Honeycomb Read online

  Three

  A meatball churns around in my brother’s mouth as he talks. “Coach Tom says if I keep working my squeeze-and-score drills, I’ll be unstoppable.”

  “He said you’d be hard to catch, Eric,” Dad says, but he’s smiling. He and Eric are like twins, except thirty years apart.

  “Same thing.” Eric finally swallows.

  Mom shakes her head. “They are not the same thing.”

  “Whatever. They both mean I’m awesome.”

  The inspiring conversation of a sporting-goods store manager, an insurance agent and a preteen hockey nut.

  I twist spaghetti onto my fork, but I’m hardly hungry. Yesterday at this time I was doing vocal warm-ups with Jess and Harper. Now I don’t know if we’ll ever sing together again.

  All last night and this morning at her house, Jess never said a word about entering the contest. I couldn’t make myself ask her. I was too afraid her answer would be no. But Harper’s been texting—Yes from Jess yet?? Make her agree!!—and I haven’t texted back.

  “Are you trying to get your entire plate of spaghetti wrapped around that fork?” Mom holds her glass of wine and watches me, amused.

  “I could do that.” Eric stabs his fork into his spaghetti, twirling it.

  I let my fork clatter onto the plate. “Not everything’s a competition.”

  He shovels the fat forkful in and chews in my direction.

  “Ugh! Mom…” I expect her to tell Eric to be civilized, but she’s busy reading a text on her cell phone. Dad dishes up a second helping of spaghetti. Neither of them notices Eric. Or me.

  I feel empty, as if the music camp, the show, the after-party never happened. I have to convince Jess to do the contest.

  I push away from the table and head to the back door.

  Mom calls, “Natalie! You haven’t finished.”

  “I just remembered I left something at Jess’s place that I need for school tomorrow.” I yank on my boots and jacket. I leave my phone in the basket where we stash hats and gloves, so Mom—and Harper—can’t reach me.

  Outside, wet snow falls, making me shiver. Jess’s apartment is a short block away, but it’s long enough for the worries to pile up. What if she says no? If Jess won’t do the contest, Harper doesn’t need me. She’s so good, she could enter it solo. Or she could even make a duo with Gabe. A streetlight flickers out as I pass under it. I walk faster.

  * * *

  Jess sits cross-legged on her bed, cradling her guitar, sheet music spread out in front of her. She looks up when I come in but keeps fingerpicking a tune, like all she sees is the music in her head.

  “That’s nice. What is it?” I’m trying to ease my way toward what I have to ask.

  Jess plays a few more bars. “‘The Circle Game.’ It’s Joni Mitchell.” She looks at the music. “Her tuning is genius, but super hard to do.”

  “You’ll figure it out. You always do.” I pull the chair away from Jess’s desk. “Can I sit down?”

  “Sure.”

  Beside me on the desk are tidy stacks of Acoustic Guitar magazine and a little pottery bowl filled with guitar picks. I stir my finger around in it. The picks make a teeth-chattering sound. “Did I say something wrong last night? At the party?”

  “Wrong?” She glances at my finger in the bowl of picks.

  I put my hands in my lap. “Something to make you mad?”

  She says nothing.

  “When we were all on the verandah?” Sometimes, talking to Jess feels like hard work.

  She lays her guitar aside. “Oh. You mean when Harper declared that you and I could be backup singers in her quest for musical fame?” Her voice is cold.

  “What?” A sour feeling opens in my gut. “We’re not backup singers. That’s not what Harper said.”

  “It’s what she thinks.” Jess’s words come fast. “That dirty look she gave you at the show, when you were about to bow before she did? Lead-singer move.”

  So Jess saw it too. “Why didn’t you say anything about that last night?”

  “Not checking with us, not even looking at us, before announcing we’d enter the contest as a group? Lead-singer move.”

  “Harper just reacts fast. She’s enthusiastic.”

  “Do you know why she was so ‘fast’ to jump on the contest idea?” Jess leans forward, hands on her knees. “Because she knew about it before we did. I could see it on her face when Darrell told us. He probably told her about it before last night.”

  “So? Why is that such a big deal?”

