into the same pitch, we’re an ensemble now, and that feeling warms my heart.
I return to my spot as Shane counts us off, and we launch into “Applause” by Lady Gaga. I fade into the background with staccato notes, and Dani and I echo the melody briefly, but we’re just there to support the trumpets. Someone helps us keep beat with a snare drum practice pad.
Once we have all the notes under our fingers, we run through it again. We get into it, the call and response from sax to trumpet, from clarinets to me and Dani. I can’t help it; a smile is plastered on my face, making it a little harder to play properly, but I don’t care.
We end the song with a stinger—an accented note, where we all play as one. A major chord, a full resolution, and a powerful end. Of course, we’re not all exactly on the beat, plus one of the trumpets tried to play the note an octave higher and fully missed. But a rush of joy surrounds me when we’re done.
We have so many pieces left, but the energy is high. Is this what it’s always like at the academy? Blowing off steam after a long day of classes and work? A pang of jealousy hits me, until I remind myself that I have my own plan.
“You know, Shane’s got it all wrong,” Pierce says. He seems to have materialized next to me as we prepare the sheet music for the next piece. “He loves the hell out of you, but he worries too much about you.”
“Oh,” I say. “He’s … he’s seen me go through a lot, I guess.”
“He’s protective of his friends. I suppose it makes sense he’d think you’d need help fitting in, taking chances, enjoying life here. But I don’t know, Marty. I could hear you across the circle. I hear people perform constantly, and to see you sync in and play so freely, so fully into the music … I don’t know.”
He places a palm on my back as Shane counts us off. I launch into a trill alongside Dani. Before he brings the trumpet to his lips, I hear him say, “You’re truly something, mate.”
Our parts play off each other for a bit, before he wanders back to the trumpets. We lock eyes, for one last second, and then I’m pulled back into the music. A warmth comes over me, and it feels so good I want to cry.
I’ve been in dozens of ensembles, performed everywhere. But now I really feel like I’m part of a group.
TEN
I stand outside the Southey. Where the Alexandria looked more modern, the Southey is an unforgivingly British pub, and that’s the most accurate way of describing it. An aged brick building, stately and reticent with its dark shutters and planter boxes along the awning. A glance at the petunias inside the planters gets me caught up in an all-teeth smile, because the same purple flowers hang in pots outside my Kentucky house.
I grab Sophie’s arm, and wait for the other musicians to pass by. The others are nice and seem more welcoming than she lets on, but there’s something super down-to-earth about her personality that makes me trust her. Maybe even reminds me of Megan—an altogether kinder version of Megan, at least.
After the jam session, she introduced me to the rest of the woodwinds—except Rio—she told me where everyone was from, what they did, and I found it easier to chat with them because of it. They’re one big family, and I’m starting to feel like I fit in, even if I don’t go to school with them.
“Are you sure I’ll be able to get into the pub? I’m …” I lower my voice. “Seventeen.”
“You’re a hard case.” Sophie cackles, in a way that doesn’t make me angry. “Americans, I swear. Keep in mind the drinking age is eighteen here, and it’s not like we’re going to a club.”
She pulls—literally, she’s got my arm—me into the pub. The moment we push through the old wooden door, I feel oddly at ease. Hardwood floors that must date back a century creak under each step, but the word “cozy” doesn’t begin to describe it. Light music pumps through the main room. It’s getting late, but a few old men still sit at the bar, reading the paper or staring at the glowing TV screens.
“We usually take up the back room,” Sophie says. “I got this round.”
“But I can’t—”
“Trust me. No one’s going