by C. G. Drews
He’s late for his classes. Late, late, late. Which surprises exactly no one. But his school is where brain cells go to wither, where no one hands in homework, and half the class of fifteen-year-olds can barely read. No, really. He’s not even the worst. He can get through the basics, laboriously, and while everyone else screws with the teachers, Beck writes music.
Mostly in his head. He sucks at notation. But closing his eyes, resting his chin on his arms and creating, is the only way he gets through a day.
He can’t care about anything else. He can’t.
The music in his head is his pocket of relief, the only thing he passionately cares about. Well, it and Joey. If he stretches to care about something else – like what the Maestro thinks of him or how he fails at school or what he really wants to do with his life – he’ll be pulled too thin. His skin will part like old paper and the world will see how his skeleton is made of dark wishes and macabre dreams. They’ll know his heart thumps to the beat of the Maestro’s metronome because it’s too scared to do otherwise.
But worst?
They’ll see the emptiness inside him.
Being a pianist is stitched on his skin, but his bones are tattooed with whispers of you fake, you fake.
English is the worst class, because Mr Boyne refuses to give up on any student. He even makes Squinty Mike – the dude could get glasses and fix it, but, whatever – read aloud when the guy can’t even spell his own name.
Beck doodles music notes over his worksheet and feels his pencil sink into the ruts on the desk. Someone’s carved their opinion of school in four- letter words all over the lid. Their opinion isn’t as disturbing as the fact they had a knife in school. Beck hopes the kid is graduated and gone. And probably in prison.
‘… which will be quite a stretch for most of you,’ Mr Boyne says. ‘But that’s why the pairing isn’t random – no, Avery, there’ll be no switching. And Chris, if you could possibly pretend this class is interesting enough to stay awake for, I’d be ever so obliged.’
Pairing? Group projects? Is the world intent on being cruel today? Beck was so busy being mentally absent that he has no idea what the project even is.
Mr Boyne strolls down the lines of desks, rattling off names. ‘Move desks if you need to. Quietly. QUIETLY.’
Kids toss backpacks and books, noise escalating as they find their partners. Most are yelling questions or whining about their match.
‘No swaps permitted, Ellen. No swa— no, no SWAPS. Everyone pause for a minute while I say NO SWAPS ARE HAPPENING. Yes, it applies to you, Avery.’ Mr Boyne continues reading out names. ‘Emeka and Abby. Stephanie and Noah. Ajeet and – I can’t even read my own writing. Oh, Mike. Swap seats. Do it quietly. Do it now.’
Beck sweats.
Mr Boyne pauses in front of his desk and raises an eyebrow at the lines of scrawled semiquavers and crotchet rests. ‘Interested in my class as always, I see, Mr Keverich.’
Beck wishes he’d paid enough attention to know why he is being tied to someone and sentenced to death.
‘Beck and August.’ Mr Boyne strides past.
Beck purposefully doesn’t take note of the other kids, so their names and faces are a tangled confusion to him. He’s nothing like them. He has no phone, no internet, and he avoids sport in case he hurts his piano hands. And considering he’s forever lost in his head, his music, they’ve given up speaking to him anyway.
Then there’s the Maestro’s rule: no friends, no distractions.
‘The piano will make you great someday,’ she always says, ‘while a friend takes and takes and takes and leaves you with nothing.’
But as a tall, sun-kissed girl in a Save The Whales T-shirt appears in front of his desk, Beck knows exactly who she is.
August Frey.
She’s the kind of girl who wears handmade shirts over the top of her school uniform and gives soliloquies on tree frogs – not that Beck’s actually heard them, he’s just heard of them – and has dirt-blonde hair and never wears shoes.
She grabs the vacated desk next to him and dumps her books, with actual notes on the assignment. Beck angles himself to peek, but her handwriting is tiny and cramped, and he’s not so hot at reading sideways. Or front ways.
She gives him a small smile and Beck looks down. He’s never sure how to react to kids in his class. If he smiles, they might think he’s friendly, and then what? He’ll have to wear a poster board that says, If I ever make a friend my mother will noose me.
