edge of Carmilla’s stand. There’s about a minute of silence before Carmilla grunts and goes back to playing Bach.

The chatter starts up again, and the room is lively enough when Doctor Mitchell walks in, toting a baton carrying case and a heavy black binder containing the music for the show. She approaches the rickety stage and dumps her things onto it. The entire floor shakes and everyone stops playing, startled. She laughs merrily and steps up to her stand, clearing her throat.

“How’re we doing?” she says. You all respond with a general average of good, except for Carmilla, who plays the bassline from Smoke on the Water. You can tell she’s feeling better. “Excellent. Are we ready to play this show?” Mel grunts and lets out a considerably quieter than usual war cry. “Do we know the order of pieces?” There’s considerably more muttering (no one, including you, knows the order of the pieces). “S’alright. I don’t either. Any suggestions?”

“Can we play Pirates?” asks Mel hopefully. Doctor Mitchell shrugs and writes it down. Perry suggests Fantasia on Amazing Grace, and she writes that down too, even though about half of the orchestra cringes. Betty adds Happy, causing the entire orchestra, including Mitchell to cringe.

“Alright. Settle down, ladies and others. I’ve got a very important announcement to make.” Laf glows at the second sentence. You all hush and look expectantly at Mitchell, who looks like she could either be delivering excellent news or dropping a bombshell. “Get ready...trumpet roll please….” (Danny happily obliges) “So I talked to our very good friend over in the choral department, Miss Elsie, and the choir just happens to have learned an acapella version of Centuries. Hope we don’t screw it up, but we get a duet!” she says, grinning. Danny and Mel stomp jubilantly and Laf fistbumps you. “It’s going to be awesome. So good luck out there...break!”

You all grab your instruments and begin to file out of the room in a more or less orderly fashion. Mattie is first, of course- then the other violins, Laf, you and Betty, Danny and Mel, Perry, SJ, and Natalie, and, bringing up the end of the train, Carmilla, tilting her bass precariously against her leg. Danny and Mel support the large crate of music binders in between them, and you laugh as they attempt to fit through the doorway without dropping it. They do, and burst out laughing. Carmilla, directly behind them, smiles for a second, dropping it the instant she sees you watching. You blush and look down as Danny and Mel collapse to the ground to try and retrieve the fallen music. When you look back up, she’s smiling again, this time to you. You return the smile nervously, your heart in your throat, and she grins stupidly in a very uncharacteristic way, ducking her head. Danny, standing back up, looks jealous for a second, but when Mel thwacks her with a binder, she snaps back to her senses and winks at you.

“Move along, move along,” says Doctor Mitchell, tapping her baton against the doorway threateningly. The orchestra knows better than to cross her, so you all double-time it down the hallway.

The wings of the main auditorium are strange- not really wings at all, as a matter of fact. The spring musical isn’t going to be held for a while, so the curtains are dismantled. You all stand in a kind of vague holding area off to the side of the stage, populated by a old, certainly out of tune piano, and a podium on which a dusty, dog eared Bible rests. Doctor Mitchell is tuning Laf’s viola and hushing Danny and Mel again. They’re grumbling up next to the stage and giving deadly looks to the choir kids; no, on second thought, they’re just grumbling about one of them. You approach them and Mel grunts something unintelligible.

“Whatcha doing?” you say. Mel growls again, and Danny looks uncomfortable but still generally angry, which is a feeling that you can definitely understand. Mel gestures violently at the Styria High kids and jerks her thumb at the back row. It’s the boy from the Riff-Off, Wilson Kirsch. You recognize him immediately, namely because he’s staring directly at Danny with a kind of puppy-love look that’s slightly endearing. Danny rolls her eyes.

“Of course he sings too. What a fake intellectual bro,” says Mel, looking at Danny hopefully. Danny sighs and looks down.

“I don’t know, Mel. I don’t even know if I hate him anymore,” she says, looking more confused than ever. You quickly try to determine if you should walk away and let them finish this conversation by themselves, or if you should help Danny.

“Laura? What do you think? Is he a fuckboy?” says Mel, snapping you out of your internal mental debate.

“Uh-” you say, and she smirks.