  “Because she had it all planned out. Her way to get into the festival, with us making her sound good.” A crease appears between Jess’s dark eyebrows. “And you bounced right into her little plan. The two of you jumping up and down over a contest.”

  “I was excited.” My eyes sting with tears.

  She shakes her head. “It’s a music festival, not a Miss Teen pageant. I want to be a musician, not a contestant. What about you?”

  “I know I’m not a real musician like you. But I want to try.” My voice is shaky.

  Jess’s face softens. “Nat.”

  “After the show I thought maybe I could be a musician, someday, with practice. But I felt like that because of how we sang together. All three of us.” I wipe my eyes. “I thought you might have felt that too.”

  “I did. It was great on that stage.” Jess’s expression brightens but only for a second. “It’s everything else around it that I hate.”

  The phone rings in the kitchen. “That’s probably my mom,” I say. “I ran out on dinner. I thought I’d throw up if I heard one more word about Eric’s hockey.”

  “Did the little champion single-handedly win every game again?”

  “Do not make me talk about it.”

  We laugh. It’s a relief.

  Jess’s mom, Louise, knocks on the door. “Natalie, sweetie, your mom says it’s time to come home. School night.”

  “Okay.” As soon as Louise has left, I turn back to Jess. I can’t avoid the question any longer. “So you don’t want to be in the trio with Harper? We’re not entering the contest?”

  Jess looks at me and groans. But there’s a hint of a smile.

  I press on. “We probably won’t even win. Darrell said it’s a long shot, right? But entering would give us a chance to work with him more. He said that when you went inside, Jess. And you respect Darrell.” I pick up the sheet music. “We could do this as one of our contest-entry songs. You always appreciate a musical challenge.”

  “Oh, boy.” Jess raises her eyebrows, but her tone is jokey. “Did Harper write that speech for you?”

  “It’s not a speech. It’s just me talking. You and me. We can handle Harper. Let her think we’re backup singers. We know differently.”

  “She should know differently.”

  “She will. We’ll show her.”

  “If you keep singing how you did last night, we will.” Jess sounds calm again. More like herself.

  “So we can be a trio? We’re going to enter the contest?”

  Jess gives an exaggerated sigh. “I guess we better come up with a name for this group.”

  I let out a whoop and hug her. She doesn’t even seem to mind.

  Four

  It’s early Saturday morning at Darrell Bishop’s Music Land—DBML for short—one week after the showcase. Jess and I sit on the vinyl couch in Darrell’s office. The room is plastered with posters of everyone from Mozart to Lorde. Jess tunes her already-tuned guitar.

  Harper is late.

  “I’ve got a lesson to teach at nine thirty.” Darrell taps out a syncopated beat with a pencil on his Here Comes Treble coffee mug. “We won’t have much time if she doesn’t get here soon.”

  Jess says nothing, but her tuning is an “I told you so.”

  Harper was so excited last Sunday when I phoned to tell her Jess said yes that she practically pierced my eardrum. “I’m calling Darrell right now to set up our first session. This is going to be awesome!”r />
  So how can she be late?

  “Jess, why don’t we do ‘The Circle Game’ for Darrell?” I sound like an awkward talk-show host, but it’s better than Jess’s stubborn silence.

  Darrell stops his pencil solo. “You’re thinking of that for your contest entry?”

  “Maybe,” Jess says, sounding suddenly doubtful. “I can do chords instead of picking. If you think that would be simpler.”

  “No, that’s not the issue.” Darrell seems about to say something, then changes his mind. “Go ahead. Do you need to retune for the song?”

  Jess smiles. “No, I already practiced it first thing this morning. I was just making sure I was still tuned.”

  Once Jess decides to learn a song, she goes at it nonstop. To keep up, I’ve been singing along to videos of Joni Mitchell on my computer all week. Harper’s soprano voice is closer to Joni’s than mine is, so she should be the one singing the melody, but I’m not about to point that out right now.

  Jess tucks her hair behind her ear, curves over her guitar and plays the intro. Just as I’m about to sing, footsteps clatter down the hallway. Harper appears at the office-door window, waving briskly. She bursts in, bringing along the scent of cold spring air.

