Busted Read Free Page B

which meant that Alyssa had achieved her objective of becoming the school’s best flutist. And it only took her five minutes.

    I probably would have kept my flute playing entirely private if I hadn’t found The Picture while I was rummaging through Mom and Dad’s closets the summer before tenth grade. It was just a photo on the cover of an ancient LP, but it changed everything: Herbie Mann, funky guy with a funky name, standing stark naked except for a flute draped provocatively across his shoulders. His album was called Push, Push , which seemed pretty suggestive too. Oh, and the LP occupied a primo spot in Mom’s most secret drawer, right on top of her copy of The Joy of Sex . True, the book was still wrapped in cellophane and hidden in a drawer—which didn’t seem like an auspicious sign for my parents’ sex lives—but the symbolism was obvious. Back in 1971, naked male flute players were sex symbols—the Justin Timberlakes of their day. Maybe Herbie Mann himself was Justin Timberlake’s inspiration. It was such a groundbreaking moment that I didn’t even feel particularly guilty about invading my parents’ privacy.
    I was certain this was a sign that things would be different in high school. Weren’t teachers always telling me that fashi on is cyclical, that if you wait a while everything becomes cool again? I’d be the Herbie Mann of Brookbank High—nothing but me, my flute, and a parade of hot girls.
    But two days later something happened to turn all that on its head: Abby and her parents moved in next door.
    I remember watching Abby lugging heavy furniture into the house while the movers sat around complimenting her parents on their fine tea. When she needed a break, Abby dragged out her double bass and began playing, right there in the middle of the yard. Passersby gawked at her, but she either didn’t notice or didn’t care. She was imperious, a force of nature, and I wondered what it would feel like to have that sort of courage, that self-belief.
    I opened my window a crack and started playing the flute, hoping she’d notice. Thirty seconds later there was thunderous banging at the front door. I rushed downstairs to open it and Abby stood before me, all bushy hair and serious, straight eyebrows.
    â€œFinding duets for this ensemble is going to be a real nightmare,” she announced, like she was warning me of rough seas ahead.
    â€œI’ll do an arrangement,” I blurted, momentarily forgetting to be cool.
    â€œIt’s a deal then.” She stretched out her hand. “I’m Abby, by the way.”
    â€œUm, K-Kevin,” I said smoothly.
    â€œGreat. Well, I’ll come back around dinnertime. Our place is a wreck right now. Oh, and I eat anything, so if you’ve got leftovers … ”
    She clomped back to the moving van and clambered inside. Moments later she staggered out, an impossibly large antique bureau clasped awkwardly between her arms. I ought to have offered to help, but I couldn’t. I just stood there, watching her, overcome by a mixture of amazement and envy.
    That was the beginning of Abby and me: the Inseparable Duo.
    She showed up that evening, just as she’d said she would. She ate Mom’s food like it was the finest she’d ever tasted, and the two of them chatted like long-lost best buddies. I began to wonder if I should just sneak off and leave them to it.
    After dinner, Abby carried her bass into the living room and we played through my arrangement of “Ob-La-Di, Ob-La-Da” by the Beatles, which I’d picked because it has a simple but prominent bassline; she played it like it was the easiest thing in the world, but her smile told me she was enjoying herself anyway. Next, I pulled out an arrangement of Van Morrison’s “Moondance,” with a significantly jazzier bassline and a flashier flute solo; it sounded surprisingly good, although I couldn’t help