Chatterbox: Inkwell

So I'm writing something that will hopefully become a novel. I'm not that far in and hadn't planned to post any of it on here, but I suddenly hate everything about it and need other people's opinions.

It's tentatively titled, "Chase The Day," and is about, like, these kids at an orchestra camp but there's ghosts. (It sounded better in my head, I swear.) Basically, after blowing a recital and being humiliated, the protagonist makes a deal with a malicious spirit who says he can help him achieve his goals. 

Later on, it actually gets very... macabre, but the beginning is all fluffy and lighthearted, which is one of the things I worry about.

Anyway, I'm rambling. Here's a bit of the 1st chapter. Hopefully the formatting isn't too weird.

—— 

Through the tiny speaker of Noah’s phone, his mother’s heavily accented voice came through warped and metallic, crackling with static due to the dorm’s lousy connection. She had been chattering aimlessly for going on twenty minutes now, mostly about the knitting club and the next door neighbor’s torrid affair with the mailman, Noah listlessly interjecting noncommittal sounds of agreement in what he hoped were appropriate places. To be frank, she could have mentioned that she was planning to rob a bank that evening, and he probably would have said, “Sounds nice, mamá.”

Just as Noah was concocting yet another elaborate excuse to hang up (it was a particularly good one— elephants were involved), he was jolted out of his stupor by the distant sound of a door swinging open, then slamming shut, and his mother’s subsequent exclamation.

“Ah, your father’s home!” she chirped, her footsteps sounding muffled in the background. Noah could picture her scurrying from the kitchen to the foyer, floral skirt swishing around her ankles. “I’ll put him on, I’m sure he’d love to talk to you!”

“Look at the time,” Noah said weakly, “I have orchestra, like, right now.” He had at least fifteen minutes before he even had to consider leaving. “I have to go. I’ll talk to him later—“

“Matías!” His mother shouted. “Noah’s on the phone!”

Noah glanced over at Valerie from where she was rifling through his dresser drawer and mouthed, “Help me.” She shrugged, as if to say, “You’re on your own, buddy,” and went back to invading his privacy. She lifted out a neatly folded shirt and squinted at it for a moment before making a small noise of discontent and tossing it onto the floor, where it joined half the contents of his wardrobe in a rumpled pile.

He pulled the phone away from his ear, covering the speaker with one hand. “What are you doing?” he hissed at her.

“I can’t believe you’d consider wearing this in public,” she said by way of an answer, waving a navy blue romper in his direction. It was patterned with small white sailboats.

“They’re very trendy,” he said defensively.

“A trendy crime against fashion.”

Sticking out his tongue at her, he tuned back in to the phone call just in time for his father’s voice to explode in his ear.

“Noah!” he boomed, far louder than necessary. “How are you?”

His accent was much less prominent than Noah’s mother’s, concealed by a carefully affected American tone. It only dropped when he was angry, and Noah remembered more than one occasion of carefully inching out of a room while his father paced in agitated circles, ranting in a jumbled combination of Spanish and English, arms waving wildly.

“Good,” Noah said.

“Excellent, excellent. Working hard, I assume?”

“Yes, sir.”

“How are your classes so far?”

“Fine. Orchestra’s fun.”

“It’s disappointing that you didn’t get first chair, since it’s your last year and all, isn’t it?Quite unfair if you ask me. I’m sure you’re better than that Sawyer boy.”

Noah swallowed. “Levi’s really good, dad.”

“Oh, I’m sure he is,” he said, placating. “He had better be to get the best of you, yeah?” He laughed, loud and jovial, and Noah forced out a chuckle. His throat felt tight.

“He was a finalist in the Grumiaux Competition when he was fourteen.”

The entire camp knew this very well. Levi had “casually” brought it up no less than five times. Even Trish had begun wincing when he started a sentence with, “When I was in Brussels…”

Noah’s dad continued as if he hadn’t heard him. 

“I hope you’ll get that solo, at least. Oh! I forgot to mention. Your mother and I are thinking of dropping by for a visit sometime, probably next week, if I can get off work.”

Please don’t, Noah thought.

“Cool,” he said.

“How is Valerie, by the way?”

“Ask her yourself, she’s right here,” Noah said, putting the phone into speaker and passing the phone towards her. “Val, come say hi to my dad.”

She bounced over. “Hi, Mr. Diaz.”

“Hello, Valerie. It’s lovely to hear from you.”

There was some shuffling on the other end, and Noah realized that his father had turned on speaker on his own phone when his mother piped in.

“Valerie! You have to come over for dinner soon.”

“Hi, Mrs. Diaz!” Valerie said. “How is the garden?”

She started gushing over how well her tomatoes were doing, Valerie nodding along attentively (despite this being useless, as the call was purely audio). 

Damn. It hadn’t even crossed his mind to ask about the garden. Valerie was a better son than he was. Suddenly overcome with a fresh wave of annoyance, he reached out and grabbed the phone from Valerie.

“Sorry, mama,” Noah interrupted, “But Val and I really have to get to rehearsal. Have a great day, I’ll talk to you later, bye.” He hung up before either of them could protest, setting down the phone on the desk and flopping dramatically onto his bed, which creaked in protest. He grabbed a pillow and screamed into it for a few moments, angrily kicking at the mattress. It was very therapeutic.

When he felt better, he rolled over to sit up. Valerie was standing in front of him with her hands on her hips, looking for all the world like a parent staring down a toddler in the midst of a temper tantrum. The effect was lessened by her ripped jean shorts and decidedly un-maternal crop top, which was a borderline offensive shade of red. “Are you done?”