Wild Reckless (Harper Boys #1)(5)

“You know it! Let me just…make an appearance,” he says, pounding his knuckles with the first guy to speak. The group of four guys passes me, and the demon never glances my way again. Once they’re a few steps away from entering the main hall doors, I hear them erupt in laughter, drawing my eyes to them again, expecting them to all be looking at me—teasing the new girl.

But they’re not. They disappear behind the doors seconds later, and finally the band room door opens and I slip inside.

“Oh my god, how long have you been waiting out here? I’m so sorry; we never hear the door in the morning. It’s too loud in here,” says a girl with reddish blond hair piled into a bun on top of her head. She’s wearing tight black jeans and a black hoodie, and her gloves are missing their fingers. She almost looks tough, except her face is dotted with freckles and her breath smells like strawberry from the giant wad of gum she’s popping through her smile.

“Not long. It’s okay,” I lie. I was out there knocking for a solid five minutes, but this girl seems nice.

“Oh, good. Here, come on in. I’ll introduce you to Mr. Brody,” she says, waving me forward. I drop my backpack next to the others that are piled by the door. The room is full of noise—saxophones, trombones, flutes—everyone tuning.

“I’m Willow, by the way,” she says, reaching out her hand. I shake it and notice how cold her fingertips feel compared to the knitted part of her hand still covered by a glove.

“Nice to meet you. I’m Kensington,” I start, but pause, struck instantly by the realization that as much as I don’t want to be here, it is a new beginning. And new beginnings do have their perks. “But people call me Kensi.”

“Kensi…cool! I like that!” she says, her enthusiasm maybe a little obnoxious. I like her anyway.

“Mr. Brody, I found Kenny,” she says, already blowing my new identity, as I trail behind her into a small office to the side of the main band room. A small man stands at my introduction. He’s maybe four or five inches shorter than I am, and his glasses are propped on top of his head, which barely has any hair. He’s eating a donut, so he finds a tissue on his desk and rests the half-eaten treat on it before dusting his hands for crumbs along his gray pants.

“Kensington Worth, yes. Glad you found the room!” he says, his glasses falling right into place on his nose.

“People call her Kenny,” Willow interjects for me. She’s assertive, oddly so. I like her a little more, and I’m starting to hope she’ll be my friend. I could use a dash of assertive.

“Actually, it’s Kensi,” I correct.

“Ohhhh, yeah. Sorry, Kensi,” Willow says, her face embarrassed at her slip.

“Well, all-righty then. Kensi it is,” Mr. Brody says, popping the full other half of his donut in his mouth as he ushers us back into the main room. “So, Kensi…what’s your instrument?”

I’m puzzled by his question. This should have been settled. I play the piano. My dad made sure everyone in this entire school system knew I played the piano. And he made sure everyone knew they were to accommodate my need to play, whenever he demanded.

“Piano?” It comes out unsure.

“Right, right. I know that. I mean for band, for marching. You can’t really march with a piano.” I heard him, but inside I was hoping maybe there was a way I could rewind—reverse myself right back outside the door, back home, back through my boxes, and back to the city.

Marching.

What the hell was I going to do?

“I…I don’t know. I don’t really play anything else. And I don’t…march,” I say, looking around the room as the hundred or so students begin to file into chairs based on the instruments they play. Yeah…there are no piano groups here.

“No problem. We’ll make you a pit player,” he says, shrugging his head to the left for me to follow him.

“Pit…player?” I ask, but I start to understand the closer we get to the percussion instruments. “Here’s a pair of mallets. You’ll find your way around the xylophone in no time. You sight read?”

“I do, but…” I start to protest, suddenly aware that he’s walking away and mallets are now in my hands.

The xylophone is essentially a piano. The keys are all the same, only you strike them with sticks. I used to love playing on them at my father’s office when I was young. But I haven’t played one in years.

“Hey, I’m Jess,” says one of the guys standing near me. I shake his hand and repeat his name in my head over and over again. Jess, Jess, Jess. Willow, Willow, Willow. I know two people here now.

“Hi, I’m Kensi. I guess I’m playing xylophone,” I say through a nervous smile.

“Yeah, looks like it,” he says, bending over and pulling a harness for a snare drum over his head. “Welcome to the drum line.”

“You about ready, babe?” Willow says over my shoulder, causing me to turn and pinch my brow, wondering how I got moved to babe so quickly. My question is answered when she brushes by me and pulls Jess’s face toward hers and kisses him quickly.

“Sure. Let’s get this pep-rally shit over with,” Jess says, spinning one of his drumsticks over his head, his eyebrows raised, feigning enthusiasm.

“Pep…rally?” I say, just as Mr. Brody drops a flipbook of music on top of the xylophone. My xylophone now, so it would seem.