The plot thickens. Thanks to crushedbyadandelion for the lovely review and to any readers out there.

--

xxxi

When the telephone rings, no one is home but me. Anni went back to the office after she stuck me on the couch and turned the TV on. It is late enough that she and my dad are probably making out in one of the bathrooms on their floor. I know this only because if they were home, they’d be making out on the couch near the table where I do my homework. This is irritating, and also kind of gross.

“Uh, hi,” says the answering machine. “This is--”

I find the phone where it has been hiding in the couch cushions.

“Hello, this is the Brzewski residence, how may I help you?”

“Sophie?” says the voice on the other end.

“This is she,” I say. My dad drummed this into me when I was eleven, right after my mother left.

“Hey,” the voice says. “It’s Drew.”

“Hi.”

“Yeah, uh, hi. How you doing?”

“Okay, I guess. Thanks for asking.”

He is breathing in little shallow breaths, like he’s nervous.

“Alex told us you were sick.”

“That was nice of him,” I say.

There is a little pause. I sit down and turn the TV on. The sound is all the way down and there are captions scrolling in their little black boxes at the bottom of the screen.

“Look, we were just wondering if you were okay.”

“We?”

“All of us.”

There is a sudden clunk on the other line.

“Hey, Sophie,” says Amanda.

“Hi,” I say. “What are you doing there?”

“We’re sitting. Alex and Nick and Drew and me, at my house. You should be here.”

“I can’t. I would throw up on you.”

“Look,” says Amanda.

A car door slams in the driveway.

“I have to go,” I say, and hang up.

xxxii

“So I hear you’re having a little trouble in school,” says my dad.

“Yeah,” I say. “I guess.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” he asks. He sounds hurt. “You can come to me for anything.”

Anni stands in the doorway. Her eyes glint, like a cat’s.

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t know?”

“Yeah. No. I don’t know.”

His eyebrows meet in the middle of his forehead.

“You’d better know, young lady,” he says.

“You should tell us things,” Anni interrupts. “We only want to help you.”

“Help,” says my dad.

“Sorry,” I say.

“Actions speak louder than words,” he says.

xxxiii

My head still hurts, but I can’t afford to stay home.

“Oh, honey,” says Anni. “You look just awful.”

At least she offers to drive me to school.

xxxiv

Mrs. Bass has put me in a quartet.

“To help with the boring music,” she explained. “It’ll be a little more interesting for you.”

“Thanks,” I said, but I didn’t mean it.

“No prob,” she said, like she couldn’t tell.

“My name is Martienne,” says the first violinist, a transplant from St. Cat’s as of three weeks ago. “Enny’s okay.”

“Paul,” says the second violinist. I recognize him; he’s hardcore Catholic. In middle school, people whispered that his uncle was mafioso. Now everyone says it’s his father.

“Lynn,” says the violist. She is shy. She is also half Japanese, and therefore lovely.

“Sophie,” I say. At least we get to skip class to play out in the hallway.

We are playing Schubert, something published after he died. It’s weird; dissonant, c minor, until a sudden resolution makes it beautiful again. Martienne’s fingers sprout wings, feathery light and nimble, and our melodies and little solos follow in their wake.

When we finish, everyone is smiling.

“Cool, you guys,” says Martienne. “Let’s try it again.”

xxxv

“Shit,” says Amanda. Harpy looks at her, but she doesn’t look back.

“You don’t look so good,” says Nick, whose fingers are twined tightly with Alex’s again.

“Thanks,” I say. “Really, how kind.”

“Are you sure you’re better?” asks Drew. His hair is short, lank, an ordinary brown. It’s not a good look for him.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” I ask. “What happened to the mohawk?”

“My mom didn’t like it,” he says. “But we’re not talking about me.”

“We could be,” I say.

“But we’re not,” says Amanda. “What’s on your neck?”

I shake my hair down farther. “Nothing,” I say.

“Bullshit,” she replies, and her voice is sharp. Harpy looks at her again, and this time she has the grace to blush. It looks out of place. “Sorry.”

“That’s okay,” says Harpy. “But try to keep it to a minimum. What is said here stays in here, but it might not go over so well outside.”

Amanda, who has suffered more than one detention because of her language, shrugs. Her lighter is spinning rapidly between her fingers. It’s gotten worse, lately, the fidgeting. “Yeah, I guess.”

“Can we talk about something else?” It comes out embarrassingly close to a whine, but no one says anything.

“Yeah, okay,” says Nick. “My mom hasn’t given up on her campaign to make me straight again.”

“That sucks,” says Drew.

“No kidding,” says Alex. “I can’t even call him because his mom knows what my voice sounds like and she won’t let me talk to him.”

“Cell phones?” asks Amanda.

“I’m not allowed to have one,” says Nick. “My mom.”

“I hate my mom,” says Amanda, and snaps her lighter: a flick of flame and then it’s cut off. Harpy doesn’t notice because she’s busy watching Nick, but I do. I fall off my chair.

“Sophie?” Harpy whirls around.

“Oh, crap,” Amanda says. She helps me up. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

“It’s fine,” I say. “I’m fine. I promise.”

xxxvi

When we all get up to go, I want to say, I’m not okay, it’s not fine.

“What?” asks Amanda. My mouth is hanging open.

“Nothing,” I say. “Just tired.”

xxxvii

Martienne shows up at my lunch table.

“Hi,” she says.

“Hi,” Amanda and I say at the same time.

“May I sit here?” she asks. Amanda nods.

The little table sighs and creaks as she sits down, but legs wobble no more than usual.

“I’m Enny,” she tells Amanda. “I’m in Sophie’s quartet.”

“You play an instrument?” Amanda asks.

“Yes,” I say. “Cello. Uh, Martienne--”

“Enny,” she says.

“Enny’s our first violinist.”

“So you’re good?” asks Amanda. Her lighter is dancing around under the table.

“Maybe,” says Enny, with a shrug.

“Neat,” says Amanda, but her voice is strange. “I’m, uh--I gotta go the art room, okay?”

“Okay,” Enny and I say in unison.

xxxviii

Diologuer: to converse.

Parler: to speak.

Discuter: to discuss.

Agacer: to irritate.

xxxix

“I hate my mom,” says Amanda.

“What?” Nick asks.

“I hate my mom. I hate her. I’ve never hated anyone else, but I hate her.”

“Hate is love with its back turned,” I say, and Amanda turns to look at me. She’s shaking.

“That’s not helping,” she says. Her voice cracks. “Don’t say shit like that.”

“I’m sorry,” I say.

“Why?” Drew asks.

“She’s dumping Bill, again. She cheated on him. She cheated on him! He’s the only one--” She shuts up for a second. “She took all of my college funds. Every single cent. I can’t, I can’t, I can’t go to college, now.”

“Loans,” says Alex. “That’s what I’m hoping for. Or scholarships. You’re smart.”

“Not smart enough,” says Amanda. “Never smart enough. Unless my dad decides to contribute, and I can tell you now, he won’t. He’s not into the family thing.”

“I’m sorry,” I say again.

“I know,” she says.

“I miss my mom,” I say, but the words fly away before I can get them to come out.