Before, After, and Somebody In Between

by Jeannine Garsee

  I don’t know. Maybe? No! God, I hope so.

  Mrs. Brinkman’s not thrilled about me going out on a school night, but Danny promises to have me home by ten. We hang out at a coffee shop near Shaker Square, and lucky for me Danny does most of the talking while I sit there happily, holding his hand under the table. Thump-thump, thump-thump. Move out of the way, ribs, my heart’s gonna explode!

  Even though I don’t ask him, he eventually brings up Caitlin. “We broke up a few days ago. She kind of gets on my nerves.” Why? What does she do? Tell me, tell me, so I don’t do the same thing! “I see her around at the ski club, but that’s about it.”

  “She skis, too, huh?” Okay. I can learn.

  “Well, that’s all we have in common. I guess her dad told her musicians don’t make any kind of money, so she started giving me grief about going to Juilliard—”

  Wait. Stop the clock! “You’re going to Juilliard?”

  “Oh, yeah. Music composition. I passed my audition and everything.”

  Oh, if I wasn’t so hot for him, I’d rip him to pieces.

  Danny looks off into the distance. “Cait couldn’t care less about my music. She’s clueless, you know? I mean, music to a musician is like what, art to an artist? Writing to a writer? It’s all you can think about, it’s like—”

  Yes, yes! I know exactly what he means. How dare that diamond-nosed midget expect him to give it up!

  “A passion,” I blurt out, finishing his sentence. “I know! I know what that feels like.” At least I did, at one time. And now my mind wanders to Mr. Brinkman’s cello, just sitting there in its dusty case, alone and unused…

  Danny watches me intently for a second, then tosses some bills on the table. “Come on back with me, Gina. I’ve got a surprise for you.”

  He lives a few blocks from the Brinkmans, in a house twice as big but not nearly as homey. And, at this moment, definitely unoccupied. Trying to squelch the ding-ding-dinging in my brain, I ask innocently, “So, like where are your folks?”

  “Out,” is all he says as he tows me over to his piano. “I finished that piece I was working on, and I wanted you to be the first one to hear it.” His gold class ring glitters as his fingers sweep over the keys, and after he finishes the jazzy, romantic tune, he asks, “Can you guess the title? I kind of named it after you.”

  Martha? I think stupidly. And then he shows me what he wrote at the top of the page:

  “Autumn” by Daniel Brinkman

  For Gina

  “Wow.” That’s me, I remember. Me, Gina. “That’s so cool! Thanks.”

  Pleased, he leans over to kiss my cheek. “So, you want something to drink?”

  “Sure.” I follow him to the bar where he pours two Cokes, adding a smidgen of rum to both. “Yikes, what’re you trying to do, get me drunk?”

  “No way. Uncle Dick’ll kill me if I bring you back drunk.”

  “Oh, he’s already seen me—” I stop as his eyebrows shoot up. Straight, black, impossibly thick eyebrows, like those dark, sexy guys in foreign films. “Never mind. It’s a long story.”

  Smiling, Danny brushes his knuckles along the side of my face. “So when are you gonna start telling me some of these long stories of yours?”

  I take a gulp of my Coke, tasting the rum. Gina, I know, is treading on ver-ry dangerous ground here. “Oh, one of these days I’ll tell you all my secrets.”

  “Promise?”

  “Promise.” Another big fat lie.

  He shows me around his Taj Mahal house and then leads me, kind of bashfully, into his bedroom. My brain alarm dings even louder, but my feet keep moving. I case the photos on his dresser, jealously searching for Caitlin, as he flips a CD into the player. Once again, Elvis starts singing, “Wise men say…” and Danny, without a word, yanks his sweater over his head, holds out a hand, and smiles that dark, sexy smile of his—and that’s when it hits me.

  Tonight’s the night.

  Setting my Coke aside, he pulls me down beside him onto the fluffy plaid comforter. “Gina. Have you ever been with a guy?”

  Dazed, I shake my head. What, he can’t tell?

  “I promise I won’t do anything you don’t want me to do. It’s just that—it’s like I’ve known you my whole life, and I don’t even know the first thing about you. Just that you’re so, so beautiful.” He brushes my hair back and starts kissing me everywhere.

