The Price Tag

Lyra

Lyra twirled her ballpoint pen. The lecturer drilled on about lipids and amino acids, but her mind was already elsewhere. Wasn’t it strange, she thought, that despite Friday being the day she expected the most, it was the time restlessness had always managed to creep up on her. None of her classmates were as unfocused as she was, but then they probably needed the lecture more than she did. Lyra was three chapters ahead of her classmates, and her worries, at the moment, were minimal.

The bell rang, and Lyra sighed with relief. She was the first to leave the room, having packed her books exactly one minute before five p.m. Despite the arrival of September, the classroom was stuffier than what she preferred; she wasn’t going to spend one more second in this room than necessary. Stepping outside the Science Department, the cool breeze blew strands of hair into her face. 

“The goddess of fall must be so jealous,” her mother would ruffle her hair and say, “You have the loveliest red gold of autumn.” Lyra had liked her hair more after this, but sometimes she’d rather have warm brown hair like Brooklyn’s. Brooklyn had been her best friend since kindergarten, and she was never shy about her beautiful chocolate brown hair, Lyra couldn’t help but think. Brooke might’ve been quieter than her, but she had a sort of confidence that couldn’t be replicated by anyone else. 

What might Brooklyn have planned for tonight? Lyra quickened her pace toward the library, cheeks red with excitement. Usually, Brooke would play piano for both of them, and Lyra would sing — if she felt like it. What Lyra loved the most was watch Brooke play her violin while curling up on her couch, but Brooke didn’t play anymore. Now it was just the piano. Brooke never said why, but Lyra knew. Her best friend had been playing the violin even before they knew each other, and they were both four then. Lyra used to stare at Brooke’s fingers, gape at her precision and the smooth flow of notes, and feel a guilty twinge of jealousy — but mostly she admired Brooke more than anything.

Then something happened. Brooke’s precious violin, which she’d gotten for her twelfth birthday and been nicknamed Clara, had gone missing — the night before her entrance exams. Brooklyn had dreamed of going to the prestigious music college ever since she could read. She had a fine chance of passing, and she insisted that Clara didn’t go missing. It was stolen, but it was never found. 

Brooke, being her sunny self, recovered soon enough. She decided to join to the university Lyra applied for, and Lyra was secretly glad that Brooke would still be by her side.

Lyra arrived at the front steps of the library to find Brooke wasn’t there. She glanced at her wrist, but she was in time. 5:10. Where was she? Then she heard someone yelling her name. 

“Lyra! You’re early!” It was Brooklyn, her chocolate curls flying behind her.

“It’s more like you’re late,” Lyra laughed and rolled her eyes.

“Well, I thought you’d be, so I stayed behind to ask something,” she said apologetically.

“It’s alright. I wasn’t here for long anyway.” Lyra sighed as Brooke smiled with relief, and they walked side by side into the library.

Brooklyn

Brooke’s mind was preoccupied with thoughts when she stepped into the library with Lyra. She was discussing the designs of her recital program book with her art professor. Technically, it wasn’t her professor; he was the one in charge of the school magazine, but he had kindly offered to help. Being the chief editor of the school paper had some perks, after all.

 Lyra rambled on about her week. Brooke didn’t mind — it was only that they were in the library— she looked around to see if anyone was glaring at them. They weren’t, since not many people were here yet. She’d have to tell Lyra to shut up later. Brooke was never the talkative one: Lyra talked with words, and Brooke talked with her music. Although she suspected that Lyra had not properly listened to what she was saying for quite a while.

They plopped down at their usual corner. They’d never missed a single one in high school, and so far they hadn’t missed one at university either. Brooke worried about their streak, since Lyra was making so many friends in her department she seemed to have less and less time. And more and more forgetful. Theirs was a comfortable balance, nevertheless, and time always flew until one of them abruptly noticed it was half past six.

It was September, which meant Artemis rose earlier than in summertime. The chilly wind made Brooke wrap her scarf tighter around her, and she tried not to drop her phone — she was ordering pizza with one hand. It was always Brooke’s job to plan their Friday evenings since Lyra provided the place, but lately, Brooke had been exhausted to do so. Their evenings resolved to pizza at Lyra’s apartment and some occasional piano playing.

“Are you playing tonight?” Lyra cut her trail of thoughts.

“What?”

“Oh,” Lyra looked embarrassed. “I meant the piano—” 

“You wanna sing, then?” Brooke interrupted.

“Only if you play,” Lyra said cheerfully. Brooke nodded in reply.

They were both sprawled on the marble floor by the empty pizza boxes. Lyra was scrolling her phone, and Brooke was reading the book she was assigned. The music had ended, and so had the magic that briefly appeared that night. Lyra was obviously falling asleep when Brooke sat up.

“Do you want to go to my concert next Sunday?” She asked tentatively. If she was asleep, I’ll pretend I hadn’t asked, Brooke thought. But the fates weren’t with her that day. Lyra rolled over.

“You’re having a piano recital next Sunday?” Her eyes were wide. “I hadn’t known!”

