A Season of Eden

by Jennifer Laurens

  He knew tone. Every creature understood tone. That’s why his head jerked around every now and then toward the bedroom door. Maybe that’s why his sad eyes looked even sadder.

  After I logged into Palos Verdes Prep School’s website, I checked out the faculty list.

  James Christian.

  James.

  Nice. The name fit him.

  “Hopefully he doesn’t go by Jim or Jimmy.” I scrubbed William’s head. “That would just be wrong.”

  I fell asleep with my iPod on and old Heart tunes shouting into my head about how to get someone alone.

  When I woke up the next morning I had a headache.

  I dressed, picked out a short denim skirt, a baby blue shirt that made the blue in my eyes electric and opened my bedroom door. Not sure who had survived last night’s battle, I looked down the hall toward the master bedroom.

  The door was shut.

  I went downstairs, William at my heels in a light pant.

  Camilla was already at work making the organic granola Stacey swore by and the dining room table was set for two so I figured Dad had waved a white flag sometime during the night. Either that or Stacey had waved a white flag of her own—in the way of satin sheets.

  “Good morning, Miss Eden.”

  “Hey, Camilla.” Ever since I’d known Camilla, she’d called me Miss Eden. I liked the way I felt when she said the words in her thick, Italian accent. Camilla was from the old school of family service: organizing everything from our pantry to our bed sheets. She even wore a grey dress and white apron. Where Mom found her, I didn’t know, but she’d been with our family since we’d moved into this house.

  She lived off the hill in Lomita somewhere. When Mom was alive, she and I took Christmas presents to Camilla’s family every year.

  “You eat breakfast today?” she asked.

  “Not yet. Did you set that place for me?”

  The dark skin on her face flushed. I’d embarrassed her.

  “I can make an extra place right away, you see—”

  “No, no, that’s okay. I really have to hurry anyway.” I opened the fridge and snatched a Dannon Light Smoothie.

  She’d stopped setting a place for me at the table years ago. I guess she’d overheard too many morning arguments between me and Stacey and figured when I’d started eating in the kitchen, it was time to stop setting me a place in the dining room.

  Truthfully, I wanted to get to school before the teachers arrived.

  The faculty parking lot was vacant except for a few cars. I had no idea which teachers drove which cars, but I meant to see Mr. Christian arrive at school. I wanted to see what he drove.

  The library was still closed, so I had nowhere to go and not look like a stalker.

  I perched myself on the low cement wall outside the administration building and looked over my assignments.

  School work had never been hard for me and when I’d told Matt I had homework, I’d been lying times two. First, because I always made sure I had an out. Second, because I rarely had homework. I liked to finish school stuff at school so my time was my own.

  All of my assignments were in order and ready. A car pulled into the lot and I looked up. Mr. Edmunds. I waved at him and he waved back. Soon, Mr. Jones was pulling in, driving something decrepit in red. The man must not spend any money on anything, I thought. His clothes looked like they’d had their prime in the seventies. He got out and waved with a little too much enthusiasm for seven o’clock in the morning.

  Then he came over.

  “Eden, what are you doing out here it’s cold.”

  “I’m fine, Mr. Jones. Really.”

  His gaze skimmed my bare legs and v-neck tee shirt.

  “Well, the library will be open soon.”

  “Yes, I know. Thanks, for telling me.”

  He hemmed awkwardly then went down the hall toward his classroom.

  Morning fog slunk around the buildings like a creepy guest. I shuddered and hugged myself. More cars drove into the lot: Miss Bastian in her retro green Land Rover, one of the stable of single butch Phys Ed teachers. She hated me.

  I didn’t bother acknowledging her. Mrs. Carmichael, the Foods teacher in an old, white Volvo. She’d flipped over my presentation on Italy my junior year. I never had the heart to tell her the secret marinara sauce recipe came from Camilla.

  Students started driving in and I looked at my cell phone for the time. I’d sat there for a half hour. No Mr. Christian. Maybe he was the kind that liked to sleep in late.

  Then a gut wrenching thought occurred to me. What if he liked to sleep in because he was married and making love to his wife?

  Sickened, I swallowed a hard knot. No. He was only twenty-two, too young to get married. I’d looked at his hands. I would have noticed a ring. I couldn’t remember seeing one but I’d check today.

  Time ticked by. More students filled in the lot. Faculty packed the administrator’s parking area. Friends walked by and said hello.

  Brielle emerged from student parking with an odd look on her face. I stood. With five minutes until the first bell, Mr. Christian must have parked somewhere else. Or be late. Or sick.

  I tried not to think how disappointed I’d be if he was sick.

  “What was up with you last night?” Brielle asked. We started toward our first period classes.

  “Nothing.”

