Chapter One; MIRRORS~|SRORRIM

"This is the third time! Do it right!" My director snapped, narrowing his muddy brown eyes. But I don't even know HOW to do it! I didn't go through Symphonic like the others!

 "I-I can't." I said, slipping my pinky on top of the ring. Like a trumpet. That is very bad right now. I moved my pinky back.

"I picked you because I thought you could! Maybe I should get someone else!" The director shouted.

I don't know how! I wanted to scream. But I couldn't. My voice died in my throat. I looked down.

Please, someone, help me.

"Lay off her, Mr. Flamested. She didn't learn in like we did." I was surprised when first chair spoke up. Sam, I think, was his name.

Mr. Flamested narrowed his eyes again. "Then, because you learned, you wouldn't mind teaching her, now, would you, Mr. Bruce?" 

Sam nodded. "I will." The director gave him a glare that was met by the fire in Sam's brilliant green eyes. Challenge accepted, Sam's eyes said. You're on, Mr. Flamested's answered.

Their staring contest was interrupted by the bell, shrieking awful. Lunch time. Yay.

I wasn't hungry, so I got up and stepped toward Sam. "Thanks for sticking up for me." I said in a whisper.

 "No problem, Trumpet. I was there once, too." Sam smiled and ducked into the cubby room to pack away his instrument.

I gathered my things and went into a practice room.

I set up away from the window. I hate an audience when I'm practicing. I had just adjusted my stand when I heard the door open.

 Someone stepped inside and closed it. I saw a silver glint and rolled my eyes. "Come to bother me again, Brad?" I asked the trumpet player grouchily.

 Brad rolled his eyes. "No, I came to make a deal." He said, setting up beside me. "Shoot." I said, leaning back and letting my instrument rest on my lap. Sort of. The thing is the size of my chest.

 "You teach me, and I'll teach you." He pitched in a riddle-me-that tone that only a trumpet player could pull off. "Uhh, what?" I asked, confused. What in the world?

"Teach me," Brad said slowly," to play the French Horn. I will teach you to play trumpet." I thought for a second. "Is this a joke?" 

"No." 

"What about the cults?" I asked, almost whispering, as if I was afraid they were listening. I knew they were. They know everything. Everything. You just don't mess with them.

"They don't have to know." Brad said, grinning. "Then why not?" I said, slightly confident. Maybe Brad found a way. Maybe he could silence them.

Brad set some mouthpiece cleaner on his stand, took his mouthpiece out of his trumpet, and proceeded to clean it.

I loved the way his hands deftly shifted and polished. I snuck a glance up to his face, which was a mask of concentration. His cheeks would redden a little bit, and it is so cute. I mean, for a trumpet player.

I carefully set my French Horn on the ground, valves up, and removed my mouthpiece. "Why do you want to learn?" I asked. God, please don't let me say something stupid.

"Maybe because I need a change." He said nonchalantly, rubbing the inside of his mouthpiece with a cloth. "Catch." He tossed me the cleaner. I almost missed it, watching him. After blushing furiously and nearly missing it, I caught it. How fabulous. Smart, Trumpet. So smart. 

 "Why do you want to learn?" Brad asked. I sprayed some of the cleaner in my mouthpiece. Why do I want to learn? Is it because Brad is teaching me?

"It's my nick. I have something to live up to." I rubbed the inside and tossed his cleaner back. He caught it on reflex. Why did he have to play trumpet? Why did the cults have to form? Ugh! Stupid life. 

"Here, let's swap mouthpieces. We can teach each other to hold it and stuff." He offered me his mouthpiece. I swapped it for my own. It buzzed in my hands, I thought, anyway. Almost like it was charged from Brad's touch.

"Now, put it to your lips like this..." Brad guided my hand to my lips, gently positioning the mouthpiece. He brushed some hair out of my eye. Was that really bothering him, or was it something else? 

No, it wasn't anything. It was just bothering him. "Now blow." 

He instructed. I blew a good, steady airstream out of the mouthpiece. Brad nodded. "Buzz now." God, I'm lightheaded.

I buzzed like I would for a smooth horn tone. Soft, sweet, and calm. Brad shook his head. "Firmer. You're too...mellow." He said mellow like it was poison.

Frustrated, I blew my air faster, and Brad was satisfied. He had a trumpet player's smirk, the 'I-know-everything-and-I-don't-have-time-for-your-correction' smirk.

We switched, and I was positioning Brad's hand. I don't know how my hand stayed steady and my voice didn't crack down to a whisper.

I angled the mouthpiece down a little, like you would to play the French Horn. "Blow." I commanded, feeling kind of awkward for telling him to do something.

Brad blew a weak, pinched stream into the mouthpiece. I pursed my lips. Typical trumpet player. This is why I act like I hate him. But is it an act?

 "Relax, drop your jaw, and take a deep breath." Brad visibly relaxed, like, he deflated like a balloon or something, and blew a decent stream out. I nodded. "Try buzzing." Brad buzzed, high and pinched. I put my hands over my ears. So that is what a trumpet sounds like!

 "No, no. relax, Brad, it won't try to kiss you or anything." I might, but it won't, I added silently.

 Brad visibly relaxed again and buzzed weakly. "More air, Brad." His buzz was stronger, if not smoother. I loved feeling his name pass my lips. It felt so right, so perfect.

 We ping ponged back and forth until the bell. Brad nearly dropped my mouthpiece. Graceful. "Watch it, man!" I teased. Brad packed up, masterfully securing his trumpet and mouthpiece in the case. He stood up and looked me in the eye. I wanted to melt in his gaze.

"Thanks, Trumpet." He said, almost sincerely.

He knew the risk as well as I did. They might, quite literally, kill us.

 Yes, we were just seventh graders. But we were put in the eighth graders' world. And, of course, we knew about the cults in sixth grade. We all did. They were the catch, the wild card. They are the power here. It makes me sick. I shrugged off my feeling of unease and packed up.

 As I was going to put my horn up, I saw one of the French Horn Cult.

He was thin and dark. He wore a black hoodie, dark jeans, and a malicious grin. I couldn't see his eyes, but then he pulled off his hood. They were practically black.

Upon entering some kind of staring contest with him, I knew they knew, and I knew they weren't happy.