Chapter Five
A Piccolo Duet in the Third Octave
(The Tuner's Out of Batteries)

The buses floated away like lumbering boats on the foggy sea, until only the lights could penetrate the morning's darkness. Rachel ran to the parking lot, fumbled the keys, unlocked her dad's pick-up, and pulled down the rear view mirror. I'm a fucking wreck. The buses turned a corner and the lights disappeared, like a blanket covering a dream. She turned the ignition, and pulled out after them, leaping the speed bump and erupting out of the front gate.

She followed for as long as she could, fumbling the steering wheel, and trying to wipe the damn tears from her eyes. She saw the lights calling from a distance, and her foot sank on the accelerator. They crossed an intersection, as the traffic light turned yellow. She searched for the brake, and came to a stop, watching as the buses strolled away.

She turned around, through the gate, over the speed bump, skidded into the bus loop, leaped outta the truck, and wrestled with the school door, until it threw her on the floor. She took off her shoe, dropped her purse, hesitated, and aimed for the window. It took three throws before the shoe sailed into the building. She softened the edges with the other shoe, climbed through, ran to the band room, emptied her locker, grabbed her uniform, piled everything onto the truck's backseat, and pulled onto the highway.

It was only when she strolled passed a cop car, with a stolen pick up, a learner's permit, and shattered glass decorating her shoe, did she realize she was still crying. The road ahead melted with the horizon, rain coated the windshield, and tears blurred her vision. She pulled onto the emergency lane, dug for her piccolo, and drew it to her lips. She thought it faintly smelled of chocolate.

Rachel looked across the kitchen, over the plain table, past yesterday's dirty dishes, and through the window. The Fiesta Bowl was out there somewhere, but the rain clouded her view. "What the hell are you talking about?"

Her father shifted on the sofa, and rubbed his hands on his jeans. He couldn't look up anymore. "Honey, I'm sorry. I just…I can't. It's a fact of life."

"That's not what I'm talking about." She jerked her eyes away from the window. "What the hell am I supposed to do? You can't put this on me. You can't ask me to do this."

"Honey -"

"Choose? How can I choose? This is the opportunity of the lifetime. It's my last opportunity. I'm a senior, dad." Her fingers were twitching. "Don't you understand? It ends. Band ends."

"We're unable, honey. I just can't provide -"

She slammed her hand on the counter. She couldn't stop trembling. "Talk to the director. Let's figure something out. We can get help. Why are you so damn proud?"

"I can support my own family, Rachel." He raised his voice. "Damn it, I'm not going to take charity. You can get past this. It's an unnecessary expense. I thought I was being nice by letting one of you go, but you -"

"Being nice? You're being nice?" Her eyes glittered. "You're making me choose. You can't put that on my shoulders. You're just trying to escape your goddamn conscience. It's your decision. Take the guilt and, damn it, grow up."

"I've heard enough of this."

"No. You have no idea how much this means to me. Just because -"

"Does it mean more than food on our table?" He stood up from the sofa. "Does it mean more than hot water and electricity? Does it, Rachel? Do you really think that little of us? Is band more important than your family?"

She stormed off to her room. Her father followed. "You need to find your priorities," he continued. "Don't you walk away from me."

She reached her room and turned in the doorway, an ocean on her cheeks. "Is pride more important than your family?" she said. "Dad, you're the one who needs to find your priorities." She slammed the door.

The stapler fell on the desk, bringing Rachel back to the copy room. She looked at the drill in her hand, and remembered her purpose. "You okay?" someone said. She looked past the piles, over to the copy machine. Chris looked concerned.

"Yeah, it just slipped."

"You're crying." He walked over and pulled up a chair. "What's wrong?"

"It's nothing. Just forget about it." The copier spit the papers onto the floor. They fluttered to a stop. She fingered her shirt and wiped her tears.

"Are you sure?" he said. "You need anything?"

"I'm fine."

"How about a drink? I think it's time for a break."