  “I am so sorry, you guys.” She slings a tote bag off her shoulder and onto Darrell’s desk and unwinds a long scarf from her neck. “I was Skyping with my parents and I lost track of time. By the way, they say hi, Darrell. They’re on the road, on tour. They played Nashville and—”

  Jess starts up on the guitar again, cutting Harper off. It flusters me, but Darrell doesn’t say anything, so on my cue I start singing.

  Harper listens for maybe ten seconds. “What are you doing?”

  Jess stops playing.

  “It’s ‘The Circle Game,’” I say.

  “I know that.” Harper sighs. “Everyone knows ‘The Circle Game.’”

  I didn’t.

  “Why are you singing it?”

  Darrell says, “They’re thinking of it for the contest entry.”

  “‘They’ are? ‘They’ didn’t tell me.” Harper perches on the arm of the couch. Jess shifts away.

  “It wasn’t a big plan or anything.” I glance from Harper to Darrell. “It’s just that Jess had been working on it. Then when you were late—”

  “Because if anyone had bothered to ask me,” Harper interrupts, “I would have said we shouldn’t do it.”

  Great. The song I used to convince Jess to join the trio is one Harper hates.

  “Interesting. Why not?” Darrell crosses his arms. “Beautiful, classic tune. Opportunities for good harmonies.”

  “A classic means six other groups will do it. And actually? It’s too girly. Too folk princess-y.”

  Darrell stays silent. I think he agrees with Harper.

  Beside me, Jess looks ready to spit. “Folk princess-y? You’re calling Joni Mitchell, one of the best musicians ever, male or female, girly?”

  “Not her. The song. Dragonflies, painted ponies, carousels.” Harper waves her hands, dismissive. “We don’t need to be so old school. So folk.”

  Jess thrusts her chin forward. “Isn’t the Tall Grass a folk festival?”

  “Not really,” Harper says. “Have you been to Tall Grass, Jess? Or any music festival?”

  “No.” Jess sounds calm, but her fingers tighten their grip on her guitar.

  Harper smirks. “I’ve been to every Tall Grass since I was born. Actually, since before I was born.”

  Darrell shifts impatiently in his chair. “I’ve got about five minutes.”

  “You guys,” I say.

  Harper plows ahead. “You think I’m exaggerating, Jess? My mom was pregnant with me when she and my dad performed there. Ever hear of the Desmond Neale Band?”

  Jess smiles. “Nope.”

  “Right. ’Cause you know so much about music.”

  “Harper!” It’s like the only way to keep the trio together is to keep Jess and Harper apart. “Jess worked hard on ‘The Circle Game.’ Can’t you give it a chance?”

  Harper shrugs. “Just because you worked hard on something doesn’t mean it’s the right thing to do. In music you don’t get A’s for effort.”

  “Do you get F’s for being late?” Jess strums a sour chord.

  “Right.” Darrell pushes up out of his chair. “I’ve kept quiet because I wanted to give the three of you a chance to show me how you can work together. Unfortunately, you have.”

  “Unfortunately?” My voice shakes. My pulse thrums a bass beat in my neck.

  “You have talent. I’d love to help you put together a solid CD to enter the Young Performers contest. But my time is always tight, so the time we do get together has to be productive. Or I won’t do it.”

  Darrell never sounded this stern during the whole of March break. It’s enough to silence Jess and Harper.

  But he hasn’t totally shut the door on us—yet.

  “How can we prove we’re worth working with?” I force myself to sound confident.

  Darrell takes a file folder off his desk. “I’d picked out some potential songs, hoping we’d go through them together today. Why don’t you take them and come back to me in a week with your choices.”

  Harper reaches past me to take the folder.

  “How many songs do we need for the CD?” I ask.

  “Two.” Darrell drains his coffee. “Do you think you can agree on two whole songs?”

  “Of course.” Harper forces a laugh.

  Jess puts her guitar back into its case and says nothing.

  “I hope so.” Darrell gestures toward his office door. “See you next week.”

  “Thanks, Darrell,” I say. “You won’t be disappointed.”