“Not really your area, I know. You’re a smol lesbian, I understand.” You laugh nervously. You try to not let in on, but your heart is actually beating faster than ever. It’s the first time you’ve been recognized, as, well, a lesbian. Somehow, the constant teasing about Carmilla didn’t count- no one ever outright said it like Mel. It’s a strange feeling- your heart is in your throat again, and you can’t tell if you should be happy or scared. Why you’d be scared, you don’t know (well, except for the tiny detail that you’re currently in a Catholic school), but you automatically want to look over your shoulder for anyone that might be listening. You take a deep breath and compose yourself enough to reply.

“Well- why don’t you like Kirsch?” you say to Danny, your heart still going a mile a minute. Danny sighs again and runs her fingers through her hair. She laughs and exhales in a whistling fashion, and finally says-

“I don’t even know anymore, Hollis. He had a big thing for me last year, asked me to homecoming and everything, but he’s just so...misogynistic. I don’t know...should I give him a chance?” she says, looking at you with helpless eyes. Mel grunts again and looks expectantly at you.

“I...guess? Maybe talk to him. You never know what’ll happen,” you say, trying to keep your answer as reassuringly vague as possible. Mel huffs and fiddles with her trumpet. Danny looks relieved.

“Thanks, Hollis. Maybe I’ll try and talk to him after the show.” You nod and walk off to Carmilla. She’s tuning her bass again, and when she sees you, she starts and blushes. This is so unlike her, and you can’t help but wonder if maybe you’re making her nervous. She tucks her hair behind her ear and plucks a string on her bass.

“Hey, creampuff,” she says, her voice incredibly calm. You grin and say hi back. You steel yourself, and attempt to make conversation.

“What’re you doing after the concert?” you say. Oh god, did that sound like you wanted to hang out with her? Not that you don’t, but your heartbeat instantly starts racing again.

“Nothing. Probably going to just walk home. What about you?” You can’t help but falter for a minute, because Carmilla has no plans (and probably no one in the audience cheering her on).

“Uh, same. My dad needs to run to another night shift at the station right after, so I’m probably going to catch a ride with Laf. We’re probably going to go get coffee though- wanna come?” you say, clenching your teeth in preparation for rejection. Carmilla stutters for a second, trying to process what’s going on. It’s so weird, you think, being the one suggesting plans. You were always just going along with your dad, rubbing along in a kind of mutual nonchalant life- not really making any decisions any bigger than what kind of cereal to buy at the store.

“Uh...sure, cupcake. I’ll...find you after.” She flips her hair over her shoulder, her usual cool uncaring settling in, and fiddles with a peg on her bass.

“Ok! See you-” you say, but Doctor Mitchell interrupts you with a thwack on the podium with her baton. From the back in the lights booth, someone yells “House opening...now.”

The doors are opened and people, parents, teachers and the odd student, just there to get their concert grade in their music class to go up. You can see the choir kids, who have filed offstage, doing last-minute warmups and fixing their ties and dresses. In a few minutes, the lights darken and a shaky spotlight appears on the side of the stage, and Elsie (no one really knows her last name), the director of the music department, steps out and onto the podium.

“Good evening, parents, faculty, and students of Silas. Thank you all for coming...please turn off your cell phones, etcetera. We’ll be beginning with a hymn to Our Lady of Prompt Succor- hopefully we won’t be needing her help today, am I right…,” she says, stepping out in front of the choir. The joke falls flat. “Ok, nevermind. Let’s hear it for the Silas Young Women’s Choir.” She turns around and picks up her baton. You hear the entire choir take a collective breath and dive into what is actually a pretty good performance. Mattie straightens up a little into her traditional pose of ‘I’m better than you’ that she so often favors. You stifle a laugh and look back out.

A few songs later, Elsie turns back around to the audience. “And now,” she says, and you can see the gears working furiously to try and remember what song comes next, a look you’ve seen many times from Doctor Mitchell, “we’ll be singing Hallelujah, from Shrek.” Leonard Cohen’s Hallelujah fills the auditorium, and you and Laf almost start crying trying not to laugh.

“Nice intro, huh, buttercup,” whispers Carmilla. You start- you’d almost forgotten she was there.

“Yeah. Shrek was my favorite movie as a kid,” you reply in the same overly quiet tones. She rolls her eyes, and you can sense it’s a little more affectionate than when she rolls them at the boys from Styria. You blush, and she grins again.

“Of course. Should’ve known. I was a Tim Burton fan. Coraline, Corpse Bride, that sort of stuff. But I’m sure that’s not exactly your style.” You suddenly realize how close you are to each other in this cramped, tiny holding area. Maybe if you just leaned over a little….