  Okay, okay. There’s gotta be a thousand reasons why I better come to my senses again. Like, what about those incurable diseases they warn you about in school? Oh, and don’t forget Momma’s you-let-a-boy-into-your-pants-once-you-ain’t-never-gonna-see-him-again speech?

  “Don’t be nervous,” he says softly into my ear, his hands already under my yellow cashmere sweater, unhooking my bra, pulling it free. He tries to slide my sweater over my head, but, horribly shy, I push him feebly away. So he fastens his lips to my throat, then moves them lower…and lower. “I’d never do anything to hurt you, Gina,” he says between pants. “If you want me to stop, then tell me, okay? Trust me.”

  I soak up every word, wondering what the old Martha would say—but no, I won’t think about Martha. I’m Gina now, and I’m with Danny, Danny, Danny…

  So I do it. I trust him, and I let him go all the way, trying not to pay attention as he fumbles, one-handed, with what I guess is a condom wrapper. I’ve seen R-rated movies with Shavonne, so I figured I’d know what to do, or at least be able to fake my way through it. But it kind of hurts, and it’s faster than I expected, too fast for me to do anything back.

  Then he holds me so tight, I can feel my bones crack. “I love you, Gina.”

  And Gina whispers back, “I love you, too.”

  33

  Professor Leopold Moscowitz: short and stocky, with a flowing gray mane, thick overgrown eyebrows, and clacking dentures. First thing out of his mouth at the start of my lesson is that he doesn’t, under any circumstances, “poot up vit boo-shit.” “Boo-shit” meaning not practicing, not paying attention, tardiness, skipping lessons, or not progressing as fast as he thinks I should. He doesn’t waste his time, he adds, with no-talent nobodies. At least that’s what I think he said. His English sucks, and those clacking teeth drive me nuts.

  “Play,” he says, thrusting a pile of music at me.

  “Can I look it over first?”

  “Vat’s to look over?” Clack, clack. “You can either play it or you cannot play it. And vee only have an hour, so do not vaste any more of my time.”

  Sheesh! Slowly I open the case, and the professor stares at the cello like I just unveiled the Holy Grail.

  “Magnificent,” he murmurs, touching the scroll. “Treat it with kindness, with respect. It vill be your best friend.”

  I lift the cello out with cold, cold hands. I haven’t played for so long, how can I possibly play now? I couldn’t even bring myself to tune it, and had Danny do it for me. Until now, this very moment, I’ve hardly touched the thing at all.

  But the cello climbs into my arms with a will of its own, the bow fitting into my fingers as naturally as a pencil. I fill my lungs, straighten my shoulders, and concentrate only on the music in front of me. When the notes come out frazzled, I wonder if it’s too late. Maybe it’s already gone, everything I learned.

  “Stop, stop!” Covering his ears. “Oy, I can’t bear it!”

  “Um, I haven’t played for a while—”

  His beady eyes gleam. “Hmph!” Clack, clack. “That is perfectly obvious.”

  “—and I’m trying to focus, and—”

  “Do not focus! Just look at the notes and play.”

  I suck air in, whoosh it out slowly, and raise my bow again. Okay, don’t focus, don’t concentrate, just look—at—the—notes—and—play! I touch the bow to the strings, and after another wobbly start, I’m back—my eyes see the notes, and the music flows from my brain, down to my fingers, and out through the cello. I don’t even know what I’m playing, but it’s very heavy on the vibrato, which is when you ma
ke your fingers quiver on the strings. Mine quiver so hard, my left wrist almost cracks in two.

  I finish with a dramatic screech and then sit there, panting. The roof doesn’t cave in. In fact, nothing happens at all. Is he the least bit impressed? Who can tell? That homicidal look on his face seems to be his normal expression.

  Silence, heavy shrug, and one final clack. “Okay, you need vork. But ve’ll see vat you can do.”

  …

  From then on, I spend every spare moment with either my cello or with Danny. Movies, dinners, playing our instruments together, and concerts, lots of concerts! The ones at Severance Hall are my favorite. Every time we go, I sit there in a trance, soaking up the music, and picturing me up there in the middle of that orchestra. I want to see the conductor’s face for a change. I want to feel the hot lights on my skin, feel the music from every side, feel that thundering applause—and know, without a doubt, that people are clapping for me.

