“Well . . . I could always start slobbering on you and scratching myself, if you like?”
I laughed despite my nerves. “That is a very generous offer, but I’m not sure it would help.” I knew for a fact it wouldn’t help; when measured against the assemblage of seventeen-year-old boys, a salivating, flea-ridden Dominic was still a significant upgrade. “The last time I had a human audience it was only Mr. Balfy and me.”
“And was that hard for you? Singing in front of him?”
“No,” I said, musing. “Not really, I suppose; Mr. Balfy has this calm way about him. I don’t how to explain it, exactly. I knew he was paying close attention as I auditioned, but I never felt as if he watching me. Does that make sense?”
“Perfect sense,” he confirmed, evenly. “You’re saying that I overwhelm you.”
“No! Not at—” When I saw the self-amused look, I stopped. He waited until I awarded him with the smile he’d been aiming to put on my face.
“Come on,” he sang, his voice deep and smooth in my ear as he spun me and guided me toward the piano. “You know you’re going to have to start preparing yourself to sing for a much bigger audience than your Lab and me, right? You’re going to be doing this for hundreds of people in just a few months. And then, should we win this thing—and we will—thousands after that. So, I think we—woah!”
My legs gave out underneath me. I would have crumpled to a heap if Dominic hadn’t tightened his grip on my shoulders, holding me up until they remembered how to carry my weight. His hands remained fastened even when I looked over my shoulder.
“I’m okay.” Reluctantly, his hands fell away, though he continued to watch me mistrustfully, like I might drop any second. “Sorry about that,” I said, turning around slowly.
“You’re white as snow, Foster,” he observed, with something between fascination and worry.
“I just started thinking about the hundreds of people . . . and then the thousands.”
A flash of irritation erupted on his face. He closed his eyes briefly. “What was I thinking saying that to you?” He shook his head and sighed through his nose. “Sometimes I’m like a wrecking ball—which, you know, works great when you’re demolishing buildings and all, but not so much when all you want to do is re-caulk a bathtub. I’m sorry,” he said repentantly, “I was talking again without thinking.”
I smiled. “You forget who my closest friend is.”
He guffawed, and gave a wry snort. “Oh, let’s be fair now; I’m not that bad, am I?”
I judiciously circumvented that question, offering instead, “What you said was the truth. I don’t how I’m going to do it, but I need to start preparing myself for this.” I fumbled through the music resting on the stand, my hands too jittery to stay still. He rolled the cream ottoman up to the side of the piano bench. The fluffy cushion creased and collapsed as he sat down.
I swiveled around, staring straight ahead in preparation to play. I shuffled through the music one last unnecessary time, taking a deep breath that did absolutely no good. I laid my hands lightly over the keys, positioned my right foot over the pedal and promptly lost the small amount of nerve I’d worked up. I could feel the intensity of his eyes boring into my cheek, their heat flushing me from hairline to throat.
“Are you . . .” I began, then turned to look at him, “Are you going to stare at me?” It had come off more abrasive than I intended, but I didn’t no how else to phrase the question.
“Oh.” He sat up straight, looking startled, and then blank for a moment. “Am I not doing the Balfy thing? I was trying to pay close attention without watching you. I guess it didn’t work, huh?”
At that, I couldn’t help but laugh, and was relieved to find that the natural reaction relaxed me a little. Dominic attempting to espouse any of Mr. Balfy’s qualities—other than his musical prowess—was as farfetched a notion as me hoping to adopt Emily’s charismatic disposition.
“Tell me how to do Balfy,” he said enthusiastically, turning his body to the side. “Should I look away? Or watch you from the corner of my eyes?” He demonstrated different options, changing posture. With each one, the effect was only to make me laugh harder.
I covered my mouth when he scowled at me. “Sorry,” I mumbled into my hand.