“No,” Brooke looked away. “It’s a — violin recital.”

“When is it? I mean, what time is the recital?” 

“Sunday afternoon.” Brooke was surprised at Lyra’s lack of surprise. Didn’t she notice Brooke had stopped playing for nearly a year now? At least, in front of Lyra? She was shocked at the lack of reaction from her best friend.

“I’m sorry—” Lyra began, and she didn’t need to finish for Brooke to know the answer. She shouldn’t have gotten her hopes up.

“It’s fine,” Brooklyn waved a hand. She pushed her curls behind her ear and went back to her book.

Lyra

Brooklyn left rather coldly that night, now that she thought of it. Was it because she turned down her offer? But Lyra herself was irritated as well. Why, had Brooke not told her that she was still playing the violin? And why hadn’t she played for her again? Did she know…? The small voice at the back of her mind prodded her again. No, she couldn’t have. She left because she was tired. That was all.

On Wednesday morning, Lyra passed Brooke in the hallway. Lyra waved, but she only gave her an imperceptible nod. Lyra’s heart felt like a heavy rock, digging at her insides. She turned back to catch up with Brooke, not caring that the first period was about to start and she had class that day. 

“Brooke! Brooklyn!” She called, her backpack bumping against her. Brooklyn stopped, and Lyra stooped to catch her breath. Brooke shuffled her feet.

“I’m awfully sorry, Brooke,” Lyra panted. “Were you mad because I said no to your invitation?”

“I wanted you to come, but— no,” Brooke looked directly into her eyes, answering without hesitation. Lyra was relieved for a moment — but now they both didn’t know what to say.

“So have you decided to come?” Brooke’s eyes lit up hopefully. Lyra hesitated again.

“I told you, Brooke, I’m truly truly sorry. My department is having a meeting that day.” 

Brooke moved her gaze away. Her look was a faraway one. Lyra’s heart pounded. I can’t go, I’m sorry, Brooke — I know I should. I’m a coward. Why on earth do you have to hold a recital? I could’ve have forgotten all of this — now it’s painfully clear like it was yesterday. 

Brooke didn’t yell. She didn’t say anything at all. She just looked down and walked away.

Brooklyn would come through, like she always did for me, Lyra thought to herself, as she slowly traced her way back to the science building. It was so far away from the Literature and Arts department.

Brooklyn

Brooklyn decided to name her violin Clara the second she saw it. She’d had three violins adjusted to her height throughout the years she’d learned violin, but this, the full-sized one, was her absolute favorite. 

She had learned the both most difficult pieces and her favorite pieces with Clara, and Clara had helped her prepared for the entrance exams for her would-soon-be-major in university. Brooke had no doubt she would get in; she’d already been there for masterclasses, and the professors there secretly cheered her on when they knew she was applying. Everything was going on as she’d dreamed — and planned. Brooke had talent, but more of her skill was from practice. Lyra could prove that, for after all these years of practicing with her, she probably knew Clara nearly as well as Brooke did.

So Brooklyn screamed when she walked into her bedroom after dinner and found Clara’s place empty. Where was it? She searched her whole bedroom. Again, again, and again. After Clara’s absence was clear, she scoured her whole house. She was positive she’d carefully put her violin back after she’d practiced last night. Then she slid down the wall, sobbing and wanting to disappear forever. She couldn’t take those exams without her beloved Clara; not when she’d accompanied her for so long, not when she might’ve been stolen and forgotten like some random piece of wood.

Lyra was having dinner with them when that happened. She was the first to come and wrap her arms around Brooke, telling her it was fine, and they’d help her find Clara. So why did Lyra seem to not care about either her or the violin anymore? Lyra’s expression when she turned down her offer the second time was more like awkwardness than sincere disappointment. Brooke had never allowed herself to think of this, but she thought about it now. 

The summer before they went to university, Lyra’s parents were away on business (as always), so Brooke spent two weeks at her house. Lyra suggested they go out for some back-to-school shopping. 

“We’re gonna make the world dance; forget about the price tag — remember?” Lyra sang. Of course, that wasn’t what the song was about, but they’d loved the song so much as kids that they’d twisted the song to fit nearly any situation. The most frequent usage was to bug their parents into taking them shopping. 

All Brooke hoped then was for Lyra not to see her face fall. Brooke’s parents had decided to buy her a new violin — with almost all of their savings. Thus, unlike Lyra, who’d spent her whole life in a glamorous mansion, Brooke wasn’t too enthusiastic about spending money. Lyra hadn’t asked about anything violin-related since Clara disappeared, so Brooke hadn’t offered. It was altogether too painful to retell. She was relieved that Lyra didn’t seem to notice anything amiss and continued jumping around excitedly, but she was also annoyed. Why couldn’t Lyra see? Just like she wasn’t seeing now when she refused Brooke’s invitation. She’d thought Lyra cared more about her music than that. Apparently not.

Lyra

Friday came again. Lyra thought everything was crumbling apart — her dad called today and told her he would not be paying for her rent next month. Lyra, shocked and angered, told him she would not have a separate apartment if that was the case. It was certainly not the answer her dad had hoped for, but he said nothing in objection, so Lyra packed up and left without turning back to look at her apartment even once.