  “You totally devastated Matt. He was really mad at first, then he hibernated in his bedroom. Alone.”

  “Oh well,” I said.

  “You can’t say that like it doesn’t matter because it does.” Brielle looked seriously peeved.

  “It doesn’t matter, that’s why I can say it.”

  “We knew you’d say that.”

  It was naive of me to think my friends didn’t talk about me behind my back. That my secret expression wasn’t really a secret but that everybody knew I hid behind it.

  “That’s my prerogative, isn’t it?” Stung, I left her alone, and continued on to choir.

  “Why are you in such a rush?” Brielle called after me.

  I didn’t look back at her. “I can’t be late.”

  Chapter Four

  James Christian stood at the piano, his head bowed over stacks of sheet music he was studying. I let out a sigh of relief. Today he wore brown cords and a yellow, button-down shirt. The look was old prep, but I liked it on him. The patches on the elbows of his rustic cord jacket were too cute.

  He had classical music playing in the background for us while we filed into class. I felt like I was in some BBC reality show. Josh was already sitting in the back row, and he waved me over but I headed for the front row.

  Butterflies filled my chest. It had been a long time since I’d jittered being near someone.

  I sat down, my eyes locked on Mr. Christian.

  He hadn’t noticed me and I was glad. I wanted to watch him. His hands were on top of the closed baby grand, as if he was supporting her. His fingers were long and beautiful, and spread over the worn black surface. No wedding band. Yes. What would it feel like to be touched by those hands? One leg was angled back and he was tapping his toe. Hearing music in his head, I guessed. I wondered if it was a melody of his own that he heard or some other.

  “Why are you up front?” Josh whispered in my ear. I glanced at him as he stood over my shoulder.

  “I like sitting here.”

  His face crimped in disbelief. He almost laughed, but when I cocked my head at him in a glare of warning, he stopped. He leaned, crossing his elbows on the back of the empty seat next to me. “You’re not serious about Matt, are you?”

  “I’m most definitely not serious about Matt.”

  “You mean you seriously dumped him? That’s it? It’s over?”

  “Dumping’s a harsh word.” I didn’t like the sound of it.

  It made me sound like a flaky loser. “We’re just over, that’s all.”

  He snickered. “Sounds like dumping to me.”

  Sounded careles
s, juvenile, so predictable. We were seniors. The only thing long term at our age was our future and the uncertainty of it. Nothing else mattered.

  “Call it whatever,” I said, my eyes never leaving Mr.

  Christian . He was so far beyond trivial stuff like this I was embarrassed even talking about this subject in his room, with his classical music playing in the background.

  Josh hissed out a sigh and left me. Relieved, my heart pounded because I was by myself again.

  Finally, Mr. Christian looked up. His blue-green gaze swept the room then flashed to me and held. My breath went still. I was sure his lips curved up a little. Sure there was something in his eyes just for me.

  The bell rang.

  “Okay guys, anybody know this piece of music we’re listening to?” He waited during the quiet mumbling that followed.

  No one raised their hands.

  “It’s Allegro, one of Mozart’s most famous pieces.

  Mozart’s one of my favorite composers. His pieces are rich, inspiring and unforgettable. So, I expect you not to forget them. When we have a music quiz and I play three minutes of his work, I want you to know his signature sound.

  “Every artist, whether he is an artist of music, word or paint, has a signature that sets him apart. How many of you have seen Harry Potter?”

  Hands rose.

  “Star Wars?”

  Again, hands went up.

  “How about Indiana Jones? Home Alone? Jaws? E.T.?

  Schindler’s List? Anybody take a guess at what all of those movies have in common, besides big money at the box office?”

  A girl in the back raised her hand.

  “Your name?” Mr. Christian asked.

  “Lila. They all have sound tracks composed by John Williams.”

  Mr. Christian smiled and nodded. “Right.” His body grew more electric as he continued. “And if you really listen to them, you’ll catch the common construction of his notes and chords that give the work his unique signature.

  “My hope is that you will become intimately familiar with some of the great founding fathers of classical music.”

  It was as if he’d swallowed the moon, the way his skin lit from inside. Infectious. I leaned toward him in my seat.

  “I know what you guys listen to because I listen to some of it myself. Think of music like you think of eating.

  There’s meat and potatoes, very hearty basic comfort food that sticks to your bones and nourishes you. Then there’s fluff. Chips, dessert, junk food. Stuff that won’t make you healthy but you prefer because it’s quick and there. I want you to hunger for the meat. To explore classical and other types of music that can really satisfy that deep need we all have inside to be filled.”

  His face was animated with passion when he spoke of this. He was right. Hip Hop, Pop, Funk, were all crap compared to the complex orchestrations we were listening to now. This music soared, leapt and parked itself inside whether you invited it to or not.

