Don't Blame the Music by Caroline B. Cooney

obscenities on water towers. And Luce, who drums as if his drums are victims and his sticks the instruments of torture.
    I pushed the rest of my pastry toward Anthony. “Want this?” I said, and of course he did, and wolfed it down, and thanked me profusely. Shepherd frowned. I thought, I have to round up the Slippery Six? The Broken Ankles? Scary sick kids who straddle their guitars and amplifier wires as if they’re going all the way with them?
    Shepherd suddenly looked pleased with herself. It was not a good sign. She had something. “A yearbook, Susan,” said Shepherd carefully, “is hardly a newspaper, you know. What are we supposed to do with interviews after you get them? We are not a booking agency for amateur rock groups. We are not doing journalism here either. You need to keep in mind that we are putting together a yearbook, Susan.”
    Good point. What would I do with my interviews? Even supposing the Slippery Six didn’t laugh me out of the room—then what?
    â€œI think,” she said kindly, “that your sister’s return has had an adverse effect on you.”
    â€œIt hasn’t been too positive so far,” I agreed, and I too smiled. It wasn’t easy. Creamcakes. I’d like to cream Shepherd all right. “But we agreed on ten days, Shepherd, and you’re going to have to remember your commitment. I’ll have the game plan for you at the next general meeting of the yearbook staff.”
    I smiled into her eyes. She had no retort. Crunched at her own game.
    Anthony said how wonderfully it was all working out.
    Anthony squeezed my hand to show me how much he liked it when things worked out.
    I don’t know which impressed me more—the depths of my crush—or the depths of Shepherd’s jealousy.

Six
    W HEN I FINALLY ARRIVED home, my mother was indeed at the kitchen table sipping her herbal tea, but my father, next to her, had opted for Jack Daniels. No sign of Ash. No indication that dinner preparation was underway. Perhaps we were going out to dinner to celebrate Ashley’s return. Perhaps Ash had already vanished, as quickly as she had come.
    â€œSo how was your day?” I said.
    My parents looked at me. Older daughter insane. Younger daughter thick as a brick. “That good, huh?” I said. “What happened?”
    â€œWhat didn’t happen,” said my father. “Your mother had a doctor’s appointment this morning, but Ashley wanted the car.” His voice was very grim. “I refused to give Ash the keys, so she took a kitchen knife and went out and sliced through the fan belt.”
    I gaped at them. What kind of message was that? Get out of my way, folks, or I’ll cut you, too? I shivered. “Really and truly?” I said. “You’re not making that up?”
    â€œNo, we’re not.”
    My mother took another sip of tea. My father tilted his glass and glanced down into it.
    â€œWhat did you do to Ashley?” I said.
    â€œNothing.”
    â€œNothing?” I stared at them. They seemed so calm. “How can you just sit there?” I demanded. “Ashley couldn’t get the car keys so she starts destroying the car? And you didn’t do anything?”
    â€œI drove your mother to the doctor’s in my truck,” said my father.
    â€œYou don’t think it was serious? Her doing that?” I cried. It made my skin crawl. I imagined that fragile wrist, flicking sharply under the shadow of the hood, eyes glittering as she—
    I shuddered violently. “You can’t let her behave like that.”
    â€œWhat are we going to do?” said my father. “Spank her? Tell her she can’t have dessert?”
    I thought about it. Eventually I said, “Why were you going to the doctor, Mom? Are you all right?”
    My mother brushed it off. “Just another infection,” she said. She’s always getting bladder infections and she won’t