The Story of Owen by E. K. Johnston Page B

it fit on my lap, and the way the bell glinted, catching the light as I spun it end over end to empty the spit valve.
    I had just mastered the C Major scale when Owen arrived in the practice room. He had his algebra textbook with him, ostensibly to finish his homework, but I knew that he was far more likely to just sit there and listen to me fumble my way through. I wouldn’t have let anyone else sit there and listen, but I thought that since I got to watch him learn to use a sword and do all sort of ridiculous drills with it, letting him listen to me butcher “The Old Gray Mare” over and over again was probably fair enough.
    â€œWhat is that?” he said when I stopped to catch my breath.
    â€œIt was ‘Frère Jacques,’” I told him. “I didn’t think it was all that bad.”
    â€œNo, I recognized the song,” he said, smiling. “I meant what instrument is that.”
    â€œFrench horn,” I said. “From Germany, of course.”
    â€œSo why is it called the French horn?” he asked.
    â€œI have no idea,” I told him. “I think professionals just call it the horn, but I like the ‘ench.’”
    â€œIt looks complicated,” he said.
    â€œI think it is,” I told him. “Or it will be, if I ever get good at it.”
    â€œWhy all the brass lately?” he asked. Apparently he’d been listening while I talked, because he was getting the family names of all the instruments right now. “I thought you were trying to focus.”
    That was the other reason I’d avoided taking the brass instruments home for practicing. Mum and Dad still hadn’t given up on my going to university and getting a degree in theory and composition. If I started bringing home a bunch of different brass instruments, that might lead to discussions I wasn’t really ready to have yet.
    â€œI’m supposed to tell stories,” I said. “And I need brass to do that.”
    â€œThat makes sense.” From anyone else, that would have been patronizing, but since the stories I was going to tell were about Owen, I thought he might appreciate not being left to the mercy of a woodwind narrative.
    â€œIt takes a village,” I said, and he smiled.
    â€œSo long as you don’t expect me to sing,” he said.
    â€œNo fear of that,” I told him and went back to torturing the horn.

GIRL TALK
    When the phone rang that night, I didn’t pick it up. I had a long and storied tradition of not picking up the phone, or at least I would if anyone ever told stories about me, but had I known of the events that would transpire because of the phone call, I might have answered it. I think it makes for a more active beginning.
    â€œSiobhan!” Dad called up the stairs. “The phone’s for you!”
    The phone was almost never for me. That’s mostly why I so rarely picked it up. I did have a phone in my room, a birthday gift from my grandmother when I turned thirteen because, as she said, now that I was a teenager I might need some privacy. It was enormous and pink and it didn’t get a lot of use, but I had to admit it was easier than walking downstairs. Of my for-emergencies-only cell phone, which I had inherited from my mother shortly after getting the car, and which had only spotty reception at best thanks to our living in the middle of nowhere, little can be said.
    â€œGot it,” I said, after I’d picked up. “Hello?”
    â€œHi, Siobhan,” said a bright voice. “It’s Sadie.”
    â€œHello,” I said again. Then I felt stupid so I added: “How are you?”
    â€œGreat, great, thanks,” she said. “Anyway, a bunch of us are going to the Taggerts’ on Saturday night for a party. Do you want to come with?”
    â€œPardon?” I said, entirely surprised.
    Sadie did me the courtesy of repeating the question in exactly the same tone, without dumbing it down