The hallway seemed emptier than ever. Rachel walked slower and spoke softer than last time, but she couldn't stand still; her fingers constantly kneaded her shirt. The journey to the vending machine seemed to take twice as long. Rachel wiped at her cheek again.

"Hypothetical situation." she said. "If you had to choose between me and Cat, which one would you pick?" Even her footsteps seemed softer.

"What do you mean?"

"Which one would you want to be on the trip? Which one deserves it more?" She pawed at her cheeks. Her shirt was too wet to be of any use. "How the hell can someone decide something like that? I want to go. I want to go so much. But I can't. I can't live with the guilt."

"What guilt?"

She stopped and leaned against the wall. Her fingers rapped on the cold plaster. "The guilt of taking the trip away from Cat."

He leaned beside her. "What's going on?"

She sank to the floor. "We don't have money. Both of us can't go. Only one can. Only one…" She let her hands fall onto her knees. "And I have to decide."

"But there's help." he said. His eyes were itching. "There's plenty of support from the band parents. We can work this thing out. I'm sure both of you can make it."

"No, we can't. My father doesn't let us look for help. He doesn't want charity. He doesn't -"

"It's not charity. Rachel, we need you there. You're the section leader. I can't do this by myself. I need you there." He shifted, wiped his hands on the cold floor. Sweat mingled with dirt. "Come on, we'll talk to the director. Even if your father doesn't understand, we'll do it without him. Screw him. We'll get the money ourselves. We'll ask for help." He looked at her. She bent down her head, hiding her expression. She was glowing. "We can figure this out." he assured her. "Trust me."

She lifted her head. Beneath the tears was a small smile. "You're so naïve."

"But it's a plan. Agreed?"

Her head came to rest on his shoulder. Her last tears fell onto his shirt. "Agreed." She closed her eyes. "Thanks"

The next morning they went to the director's office together and explained the situation. They took their time, and Mr. Burns asked his questions. They both felt relieved when Mr. Burns said he would call and do his best to convince Rachel's father. The band parents had saved enough money to help Rachel and she could fundraise whatever remained. All that was left was her father's permission.

Mr. Burns called every week. After sectionals, both Chris and Rachel would stop by his office to hear the news. They would walk down the hall; see him through his window, talking actively on the telephone. Before they even had a chance to knock on the door, they received the news. It was always a simple headshake and a sympathetic smile. It was the same every week.

Rachel didn't seem to notice. She fundraised her share of the trip. She sold oranges. Chris had to help her carry them home. They had a wagon Rachel claimed was hers, bright red, big enough to sit two. They stuffed it to the brim with oranges, rushed home, and came back to fill another load. There was a slope between both of their houses. They would always lose oranges. One time the wagon tipped completely over, scattering oranges across the road. They spent a good thirty minutes cleaning up, chasing the run always down the slope, and apologizing to the cars tip toeing their way through the mess. It was nighttime by the time every orange was at Rachel's house, and both were exhausted. But they still had Chris' oranges to take home, too.

On their fourth trip from the school, the wagon already creaked under the weight, even though they had fewer oranges than before. They carried the last load, now it was only the leftovers. When they reached the slope, Rachel stopped at the top, and told him to hold the cart as she hopped in. She shifted the oranges around, making space for a rear passenger. She gave him a daring look.

"Oh no." He shook his head. "You're gonna get us killed."

"I'm gonna get us home before morning." She shook the wagon and it groaned, begging for mercy. "Don't worry, I'll protect you." She gave him a teasing smile.

He jumped in. The wagon screamed for help as it lurched over the crest of the slope. It started to pick up speed. Before they knew it, they were both screaming. Rachel held on to the wagon's tongue, trying to make some kind of make shift steering wheel. When she said she was going to test it out, he griped the edges of the wagon as best he could. Her first turn was too sharp; he swore the cart would tip over. He felt the wheels lift off the ground. They zigzagged on the road. Oranges flipped over the brim before she could straighten the wagon out again.

"Oops." she called over her shoulder. "I'm getting the hang of this thing now."