  Danny’s the only one who even remotely understands. Now he’s teaching me how to write music, and it’s hard, but a lot of fun. I hate when we’re not together, and I think about him every second. I even sleep with the yellow sweater I wore that first night, just so I can smell him all night long.

  Tonight Nikki catches me floating upstairs after he drops me off. “Nice hickey,” she comments with a vicious grin.

  I slap my hand over my neck. “Um, so how was rehearsal?”

  Nikki tugs at her leotard. “Awesome! One of the girls ripped up her knee, so they gave me her part. Now I’ll be onstage even longer, and I get my name and bio in the program.” She pirouettes alongside me as I make a beeline to the john. “Did Danny tell you about the party?”

  “What party?”

  “Natalie’s birthday party tomorrow.”

  “He didn’t say anything about a party.”

  “Oh, he probably just forgot.”

  When Danny calls me a while later for our usual bedtime chat, I lie there with Taffy’s chin on my ankle, waiting for a chance to ask about Natalie’s party—but he goes on and on about his “Autumn” composition and how he just now decided to enter it in a competition, and, well, it’d be rude to change the subject.

  Then his dad, sounding unnervingly like Momma, hollers at him to “get off the goddamn phone!” So he finishes with, “Love you, babe. God, I can’t wait to see you!”

  “Me, too.” His father’s bitching grows louder, and I quickly add, “So I guess I’ll see you tomorrow at—” But the phone goes dead. “Asshole!” I snap, meaning his dad, of course, and Taffy’s head perks up, like, Hey, what’s with you?

  Poor Danny. Maybe music’s not the only thing we have in common.

  34

  It’s weird that Danny doesn’t call me before Natalie’s party, but I’m so busy figuring out what to wear, I hardly give it a thought. I wiggle into a short ruffled skirt and tights and an autumny-colored turtleneck sweater, then blow dry my hair while Nikki hands out pointers.

  Then, as I’m twirling in front of the mirror, I hear, “Hey, who’s this?”

  In her hand is Jerome’s class picture. She took it out of my trunk!

  Out loud I say calmly, “Oh, him? He’s just a friend,” but inside I’m screaming: Get out of my shit and mind your own beeswax!

  “So who is he, like your boyfriend or something?” she asks, staring at the X’s and O’s Shavonne drew on the back.

  I force a laugh. “My boyfriend? No, he’s just somebody I used to know.” From where? From school? From the neighborhood? Jesus, no, not the neighborhood. Whatever possessed me to leave that picture right on top? Am I subconsciously trying to screw up?

  With a sunny smile, I pry it away, bury it, and snap the latch of my trunk. Nikki doesn’t mention it again, but on the way to the party she sends me odd searching looks, like she’s trying to figure something out.

  Except for the other Brinkmans and a couple of girls from school, I don’t know anyone at Natalie’s party. Most of the kids are Natalie’s pals, and Nikki introduces me as “a friend of the family.” They all say hi and then promptly ignore me. Danny, too bad for me, doesn’t seem to be around.

  My unspoken question gets an answer when I hear Natalie complain, “That brother of mine is so totally dead! I can’t believe he went to New York. My mom’s ready to kill him.”

  “Typical,” Nikki says with her usual flick of a hand. “So when does he get back?”

  “Tomorrow night, I guess. If they don’t get snowed in.”

  New York? Danny never said a word about New York. “What’s he doing there?”

  They both look at me like they forgot I’m in the room, and Natalie nudges Nikki with her bony elbow. “Skiing, what else? You mean he didn’t tell you?”

  Nikki sends me a semiapologetic smile. “I told you he forgot. His memory’s awful. Nat, you remember last year, when he took Caitlin to homecoming and forgot to hire the limo? God, she was mad! Oh, and I remember—”

  Blah, blah, blah. I move away, sick and unsteady. So does this mean Danny went skiing with Caitlin? And purposely didn’t tell me because he knew I wouldn’t like it?

  I wish like hell I’d never come to this stupid party. Nobody’s talking to me, I didn’t think to bring a gift, and the music they’re listening to sucks beyond belief. I hide out in the kitchen for a while, stuffing my face with Fritos and listening to Danny’s dad howling uproariously in the next room. He’s had a few too many. God, I wish I could join him!

