Night Music

by Jenn Marie Thorne

  Stop. I stood and brushed myself off, trying my best to plod home, not skip.

  The lights were on at the house, so Oscar and Dad were up and working. I smoothed my hair and pulled down my sweaty jogging shirt before unlocking the front door. But the music greeting me was muffled—they were in the study, noodling music on Dad’s upright. I recognized the snippet Oscar had hummed last night and felt like I was in on a secret.

  Then I glanced at Mom’s Steinway. She was supposed to have collected it months ago for her “new place,” which she hadn’t even started looking for yet, as far as I knew. The piano had stayed put, along with a box of other bits and pieces—an antique hand mirror, a copy of The Goldfinch with a bookmark stuck fifty pages in, the tea mug I’d bought her for Mother’s Day when I was seven.

  I wondered what she was doing right now. But the answer was obvious. Wherever Mom was, she was practicing. She played every morning for two hours, took a break, played again in the afternoon for two more.

  I’d done it too, every day.

  My fingers were resting on my own piano’s keys. I’d walked to it without realizing. I looked at my hands, slowly pressing, gently enough not to make any sound but a near-silent thump. There was something kind about the curve of the instrument, an old friend welcoming me back—but the keys beneath my fingers were as indifferent as ever. I pulled away, feeling tricked.

  There came a shock of furious playing upstairs—gorgeous, dazzling flurries raging into a snowstorm. I couldn’t tell if it was Dad or Oscar. It didn’t matter.

  I shut the lid and walked away.

  * * *

  • • •

  “Re: Met tmw—no dress code! Business casual, no fuss. Museum not Opera, YES, buuuuuut I do have a table for that other Met’s gala(!) tonight if interested in making an appearance? Might need a stylist for this one so let me know asap. xoxoxo nora”

  My stomach clenched until the second I hit send. “Thank you SO MUCH, but I already have plans tonight. Excited for tomorrow! xo Ruby.”

  I did not, in fact, have plans beyond writing back to Farrah, running around with the vacuum, giving the bathroom a quick clean, showering the Lysol smell off my skin.

  Back in my room, my hair still dripping, I gazed at the dusky sidewalk below—and saw Oscar leave the basement apartment wearing a tuxedo. It fit him loosely in the shoulders, but still looked as natural as a T-shirt on him. I pulled my soft robe tighter in case he happened to look up. Then I felt the front door shut downstairs, seconds before Dad joined him on the curb, dressed to the nines himself.

  A black sedan pulled up and Nora got out, auburn bob and LEGO posture telltale even at this distance. She lightly touched Oscar’s shoulder, smoothed the sides of her little black dress, and motioned to the car.

  I rested my head against the glass. Dad was the Met’s musical director and Oscar was his pet protégé. Why hadn’t it occurred to me that they would be going to the gala?

  Because Dad didn’t invite me.

  Nora glanced up at my window. I stepped back, feeling caught in my lie. By the time I dared look, the car was gone, leaving me in an empty house.

  Empty’s good. Empty’s the plan. I stretched my arms over my head—but the silence didn’t feel like a balm. It was heavy, dusty, full. The house sounded like it had the night after Mom left. Like we were all in the process of moving out.

  I dropped my arms. I’d said I had plans.

  I was going to get some.

  I tugged on clothes, knotted my hair into a bun, grabbed my bag, and hurried down the block—two stoops away, Jules’s building.

  I scanned the row of buzzers for the name Russo, to no avail. Which apartment was hers? She lived with her grandmother, who must have had a different last name . . . which, of course, I couldn’t remember. I hadn’t even been this close to her building’s front door since I was ten.

  Just as I was about to give up, I saw Jules tromping down the stairs inside and waved.

  She cocked her head, frowning as she came out. “Are you looking for me?”

  “You said we should catch up later. So I thought I’d give you a try.” I kept smiling, feeling more like a stalker than ever.

  “That’s sweet,” she said sourly. Her eyes dropped down my body. “You don’t look terrible.”