“Not exactly,” you say, and you’re even closer now, the only thing between you six inches of cold, cold air. The song swells to the chorus, and you know that if this was a perfect world, you would kiss her. But unfortunately, it’s not, and this room is full of teachers and nuns and if anyone saw you, you’d be done for. She seems to realize it too, and when Doctor Mitchell looks over, she pulls away instantly. You look down, and she smiles in an uncharacteristically soft way.

The choir finishes their song, and you can hear the ruckus of the choir climbing down from their bleachers and exiting the stage. Doctor Mitchell straightens her tie and smiles.

“It’s time,” she says dramatically. She walks out onto the stage and the rickety spotlight sweeps around to her, momentarily blinding everyone.

“How to make an exit, a course taught by Doctor Maryne Mitchell,” says Laf, plucking at their strings.

“Thanks to the choir for a very impressive performance. And now, let’s give a hand to the Silas Orchestra!” she says, her mannerisms completely changed, and the spotlight flies off Mitchell and to the circle of stands (which is conveniently on the other side of the stage), leaving her in the dark. She walks as quickly as possible to the circle, waving at the orchestra. You take this as your cue and start filing out, Mattie and her violin first, obviously. Carmilla rolls her eyes.

The spotlight is bright, so bright you can hardly see the music. There’s a collective whisper of “Pirates? Pirates.” around the circle until Mitchell taps her baton with an abnormal amount of delicacy on the stand. You put your flute to your lips and hope that the performance is at least allright.

The infinitesimal moment before her baton drops seems like an infinity- practically a millennium passes before the ringing, low first notes sound from the cellos and Carmilla. You take a deep, deep breath and jump into you and Betty’s solo, the happy, familiar, tune unique to the soundtrack. The solo ends, and you can barely hear the clapping of the audience over the powerful sound going on around you, which you assume is a good thing.

The rest of the songs go off without a hitch. When the final notes of Happy fade into applause, Doctor Mitchell steps back out into the middle of the stage between the choir bleachers and you. The spotlight operator throws you into darkness again, and you hear Mattie sighing, offended.

“Thank you for coming out to see us tonight! Now before we go, we have one more song for you all. And, thanks to the efforts of our good friend over in the choir department, Elsie, it’ll be a duet!” A few of the choir kids (a mix of Styria and Silas) walk back out to loud applause. The spotlight operator, apparently without a clue of what to do, turns up the stage lights. You’re blinded again, so you can’t see Mitchell when she says, “So put your hands together for Centuries!” Your eyes adjust to the light just in time, and you pick up your flute. Mitchell lifts her hands in perfect sync with Elsie, and cues Carmilla in. The riff is actually so excellent that you’re taken aback- the boys from Styria match perfectly to Carmilla’s notes, and you can hear the tenors rise with the cellos and Laf. You shake your head and put your flute to your lips. It’s time.

In a measure of rest, you look over the singers and see the boy, Kirsch, who was staring at Danny earlier. He’s a surprisingly good singer- the jock stereotype that he seemed to fit so neatly into didn’t really have a place for singing- hitting every note. You notice Danny looking over at him in a way that slightly resembles the way that Laf looks at Perry when they think she’s not looking- the kind of soft, smiling look that you think only happens in movies. Suddenly, you hear Betty take a sharp breath and hurriedly come in, just on time.

The final measure, as usual is the best. Maryne and Elsie look to each other, and you’re all looking at them, watching for the tiniest of motions, a cue to end the piece. It’s almost magical, the final note hanging in the air, lingering, waiting to be cut off, in a strangely beautiful limbo. Mitchell takes a breath, she and Elsie both raise their arms, and-

The note is cut off, and everyone in the audience jumps to their feet. Doctor Mitchell nods approvingly, and you all stand up. She turns out to face the audience, and you all bow. It’s an amazing moment- the stage lights so bright you can barely see the audience, the roar of clapping, the deep, relieved breaths of everyone around you- and you want to preserve it, to bottle it up and keep it safe to come back to.

However, you know that the moment, wonderful as it is, will never be caught, for the sacred quality of it is too beautiful to break.

            You step out into the cold air outside the auditorium, surrounded by friends who are picked off by parents and relatives, until it’s just you, Laf and Carmilla standing in the icy wind. Your dad had found you momentarily in the audience, hugged you and told you it was an amazing performance, and had then bolted to his car. You didn’t mind though- you were grateful he had come to see you in the first place. It’s nice to be a regular kid- going to school, having your dad come to see your shows, and then going out with your friends after. Your dad’s job is all-consuming, anyway- he doesn’t have an overlarge amount of time for anything outside of you, your mom, and work- but you’d never hold it against him. Your dad, no matter what, will always be your best friend.