  I hope.

  Five

  Out on the street, I pull on my mitts. “Let’s find somewhere warm to look through those songs. Harper, you know the neighborhood. Where’s a good spot?”

  “Actually, I’m heading home,” Jess says, hitching her guitar case onto her shoulder. “Essay due for English.”

  Harper, in the middle of wrapping her scarf, drops her hands. “Stop walking out on us!”

  Jess faces her. “Stop telling me what to do!”

  I want to shake them both. “Didn’t you guys hear what Darrell said?”

  “You’re right.” Harper composes herself. “I’m sorry, Jess. ‘The Circle Game’ could be fine.”

  “It’s not about the song. I can do other songs.” Jess stands close to Harper, so Harper has to look up at her. “I’ve taken guitar since I was seven. I’ve been in choirs for nine years. I’ve studied a lot of music. So don’t treat me like some know-nothing.”

  Harper backs away. “Okay. Sheesh.”

  “I’m sure she didn’t mean you’re a know-nothing,” I say.

  Jess shoots me an “Oh, please!” look.

  I ignore it. “Where can we go, Harper?”

  She snaps her fingers. “Hang on.” She pulls her phone out of her bag and turns away, texting.

  Jess stares down at the sidewalk, her chin tucked into her coat collar. At least she’s not leaving. I say nothing, hoping that’ll keep her fastened to the spot.

  Harper turns back to us. “Come on. Grandma Barb to the rescue.”

  * * *

  Up in the slanted-ceiling attic of her house, Grandma Barb sets a tray of sandwiches and lemon water on an ottoman. “This room has strong musical karma. You’ll see.” She straightens up, tossing her braid over her shoulder. The room is a sunny yellow and has a keyboard and a wall-mounted rack of five guitars. A turntable sits on a shelf crammed with vinyl records.

  “Thanks,” Jess says. She and I are both tucked up in chairs facing the ottoman. Harper sits cross-legged on a sheepskin rug beside it.

  “We could use some good karma,” I add.

  Grandma Barb smiles. “Arguments happen all the time in bands. They’re part of the process. People argue because they care. You’ll get used to it.” She reaches down and gives Harp
er’s shoulder a squeeze before heading back downstairs.

  I can’t imagine getting used to arguments.

  “She is so cool, Harper,” Jess says. “First with the after-party and now letting us use her music room.”

  Harper looks up from the pile of sheet music Darrell gave us. “She is.”

  It’s the first thing they’ve agreed on today. The three of us eat in silence for a few minutes. Then Harper brushes crumbs from her lap and takes the sheet music across the room to sit at the keyboard. “Okay, lightning round. I’ll say the song, you guys say yes or no. Go with your gut instinct. No hard feelings.”

  “Sounds good to me,” Jess says, pulling her guitar out of its case.

  I give a thumbs-up, still swallowing some sandwich.

  Harper takes the top song off the pile. “‘Eight Days a Week.’ Hey, yeah. Lots of good harmonies in that.”

  I scrunch up my nose. “The Beatles. That’s practically the only band my dad likes. And he has zero interest in music.”

  “So that’s a no?” Jess tilts her head at me as she strums the song chords.

  I shrug, like it’s a food allergy I can’t help.

  Harper raises her eyebrows. “Interesting.” She tosses the Beatles onto the floor. “Next up. ‘Dreams.’ Fleetwood Mac.” She presses the music to her chest. “I love this song. So awesome.”

  “So old. So hippie,” Jess says.

  “Gee, tell us what you really think.” Harper’s face clouds over.

  “No hard feelings,” I remind them.

  Silence.

  Harper smiles and drops “Dreams” to the reject pile.

  I let out my breath.

  She pulls out the next song. “‘Scarborough Fair,’ by Simon and Garfunkel. Well, it’s not exactly by them.”

  “It’s not?” I remember listening to the song in a grade-five music class, Mrs. Duchamp holding up a faded album cover showing two geeky guys in turtlenecks.

  “It’s an old English ballad. Simon and Garfunkel just did their own arrangement of it.” Harper plays the first few bars.

  “It is super pretty,” I say.