He sat back on the ottoman, resting his hands supportively behind him. “Well, at least you’re laughing. Actually . . .” He suddenly lifted his eyes upward, pretending to ponder. “I seem to remember a week or so ago someone promised I could listen to the rest of her recording on the way to school, and then somehow never got around to actually letting me hear it.” His mesmerizing eyes were back on mine, alive with mischief. “And every time after that, that someone conveniently never had the recording with her when I asked about it.”
I averted my eyes, swallowing a smile. “Really? I thought for sure you’d heard it. No?” I too felt a sense of playfulness, joining the more familiar nervousness and anticipation.
A strange amalgamation, I thought to myself.
He glowered at me when I played innocent. “No,” he droned sarcastically. “I have not heard it. And you know what? I’ve changed my mind. I don’t want you to sing right now.”
“You don’t?” I asked, both surprised and not a little relieved. Of course eventually I’d have to let him hear my voice—as the vocalist, my part was somewhat imperative—but stalling a little bit longer wasn’t the end of the world, right? There was still over three months until we were expected to perform it for the class.
Oh . . .
My throat went dry, my tongue limp and heavy. Somehow I had forgotten all about that minor detail; that I would have to stand up in front of the entire class and sing. Oddly enough, singing for thirty suffused me with a greater sense of fear and intimidation than doing so for hundreds or thousands. This revelation provoked further alarm when I remembered I wouldn’t even have the piano to hide behind; Dominic was the instrumentalist. There was the option of singing harmony with me, but the rules stated clearly that only one instrument was allowed per duet.
“Foster . . .” A deep ghostly call summoned me from my thoughts. “Foster, come back to me,” the ghostly voice mocked. As the bare wall to the left of Dominic came into focus, I realized I’d be staring past him, catatonically, for who knew how long. He watched me, smiling placidly.
I raised a hand to my head, pushing back the damp tendrils coiling at my hairline. “Sorry,” I sighed. “Please feel free to throw a pillow or something at me when I do that.”
He laughed, resting his head on his shoulder. “Or maybe I’ll just see if it works like hypnosis and get you to hop on one leg and squawk like a chicken? I’m not letting you distract me again,” he put in suddenly. “As I was saying, I don’t want you to sing for me, but I do want to hear you sing.”
He didn’t elaborate further; it took me a few seconds of dissecting this riddle before I understood. I stared at him, slightly queasy.
“The tape?”
“The tape,” he confirmed.
“Now?”
He leaned forward, eyes rooted on mine. “Now.”
I returned a few minutes later with the ancient tape in hand.
The eudemonia I had once known intimately, seemed to be rapidly vanishing; it’s distant relative euphoria, replacing all that I had relied on as reasonable, prudent, and cautious. A month ago, I would rather have licked the bathroom floor than allowed Dominic to listen to this very, very bad recording of our song.
“Here it is,” I announced, walking toward him, smiling wearily and resigned.
Lying on his back on the carpet, Dominic waited as I tried to locate the exact spot. He teased me about being the last person on earth still recording music on cassettes. Hattie didn’t have a CD player, however, so if I wanted to listen to it in the car, a cassette was my only option.
I couldn’t be sure of what else was on here; the tape was full, though, containing numerous songs spanning years of my life.
“It could take
me a while to find it,” I warned.
“That’s fine. I’ll wait.” I glanced up, finding him propped up by one elbow, running a hand absently back and forth over the carpet. His expression was a mixture of halcyon and supremely satisfied.
I fretted. On my knees, my dress tucked under me and hovering over the little black box of doom, I started to regret this decision. What had I been thinking? This was much worse than singing it live. The quality would be terrible—scratchy and muffled. And, of course the raw anxiety as I waited to see whether he loved or hated it.
Terrible idea, Foster.
He pulled me from my thoughts. “You are not allowed to be upset about this,” he complained arbitrarily, his voice stern with good humor. “First of all, I’ve already listened to half of it, and secondly, it’s just silly.”