In the parking lot, Laf is stolen away by a Styria choir boy with a pinched face and an odd hat, and suddenly it’s just you and Carmilla. Laf had tossed you their keys, but for some reason it just seems right to lean up against their car with Carm. The stars above you are beautifully bright, poking out from behind clouds and twinkling in the night. You’re sitting in the opened trunk of Laf’s ridiculously suburban mom station wagon, pointing up at the stars and watching the cars on the other side of the fence hurdle by. Carmilla points out all the constellations she can see, and when she finishes, she sighs and looks down at the ground, seeming so near after all the looking up.

“What’s the point of it all, really? Looking up at the stars… really, we’re all just specks of dust. Those stars are so much larger than us…. I don’t know, cupcake,” she says, her voice getting dreamy and dark. She’s picked up a lighter, seemingly out of nowhere, and is flicking it without thought. The flame illuminates her face for a second, enunciating every dip and canyon in her bones. She’s beautiful, you think- the light flickers in her eyes momentarily- you can see the gears clicking in her brain as she thinks. The lighter stops flicking, and she sighs, leaning back into the trunk of the car. You sit up for a second until she grabs your wrist and pulls you down beside her. You’re close again, so close you can see her breath fog with every inhale and exhale, and when you too remember to breathe, your breaths mesh with hers. She sighs again and you watch the cloud form and then float off into the night. Suddenly, you feel her fingers playing with yours, drifting across your fingertips, and you again forget to breathe. This can’t be real- Carmilla, the beautiful, dark, mysterious girl you think you’re in love with- can’t be here with you, could never possibly have her hand in yours. But another second and your fingers are intertwined, and you think your heart stops for a second, because this can’t be real. Her fingers are cold from the night air, and you can feel the rough callouses on the tips of her fingers and the side of her thumb she’s acquired from her bass. You suddenly realize that you have no idea how to hold someone’s hand; should you be holding hers tighter? Looser?

She laughs, and suddenly you’ve fallen back into the moment, and Carmilla is here, smiling in her usual ironic fashion. “Oh God, what am I doing?” she murmurs, squeezing your hand. “This shouldn’t be. It’s so-” but she cuts herself off, laughing again. “Why does it even matter? Nothing matters. We’re just specks of dust on this earth. Why would it matter if I-” She cuts herself off again. Her hair is falling in her eyes, and on a whim, you reach out and tuck it behind her ear. She smiles and closes her eyes for a moment. “Oh God,” she repeats, her voice barely a whisper, “God, what am I doing.” Her eyes open and she squeezes your hand again. You’ve never really noticed the color of her eyes before; they’re dark and shining, her pupils barely noticeable in the dark sea around them. You’re only a few inches from each other, and you can see every eyelash, see the reflections of each eyelash in her dark, dark eyes. She blinks, and you seem to see it in slow motion, those eyelashes dropping and flying back up again; she gets closer and closer to you until suddenly-

Her lips are on yours, and your heart is beating much too quickly- she tastes like cold air and grape gum. Her hand is behind your neck and in your hair, playing with it thoughtlessly. The kiss is brief, and when she pulls back she’s smiling again, but this time it doesn’t seem ironic. She laughs softly and looks at you, seemingly surprised at her own daring. You look back at her, and suddenly, recklessly, plunge forward and kiss her again. You can feel her smiling into the kiss and almost burst out laughing, you’re so relieved. You pull back again after a moment, and you actually do laugh.

“So, you play the bass, huh?”

            For exactly a week, two days, and twelve hours, you and Carmilla seem to be the only two people in the world. The school, in the final week of exams before school lets out for winter, is on edge: half the school spending every available minute studying, the other half spending their time doing absolutely nothing, having given up on everything. But you and Carmilla seem to be floating through the school, apart from everyone else in the school, drifting through the halls as if on a cloud. Before, walking to class was a challenge: to get anywhere, you’d have to fight through a sea of underclassmen. Now, the crowds seem to part for you and her. It’s not until a week and two days passes until you realize that the crowds actually are parting for you.

