When we’d landed in Mexico and gone to pick up our bags, everyone had grabbed their suitcases off the turnstile right away except for me. The bags kept going around in their loop, and mine kept not showing up. Dad went ahead with the others and told Drew to wait with me until my suitcase showed up.
For a while my brother and I talked about the usual stuff. Dumb TV shows. Basketball. How annoying Dad had been on the plane with the way he kept trying to read out important geographical facts about whatever we were flying over—The Gulf of Mexico didn’t even exist until the Late Triassic period! Did you know that, kids?
Then out of nowhere, Drew said, “Okay. Listen. I’ve got to tell you something.”
I looked away. I was certain this would be more of the same.
After I didn’t get into MHSA when I first auditioned at the end of eighth grade, everyone I knew—but Drew most of all—kept nagging me to audition again the following year. It would be my last chance, since MHSA didn’t let anyone in after ninth grade.
They had tons of different programs—acting, singing, dancing, visual art, instrumental music—but I’d auditioned for the music composition program. I brought my electric guitar and played them the best piece I’d ever written. Then I got a callback where I had to sight-read and play my piece on the piano, which was harder. Two weeks after that, a slim envelope appeared in the mailbox with a single sheet of paper inside. “Although you show significant promise, we are unable to admit you to the Maryland High School for the Arts at this time.” It might as well have said You’re a giant loser. Buh-bye.
“You’re amazing at guitar,” Drew kept saying when this year’s audition season was coming back around. “Why do you have to get in for composition? They have a regular music program. All you have to do is play them one of those Prince guitar solos you’re always practicing at home. Those judges will throw down their stupid scorecards and beg you to come to their big nerdy art school.”
I didn’t bother explaining that there weren’t judges or scorecards—just a single bored teacher with a simpering smile—or that the idea of getting into MHSA just to play an instrument made me want to cry. Anyone could play guitar. I’d been doing it since I was a kid, when I first picked up the choir director’s old acoustic while Mom and Dad were in one of their endless meetings at church.
I loved playing, sure—I loved it even more once I started taking actual lessons, and especially once I started picking out my own songs on it for the first time—but I didn’t want to get into my dream school for something that came so easily it was basically one step up from breathing.
I wanted to get in because I was special. I wanted to get in because I could do something, create something that no one else could. And I wanted to spend four years learning how to do it better.
Prince wrote a song every single day of his life. I’d only written a handful, but even my very best song wasn’t good enough to get me past the starting line.
There was no way I was going to put myself through that a second time.
So that’s what I thought Drew was going to talk about in the airport that afternoon. I thought he was going to berate me again for throwing away my greatest opportunity ever, blah blah blah.
I folded my arms and braced myself. Then he surprised me.
“This past semester wasn’t so good,” Drew said. “I didn’t let anybody see my grades, but listen—Sis, they were bad. Really bad.”
“What?” I’d known Drew had some problems with his first semester of college—he’d gotten a D in his required math class, which was weird because he’d always been good in school when he was younger—but he’d done okay in his other subjects. “How bad?”
“Academic probation bad.” Drew swallowed. “I’m going to have to take pretty much everything over again.”
“Everything? Are they holding you back?”
Drew shook his head. A new load of suitcases came across the belt, but my bag—purple with red flowers—was nowhere in sight. “It isn’t the same as high school. You don’t get ‘held back.’ But it’s the same idea.”
“Wow.” I was still struggling to get my head around the thought of Drew failing. My brother had always won at everything he’d tried. “Dad is going to freak.”
“You can’t tell him, okay? Promise you won’t tell him.” I’d never seen that look on Drew’s face before. Drew was usually a cheerful guy, always making other people laugh. But there was no trace of a smile on his lips now.
“Yeah, yeah, of course. So what are you going to do, take all the same classes when you go back again this year?”
“Maybe.” He tugged on his ear. “If I go back.”
It took me a second to understand what he’d said. When I got it, I whirled around to face him, the hunt for my suitcase forgotten. “If?”
“Calm down, Sis.” Drew held up his hands. “You don’t need to turn into a banshee on me.”
“Are you talking about dropping out of school?” He might as well have said he was considering Satanism. All Mom and Dad had been telling us since birth—probably even longer; they probably told us while we were still in utero—was how important our educations were.
“I don’t know.” Drew ran a hand over the back of his head, the way he did when he was anxious. Dad did that, too. “All I’m doing is considering my options.”
I stared at him, my jaw on the floor. How long had he been thinking this? I’d thought I knew everything about my brother. I thought his life was golden.
“Listen, for real,” he said. “Promise you won’t tell Dad.”
“Of course I won’t.” I was offended he’d even ask. Drew and I had been keeping each other’s secrets forever. “But tell me when you decide, okay? And if you need help in math, I can tutor you.”
Drew laughed and elbowed me. “I’m not getting tutored by my kid sister.”
“Whatever, I’m better at math than you. Even college math.”
“Yeah, okay, genius.” Drew scanned the belt again. “Also, Sis, I hate to say this, but I don’t think your suitcase is here.”
“Oh...crap.”
We went to the airline counter to tell them about my suitcase. Drew had to do most of the talking, since his Spanish was better than mine. Then Dad came back to check on us and we didn’t have another chance to talk about what Drew had said.
But I kept thinking about it. My brother—dropping out of college? Mom and Dad would never let him. They’d kill him.
“We’re priming the wall,” I told Drew now, since I couldn’t say any of that.
“Yeah, looks like it’s getting there.” Drew eyed our white patch, which still looked really uneven. “You’re Christa, right? From Rockville? I’m Drew, Aki’s brother.”
“Hi.” Christa stifled her giggles. She set her paintbrush back in the pan and tried to wipe