The cassette continued to screech as I pushed play, fast-forward, and stop over and over again. I pushed the play button again and the song gurgled to life, struggling to keep up with my impatient commands. I listened for half a second as a six-year-old me belted—mid-note—at a very high octave. Definitely not it. I moved frantically, stabbing the stop button instead of fast-forward, the one I’d meant to hit.
It was too late. He bolted upright, eyes alive with interest.
“Woah, woah, woah. What was that?” he asked pointing to the black box.
“Hm? Oh, that? That’s nothing,” I said dismissively, waving a hand.
“That”—he gestured again at the recorder—“was not ‘nothing.’”
“It is nothing,” I defended. “It’s from over ten years ago. You want to hear the Senior Piece, right?”
For whatever reason, Dominic found this amusing, taking my extended finger in his hand before I could push the button—or take the tape and run.
“Foster,” he cooed, as if he were speaking to a petulant child, “You’re being ridiculous.”
“I am not.”
He sniggered. I looked up at him.
I watched him smile in appreciation, then sigh luxuriantly. “I’m tempted to keep this thing going and see how many more of those looks I can get out of you.”
“What? What looks?” I asked, confused. My face felt tight and pinched, but without any reflective surfaces nearby, I was unable to see it.
“Let’s just say your close association with Emily has taught you a thing or two about how to give a fierce glare.”
“Me?”
“Oh, yeah.”
I shook my head. “No . . . I don’t—I can’t—”
“I like it,” he interjected, flicking an eyebrow high and raising my hand to his lips. A hot flush worked its way up my throat when he kissed the sensitive tips of my fingers. “Okay, look,” he said, switching to the voice of someone attempting to be reasonable. “If you really don’t want to share whatever that was with me, I understand. I won’t force you. I’ll just be happy that you let me listen to the other song.”
I stared at his angelic face, highly suspicious. I searched for the roguish angle he was using, certain those blue eyes were not only beautiful but fallaciously innocuous.
“Really?” I asked. “That’s it? No demands?”
The angel smiled, melting my heart into a puddle of lava.
“Foster, I don’t ever want you to feel like you have to do something,” he said earnestly. “I only push when I think it’s absolutely necessary. And actually,” he added, a little melancholy, “if you would rather me not hear the song, we can skip that part, too.” He sounded thoroughly sincere, which made me even more skeptical.
“Are you using reverse psychology on me?”
A slow grin stretched from one side to the other. “Is it working?”
I laughed. “Very well.”
“So you’ll tell me?” he prompted, not letting the gambit go to waste.
“Okay, I’ll tell you about it,” I surrendered, begrudgingly.
Dominic crossed his ankles and folded his arms beneath the pillow, opening his face emphatically to show he was ready for the story. I took a deep cleansing breath and made to get comfortable myself, pulling my legs close to the side of my body and rearranging my dress so that it covered my chilled bare feet.
“I’m waiting,” he called, with eyes closed.
“I’m deciding where to start,” I answered.
He made a noise that could have been a grunt or a clearing of his throat. “I don’t think the place you start is as important as the starting itself.”
A shock at the base of my spine had me sitting up straighter. The words were instantly familiar to me—the same ones Mr. Michaels had used when speaking to Dominic, just before he’d succumbed to the grief. The rest of that story I hadn’t heard, once more thankful that I had managed to make myself run away at the last minute.
I studied his face; there was no sign of distress. Calm and a little impatient waiting for me to begin, he continued to lay inert. For a terrifying second, I thought maybe he was trying to inconspicuously insinuate that he knew I had been there. Could it be that? No, I answered almost immediately. While he oftentimes went about revealing or gleaning information in a humorous or cleverly deceptive manner, passive-aggressive was not his style. I knew without a doubt that he would come right out and ask me if he had suspicions.
I still felt guilty about the eavesdropping, but consoled myself with the fact that I had left. I knew nothing that he didn’t want me to know. That counted.
“Still waiting . . .” he sighed.