  “Man this stuff puts me to sleep,” Josh said from the back. I turned and glared at him.

  “Maybe at first.” Mr. Christian rested his hands on the black music stand. “You’re not used to it. It’s like hearing another language. Because you don’t understand it, you tune it out. It doesn’t reach you as quickly as something with a pounding beat. Again, think of junk food versus something substantial that takes time to savor.”

  “I’d get indigestion listening to this stuff,” Josh mumbled. The class laughed. I didn’t like that they were laughing at Mr. Christian’s excellent analogy.

  “Some of you may have more – immature – digestive systems.” Mr. Christian smiled a teasing grin.

  Josh snickered. “You can’t do anything to this stuff.”

  Laughs and murmurs followed.

  Mr. Christian looked confused.

  I shifted in my chair. I wanted to stand and tell the class to shut up. I didn’t like that they weren’t listening to what he had to say. He’d taken the time to relate his passion for his work so that we could understand it, and he was right.

  Couldn’t they appreciate that?

  I spoke. “Can’t what, Josh? Get drunk listening to it? Hook up listening to it?”

  “Exactly.” Josh grinned big. The boys around him joined him in a palm slap of agreement.

  Mr. Christian’s smile was gone. I could see he was getting frustrated at the direction of the conversation. “You just said this stuff put you to sleep,” he said. “It sounds like that’s where you want to be headed when you’re listening to music.”

  I applauded and most everyone joined me then, as we all chided Josh. He shrugged. “I want to be in bed, but not asleep.”

  Mr. Christian waited for the noise to die down.

  “Passion comes in many forms, Josh. Don’t limit yourself.”

  “I don’t intend to.”

  “That’s not what he means,” I shot over my shoulder.

  “Okay, okay.” Mr. Christian smiled and shook his head.

  He had hoped to enlighten us and had gotten a slap of teenaged narrow-mindedness for his efforts. I felt an ache deep inside for him.

  “Listen up. We’ve got a concert in a few weeks and new music to learn, so let’s get started.” He looked at me, his eyes smiling. “Eden, would you mind passing out the sheet music for me, please?”

  I was up and next to him before I could blink. He handed me the stack of music and my fingers brushed his. Warmth leapt up my arms, filled my chest, and tingled around my heart.

  I passed out the sheets as efficiently as I could, being extra quiet so his voice could be heard. It bugged me that Josh was whispering to some chick in the back row. I sent him a clam-it glare and he shut up.

  “I don’t believe in drowning an audience during a concert. I would much rather give them one or two perfect pieces than five bad ones. So we’ll be singing two pieces.”

  “That’s lame,” somebody called from the back.

  “Yeah, my mom’s gonna be pissed if we sing two songs and it’s over,” someone else complained.

  “The other choirs will be singing also,” he said. “Each will perform one, two or three numbers. Do the math. We have an hour and ten minutes of show.”

  “How come we only get two?”

  “After hearing you guys sing yesterday, two is the limit.”

  “Are you saying we’re crap?”

  He shook his head, a hint of smile on his lips. “Not saying that at all. But this is an elective class. The other choirs hold auditions. You guys are okay. You’re going to be better than okay by performance time if my name’s attached to you.”

  “What is this song?” someone asked.

  “Aria in B Minor. How many of you read music? Raise your hands.”

  About half the class raised their hands. He looked at me. Since I couldn’t read music, I inadvertently bit my lower lip. His gaze dropped to my mouth. A bolt of heat jagged through my system.

  “You should all know how to read music.” He looked back over the class. “It’s as basic to understanding the composer’s creation as knowing how to read words on a page and understanding any of today’s literature.”

  Some mumbles followed. I was still enjoying the lingering warm twinge because he’d looked at my mouth.

  Determined to steal his attention again, I sat forward, and crossed my bare legs.

  He kept his focus out over the class as he went on to explain the piece we were going to sing.

  “Alberto Montacelli is a contemporary composer who creates classical arias. He writes in minor tones mostly, something I’m partial to. His pieces are haunting and memorable, as all music should be.”

  Mr. Christian went to the piano and began to play. He didn’t even look at the music in front of him. His hands stroked the keys with the familiarity of a lover over skin. A fast hush fell over the room. With each swell of the tune, his body shifted, his head dipped. His fingers taunted the ivory keys. He closed his eyes. His face drew taut. Beneath his beautiful ha
nds the keys danced in melancholy strains that slowly inched up the scale to higher octaves of hope, before returning to full, deep lower chords that held, echoing off the walls.

  When he stopped, his fingers remained poised over the keys as if he wasn’t sure he was finished touching them.