Mr Boyne has finishing shuffling the seating and returns to the front of the class. He always wears a bow tie with small fruit patterns on it. Today is bananas. How fitting.
‘All right, eyes to the front. Everyone listen up – which means you, Keverich.’
Beck blinks. Please don’t expect him to use his brain. He’s been up since five, hammering scales and arpeggios, and he’d kill for a nine-hour nap.
‘Now,’ Mr Boyne says, ‘you’ve been paired according to abilities, or lack thereof. A student who is failing with a student who cares about succeeding.’ He eyeballs everyone pointedly.
‘But that’s not fair!’ someone wails.
‘It’s great motivation to work hard,’ Mr Boyne says. ‘Or harder. Or, for the first time this year, work at all. You’re getting a chance to bump up your grades while being tutored. No one is allowed to squander this.’
Beck’s mouth opens by accident. Definitely an accident. Since when does he speak up in class?
‘But to be failing,’ he says, ‘means we’re trying in the first place.’
Snickers. A dark look from Mr Boyne. A curious one from his English partner-to-be.
‘Anyone with something smart to say gets a visit to the principal’s office.’ Mr Boyne adjusts his bow tie. ‘And then the principal will chat with your parents.’
Oh, how scary. As if any of their parents would care. Most of these kids are barely literate ghosts. Here one year, drifting off to work at McDonald’s the next.
Except for Beck, of course. While they’re fighting for a low-income job, he’ll be a famous pianist.
Great.
Mr Boyne clears his throat as if expecting the class will settle. It doesn’t. He raises his voice and rocks on his heels, like if he makes himself taller they’ll pay attention. They won’t.
‘The goal, naturally, is the essay. It will need to be two thousand words – that’s one thousand each – with detail, quotes and examples.’
Examples of what?
‘It’s due in two weeks, which is plenty of time to get to know your partner. You can meet after school or – oh, organise that amongst yourselves.’
Wait, meet after school? That can’t happen. Beck feels his world narrow in suffocation.
‘Remember the subject! The essay must be a detailed comparison of two opposite opinions—’
‘What if we agree on everything?’ someone yells.
‘Then get married,’ Mr Boyne says without blinking.
The class giggles.
‘You will find something,’ Mr Boyne says, ‘and keep in mind hobbies and interests are not allowed. You will be contrasting political, moral, or religious views. Present me a convincing point of view. Be respectful to your partners. Be intelligent.’ He pauses and rubs his bow tie again. ‘Be intelligent if you can.’
Mr Boyne seems to think that covers it. ‘Now, we have ten minutes before the end of this period, so get to know your partner and start discussing topics for your contrast essay.’ He plops behind his desk, apparently done with everyone and everything. For ever.
Beck has questions. Firstly, how is he going to find time to do this? After school? Come on! And secondly, contrast political opinions? He has no opinions. He has nothing but a piano and aching fingers.
August sweeps her hair over her shoulder and shoves her desk closer to his. She then sits on it, and rests her chin on her fist. The rest of the class has erupted into loud conversation – probably unproductive – but August seems curtained off in a bub
ble of quiet focus.
Focus directed at Beck.
This is so bad.
‘Hi,’ August says.
‘Beck,’ he says, then feels stupid because Mr Boyne bawled everyone’s names across the class. She’s going to know.
‘What’s that short for? Beckett?’
‘Something like that.’ His full name is a topic he’ll never touch with anyone. Ever.
Did he mention not ever?
August’s grin is like a sly wood nymph. Beck can’t stop looking at her hand-printed T-shirt. How can she get away with that while he gets detention for tardiness?
‘Wow, calm down,’ August says. ‘I’m overwhelmed with all the information you’re throwing at me.’
Beck feels trapped. What does he say? ‘This whole assignment is stupid.’ Wait. Did he say that out loud?
‘I won’t disagree.’ August tilts forward on the desk top. Her hands are covered in blue Sharpie doodles and her eyes are as complicated as the ocean. Beck decides to avoid looking at them. She whips out an orange Sharpie and she taps it on his desk. ‘How do you feel about tattoos?’
