Free When Audrey Met Alice by Rebecca Behrens Page B

Wednesday I was excited to wear my new pair of yellow flats to school—shoes, I’ve found, are one of the few ways to express your style in a school with uniforms. I sat down to eat lunch in the cafeteria courtyard, hoping that someone might notice my supercute shoes and maybe that would lead to a conversation. Back in Minnesota, my friends and I were always borrowing each other’s clothes and showing off new purchases. But my shoes didn’t get any compliments, and I sat alone, eating my sandwich and doing homework.
    As I flipped through my history textbook a different classical music motif, this one by Bach, interrupted me. Bach means a special announcement. The PA crackled, “Attention, students. There will be no seventh period today. Instead, there will be an assembly in Friendship Hall. Please report there promptly after sixth period.” My sixth period was music history, the one class I shared with Quint. Collectively, the two hundred and seventy-five minutes I spent in that sunny corner room on the top floor of the Upper School building were the best of my week, hands-down, because I had Quint to talk to and I loved listening to music. The music teacher, Mr. Morgan, plays really eclectic stuff for us—everything from ancient chants to Herbie Hancock to Plácido Domingo to The Killers. When I shut my eyes and listen to music, I can be anywhere I want in the world. The day Mr. Morgan played The Beatles’ “Here Comes the Sun,” I was instantly transported back to the dusty sunroom at Kim’s house, dancing around with my best friend. We were obsessed with that song in sixth grade. Hearing anything Tchaikovsky makes me think about Harrison taking me to The Nutcracker ballet every December. Thankfully, Mr. Morgan never played any of the three songs that always blasted out of the speakers before one of my mom’s campaign events. After months of hearing them every single day, they became like nails on a chalkboard for me: Sheryl Crow’s “A Change Would Do You Good,” Fleetwood Mac’s “Don’t Stop,” and Bruce Springsteen’s “Born to Run.” Ugh . Ruined forever.
    Mr. Morgan wrapped the class up with Zuill Bailey playing a Bach cello piece. Perhaps he was building on the whole Bach-is-Friends’s-signal-for-special-announcements thing. I was still humming the theme when Quint sidled up to my desk. “Ready for the mysterious assembly, Rhodes?” I realized that he was tapping his pen on the side of my desk in time with my humming and shut up. Quint is always tapping and drumming on every available surface—all that practice has made him the top percussionist in the school band.
    “Yeah—is it going to be serious or something? They’ve never done a pop assembly since I’ve been here.”
    “Actually, the last one was to announce that you were coming here. Do you have any secret siblings who might be joining us?” he teased.
    “Nope, no skeletons like that in my family’s closet. Unfortunately for Madeline’s grandpa.” Quint rolled his eyes. He’s so not into politics, at least not the us-versus-them kind. I grabbed my backpack and gestured toward the door. “Shall we?” We headed out, trailed by Hendrix.
    We walked diagonally across the sunny commons, passing by a group of Lower School kids playing with a parachute on the grassy lawn. “There was one other surprise assembly last year,” Quint said as we scuffed through curled-up leaves.
    “Yeah? What for?”
    “The class trip. That assembly happened about this time of year too.” My heart sank. From the day I set foot on the Friends campus last winter, everyone was buzzing about the annual trip, which is to a different city each year. In May, the seventh grade went to Chicago. All spring I’d listened to my classmates debate signing up for the Cubs game over a day at the Shedd Aquarium, and then this fall I’d listened to them talk about how awesome the trip was on a freaking daily basis. I was the only student in my class who, for