The prank war was meant to distract Reid from HAVE A HE(ART).

But somewhere along the way, it became a distraction for me.

It is dramatic irony at its best. Because a petition all about how creating art doesn’t need to be a tense and stressful thing… became a tense and stressful thing. I believe in HAVE A HE(ART) with my whole heart… but I’m also terrified of another rejection.

So I pranked.

And I went too far. I mean, it’s supposed to be silly.

There aren’t supposed to be actual consequences.

Henry was right. I am still twelve.

I reach for Natalie vs. Reid at the end of my bed. Flip through the pages until I’m at rule nine: “If you make the other person sad, you must make them an epic ice cream sundae.” Followed by rule ten: “Pranks are funny, not mean!” For a millisecond, I wish we were still the kids in this book, writing down rules that would keep us safe.

Kids who pranked because maybe that was the only way they knew how to be friends.

The First Chair Wars

The First Chair Wars dominated the weeks before the start of seventh grade, triggered by an unfortunate rezoning initiative announced by our school district. If Reid hadn’t infiltrated my life enough, between family dinners and weekly clarinet lessons, we now attended the same middle school and no longer would we be the first chairs, plural.

There was no way I could be second chair to Reid.

But by the end of the summer, it looked like that was a real possibility.

“Natalie, you’re rushing,” Dad corrected me.

I exhaled a frustrated breath. Dad could fixate on performance technique for hours. The lesson today focused on tempo and breath control—and the piece was Robert W. Smith’s “The Tempest.” AKA the worst song in the history of the clarinet. To me, at least. Because eighteen measures of the clarinet part is the same note! An A, in the same staccato rhythm. One two and three four and one—over and over. It is brutal.

“How are you still ahead of the tempo?” Reid asked, annoyed that we couldn’t move on.

I shook my head. “I wasn’t. Not at first.”

Dad sighed. “Consistency is key, Natalie.”

“Can we play it one more time?” Reid asked.

“Again? Seriously? We’ve been playing the same freaking note for an hour!” I snapped.

Winded from the repetition and the competition, I had to take a breath and a break. In preparation for the First Chair Wars, weekly lessons became daily and there was only so much I could take of Reid, in my basement, nonstop sucking up to my dad for extra lessons and tips. Most of my mid-lesson exits resulted in my dad coming upstairs to refill his water and nudging me, gently, back toward the music. But that afternoon?