Don't Vote for Me (11 page)

I sat outside the bathroom for what felt like forever, hugging my knees against my chest like a snot-nosed kindergartner. I'd been praying to the bell gods for the last couple of minutes, but second period was still going strong. I couldn't decide whether that was better or worse.

I got so tired of just sitting there, staring blankly at the carpet, that I actually tried to count the stains, but I lost track around two hundred. Luckily, the squeak of rusty door hinges jerked me out of my trance. Veronica took one look at me and muttered, “For the love of Beethoven,” then started to retreat into the bathroom.

But I hadn't been sitting out here for nothing. “Hey, wait!” I called after her as I lunged for the door.

Unfortunately, I didn't catch it before it closed on my fingers.

Now, some people might think your life flashed before your eyes when you were on the brink of death, but it wasn't your whole life. It was just the stupid things you'd done, the mistakes you'd made along the way. As I slumped onto the floor, my fingers still caught in the crack, the only thing that I could think about was how I'd betrayed Veronica.

She ripped the door open again, mangling my fingers one more time. “Oh, David, I'm so sorry!” She fell to her knees beside me. “I didn't think you'd—”

“Don't say it.” I cradled my hand against my chest. “I don't want anyone to think I was trying to sneak into the girls' bathroom. The last thing I need right now is a political scandal.”

Veronica pursed her lips. “Will you let me look at your fingers?”

Slowly, very slowly, I extended my right hand. My middle fingers felt like broken twigs, and the few bits of skin and meat that hadn't been ground to a pulp were already starting to swell.

I swayed woozily. “That would look really cool if those weren't
my
fingers,” I said.

“Come on,” Veronica replied, dragging me up by my armpits. “We've got to get you to the nurse's office.”

I let my arms go limp. “No, I want to stay right here.”

“David,” she replied, sounding dangerously like a mom, “we don't have any time to waste.”

“No,” I said again, wriggling out of her grip, “
we
don't need to do anything. We're not friends, remember? We're mortal enemies.”

My fingers throbbed with every heartbeat, but at the back of my mind, those words pulsed like a beacon:
We're not friends, we're not friends.
If we
were
friends, we wouldn't be here. I would have dropped out of the race (or I wouldn't have entered in the first place).

Veronica rolled her eyes. “Don't be ridiculous, David.”

“I'm not being ridiculous,” I said as blood dripped onto my jeans. It seemed like too much blood for a couple of measly fingers. “I wanted to quit, I really did, but that old Spencer wouldn't let me. He said I wasn't just running for myself anymore. He said I had to think about everyone who was depending on me. He said I had to beat you.”

It looked like she couldn't decide whether to smile or frown at this news. I wanted to ask her why—and why my fingers felt like sausages—but my mouth wouldn't form the words.

Veronica stuck her face in front of mine. Her eyes looked yellower than they usually did, but then, Veronica and I didn't usually see eye to eye. “David,” she said slowly, like she was talking to a dog (or a very small human being). “Have you ever broken a bone before?”

“I don't think so,” I replied as my head flopped to the side. “Radcliff's our bone-breaker.”

“Well, who said a family couldn't have more than one?” she asked as she unknotted her silk scarf and wadded it up in my hand. It felt like rain and smelled like watermelon. “Here, hold on to this. We need to keep pressure on the wound.”

“You know, you probably shouldn't do that. Haven't you noticed that I'm…bleeding! Oh my crap, I'm really bleeding. Did you know that I'm bleeding? I think someone might have shot me.” I scowled up at her. “Did
you
shoot me, Veronica?”

Instead of answering, she took her scarf back and stretched it tight, then paused. “I should probably warn you that this is going to hurt.”

That was the last thing she said before I finally blacked out.

* * *

When I opened my eyes, I could tell immediately that I wasn't in my bed, that it was hours past morning. My mattress was slightly more comfortable than whatever I was lying on, and my mouth already tasted like stale Lucky Charms.

I groaned and rolled over. The bed squeaked like an exam table from a doctor's office. When I popped an eye open, I realized that it
was
an exam table from a doctor's office. And when I tried to sit up, I put my weight on my right hand and almost blacked out again.

Someone touched my arm. “You should probably take it easy. That door stripped those fingers to the bone—and probably broke them, too.”

At the sound of
her
voice, the details came flooding back. I remembered Mr. Ashton, Mr. Lietz, the girls' bathroom, Veronica. I turned around, and there she was, as formidable as always in one of the office's plastic chairs.

Carefully, very carefully, I propped myself up. “I think you mean
you
broke them.” The closet-sized room, which smelled like cherry suckers, slanted dangerously to one side.

She caught me when I fell. “Didn't I say to take it easy?” Her hair tickled my cheek as she lowered me back down to the table. “Apparently, you faint easily.”

I eased my legs over the table and leaned back against the wall. Veronica hovered over me until she was sure that I was stable, then sat back down in her seat. It wasn't until I tried to rub my nose that I noticed the bandage.

“What's this?” I demanded, waving my right hand in her face.

