A Thousand Perfect Notes

by C. G. Drews

  It’s bittersweet, actually. It reminds Beck he’s not special. He hates himself for being like that but some of the brightness drifts out of the day.

  When August returns, he twists the swing in circles and avoids eye contact.

  ‘So,’ August says, ‘I had an idea of how you could repay me.’

  ‘Did you know cake isn’t supposed to have vegetables in it?’

  ‘Oh shut up. Come over for dinner.’

  She doesn’t have reason to be this nice any more. Their project is done.

  ‘You like me so much you want to eat me?’ Beck says.

  August rolls her eyes. ‘Come and eat dinner with me and my family. Satisfied with my wording, Mister Technical?’

  ‘I can’t.’

  ‘You say that for everything, and yet –’ August spreads her arms wide and nearly falls out of her swing ‘– here you are. I think you can be convinced.’

  Why can’t he just tell her? She wouldn’t blab to the school. But she might look at him pityingly and – no. He’s—

  Embarrassed. Of his life, of the Maestro, of his weakness. He can’t tell.

  ‘Not this time,’ Beck says. ‘My mum is … really strict.’

  ‘It doesn’t have to be a school night.’ August twists on the swing and spins around with a shriek. ‘We’ll make sure you eat your vegetables. I’ll even walk you safely home so the bad guys don’t get you.’

  ‘Comforting,’ he says. ‘But I can’t.’

  Maybe this will be enough to make her lose interest. There’s probably some other pathetic kid who needs cheering up and prodding into greatness. Although one A-scored paper probably doesn’t equal greatness. The thought is there, anyway.

  ‘I’M STUCK!’ Joey screeches.

  Beck flips out of the swing and starts toward her, but she shakes her head so madly her paper crown slips over her eyes.

  ‘No, I want August!’

  Oh.

  Beck is left to the swings while August directs Joey down and then demonstrates the monkey bars – which she’s too tall for and Joey too short. Beck feels a little replaced. But at least he has an excuse to watch them – well, watch August – and not be weird.

  OK, it’s still weird.

  The dusky afternoon light is like a halo of gold around her. She deserves the halo. She’s that good, too freaking good. Even when Joey stomps in a puddle and splashes mud over August’s legs, she just laughs.

  Good things don’t last.

  They walk home, each holding one of Joey’s hands and swinging her over the footpath cracks. It gets dark so fast this time of year, but not dark enough that they miss seeing that half the road is covered in pears.

  There’s a truck with a busted axle on the side of the road, and two guys arguing.

  Joey breaks free of their hands and runs to the gutter. She plucks a fat pear and spins to Beck. ‘Can I eat it? Can I?’

  It’s like a sea of pears – squished and bruised, green and brown.

  Beck hesitates, so she just bites down, grinning through the juice.

  ‘Hey kids,’ one of the truck guys calls, ‘if you want those pears, take ’em.’

  ‘Um, thanks,’ Beck says.

  Joey piles pears into her tutu. ‘I want to eat them all, Beck.’

  August squats and plucks a few bruised ones. Half are practically pear jam where a car has driven over them.

  ‘Do you want them?’ August looks up at him. ‘We have a pear tree so it’s not like I need any. I can help you carry some, though.’

  Picking food off the ground? She’ll know how desperate he is. Although convincing Joey they don’t need any would be impossible and the way she’s dancing around a pile of pears proves fresh fruit is more exciting than is usual for them.

  ‘Um,’ Beck says intelligently.

  August pats his shoulder. ‘Stop thinking. It looks too painful for you.’ She holds her huge jumper out like a basket and piles in pears.

  Beck peels off his own jumper and, after blasting Joey to get off the road, he gets a dozen less mangled pears. He feels self-conscious, but the two pear deliverers don’t seem to care because they’re too busy trying to coax their busted truck back to life.

  August sniffs a pear. ‘Ooh, heavenly. These will make a delicious pie.’

  Beck can think of a dozen ways to consume all these pears. First will be just gobbling them, skin and all. He can’t even remember the last time he had fresh fruit.

  Hauling their spoils, they trudge the last block to the Keverich house. Joey keeps cackling like a deranged chicken and shrieking ‘Pears! Pears!’ at random intervals.

