“Alright,” said Mr. Rivira, our band director. “Let’s start at measure thirteen. Flutes and saxophones, play out! You’re the melody!” he was obviously in a rush to finish working on the piece, with only five minutes left of class. I looked over at Elli.
“You sure you’re alright?” I asked. She looked pale, and she hadn’t said a word all period. We usually couldn’t get her to shut up.
“I’m fine,” she said simply. She didn’t sound well either. Mr. Rivira counted off, and we started playing. Elli closed her eyes almost immediately after we started playing. She put her hands to her face, and groaned.
“Elli?” I asked nervously, putting my hand on her shoulder. Then her shoulders slumped, her head rolled back.
“Elli!” I shook her shoulder, and when she didn’t respond, I raised my hand frantically. Mr. Rivira looked at me, frustrated.
“Are you bleeding?” he asked.
“No, but-”
“Are you sick? Or dying?” he cut in aggravated.
“No! But—”
“Then what?”
” I think Elli might be!”