Veronica lowered her gaze. “Nurse Schaefermeyer was afraid that your fingers might get infected, so she wrapped them up to keep them safe.”

I waved it around like a white flag. “What am I supposed to do with it?” I asked. Then the truth dawned on me. “How am I supposed to
play
?”

The blood drained from her cheeks. “Does it really hurt that bad?”

“Well, I don't know,” I said, scowling. “How bad do you think it would hurt to have the flesh stripped off your fingers?”

She didn't take the bait. “What about your other hand? You didn't hurt it, too, did you?”

“Sorry,
Ronny
,” I replied, “but I can only play with one.”

Her nostrils shriveled into slits. “You can call me lots of things,
Davy
, but I won't let you call me that.”

Guilt rumbled in my stomach like a bowl of Mom's goulash. “All right,” I said softly, but I'd crossed a line, and we both knew it. Under my breath, I added, “I'm sorry for calling you names.”

Veronica sighed. “And I'm sorry for smashing your fingers.”

We lapsed into an awkward silence, but for some reason, it wasn't as awkward as it probably should have been. Just outside the door, computers hummed, and voices chattered, but we just sat there listening, as still as a pair of stones. But it wasn't because we didn't know what to say to one another; it was because, for the first time, we didn't have to say anything.

When her foot started tapping, I immediately recognized the beat. “You're playing it, aren't you?”

Her foot went still. “What am I playing?”

I nodded at her feet. “You're playing the nocturne.”

She set them flat on the floor. “I don't see why that's important.”

I could have fired off a snappy comeback, but for some reason, I didn't want to. “Why do you get so defensive when anyone mentions the nocturne? I only told Mr. Lietz because I thought he'd want to hear it.”

She didn't scowl, just sighed. “And a part of me wants him to hear it. But the rest of me just…”

“
What
?”

Veronica looked down at her toes. “Come on,” she said. “You've met my parents. You know what they're like. If Dad found out that Mr. Lietz was going to be at the recital, he'd probably pop a string.” Under her breath, she added, “And Mom would just ask for his number.”

“So we won't tell them,” I replied. Though I'd never been an evil mastermind, I couldn't help but get excited as a plan unfolded in my head. “We won't even tell Mr. Ashton.”

“He already knows,” she said. “You spilled in front of him, remember?”

I batted that away. “But he's never heard you play it. It can be our little secret.”

She folded her arms across her waist. “I don't keep secrets with dorks.”

I nodded. “Fair enough. But do you keep secrets with friends?”

I snuck a peek around the curtain, careful to stay out of sight. The spotlight was already on, so I couldn't see the audience, but I knew they could see me. And the last thing I wanted to do was let someone catch a glimpse of me before I absolutely had to.

My new shoes chafed, and my collar threatened to choke me. I'd worn plenty of ties over the years, but until Mom had bought me this new suit (my first), I'd made do with clip-ons. I couldn't draw a normal breath, and I was sweating like a drum major on the Fourth of July. I'd probably smell like gym shorts for a week—and I was nowhere near as nervous as Veronica appeared to be.

She was sitting in a nearby chair, her back straight and her shoulders square. If I hadn't gotten to know her as well as I had in these last couple of weeks, I would have thought that she was calm, but her slightly bulging eyes betrayed her. She was as freaked out as I'd ever seen her.

“It's all right if you're scared,” I said, shoving my good hand into my pocket. “The truth is, I was terrified when I joined the race, but I think it's turned out all right. I mean, I'm only losing by, like, twenty points.”

She almost cracked a smile. “Not your best pep talk, David.”

“Sorry,” I said, blushing. “I guess I don't have much experience.”

She motioned toward the curtain. “Can you see where Mr. Lietz is sitting?”

He'd already stopped by to wish us luck, but we hadn't seen him since. I snuck another peek around the curtain, but the spotlight was too bright to make out more than dim outlines. I hoped Mr. Ashton hadn't stuck him too far back. The auditorium was just the lunchroom with the tables pushed out of the way and a curtain strung across the stage, so it had horrible acoustics.

Solemnly, I shook my head. “The spotlight's too bright,” I replied. “They must have just replaced the bulbs.”

She was too busy hyperventilating to appreciate my joke. “I shouldn't have let you talk me into this.”

I could take Veronica's indifference and even her disdain, but I didn't know what to do with her apparent lack of confidence. I wanted to run away (or maybe offer her my pocket square so she could blow her nose), but Mr. Ashton turned the corner before I could make up my mind.

“How are my rising stars?” he asked.

We were too busy gaping at his outfit to come up with a response. His tight-fitting tuxedo was the color of a robin's egg, but it was his red cummerbund that completely captured my attention. He looked like the Devil's disco ball.

Mr. Ashton rubbed his jaw. “I guess I'll take that as fantastic.”

I forced myself not to wince.

He motioned toward my bandaged hand. “Are you sure you'll be all right?”

I swallowed, hard. “Of course.”

Those two fingers had been broken, so we'd been telling everyone that I was mostly ambidextrous. Mr. Ashton hadn't questioned it, but I was pretty sure Mom and Dad hadn't believed me. Luckily, they hadn't pressed me for details. If I was willing to participate, they were willing to go along with it. That was one of the perks of being the youngest of six boys.