That was why she didn’t meet Brooke at the library this week. Instead, Lyra texted Brooke and asked her to come to her house (“the old one,” Lyra wrote) instead of the apartment. She’d just stuffed everything back into her old room and was halfway through tidying her closet. 

Lyra was hot and bothered, she hated her red hair in the reflection, and she dreaded seeing Brooke. They didn’t have even one proper conversation that week; Lyra didn’t know if Brooke was mad at her or simply too busy.

Brooklyn

Brooke texted “okay” and hopped on the subway straight after class. Apart from her slight disappointment in Lyra, she was feeling contented. Her essay went well that week, her violin concertos were going perfectly, and she felt as accomplished as she possibly could. A pile of golden leaves twirled in what seemed like a minuscule tornado as if they were dancing and spinning around. 

She pushed the doorbell outside Lyra’s yard. After half a minute, Lyra ran out, her red hair untied and tangled.

“What on earth have you been up to?” Brooke pulled a strand and teased. “Were you in a tornado?” 

“Maybe,” Lyra muttered. “Anyway, it’s good to see you,” she hugged Brooke, making her freeze in shock. Lyra hadn’t done that in such a long time. Brooke patted her friend’s back and stepped back. She really looked like a mess.

“Can I come in now?” Lyra grinned, and led Brooke inside. Out of habit, Brooke turned into the hallway to Lyra’s bedroom, but Lyra pulled her back. 

“I’ve already cooked spaghetti. We’re having dinner first, Brooke! Aren’t you hungry?” To be honest, Brooke wasn’t; but she wasn’t gonna tell Lyra that.

“My, I didn’t know you’re such a good cook,” Brooke exclaimed after they finished everything. “Maybe it’s because you never cook if you can avoid it.” Lyra rolled her eyes. 

“That was so not the case. Oh God —” she looked down. Brooke had to laugh when she saw the blotch of ketchup on Lyra’s shirt.

“That was one of my favorites!” She jumped up. Brooke pushed her back into her chair. 

“Don’t move, dummy, you’ll drip it all over the place!” Lyra protested, but Brooke was already up. “I’ll go get you something, and don’t you dare move,” she pointed a finger at Lyra, who looked gratefully at up her.

Brooke hadn’t been in Lyra’s room for only a month or two, but she almost didn’t recognize it. One suitcase lay open, full of makeup bottles, shoes, and textbooks; she supposed the other one standing open meant the clothes were already in the closet. She carefully avoided the mess on the floor and crossed the room to open the closet. 

What would Lyra like? Brooke fumbled around and decided on a green dress. This would have to do, she thought, not finding anything better. Typical of clumsy Lyra to spill ketchup on herself and not notice. Her clothes were scattered in piles, and Brooke didn’t want to disrupt whatever personal rule Lyra had regarding her closet.

Until she saw a white glossy thing behind a pile of dresses.

Without stopping to think, she reached out to grab it — it can’t be — it mustn’t be — can it be? 

“Clara?” Brooke choked.

Lyra

Brooke ran out of the house. Should I move? Maybe Brooke went out to get something? And she told me not to move— But after five minutes, Brooke didn’t come back. She didn’t return after ten minutes. Fifteen. Finally, Lyra stopped waiting. She had to find her phone and call Brooke. And find herself a clean shirt to wear on the way.

Lyra minded her dripping shirt and got to her room safely. When she opened the door and saw her suitcase kicked open in the corners, her makeup bottles rolling everywhere, she didn’t have to check her phone to realize what had happened.

It was her turn to slide down the wall and sob.

Brooklyn

There were about forty messages on Brooke’s phone. All of them came from Lyra. They were reasonable and sad and heart-wrenching, and Brooke read them all. But she couldn’t talk to Lyra, couldn’t talk to her, couldn’t bear even to look at her. Instead, she left her words. And music, if she ever showed up at her concert.

Lyra

Lyra did show up, only too late. She missed Brooke, wanted to talk to her, wanted to say sorry and beg for forgiveness. The words I only did it because I was afraid you would leave me were stuck in her throat every time she passed Brooke at school. She never turned toward Lyra, even if she saw her. Brooke didn’t see Lyra at the concert, tears streaming down her cheeks as she came in time to catch the last few notes of her encore. Even those notes were brilliant as always; Lyra was just too late to hear the full song, to recognize the tune.

The next Monday, her morning class was buzzing with excitement. The fresh edition of their school newspaper had arrived. When it was Lyra’s turn to read it, she flipped mindlessly, her mind on Brooke, until she stopped at the fiction section. It was in typed out, but she heard Brooke’s voice as clearly as if she’d been standing next to her. It was a story about the beginning and end of two best friends — it could be read by everyone — yet to Lyra, the words were meant for no one else.

…It was everything she'd wanted, and it was everything she'd lost. She tried to keep her friend by her side, but she should never have forgotten the price tag.

THE END.