  It’s only when they reach Beck’s driveway that he realises he has no idea if the Maestro is home yet.

  ‘Shall we put them in your kitchen?’ August asks.

  ‘Um, how about we just leave them out here and—’

  ‘Beck Keverich,’ August says. ‘I’ve been in your house before and it’s not a hellhole.’

  ‘It’s not that, it’s just – I …’ He tries desperately to remember when the Maestro said she’d be home. Late? Early? And if she is home, he’s already dead.

  He can’t get deader.

  ‘Fine,’ he mumbles and slowly opens the front door.

  Joey slips under his elbow and runs inside screaming about pears. Beck can’t see any signs of life, so he holds the door open for August. If she dumps the pears and runs then this might—

  ‘Oh, hi, Mummy!’ Joey says from the lounge. ‘We found pears! Can we have a pie? August says we should make pie.’

  No.

  His insides split apart. August is in his house, wiping her feet on the mat, oblivious to the fact he’s frozen. She strolls in like she’s been inside a hundred times, not just once when she was bleeding to death. He can’t let her go into the kitchen alone. He jumps forward, wanting to warn her, wanting to drag her out – wanting none of this to be happening.

  The Maestro and August enter the kitchen at the same time.

  Beck watches a chill fury wash across the Maestro’s face.

  Joey chats on about pie, and August, oblivious, deposits her armful of pears on the kitchen bench. Then she wipes her hands on her shorts and, with a smile as bright as summer, she reaches out to shake hands with the Maestro.

  ‘Hi,’ she says. ‘I’m August. Beck’s friend.’

  Beck wants to bury himself. It’s over. The Maestro will blame everything on August – this trip, the reason he’s started speaking up, even the lax way he’s been practising. And she’ll be right, of course. But this was his. He had something – he had something happy for once in his miserable life.

  The Maestro shakes August’s hand and gives a tight smile. ‘How surprising,’ she says. ‘I didn’t know Beck had a new friend.’

  He wants to slam his own head into a wall.

  ‘I’m assuming we’re friends by now,’ August says. ‘Scavenging pears seems a friend-sort-of-thing to do.’

  ‘Scavenging?’

  Beck clears his throat, though he’d like to turn around and walk out the door and drown himself, basically. ‘Um, yeah. A truck dropped a bunch of them so we …’ He trails off. ‘Anyway, this is, yeah, um, August. She’s leaving now.’

  August wrinkles her nose at him.

  ‘So can we have pie?’ Joey says, a pear in each hand. ‘Can we have nine pies?’

  ‘Hush, Schätzchen,’ the Maestro says, because Joey is a darling while Beck is a moron. She turns back to August, still cold – in Beck’s eyes – but acting disturbingly nice. ‘That’s very kind of you, August. How long have you been … friends?’

  ‘A month or so.’ August smooths her stretched jumper back against her belly. ‘We partnered for a paper in English. At first our relationship was War and Peace. Now it’s Sense and Sensibility.’

  Beck looks at her like she’s grown horns.

  ‘I’m referring to the titles,’ August explains. ‘It’s sensible because when he sticks with me, I feed him cake and improve his grades.’<
br />
  The Maestro gives a tiny laugh – how dare she – and nods. ‘Beck is not a hard worker.’ How dare she.

  ‘Not really,’ August confides. ‘But once you get past his serial killer vibe, he’s just an adorable puppy.’

  Beck coughs. ‘Um, I’m standing right here.’

  Joey has given up on being fed pie, so she drags a chair to the kitchen bench and attempts to reach the big knives. The Maestro plucks her off the chair with one strong hand and sets her down.

  ‘Did you arrange this afternoon’s picnic?’ the Maestro says.

  Beck says, ‘No,’ at the same time August says, ‘Oh, we totally did.’

  They look at each other. Beck’s eyes try desperately to convey the stop everything signal. August clearly is not used to such messages.

  ‘It’s come to my attention, Mrs Keverich—’ August begins.

  ‘Ms,’ the Maestro says.

  ‘Oh, sorry. Ms Keverich – that Beck is seriously gloomy and needs kicking out of his misery.’

  Joey starts kissing the pears.