Mr. Ashton clapped. “Well, then, let the show begin!”

He vanished as quickly as he'd come, and I released a held-in breath. My bandaged hand was aching, and if he'd stayed another second, I might have accidentally grimaced and given myself away. But if I was fading fast, Veronica looked like she was already gone.

“Are you okay?” I whispered.

At least that snapped her out of it. “Yeah,” she said, “I am.”

I drew a shaky breath. Even though my hand was aching and I felt like pulling down the curtain and using it to take a nap, I was more worried about Veronica. “You know,” I said quietly, “we could just do ‘La Vie en rose.' Or you could, anyway. I wouldn't be able to keep up, but your part would still sound great. Mr. Lietz would under—”

“No.”

I bit my lip. “Okay.”

Her shoulders drooped. “I'm sorry. I meant that
I
can't do it. I can't let them keep winning.” One corner of her mouth curled up. “But I appreciate the offer.”

I dipped my head. “Of course.”

And that was how we settled it. But Mr. Ashton had positioned us at the end of the program (in “the sweet spot,” as he'd called it), so we were still in for a wait. I tried to relax while the others played their pieces, but it was hard not to pay attention to their off-key groans and shrieks. They sounded just like a bunch of twelve-year-olds fumbling their way through the masters, but the audience still clapped and cheered like they were the New York Philharmonic. If that was their reaction to an off-key “Für Elise,” they were going to go crazy when Veronica went on.

At some point during “The Stars and Stripes Forever,” I sat down on the dusty floor and leaned back against the wall. Mr. Ashton hadn't made us play with the other members of the band, so we had a few more minutes off. I tried to close my eyes, but I was too wound up to rest. When Mr. Ashton took the stage again, I was wide awake.

“And now, ladies and gentlemen, for the moment you've been waiting for! I would introduce my stars, but I'm sure that their rendition of Edith Piaf's ‘La Vie en rose' will introduce them for me.” He waved us onto the stage. “I give you David Grainger and Veronica Pritchard-Pratt!”

The curtain muffled the applause, but it still nearly knocked me flat. If that was what it sounded like from all the way back here, then how was it going to sound from the middle of the stage? I struggled to my feet and took a quick swipe at my pants. They seemed to have a flair for attracting dust and lint.

I followed Veronica onto the stage. Her mouth was set in a grim line, but her steps were sure and confident. She looked like a class president slowly marching to her death. How had I ever thought that she couldn't do the job?

By the time we reached our instruments, I'd gone back to sweating. Despite the three-week campaign, I still hadn't gotten used to having every eye on me.

I pulled my mouthpiece from my pocket—it didn't feel right in my left hand—and slowly shined it on my sleeve. The silence was so perfect that you could hear my mouthpiece shriek as I slid it into its slot. I winced despite myself, then raised my trumpet to my lips. When I nodded at Veronica, she nodded back at me, and a peaceful, perfect stillness spread through my arms and legs. At least I didn't have to be up here alone.

I tapped out four beats so we could find our rhythm, and then she filled the silence with “La Vie en rose.” I picked up on my line, just like I was supposed to, but we only stuck with Edith Piaf for another measure or two. After I bumbled through a fanfare that Veronica had come up with, she launched into a bridge to link “La Vie en rose” to the nocturne.

I hadn't heard her play it since that morning in the band room, but it was just as great as I remembered. It might have sounded happy if she'd played it faster, louder, but she played every note like she was pulling it up from her toes. Like it took everything she had to draw the music from her soul.

When she pushed through those thirty-second notes harder than she had before, I remembered I had a descant coming up. She'd thought I would look stupid if I just stood there breathing in the middle of the stage, so she'd dashed off this countermelody to give me something to do.

My fingers throbbed in time as I raised my trumpet to my lips, but adrenaline was coursing through me, so I barely registered the pain. And though my notes were flat and hollow compared to Veronica's round ones, they did provide a nice contrast to Frédéric Chopin's original. I'd always thought of music as a set of notes you had to play, but she clearly thought of music as a living, breathing thing—and she knew how to bring it to life.

While Veronica breezed through the rest, I took everything in. Dust motes swirled in the spotlight like fading specks of pixie dust, and anything seemed possible. I'd never believed in elves or fairies—I put my faith in the Justice League—but even I had to admit that this moment was magical. I really hoped her parents were out there somewhere, feeling the magic, too.

The nocturne should have been longer. It seemed like she'd just started when she reached the final chords. I blew my last fanfare, and then we both ended together. The notes hung in the air like hummingbirds, and for a moment, maybe more, everyone waited and wondered when those notes were going to scatter. But then the moment passed, and everyone jumped to their feet, clapping and catcalling and basically ignoring the rules that Mr. Ashton had provided on the back of the program.

I clapped and catcalled, too, but Veronica just sat there, stunned. I motioned for her to join me, but instead of basking in her applause, she hurried off the stage without even taking a bow.