  When I get back to the family room, Nikki and Natalie are gone. Completely invisible to everyone else, I fetch my coat and slink out the back door into the garage. My heart pings at the sight of Danny’s red Corvette. Do I consider myself dumped, or do I have to wait till it’s announced?

  Swallowing hard, I rub the hickey under my turtleneck. Voices hum just beyond the door at the other end of the garage. I move closer in time to hear Natalie say, “…with my dad acting like an obnoxious asshole as usual. It’s so embarrassing.”

  “Yeah, I know,” Nikki answers. “Been there, done that.”

  “At least your dad’s sober now.”

  “Yeah, well. Who knows for how long?”

  “At least he goes to meetings. Mine won’t.”

  “Well, mine has no choice if he wants to stay married to my mom.”

  Meetings? As in AA meetings? Mr. Brinkman?

  Edging closer, I sneak a peek through the window. Natalie, huddled in the crushed snow against the side of the garage, puffs on a cigarette before passing it to Nikki. Trust me on this one: it’s not tobacco they’re smoking.

  “They still doing okay?” Natalie’s foggy breath clouds her semiskeletal face.

  “Far as I can tell.”

  “They talking about it yet?”

  “About Rachel? Nah. Not a single friggin’ word.”

  “Well, you’re just as bad,” Natalie points out.

  “What’s to talk about? I mean, it’s been almost two years.”

  “You miss her?”

  “Duh! What do you think?”

  “Well, you always said she got on your nerves,” Natalie reminds her.

  “I did not!”

  “No big deal, Nik. Sisters get on each other’s nerves all the time. Brothers, too,” she adds darkly.

  “Yeah, whatever. Let’s not talk about this anymore.”

  Damn. Why not? I found out more about this family in the past five minutes than I’ve been able to learn over the past few weeks.

  “Pretty good.” Nikki, mellowing out, watches a puff of pot smoke curl away from her lips and vanish into the air. “Way better than the crap I got from Justin last week.”

  I swear I don’t know what blows me away more, finding out that Mr. Brinkman’s in AA or watching Nikki smoke a joint.

  “So what’s the story with what’s-her-face?” Natalie asks abruptly. “Is she banging my brother? C’mon, Nik. I know he tells you everything.”

  “Hey, why don’t you ask him yourself?”

  “I’m no
t asking him anything. He couldn’t even hang around for my party.”

  “Yeah, that was harsh. Anyway,” Nikki adds, lowering her voice, “I’m not a hundred percent sure, but I think she prefers her guys a lit-tle bit darker.”

  “Huh?”

  “We’re getting ready to come over here, right? And she’s got this box or something that she keeps all her junk in, and there’s this picture of some black guy, with hugs and kisses all over the back!”

  Natalie nearly strangles on her next toke. “Shut up!”

  “Swear to God, Nat, I almost peed my pants. Oh, and then she like grabs it right out of my hand. It was funny as hell. You should’ve seen her face.”

  “Well, you know what they say about men of color.” Giggling, Natalie whispers something to Nikki, something that sends them both into a spluttering fit. And I know what she said, because Shavonne told me it’s true.

  Spinning around, I rush back toward the house, whacking my leg against the bumper of the car. This is just—too—much! First Danny sneaking off to New York like that. What did he think? I wouldn’t come to this party, wouldn’t figure it out? Then I find out Mr. Brinkman goes to AA. How is that even possible? He’s the most perfect person I know! And now his treacherous daughter is starting rumors about me?

  Somehow I endure the rest of this suck-fest, only because Mr. and Mrs. Brinkman hang around till the very end. I hit my bed the instant I get home, but sleep doesn’t come. Instead, I keep imagining a ski lodge and two shadowy figures in front of a fire, sipping spiked hot chocolate, laughing and whispering, then sneaking off to have mad, passionate sex. Because even though it’d been my first time, no way can I say the same for Danny. That one-handed rubber trick of his gave him away.

  Huh. I bet Caitlin isn’t afraid to take off her clothes. I bet she prances around naked with hardware through her nipples. I twist and flop, knotting the sheets around my throat. What if he gives her his ring again? What if I lose him forever?

  Finally I sleep, and then I don’t want to wake up. I spend the next day in bed with only Taffy for company, wondering if this is how Momma feels when she locks herself up in her room.