“Right,” I said quickly. “So, when I was six, my dad thought it would be a fun father-daughter outing for us to go and see a baseball game. He drove the two of us all the way to New Britain to see a minor league Rock Cats’ game. My parents were both extremely busy at that time, spending most of their days in the lab; they rarely had time to do stuff like that—especially my dad. As the head of the physics department, his employees relied on his expertise and needed his consent before proceeding with many of the hazardous chemicals and—”
I heard low chuckles and stopped, shifting my focus from the carpet to Dominic’s face. It was serene, save for the amusement curving around his lips. I blushed, realizing that I had begun to ramble and that he found it particularly hilarious when I did so.
“Anyway,” I mumbled to myself, and looked away toward the far wall so I could concentrate. “Once we got to the stadium and after we found our seats, my father attempted to explain to me the fundamentals of baseball.” It was my turn to laugh as I remembered. “Well, my dad—having never been to, or watched a baseball game himself—or any sporting game, for that matter—finished explaining the dugout, the bases, and a bit of baseball terminology before running out of things to share with me. I can remember him searching the program for information like he would one of his physics journals, but other than the names of the players and baseball stats, it wasn’t much help. So, in a stadium that wasn’t even halfway filled up with fans, we ended up sitting quietly until the game started.”
I was lost in the memory, remembering it all like it was only yesterday: my skin sticking to the caustic seats, the smell of fresh cut grass, plump hot dogs filling the arena with their unfamiliar-to-me aroma, and the sweet-tangy scent of SPF 100 dripping off elbows, wrists, and directly down the middle of my sternum.
“It was unseasonably hot for July,” I continued, then choking on nothing, coughed. I could actually feel the suffocating heat, see the thunderheads rolling above. “It had been raining off and on all day. We were warned they could potentially call the game off or end it prematurely if it didn’t let up. My dad was worried about us getting caught in a storm. He would have taken me and gone home, I’m sure, gladly abandoning the game altogether and finding another adventure for the day—something familiar, something that wasn’t completely foreign to the both of us like a museum or science exhibit. But before he could think too seriously about it, the announcer was introducing players one by one and asking us to rise for the singing of the Star Spangled Banner.”
From my peripheral, I thought I saw Dominic’s eyes flutter open. I was too deep into my story to know for sure, though.
“It was an odd experience,” I recalled. “One minute everyone was yelling and laughing, and the next, you could have heard someone on the opposite side of the stadium sneeze. Some people closed their eyes, some held their hats to their hearts . . . but I couldn’t take my eyes off her. My dad let me stand on the seat, holding me around the waist so I didn’t fall. It had just started to sprinkle, but my mom—always prepared for the unpredictable—had packed my slicker in my backpack. It had this attachable hood, too.” I was picturing the slanted drizzle, the coppery mound the young woman stood on, her bright red heels and a calf length white dress—printed with red, yellow, and blue flowers.
“I could see her perfectly,” I whispered. “Before she even opened her mouth to sing, I remember thinking to myself how beautiful she was. Someone in a suit had just jogged up to her. It looked like he was offering to cover her with an umbrella, I couldn’t hear what she said, but she smiled and shook her head. Then, she was raising the microphone, closing her eyes, and turning toward the crowd with this look on her face I didn’t understand.”
Dominic moved to rest on his side, one hand clasped around his neck, his eyes open and eager for me to continue. I met the inquisitive look and felt my lips turn upwards as I slipped back into the story.
“When she started singing, it couldn’t have been much longer after the first two notes that I figured it out,” I said softly. “The look on her face; it was joy. Only I didn’t really understand that, then. I was too young, I think, to recognize it. I just knew there was a difference between the way that woman looked and what someone looked like eating a sundae or opening a present; it was more than happiness. Everything about her changed in an instant. I felt something while watching her, something strange and wonderful happen to me. Again, I couldn’t name it, but I began to sing with her.” I laughed softly, staying rooted in the memory. “I’d only heard The Star Spangle Banner sung once or twice, so I didn’t know all the words. But I couldn’t not sing with her. I had to. I can’t explain it better than that. I just had to sing.”
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