Don't Blame the Music by Caroline B. Cooney

Author:Caroline B. Cooney [Cooney, Caroline B.]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
ISBN: 978-1-4804-5172-8
Publisher: Open Road Media
Published: 2013-09-27T15:53:00+00:00

Nine

ASHLEY HAD BEEN HOME nine days. We Halls were all roughly nine years older.

In carpool Emily said smugly, “I have a truly brilliant advertising campaign worked up. You got your game plan ready, Beethoven?”

Her voice was amused. She did not believe for one minute that I would be able to come up with a game plan. “Certainly. And call me Susan. I’m tired of Beethoven.”

“It suits you, though,” said Emily.

“It does not. Do I look like an overweight deaf musical genius?”

“Well …” said Emily, and we all laughed.

“However,” she continued, “I think you should know that Shepherd is a little worried.”

“About what?”

“The music section of the yearbook. It would be a shame to have anything ordinary amidst all the creativity that seems to be coming forth from all the other subeditors!”

“What makes you think it won’t come forth from me too?” I demanded. So the rest of the staff was talking behind my back! Shepherd had chosen me for the focus of her gossip. Saying to them, “I’m afraid Beethoven won’t know how to handle an assignment of such magnitude.” Saying, “For once I showed poor judgment, didn’t I?” And the rest of them agreeing: “Beethoven won’t produce. At least, nothing to rival what we’re producing.”

I gripped my books. Their hard ridges bit into my palms.

“But don’t worry,” said Emily. “Shepherd has some backup ideas in case you don’t have anything by Monday.”

“Faith,” said Swan to me, “don’t you love it? The way everyone in this town backs a person up.”

I made a face.

“I, Halsey Dexter,” he said, “I have faith in you, Susan.”

“Halsey?” repeated Emily incredulously. “Oh, no. Independence is catching. Beethoven has to be Susan and Swan has to be Halsey.”

“Are there any cliffs around here?” said Swan to me.

“I don’t know of any. Why?”

“I have this overpowering desire to throw Emily off of one.

“I know the very spot,” said Jeffrey gloatingly.

“Jeffrey, I thought you were on my team,” complained Emily.

“You backbite too much,” said Jeffrey. “Nobody is on your team.”

Emily sank back. We had finally hurt her. I thought it would feel good, but it didn’t. I really think being a nice person is a terrible burden. You can never enjoy revenge. You just feel guilty.

Sw—Halsey and I exchanged guilty looks. Jeffrey—was this proof of his not being a nice person?—continued to give driving instructions for how to get to the cliff he had in mind.

And there, striding toward the side entrance of the high school, his head ducked against a fierce wind, was Whit Moroso. Long legs in jeans with unlaced high-ankle sneakers, the usual two or three shirts, with a vest lined in fleece. The vest flapped in the wind. Whit was carrying one thin book. How could he do that, and still get the B average I got? I always carried ten fat books, and Whit managed to get through life on one thin one.

He was so handsome.

So dark and inexplicable and expressionless. Did he cultivate that blank look or had he had it

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