"God, I hope you don't have a driver's license." He cut off his laughter when remembered a small feature that decorated the road to his house. "Rachel, there's a speed bump!"

"You don't have to yell."

"Rachel, I'm telling you, hit the brakes -" The cart sped along, the world a blur around them.

"What brakes, Chris?" She yelled and let out a maniacal laugh. "What bra -" The bump shot them both into the air. He could see Rachel rising. The cart catapulted oranges above her. He flew completely over the bump, like a gymnast over a hurdle, through a sea of oranges, and landed hard on the concrete. Before he could react, Rachel's elbow fell on his stomach and her back pressed his hand to the pavement. The wagon had stopped. Only a splintered wheel made it over the speed bump. He couldn't help laughing as he watched it roll drunkenly away.

They carried the oranges back to the house on the limping wagon. They had lost a couple in the dark, along with the stamina to look for them. Rachel did look for the missing wheel though, but she couldn't find it. She stared sympathetically at the wagon in tow. "We broke her wagon," she said. "Cat's gonna be pissed."

The next day Chris entered Mr. Burns' office, asked him to put all the money from his oranges into Rachel's account, and to keep it a secret. Mr. Burns gave an understanding smile and agreed. The dead line for payment was coming up fast, but Rachel didn't seem worried. She kept up with her fundraising. Now, it was flags. She went door to door like a persistent salesman. But it was mostly unsuccessful. Oranges were a universal necessity. Flags on the other hand, weren't.

At lunch, Rachel managed to find Chris' table. When she propped her tray down, Cat gave an audible sniff. "So good of you to lower yourself and eat with us, your highness." she said. Rachel made no replay. She simply kept eating her food. Cat continued. "Where are your loyal subjects? Have you lost your leash?"

"Cat -" Chris eyed her. He had never seen her like this.

"Oh look." She eyed him back. "Lover boy comes to the rescue. Shall I repair my wagon so you two can elope and ride off into the sunset?" Rachel didn't move. Chris looked away. "You should know, Chris, she fills the holes in her life with her leadership." She twisted the last word like it was dirt in her mouth. "When she gets lonely, all she has to do is boss people around. And the worst of it is that people bend over backwards at her every breath."

Rachel looked up. Her eyes were shivering. "At least I don't fill the fills the holes by keeping others away," she said. Cat finally got a reaction and now she regretted it. She shrunk in her seat her shoulders dropping under the weight. Only the truth was that heavy.

"The holes you tore open, Rachel." She got up to leave, looking down at the table. She wanted to hide her face. She restrained from wiping her eyes. "The holes that only a sister can fill. But you can't fill them can you?" She left to lick her wounds.

The day before the payment deadline Chris and Rachel walked down the hall after sectionals. They walked towards Mr. Burns' office. Both were nervous. Rachel was terrified. When they looked through their usual spot at the office window, Mr. Burns was still on the telephone, and he was yelling at the receiver. They decided to take their usual walk to the vending machine.

"She has no idea, does she?" Chris said. "Cat, I mean."

"That's not her name. You know right?"

"Then what is it?" Rachel only smiled at the question

"Her name is whatever she wants it to be. If she wants to get away from me so bad, I shouldn't stop her. She doesn't even want to be associated with me. I don't blame her." Chris opened his mouth to speak, but she put a finger over his lips. "I don't want you to comfort me. You see, I'm a bad sister," she said. "And I'm paying my dues."

They walked back to the office. Mr. Burns was off the phone. A sour look was on his face. When he saw them at his window, he waved them in. They sat in his office like parents in a waiting room, searching the doctor's face for any sign of good news. Mr. Burns let out a sigh and ran his hands threw his hair. He didn't say a word. He just shook his head.

The next day the payment was due. Rachel showed up with a single envelope and walked into Mr. Burns' office. Chris caught a glimpse of the name on its face. It wasn't one he recognized. When she came out of the office, he rushed to ask her. All she said was "I'm paying my dues."