The Sound of Music makes everything better, even the first day of school. In the quiet of morning, there's no mistaking the faint sound of a violin, my best friend, Zee, playing at this early hour. We're both going to school today, but not the same one, not anymore. Wash, Brush, Dress in my school uniform with the crisp collar, skirt pleats poppin', creased shirtsleeves sharp enough to cut you, like Mama taught me. I double-check my ponytail, every strand in place, grab my bookbag, my drumsticks, and ease into the kitchen. Devour the orange-cranberry scone Mama baked special for today. I slip into her room for a kiss, but don't wake her. Her UPS badge on the dresser, her head half beneath the pillow. Working night shift loading trucks means Mama sleeps most of the day, works most of the night, and we live in the quiet moments in between. Like Clockwork Zee waits for me in the hallway outside his apartment, across from my own. He's dressed in a burgundy polo, a gold-and-blue crest on his chest, khaki pants, new black loafers. The hallway reeks of fried eggs and onions, strong coffee and cologne. Zee has one leg kicked behind him on the wall, his violin case in his hand, his face as hard as stone. Zee closes his eyes, takes three long, deep breaths but still no words. He's usually not this quiet. You okay, Zee? We gabbed all summer about today, so I know he's as excited, and as nervous too, as I am. His eyes open when Papa Zee exits their apartment, door slamming behind him, shirt untucked, hat on backward. He's late to work today but still plants a kiss on our foreheads before ushering us to the elevator. He jabs the button so many times I'm afraid it might break. We're only on the twelfth floor, but the elevator always seems slowest when we're in a rush. One for the road? Papa Zee asks, winking. How do you make a bandstand? How? I ask. Zee leans forward, fully alert. You take away their chairs! Zee laughs out loud. A real laugh, a belly laugh. The mood lighter now, the elevator arrives. It's Been Zee and me forever, same walk to the same school, same classes, same teachers, until Papa Zee promised when the new Boston STEAM charter school with a focus on the arts opened in the neighborhood, Zee could audition. It's been six months since and I still don't feel prepared. You scared? I ask, falling in step with Zee. At least we still get to walk together most of the way, our schools only five blocks apart. Not scared. Can't believe it's literally happening. I'm already good, you know? Good is an understatement. Zee is a violin prodigy. I'm nowhere close, but I want to be better. Me too, Zee. Me too. Zander Elliot Ellis Jr. is Zee for short--never loud, or rough and tumble, hard or fast, or the clown of the class--just Zee. Because he's a junior, saying Zander means Daddy and son both turn with those same big eyes, broad nose, velvet-brown skin, with a smirk on their lips, a question in their eyes. We were born a month apart, but Zee was twice my size even as babies, but no match for my energy in the playpen where we cried . . . wrestled . . . cuddled . . . each other before we crawled . . . walked . . . talked. Zee is more than my best friend, he's like a brother. He's family. We're bookends. We are. I'm the A to his Z. The Order of Things in my life is simple: quiet and efficient, calm never commotion, just as Mama likes it. Like putting on socks before shoes, letting dough rise before baking, kissing Mama good night first thing in the morning. It's important. We keep our voices low, the television off, even our alarm clocks don't beep because we never set them. There's nothing except books and magazines to distract us when most people have a television going 24/7, reality shows or news, but Mama has no patience for either. I asked Mama once why we live the way we do. Warehouse work is noisier than you can imagine. And don't get me started about what it was like in the army. Silence is golden. It is music to my ears. A quiet home is a small sacrifice to keep Mama happy, but wanting to play the drums makes me a round peg in a square hole, always out of place. Excerpted from The Order of Things by Kaija Langley All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.
