“It’s like a bedpost, but with a reed stuck into its side,” I explained, looking at the photo. Or maybe I was looking at it upside down. I flipped the phone over. Maybe that was how it worked.
Fabián took the phone, his nose near the screen to get a good look.
“Pass.” He handed it back to Ruth.
Ruth frowned. “It’s so big. How do you even hold it?”
I took my phone back and searched some more.
“Oh my god,” I said, chewing a Cheeto (I was only human, after all). “You don’t hold it. You sit on it.”
“WHAT?” Fabián said, snatching the phone back. It was true. There was a little leather belt attached to the bottom end of the bassoon, and you laid that belt across your chair, offsetting the weight so you held it sideways like a saxophone. The rest of the bassoon pointed upward, while the lower half’s weight rested on the belt. That you sat on. Ruth’s eyes went wide.
“I’ve never heard of an instrument you had to sit on to play,” she said.
“This is incredible,” Fabián said with a snicker. “I can’t believe it makes music. It looks like a rocket launcher.”
“What was Ms. Kaiser thinking?” I groaned out loud. “This is the least sexy instrument known to humankind.” Ruth didn’t say anything. Because I was right.
Fabián scrolled through the page, looking at more photos. Then he gasped.
“Oh my god!” he said, his voice sounding almost angry.
“What? What?” we asked.
“Do you know what you call a bassoon in German?” Fabián said, his voice uncharacteristically serious.
“Der bassoon?” I asked. I didn’t know. I didn’t speak German.
“‘Fagott,’” Fabián said, reading from the phone. We were quiet. I didn’t feel comfortable repeating that word.
Ruth handed me the entire bag of Cheetos. She must have felt really sorry for me. “Maybe you can quit band? It’s not too late to change electives, you know.”
“And to not subscribe to homophobia,” Fabián added.
I kicked a rock, sending it scuttling into the creek. Ruth’s advice made sense. It’s not like I was any good at band, anyway. Mom and Dad would be bummed I was quitting, but they’d understand. The mortification of being last-chair clarinet was way too much to bear.
But then again, band was the only class I had with Matty. How else was I supposed to get him to notice me?
I did not anticipate having to think this much on the first day of high school.
Maybe this was why they didn’t assign us homework.
■ ■ ■ MY ROOM 8:00 P.M.
After spending the entire afternoon stalking Matty’s social media accounts from Homecoming HQ (aka my room), I was confident I had picked the perfect target.
My research showed that, besides being super cute, he was:
On the honor roll
The owner of the most perfect pair of dimples ever witnessed by humankind
An example of green eyes that sparkled with every glance
A trumpet player
A Nice Person Who Wouldn’t Dump Someone at Orientation
His hobbies included:
Doodling on his Converse sneakers
Speaking fluent Spanish (he’s in Spanish 4, as a sophomore!)
Wearing tees with cool band names
Theater, GSA, Band, and Jazz Band
Making my heart gallop with a single glance
And I will make him ask me to Homecoming. Or I’ll ask him. I haven’t decided yet.
Wednesday WALK TO SCHOOL 7:15 A.M.
This morning on the creek path, Ruth and I did our special dance that we call the Wiggle. It’s used only in the direst of emergencies, like when you’re anxious or scared or you have to decide whether you’re going to play a homophobic musical instrument. To pull it off you have to act like you’ve gotten a shiver and your hands have lost control at the same time. The result = the Wiggle.
Wiggle-wiggle.
Wiggle.
WiiiiiGggllleeeEeee.
Ruth even made an accompanying noise. It sounded like a mouse going through the Hadron Collider. I know because when I asked her what it was, that was her explanation.
Fabián was already at school to sign up for his after-school clubs, but I wished he were here this morning to give me advice on what to do about the German bassoon fiasco. The two of us wiggled our way through the trees, past the kudzu vines and the little bridge that took us over the streambed. That’s when I heard a twig snap. I froze.
There, on the other side of the bank, was Teighan, and she looked horrified by our dance moves.
“What is it?” Ruth whispered. She still hadn’t seen Teighan. Aghast, I just motioned for us to keep walking until we burst into the back baseball field. Oh god, had Teighan witnessed our whole performance? I was pretty sure Quiet Women did not Wiggle. I had no doubt she’d tell Wesley about it over a glass of milk and a crustless sandwich, or whatever their stay-at-home moms made for them. My body buzzed, the mortification I hadn’t felt since orientation surging through me again.
I exhaled slowly, trying to shake it off. It was actually not sweltering today. Usually it was so swampy and humid here that summer lasted until October. But today was mild enough that I didn’t have to shave my arms and could wear a cardigan with my jeans and a blue tee. Instead of cool makeup, I had just thrown on mascara, eyeliner, tinted Chapstick, neutral foundation, neutral concealer, a skin-matching blush, and brown eyeshadow to keep it simple. Plus, my hair was in a slicked-back ponytail thanks to my straight hair from yesterday. I hadn’t realized how boring dressing “not loud” would be. I almost looked like one of Wesley’s church friends. I wished I could have worn bright blue eyeshadow with the tie-dyed skirt Ruth had made for me.
My phone chimed.
7:18 AM SARA MOHAMMADI: How are you feeling, ameh? Better, I hope?
7:18 AM PARVIN MOHAMMADI: Don’t worry, Ameh, I’ve got a plan to make sure no boy ever breaks my heart again!
7:20 AM SARA MOHAMMADI: Afarin, Parvin joonam! That’s what I like to hear. Who needs boys