  “I don’t look terrible. Um.” Black leggings, gray silk flats, random, ill-fitting T-shirt. “I didn’t even look at these when I put them on.”

  “That explains it.” Jules pressed her cherry-red lips together as if in concentration, and I took the awkward beat to check out her outfit—blousy short-shorts, black ankle boots, a floppy T-shirt bearing the image of a fishing lure under a paper-thin blue leather jacket. Her hair was loose, jagged at the edges like a craft project, and she appeared to be wearing no makeup except for those lips. And yet it worked. She was art.

  She blinked like she was clicking her face out of safe mode. “Listen, I’m going out. With some friends.”

  “Oh, okay.” I started to back up.

  “I don’t have anything remotely in your size, but let me grab you something . . .” She waved at me, squinting. “Yeah. And then we’ll go, okay? I’ll be two seconds.”

  “Oh.” We.

  She was already back inside her brownstone, taking the steps three at a time. In what felt like no more than the two seconds she’d promised, she was back downstairs, holding a drapey red tank dress out to me.

  “Um . . .”

  “It goes over . . .” She glanced wistfully over her shoulder at a passing taxi. “Let me do it.”

  Before I could protest, she was shoving this thing over my head and I was pushing my arms through like a toddler and blinking down at my getup and . . . holy hell, it worked. I looked like someone who went out at night.

  She flagged the next taxi and waggled the door until I joined her inside.

  “Fifty-first and Eleventh,” she said, then pulled out her phone to text as we glided away.

  “Where are we—?”

  “My friend’s brother tends bar at this club in Midtown, so we get to sneak in. It’s terrible but we’ve made it our own. The music is awful.”

  She beamed like that was a selling point.

  My heart hammered louder the farther west we drove. Out. To a club. With strangers. I knew this was normal, this was what everybody did at all the schools around me—this was a real-life experience—but it felt jarringly like a dream where you’ve woken up in Spain with no shoes on.

  We got out of the taxi in front of a nondescript bar with a bored-looking bouncer manning the steel-gray door. My outfit gave me a burst of courage. This was a costume. I was someone else. I drew a breath and started toward the door.

  Jules grabbed me from behind and steered me away, face frozen casual.

  “Oh.” I glanced back. “Is that not—?”

  “Do you have a fake ID? Didn’t think so. We go in the VIP entrance.”

  She made air-quotes around VIP. I soon realized why. We got into the bar through the back alley, walking past an overflowing dumpster to squeak open a staff door kept open by a bent MetroCard someone had slipped into the lock-catch. Jules motioned me inside, carefully replaced the card as she shut the door, then strode ahead with renewed bounce.

  The evening had begun.

  9.

  the hallway was dark and the floor was sticky. Music thumped in a distant room and Jules was right—it was terrible! I followed her past a vacant bar to a windowless room lined with ugly velvet banquettes, where a guy and girl sat sprawled in opposite corners.

  I edged in behind Jules, straightening my dress strap as they jumped to their feet. The girl was intimidatingly pretty—Asian, model-tall, with a perfect purple ballerina bun. The guy was on the short side, olive-skinned, wearing an untucked dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up, like he’d just gotten off work on Wall Street.
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  He’s trying to look older, I realized, but then he smiled, totally affable, and I felt bad for noticing.

  Jules glanced back at me, almost shyly. “Yeah, this is Sam and Joey.”

  I couldn’t figure out whose name was whose, so I gave a general wave. “Hey.”

  Jules whipped back around, sculptural hair flying. “Meet Ruby.”

  “Hey Ruby,” Joey/Sam said in unison.

  “Her dad is Martin Chertok,” Jules added.

  They stared blankly at us—and a thrill shot through me.

  “Martin Chertok,” Jules said again, louder, like she hadn’t been heard over the thump-thump-thump of Top 40 in the next room. “The classical composer?”

  “Cool!” the tall girl said, but it was obvious she was pretending.

  “Ugh.” Jules threw herself onto one of the sofas. “Heathens. Sorry, Ruby.”