‘How is that political?’ Beck says.
‘Moral.’ August uncaps the lid and adds a swirl. The orange is nearly lost against her deeply tanned skin. ‘Some places won’t hire you if you’re tattooed.’
‘That seems – wrong.’
August sighs. ‘Agreed. And we’re not supposed to agree. So your turn – suggest something, music boy.’
Beck freezes. How did she – she couldn’t. He’s never breathed a word about the piano to anyone and no one would even catch him with headphones. She couldn’t possibly know about the piano. Unless … He looks at his worksheet, doodled with music notes. He flips it over and flattens his blood-crusted hand over it.
‘Did you punch someone on the way over?’ August says.
If only.
‘I’m not a music boy,’ he says stiffly.
From the sounds the rest of the class is emitting, everyone else considers this a get-to-know-you party. Only half the kids have their phones out already.
‘We could contrast our music tastes – that can be moral too.’ August sprouts a green Sharpie. ‘You know, how people think heavy metal is evil? Well, my dad does.’ She gives a little snort. ‘He was in a rock band when he was my age and now he does yoga to Brahms. What do you listen to?’
‘Nothing.’ He’d rather strangle himself with a piano string than tell her he’s into classical. What kind of fifteen-year-old boy admits to being obsessed – by force or choice, it doesn’t matter when it’s his whole life – with classical music?
The bell roars and the class folds up in one motion, everyone grabbing bags and yelling out times to meet up on the weekend.
‘Great,’ August says. ‘I practically know everything about you.’
Looking at her round face and sparkling eyes, Beck wouldn’t have picked her for the caustic type. But he’s hardly a judge of character.
‘I’m sorry.’ His voice comes out way too high, strangled. ‘I can’t – meet up, I mean. It’s not going to work—’
‘It’s not optional.’ August leans forward, bared Sharpie all too threatening. ‘We have two weeks and I’m not failing an assignment because you’re lazy.’
Lazy.
It must be true if the entire world agrees on it.
Beck tries to keep his face neutral. ‘I have to walk my sister home. Then I –’ play the piano until my fingers bleed.
August’s eyes light up. ‘I’ll walk with you. I’m on Gully Avenue. Number eleven.’
And she lives so close. Seriously? Could the universe not cut him a break? He doesn’t ask much.
‘Thirty-two Dormer,’ he mumbles.
‘Awesome, we’re practically neighbours. Well, give or take three blocks. You can pick whose house we invade—’
‘I can’t.’
August looks at him long, hard. It’s like being frowned at by an entire ocean. But what choice does he have? The Maestro would—
He chooses not to envision her reaction to a classmate strolling into her house with an impish grin and bright eyes. August’s eyes say she’s never been let down in her entire life. Lucky her.
‘Can I ask a question?’ August’s pen tap-taps on his desk.
The class empties around them.
He squirms, but it must look like a nod, because she says, ‘Why do you smell like coffee?’
‘I love it so much I wear it.’
August pokes his sticky cheek. He nearly flinches, nearly. Great, she has no personal boundaries.
‘Fascinating. And you know what I love? Good grades. I love them so much I wear them – no, really. I’m going to make a dress for the prom out of all my A plus report cards.’ She clips the lid back on her Sharpie – relief, the weapon is shielded. ‘And I’m willing to enable your fetish. I’ll treat you to a cinnamon latte once this is done.’
‘Bribes?’ He’s not sure he’ll ever feel like a coffee after this morning. There’s nothing like that sick dread of wondering if you’re going to burn.
‘You can even pour it over your head and I won’t comment.’ August smiles and Beck can’t decide if it’s sinister or friendly. Probably both. Simultaneously?
‘Maybe during lunch,’ Beck says. ‘Or walking to and from school. But not after school because – I have a little sister. A preschooler.’
‘You keep saying that,’ August muses. ‘Must be a high maintenance kid. Can’t she watch TV while we type up an argument?’
‘I smell an only child.’
August raises her hands in mock surrender. ‘Caught me. I was such a perfect kid, my parents decided not to risk a secondary disaster.’
