Wild Cards. Джордж Р. Р. Мартин

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СКАЧАТЬ up. There was a smattering of applause, and then someone in the back of the house yelled, “Go back to New York, you freaks.” Michelle saw that the Plano Originals applauded at the catcall, but she did note that Kimmie hunched farther down in her seat, jammed her hands under her armpits, and looked as if she’d rather be anywhere else.

      “That’s enough of that,” Dr. Smith said, tartly. She frowned, yanked the bottom of her jacket down, and then glowered at the audience. “The Xavier Desmond High School Jazz Band got here the same as the rest of you did. Blind auditions.

      “And while we’re at it, there are some people who are protesting the Xavier Desmond High School’s participation. You are to ignore and not to accost them in any way. We are an inclusive organization with our sole measure of merit being music.”

      The Funkalicious Four started clapping, led by their drummer. The Modesto Melody Makers followed suit, and after them, the Lubbock High School Jazz Band. The chaperones for those bands were applauding as well. But there was only a mixed reaction from the rest of the bands. Some sat stone-faced. Others clapped but without enthusiasm. The Plano Originals glared at the Mob.

      Adesina said loudly as the applause was waning, “We’re just the Mob. It takes less time to say.”

      “Moving on,” Dr. Smith continued. “You all know our judges: Buddy Robins.” A lanky man with a shaved head and light brown skin stood. He wore a blue Henley top and black pants. His eyes were kind and he gave a wave to the kids. Adesina and the other bass players gave excited yelps. The bands applauded him warmly.

      “Pipe down,” Dr. Smith said. “Regina Carter, Mary Halvorson, and Wynton Marsalis.” The bands erupted with excited applause. There was whooping and excited clapping. Michelle knew from Adesina that the judges were heroes to the kids and even Michelle had heard of Wynton Marsalis. “There are a few announcements, then we’ll meet up at the mixer at seven and everyone can get acquainted.

      “As you all know, we have a special visitor at the mixer this evening—film star Haley Mok, Jade Blossom from season one of American Hero.” The Folsom drummer gave an excited squeak.

      “Sheesh, LoriAnne, fangirl much?” asked the boy sitting next to her.

      “C’mon, Howard,” LoriAnne replied. She hiccuped and then gave another excited squeak. “This is, uhm, kewl. Is that how you say it?”

      “Yes, but you’re not a gamer so you just sound weird,” he replied.

      LoriAnne slunk down in her seat.

      Dr. Smith continued, “She’s here to promote her new movie, Lord Jim, and one of you was lucky enough to win an evening with her.” She pursed her lips. “Cesar Chao, the judges chose your essay. You’re the winner! Stand up so everyone can give you a hand!”

      A short, raven-haired boy stood. His shoulders were hunched and there was a chagrined expression on his face. The rest of his band catcalled and clapped. But the chagrined expression didn’t stay. He looked around at his bandmates and glared. Their applause died and he sat down.

      “I can’t believe Jade Blossom is here,” Michelle hissed. “She’s awful.”

      “Shhhhh, Mom, please.” Adesina gave Michelle her very best you’re-embarrassing-the-hell-out-of-me look.

      “That’s all the announcements I have, ladies and gentlemen,” Dr. Smith said. “You’re free to go. And I’ll see you at the mixer at seven o’clock.”

       The Secret Life of Rubberband

       Part 2

      ROBIN FOUND HIMSELF AT a sprawling Tex-Mex place on the San Antonio River Walk, eating corn chips and drinking a margarita Jerry Jeff had ordered for him without asking if he wanted one. Robin told himself he would not have rather faced down the mob again. He would not have rather been stuck in Dr. Hastings’s lab again, being experimented upon. He told himself that as he scooped another tortilla chip in salsa, keeping one hand underneath as he brought the chip to his mouth, to save his khakis from red sauce.

      Jerry Jeff ate with a mannered disregard for manners, one elbow on the table, hat cocked back, jacket rhinestones glinting. “After the second album did so well, we figgered Grandpappy’s ranch started to feel a bit small, so we found a nice big place, you know, rolling grass range, this house like you would not believe. And Jim Anne took to it real well, and the kids, they just can’t get enough of the place.” His face got a dreamy look, and—were those tears in the corners of his eyes? “But now you’ve got me going on and on about my business, and you haven’t said word one ’bout yours! My money was always on you, you know, in the pool—there were big things coming your way, Mister Rubberband. Come on, you haven’t even touched your drink!”

      Robin clinked margaritas with him, and raised the glass to his lips, but tasted only the salt. Jerry Jeff was on his second already. “I’m working,” he said, “so I can’t drink too much. You know how it is.”

      “Aw, like them kids have never seen a body enjoy himself before?”

      “Not a teacher, I hope. At least, not on duty.”

      “Shit”—which was a two-syllable word the way Jerry Jeff said it—“they can take care of themselves.” He finished his glass and raised it, empty, to the waiter. “iUno más, por favor!” Back to Robin: “Come on, catch your old friend Jerry Jeff up on the gossip.”

      Robin looked down into his margarita.

      He’d kept the conversation away from himself on the walk over, and through Jerry Jeff’s first two drinks. It helped that Jerry Jeff welled with stories: he’d talk about anything and everything with a whitewater rapidity of gab. And Robin liked to listen, even though he already knew most of Jerry Jeff’s stories, or their outlines at least, from those square celebrity journalism ads that popped up at the bottom of articles he read on the Internet—not to mention the Google Alert he’d set up on his fellow contestants one night while depressed, and had never worked up the nerve to cancel.

      Whatever Robin had to say about the second season of American Hero—and he could say so much that most of the time he preferred to avoid saying anything at all—the show had been a great launchpad. Some people, like Jerry Jeff, knew show business well enough to use their brief spotlight to leapfrog into a stronger spotlight. For Robin, who spent so much of his life trying to avoid notice, the cameras and the sets and the significance bubbled inside him, and he glowed, drunk on fame, until the hangover. And when the drop hit, he made the good hard choice, and stepped away. He didn’t want album deals, and he didn’t want a manor house. He wanted to help people. He wanted his own path.

      He’d found it. And along the way he’d found a tiny basement apartment with mysterious stains on the walls, the rent on which he was half a month behind. And he’d found a public school teacher’s salary, a love life in need of love life support, students who rarely listened, and a bank account balance so low cartoon moths flew off his cracked laptop screen when he logged in.

      “I’m doing great,” he said. Meaning: Help. “My students СКАЧАТЬ