  “Not at all,” I chirped, too enthusiastically. But oh my God, I meant it. I was outside the gates of Musiclandia, and the air was so heady and clean! Actually, it smelled like beer stains in here, but still.

  Joey/Sam—I was leaning toward him being Joey—scooted closer. “Where do you go to school?”

  What a delightfully ordinary question! “Exton?”

  Everybody groaned.

  Jules slung her arm around me. “Don’t mind us. We’re victims of the public school system.”

  A boy walked in with his arms spread wide and, again, apart from Jules, everybody rose to greet him.

  She turned to me instead. “So! Tell me what you’ve been up to for the past six years.”

  Tyler, then. Still on probation.

  “A lot of piano,” I said.

  “Yes, I figured.”

  “But now I’ve quit.”

  “Why?” Jules leaned in, unblinking.

  “Because I suck.”

  “Hmmm, dubious reason.” She stood, presenting her cheek for Tyler to kiss.

  “You didn’t answer my texts,” he said. He was handsome, in a high school production of Grease kind of way. “I didn’t know if you were hanging out tonight.”

  “Oh, is that a problem?” She sat again, crossing her legs coquettishly. “Did you invite another girl?”

  “No! Jesus.” He motioned to the door. “Do you want something?”

  “Water,” she said. “Ruby?”

  “You’re still not drinking?” Tyler sounded amused.

  “Nope.” She examined her thumbnail.

  “I make one comment—”

  “Ruby, do you want a drink?” she asked, louder.

  “I’ll have a Shirley Temple,” I answered, and immediately wanted to bury my head in these disgusting cushions till I passed out from shame.

  But the model clapped. “Oh my God, I love those! I’ll have one too. But put some vodka in mine.”

  The dance floor in the other room had started filling up in the time it took to get our drinks. As I wobble-walked out with them, I found myself matching step with the bass beat whether I wanted to or not. My Shirley Temple had tasted slightly off, so I was guessing I’d also gotten the Sam upgrade. It felt . . . interesting.

  We bobbed around the side of the room, making fun of the music—dancing with exaggerated enthusiasm. Ironic dancing? This was new.

  Then Jules pointed to the front door. “I have to eat.”

  Out on the street, everybody headed north, like they were psychically linked and had already decided on a destination.

  Joey hung back. “Are you a senior?”

  “Yeah, next year.”

  “Us too. Do you know where you’re applying for college?”

  Normal. I loved normal. I could totally normal. I wobbled and Joey caught my elbow.

  “Um, not yet.” I jogged to catch up with the others, crossing the street past dark office buildings to a glowing diner. “I need to pick a life direction first. Where I can make the most impact.”

  “Oh, right,” Joey said, but he looked confused.

  We followed everybody inside to a corner booth the waitress was still clearing. The place was packed—our timing had been impeccable.

  Joey slid in beside me. “Are you going to stay in the city? I applied to Northwestern, but there’s no way I’ll get in.”

  “You’ll get in!” Sam turned to me. “He’s a math genius.”

  I coughed, abruptly on the spot, like Joey and I were on a blind date.

  Joey flushed. “I get good grades, that doesn’t mean I’m a math genius.”

  Genius. I pictured tuxedoed Oscar sitting at Nora’s table at the Met gala tonight, smiling under the ballroom lights, the set of his jaw, fingers idly tracing a tune against the edge of the tablecloth . . .

  “You calculate derivatives faster than me.” Sam opened her menu. “And I’m totally a genius, so.”

  “Have you decided on Binghamton yet?” Tyler asked Jules. The subject hadn’t changed, exactly, but this had the tone of a private conversation.

  Jules sipped her water as her boyfriend kissed her shoulder. “Nope.”

  He straightened. “Nope, you’re not applying, or nope, haven’t thought about it.”

  “I haven’t had time to think about it.”

  “With all your training.” He said it flatly, no sarcasm, but her face went cartoon red.

  “Yes, with my training and my life, which you are barely a part of.”

  “Whoa.” He raised his hands.