Beck has a sly comment about her being so awful they quit reproducing, but Mr Boyne looms over his desk, banana bow tie inches from Beck’s nose. ‘Don’t you have lunchtime detention to get to, Mr Keverich?’
Beck gathers his papers and August snatches her backpack off the floor.
‘Meet you at the preschool,’ August says, and scoots out the door.
Beck’s left with his mouth slightly open, his head spinning, and the realisation that she’s not going to take rudeness as a no. He’d better try harder. Surely he can channel his inner Maestro and—
No.
He’s always promised himself he’ll be polite to anyone, everyone, to avoid being like the Maestro.
Mr Boyne claps a hand on Beck’s shoulder. ‘I think you two are going to have an interesting time.’ He grins and then shoves Beck towards the door.
Interesting? Try disaster.
If Beck gets to the preschool early –
If August forgets –
If the world ends –
But Beck has never been lucky, and, even after his bolting for the preschool at breakneck speed and hustling Joey out in record time, August Frey is waiting for them at the gate. ‘Hey, Beck!’ She waves broadly in case Beck forgot or something.
He wishes.
Joey spies August’s lanky arms knotted over the fence and gives Beck’s hand a sharp tug. ‘How did you get a girlfriend, Beck?’
Beck is microscopically offended. ‘What do you mean “how”?’
‘Well, you’re a boy and boys are gross,’ Joey says.
Beck wrestles with the preschool gate – the childproof latch is also adultproof due to rust and lack of funding. ‘She’s not my girlfriend. She’s – we’re – it’s for school. So don’t yap all the way home, OK?’
But the second they’re free of the preschool’s boundaries, Joey snatches her hand free of Beck’s and struts straight to August. ‘Why are you Beck’s girlfriend?’
He’d like to disappear right now.
For an only child, August is surprisingly not patronising to little kids. She doesn’t squat or pat Joey’s head. Instead she points to Joey’s blue macaroni necklace and says, ‘I like this.’ She smirks at Beck. ‘And I also like coffee and Beck just happens to smell like coffee, so I’m going
to follow him home.’
Joey frowns. ‘Oh, so that’s why he tipped coffee on his head.’
Beck considers covering her mouth, except it’d earn him a kick. He adjusts his backpack straps and ploughs down the footpath, knowing Joey will follow and hoping August won’t.
‘Beck and I are working on a school project,’ August says behind him.
Joey’s gumboots slap on the uneven footpath. ‘What project?’
‘Project Make Beck Smile.’
Beck swivels, walking backwards, and smiles. ‘Done. We can go our separate ways.’
‘That was painful just to watch,’ August says. ‘You really ought to practise that at home. Alone. Where you can’t terrify small children.’
‘Ha ha.’ Beck turns away. ‘Seriously, we can work in class or – something. But not now. Bye.’
Joey breaks into a jog and catches Beck’s hand. She rarely does that these days, since she’s so Old and Capable, as she regularly informs him. Her whisper is a spittle-filled shout. ‘Is she being mean to you? You’re s’posed to tell mean people to go away.’
Beck shrugs. They’ve arrived at an intersection, so he checks for traffic – and then glances to see if August is still there.
He could’ve sworn the twitch on her lips was amusement.
‘I’ll help.’ Joey clears her throat. ‘Go away, Schwachkopf!’
‘Whoa.’ August raises an eyebrow. ‘Did the preschooler just swear at me in German?’
‘No, she only called you a moron.’ Beck takes Joey’s hand and charges across the road. ‘That’s unkind, Joey. Feel free to do it again.’
But August dashes after them and arrives on the kerb with a bounce, as if no German insult could knock the smile from her lips. If only Beck was so resilient.
‘So warm,’ August says, ‘so kind. It’s lovely hanging out with the Keverichs.’
Imagine letting her meet his mother.
Discussion fades as they walk. August doesn’t press possible topics for the essay, but she walks blithely, like she’s hanging out with a real friend. Beck doesn’t know how to handle this. He’s done his best to scare her off without being too rude. But shouldn’t acting like an icy jerk be enough?