  ‘So,’ August says, ‘I was wondering, Ms Keverich, if Beck could come over for dinner some time?’

  She’s dug his grave, blissfully unaware.

  The Maestro looks at Beck, long and calculating. He feels the ice, but not the burn of fury – more puzzlement, or is that shock? That he would do something so defiant like make a friend.

  ‘Bee – Beck,’ the Maestro says, unused to his nickname, ‘is very busy studying.’

  ‘Oh?’ Thankfully August doesn’t scoff. She probably is on the inside.

  ‘He is a pianist,’ the Maestro says, the first time she’s admitted it. Usually it’s he is a worthless moron bashing my piano. ‘He has an important recital to prepare for.’

  August’s eyes widen with delight. ‘Beck! You should’ve told me. This is incredibly exciting. I want to hear you play.’

  ‘No,’ says Beck.

  ‘I’ll take that enthusiastic response as a yes!’ August grins. ‘I’d only steal him for a few hours, Ms Keverich. I live just around the corner, and my dad could drop him home so he doesn’t walk in the dark.’ She pauses. ‘Are you allergic to dogs, Beck?’

  ‘No, but—’

  ‘Great. Because there are two or twelve inside at any given time. So what do you say, Ms Keverich?’

  Would she say no? Would she yell? Would she show August who she really is?

  The thing about the Maestro is her ability to be purely professional around other people. In a ball gown with jewels at her throat, you’d never know there is something … broken about this woman. She is tall and powerful and glorious.

  The Maestro graciously says, ‘He’s facing a very taxing performance, as I said, so I will think on it.’

  Beck grabs August’s elbow and drags her towards the front door.

  August waves over her shoulder. ‘Nice meeting you, Ms Keverich.’

  Beck gets her outside before he remembers how to breathe again. He wants to yell at her – he really, really does. But it’s not like he warned her. Sure, there have been bruises – but he always says he gets into fights, accidents. Maybe she thinks that’s the truth? Maybe August Frey is so full of sickening brightness that she can’t fathom a parent throwing their own kid into the wall.

  Beck shuts the door behind him and digs his hands through his hair. He’s trying not to hyperventilate.

  ‘Wow, Beck,’ August says. ‘Meeting your mum wasn’t that traumatic for me. Do you want to sit down?’

  He does want to sit down. Or lie down. And never get back up.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he mumbles.

  ‘Why?’ August says. ‘Your mum seems, well, fierce but not too bad. I get that she’s strict though. Wow.’

  ‘No,’ Beck whispers, ‘I’m sorry for this.’ He sucks in air, strength, and then looks her in the eyes. ‘We’re done, OK? We did the paper, so you don’t need to come around any more.’

  August looks at him steadily.

  ‘I don’t need a friend,’ Beck says. ‘I actually don’t want one.’ Life was less painful when he didn’t know what he was missing. ‘So – so leave me alone, OK?’ Please.

  Will she demand an answer? Slink off like he kicked her? Lash out because he’s unfair?

  There’s a stagnant pause and then –

  She laughs and punches his shoulder. ‘You’re messed up, kid. But, you’re also stuck with me, and a super-scary mum isn’t going to send me screaming.’

  He groans. ‘August, I’m not kidding around—’

  ‘Neither am I, but I do have to go.’ She backs away, thumbs tucked in her pockets. ‘I meant it when I said I want to hear you play!’

  ‘Absolutely not,’ Beck yells after her.

  She turns, ready to sprint off her excess energy. ‘That’s how you can repay me! Write me a song. Then we’ll be even.’

  Write her a song? What – no –

  She takes off down the road, the twilight swallowing her before he can reply and he’s left standing in the cold with a mouthful of words he can’t say.

  He doesn’t want to go inside, but –

  The Maestro is waiting, her eyes cold, calm. Beck shuts the door and leans on it, ready but not ready, angry but tired.

  The Maestro looks at him, really looks, like she hasn’t in a long time. Then she shakes her head and laughs.

  It’s a terrible sound.

  ‘It won’t last long,’ she says. ‘Especially after you leave for Deutschland.’

  The unfortunate thing about being fifteen is growing taller. Beck tries to stop, for the sake of fitting his clothes, but his body doesn’t listen.