  “Anyway, I’m staying in the city, so you need to come to terms with that. I’m not moving out of my apartment until they forcibly evict me.”

  I squinted at her. “Why would you get kicked out of your apartment? You’re not, like, squatting—”

  “It’s rent controlled,” she said. “How else do you think we could afford it? Grandma’s a social worker, but she’s been there since the Dutch bought Manhattan, and she’s the only name on the lease. As soon as she dies, the rent goes nuclear, I’m out on my ass.”

  “Is she sick?” I asked. “I didn’t—”

  “No, Jesus, we are out of touch, aren’t we? She’s fine! Everything’s fine.”

  Everyone in the booth was frowning at Jules and me now, queasy with confusion. They snapped out of it long enough for us to all order dinner, then Joey asked, “How do you and Jules know each other?”

  “We’re neighbors,” I started, sipping from my water as Jules cut in—

  “We don’t. We used to be best friends, awww, but then Ruby here went off to Exton and I stayed in public school and she pretended not to know me anymore.”

  “Excuse me?” My mouth fell open, the straw sticking to my lip. “That is not what happened at all.”

  “Okay, cool, I’d love to hear your version. After all these years.”

  “We just . . . didn’t have the same interests anymore.”

  “Oh, this is classic. Go on.”

  “I started to get serious about my practice schedule.”

  “She plays the piano,” she explained to the table. “Or is it ‘played’ now that you’ve quit?”

  I jabbed my straw into the bottom of my cup. “And you weren’t serious about anything, so we drifted apart.”

  “I wasn’t . . . ?” She sputtered soundlessly. “Newsflash, Chertok, you’re not supposed to be serious about anything when you’re ten. I was a kid. You were a robot.”

  “What?”

  “A robot.” She jerked her arms. “‘Must not hang out, must do scales.’”

  “Only in the afternoons,” I snapped. “You could have hung out after that. We could have had sleepovers.”

  “I’d made new friends,” she said snootily.

  I had too. But I still hit the table. “So you admit it.”

  “Admit what?”

  “You dropped me.”

  She blin
ked. “Let’s call it mutual.”

  I fumed a breath. Everybody was staring.

  Jules reached across the booth and grabbed my hands. “But now we’re friends again, yay!”

  I wasn’t sure how offended to be, but she squeezed one more time and her face relaxed into a real smile and I realized . . . she was being sincere.

  I laughed. “Yay.”

  The night was easier after that. We slipped back into the club and after another sneaky Shirley Temple—Sam started calling them Shirley Temple Blacks, the actress’ grown-up name—I even attempted to dance for like three minutes.

  After a mysterious argument with Tyler in the corner of the club that ended with a public make-out session, Jules grabbed my hand, waved good-bye to the others, and marched us back outside to hail a taxi home.

  “This was fun,” I said, getting out at her building.

  “This was the usual.” She sounded strangely sad about it. But her face lightened as she extended her hand. “Give me your cell phone.” She typed something in and passed it back. “Text me if you feel like coming over. I’m skipping the run tomorrow, but if you want to join me Tuesday—”

  “Yes! See you then.”

  New friends. New topics of conversation. The new and awesome normal.

  The light was off in the basement apartment. Oscar was probably out, not that it was any of my business. I glanced at the time on my phone as I fumbled for my keys—and nearly dropped my bag.

  One in the morning. I did not do this. Ever. My dad must have filed a missing person report. I held my breath, tiptoeing into the house, primed for yells, “young lady”s, the sound of the door being blow-torched shut behind me.

  But I hadn’t gotten any frantic calls on my cell. No texts, nothing.

  All the lights were off. I had to fumble my way to the steps to my bedroom. I saw a scribbled note resting against my closed door, Dad’s handwriting.

  Working with Oscar at Lincoln Center tomorrow. Lilly Hall. Be a doll and bring us some of those pastries I like? 9am or so. xo Dad.

  I sat on the top step, staring at the note. I let out an empty laugh. Then I crumpled it and threw it at the ceiling.