            “They- they’re scared of you. You know them, March for Life Catholic kids. I don’t know, Laura. No one wants to be with the gay girls,” said Laf. You confronted them about it on the steps behind the cafeteria the Friday before exams week. Their Bio book is open to a page plastered in post-it notes, and they play with the corner of one as they talk.

            “Why does it have to be like this? Can’t I just live my life in peace?” you say, groaning and running your hands through your hair. “I hate this.”

            “I do too. But don’t let them get to you, and don’t let them see anything they can use against you. Nothing will happen to you unless they have proof,” they say, their face grim. The moment is tense, and you look away. You can feel their eyes on you, studying you as if you were a science experiment. “You okay? You seem a little…weird lately. And, I don’t know, but I don’t think it’s just this.” You sigh and shake your head. Your dad hasn’t been home at all since the night of the concert. He comes in in the dead of night, leaving notes about his whereabouts, sometimes leaving dinner in the fridge. The hospital called, one of them read. They think your mom’s getting better.

“It’s nothing. Just my dad being gone a lot… you know, with work, and stuff.” You don’t know why you don’t tell anyone about your mom- it’s just not something you can say out loud. Laf nods in assent, but you can tell they’re not satisfied with your answer. If you’re being honest, you aren’t either.

            Carmilla walks home with you from school that day. You hold her hand as you walk down the streets, swinging it lightly. She’s talking again, talking about the stars and the universe and philosophy, and you’re listening, her endless talk a welcome distraction from the thoughts pinging around in your head like an arcade game.

            Halfway to your house, there is a park, a beautiful park where the grass on the ground is iced like a cake, where the pond is beautifully still, and where huge trees extend their branches, dipping them into the water. You lead Carmilla to a bench a few steps off the sidewalk, facing the lake. She’s stopped talking now, and you’re not sure if struck by the beauty of the park or if she’s run out of ideas. A bird- a duck, maybe- waddles out of the lake and comes within a few feet of you, obviously begging for food. You reach into your backpack and pull out a granola bar from your lunch to give to him. You toss him the crumb and he quacks, pleased. You laugh, and it’s the first time you’ve really laughed since your dad left. It’s only a few seconds, though, before you slip back into the routine you’ve developed; your brain flying back and forth between your mom, your dad, school, and Carmilla. Now, your brain has the added problem Laf elaborated on to worry about, and every part of you wants to break down in tears. Instead, you turn to Carmilla.

            “Laf told me today about how the March for Life girls are avoiding us,” you say, the words falling out of your mouth one after the other tumultuously. She looks confused for a second, then nods, rolling her eyes.

            “It’ll be alright. I’ve dealt with this for centuries. Mother isn’t exactly the most supportive of parents. This is just some of her minions acting up,” she says, her voice bored and calm.

            “Do you think they’ll try to do something?” you say, the words flying out again. You take a deep breath and try to collect your thoughts- however, they’re moving too quickly for you to even try.

            “They don’t have proof. They can’t prove anything without it.” She turns to you on the bench, her face set. “Trust me. It’ll be fine. You don’t have to worry about it.” You nod and try to keep yourself collected. “It’ll be fine.”

            The door to your house is bright yellow, cheerful and sunny on the uncommonly monochrome street. You knock on it out of habit, even though you know the chances of your dad being home are miniscule- you didn’t even bother to check the block for his car. You’re fishing in your bag for your key when the door opens, uncommonly slowly. Your dad stands in the doorway, looking worn and tired, his face drawn into a look of extreme pain. He looks at you, and in a blink of an eye that seems to last an eternity, begins to cry. It’s not the first time you’ve seen him cry, but somehow this seems so much worse, so much more serious, than ever before. You rush to him and hug him, trying to comfort him as much as you can. When you pull away, he looks at you, tears still streaming down his face.

            “It’s your mom,” he says, and your heart stops. “She’s dead, Laura. They thought she was going to get better, but she’s dead.”

            The world stops for a moment, and it’s as if you can see everything in minute detail- every thread in the intricate spiderweb hanging in a corner by the burnt out light, the blades of grass sticking to the toes of Carmilla’s boot, the tears clinging to your dad’s eyelashes- hanging on every millisecond like it’s your last.

            “She’s gone.” His eyes are cold and dead, and his only sign of life is in the almost nonexistent breathes he takes- in, out. in, out. He collapses to the ground, and Carmilla takes your hand.

            The world is stopped, and the first flakes of snow begin to fall from the cloudy December sky.