  He attempts to disappear behind the $10 clothes racks while the Maestro flips through and scrutinises the colours. Joey is impersonating a tornado and has knocked hangers off shelves, dismantled the shoe aisle and is currently clomping around in men’s gumboots that come to her thighs while wearing a straw hat.

  ‘We should just go,’ Beck whispers to no one who cares.

  The Maestro yanks a black and yellow striped polo shirt off the rack. Everything she does is fast and angry and vicious, like the clothing has particularly insulted her. ‘What about this?’

  Does he want to look like a bumblebee? ‘Not really my, um, style.’

  The Maestro concedes and puts it back. ‘What you need, Sohn, is a haircut.’

  He likes his hair, though, the way it looks like an electrified steel scourer. And he can’t imagine the Maestro paying for a barber and clothes, which leaves her to do the trimming and – basically, no.

  It’s weird enough clothes shopping with her. Her rage has burned to embers and, yes, the smoulders are ready to flare, but they can actually walk through the shops without imminent fear of doom. It’s his uncle that’s done this. Jan Keverich. Which makes no sense since the Maestro seemed to hate him and his success enough to leave Germany in the first place – but maybe it’s the thought of home, of shooting Beck to stardom, of finally succeeding, that makes her happy.

  Happy? He shouldn’t throw that word around so easily. Happy is August. Not-destroying-something-momentarily is the Maestro.

  ‘I don’t need a haircut,’ Beck says. ‘It’s the Keverich trademark.’

  The Maestro grunts. ‘Well stop sulking and go find a shirt.’

  A shirt to replace the one smudged with blood.

  Beck half wishes he could just wear it, prove something, and use this money to buy a fat steak and an ice cream sandwich for once. Instead the Maestro chooses to notice he’s grown and decides to do something about it.

  The Maestro shakes out a black button-down shirt.

  ‘Great,’ Beck says. ‘Buy it and let’s go.’

  The Maestro squints at it and picks at a piece of fluff. ‘The quality is rubbish. And not – not …’ She glares at the clothes, searching for the word. ‘Not enough.’

  Enough for what? To prove they’re not dirt poor?

  For the first time, Beck actually wonders if she wants him to
look nice in front of his uncle because she’s ashamed. Of all of them.

  Beck slinks off to pretend to inspect socks. He has a strange knot in his chest – probably because he’s out with the Maestro, right? Definitely. Not because she seems, despite her size taking up half the store, somehow … frail.

  He glances at her, between socks, as she drops the black shirt, picks it up, drops it, and then stabs the coat hanger at the neck hole with shaking hands.

  No. He refuses to feel sorry for her.

  Beck finds plastic packets of cheap white shirts and he selects his size. When he returns, the Maestro holds mustard jeans and a black and grey knitted jumper. Beck resists the urge to flee.

  ‘Dressing rooms,’ she barks. ‘Now.’

  Trying clothes is complicated because Beck is swallowed by the male side while the Maestro waits outside, and he hates the thought of parading in the open in strange clothes. What is wrong with normal-coloured jeans anyway? But these fit, tighter than the baggy trousers he’s used to, and the jumper is soft, if a little big, and encases him in the warmest hug he’s had in years.

  He slinks out, twisting to see the price tags.

  ‘How much does this—’

  The Maestro cuts him off with her voice as bold as an orchestra. ‘Gut,’ she says.

  Good? She said good in relation to him?

  Beck forgets he’s trying to grab the price tag behind his neck.

  Joey, bouncing at the Maestro’s side, pauses to survey him. ‘Wow.’

  Beck sighs.

  The Maestro motions to the jeans. ‘Too tight? Too loose?’

  Despite the unaccustomed tightness, they feel – good. ‘They fit.’

  ‘Comfortable?’ the Maestro prods.

  ‘I guess.’ Beck’s so confused. Why is she caring? What is she doing this for?

  Joey pokes him. ‘Does the tag say nine and three?’

  ‘What?’ Beck spins and catches the price tag. $39. Why is she insisting on spending so much on clothes? ‘We can’t – I can’t—’

  The Maestro tells Joey to hush.

  Panic rises in his throat. ‘What’s going on? Why do I need expensive clothes?’