I exited scene, and no one pursued.

So I didn’t reenter. I avoided the studio any time Reid was in it. I avoided the studio any time Reid wasn’t in it.

Practice time became me, in my bedroom, playing complex pieces I stole from my dad’s high school lesson plans, with Madeline Park, my BBF (Best Band Friend). First chair, alto saxophone. We met at a summer woodwind intensive before fifth grade, when she introduced herself by asking if I had an extra reed and complimenting my Spider-Man T-shirt. Music came to her as easily as it came to Reid, but she was on my side.

“Can we call it?” Madeline asked three hours into our session. “My blisters have blisters.”

I shook my head. “I’m so close to nailing the final movement, Madi. This is serious.”

Madeline held out her hand. “So are my blisters!”

I winced. My hands weren’t doing so great either, but I wasn’t going to stop. School started in two weeks. Time was running out. “You don’t need to be practicing for me. I’m sorry.”

“I want to,” Madeline assured me, her deep brown eyes locking with mine. “You have to win. You’re the best clarinetist in the whole school, Natalie.”

“You haven’t heard Reid play,” I responded.

Madeline tied her shiny black hair back into a high ponytail. “I don’t need to. You’ve got this. We’ll practice every day until we fulfill our first chair destinies. Together.”

So after a brief finger stretch, Madeline and I Mozart-ed for another hour. After she left, I played for two more, until my blisters had blisters and I cried frustrated tears because I hadn’t nailed the movement yet. I loved Madeline and it meant the world that she would be so intense with me—but the person who could actually teach me was downstairs teaching the competition. After Reid left, Dad knocked on my door and entered in the middle of my weekly Clarinet Cry.

“It’s not supposed to be like this, Nat,” Dad said, wrapping his arms around me in what was supposed to be a comforting embrace while I cried into his Manchester United jersey. “It’s supposed to be fun.”

“This is the opposite of fun.”

“Don’t put so much pressure on a chair,” Dad suggested.

“I have to. Reid is already better than me,” I admitted into his shirt. “Why are you teaching him? He doesn’t even need the extra lessons!”

Dad pulled away so I could see his face, pinched together in a frown. “Where is this coming from? You’re the one who walked away from lessons.”

“Practice with the competition?” I shake my head. “No way.”

“Nat, it’s just a chair. First? Second? It doesn’t matter. I’m proud of you no matter what.”