Reckless Abandon

by Jeannine Colette

  He hands each student a notebook made of brown leather-like material, asking them to take notes and starts the lesson by placing Bluetooth speakers on a table and synching his iPod to them. I assume he’s going to play something classical. Instead, he completely shocks me when I hear heavy metal.

  The song is one I recognize easily. The students look up with mild curiosity. You start to feel old when you meet people who have never heard Metallica.

  “‘Enter Sandman’ moves at a tempo of 123 beats per minute. Listen to the E minor chord at the top.” The class, me included, listen to the sound of the guitar playing. “Now, hear the buildup of the beats. It hits you fast and then never lets up. The riff continues throughout the song.”

  It’s hard not to be sucked in. The tune is quite catchy for a song about a child’s nightmares and the destruction of the perfect family.

  The students bob and move their heads, some closing their eyes trying to listen for the rhythm. Asher is entranced as well, lost in the song, almost too familiar. Its heavy undertones of a child being frightened by the dark remind me of the story he told me about being an orphan. That is, if his version of the truth was, in actuality, the truth.

  Ignoring the memory, I go back to watching the class as they soak in the song. When it is over, he talks to the students about the rhythm and together they describe their emotions when hearing it. In my head, I do my own assessment. I felt a gust of energy. I could have taken a run or charged the field. The faster the song got, the harder the beats hit my chest and I felt a rush.

  When the discussion is over, Asher turns to his iPod and plays them the same song by a band using only four cellos. The students are mesmerized that the song they were just listening to was recreated using only the instruments they are learning to master.

  By the end of the sixty-minute class, with the room sectioned off into groups of four, Asher has the students playing the main riff. It’s incredible. So incredible, I stopped taking notes because I was so caught up in the lesson.

  When I saw him play the cello last week, I knew he was skilled. What I was not aware of was how good he was with the students. Some, I am learning, have known Asher for years. Imagine my surprise to find out he’s been teaching underprivileged kids in Harlem for the last five years.

  His rapport with his old students is apparent in the way they address each other with respect and familiarity. His newer students are given the same attention. If he was telling the truth about his mother being a music teacher, teaching out of their home, than he gets his grace from her.

  When the students gather their belongings, I watch as they thank Asher and tell him they’ll see him next week. I gather up my tote bag and am walking back toward my office when his deep voice calls out from behind me.

  “How’d I do, boss?”

  How did he do? Amazing. He was kind and interesting and a truly exceptional teacher.

  I won’t tell him that. Instead, I turn my cheek letting my voice travel over my shoulder. “You should have submitted a lesson plan for approval.” And then I walk into my office and close the door.

  I stay in my office until I am positive Asher has left the building. When the coast is clear, I rise from my desk and walk into Crystal’s classroom.

  Halfway through the door, I stop short at the sight of an exotic-looking woman standing in the middle of the room.

  I fall back and straighten myself, trying to emulate the composure of the woman standing in front of me. She is tall, with jet-black hair and matching eyes, wearing a blood-red wrap-around dress. Her shoulders are back, and she has a stance so fierce I want to ask how she does it.

  Her irises enlarge when she sees me. “You.”

  “May I help you?” I say, straightening out my cardigan.

  She offers me a wicked smile and assesses me in a way that makes me uncomfortable. “You work here?”

  I hold out my hand in greeting. “I’m Emma Paige, the assistant director.” There are many beautiful women in New York so it shouldn’t surprise me there is something familiar about her. “Have we met?”

  She doesn’t shake my hand. Instead, she looks me up and down with a knowing look. “I’m looking for Alexander Asher.”

  Of course she is. I narrow my eyes at her. “May I ask what this is about?” I may not like the man but, apparently, he is somewhat important to this city. She could be a deranged fan or a scorned ex-girlfriend. On second thought, maybe I should send her his way.

  “His office told me I’d find him here . . . teaching.” She says the word teaching in mockery.

  With my shoulders pushed back, I answer her as honestly as I can. “His class ended thirty minutes ago.”

  The dark-haired woman looks at me again the way a feline looks at catnip the moment before it pounces. Her eyes linger on the scar on my right hand.

  I turn in my injured hand, hiding the scar. Something about the way she is looking at it—at me—makes me feel like she knows more about me than I’d like. Though I know it’s impossible.

  “Did Asher bring you on board or did you make your way here on your own?”

  It is not any of her business but I feel compelled to let this woman know I am not at the beck and call of Alexander Asher.

  “Frank Leon contacted me.” I pause a beat and then add, “How do you know Mr. Asher?”

  The tip of her tongue is riding along the underside of her teeth. “Interesting. Hundreds of people applied and you get a phone call.”

  The hairs on the back of my neck stand straight. “I’m sorry but I didn’t get your name.”

  “If Asher comes back, tell him Malory Dean was here.” Her heels click on the hardwood floors as she walks to the doorway.

  “I will,” I say, even though it’s a complete lie.

  Over the next three Fridays, I sit in my office and listen in on three more of Asher’s sessions. He continues his lesson on listening to the music. They listened to “Rolling in the Deep” by Adele, a popular song about giving your heart to someone and having it “played, to the beat” and the week after it was “Apologize” by One Republic. The man has a tone for the melodramatic.

  Today, they’re listing to “Wonderwall” by Oasis and I’m bemused he chose a song about a man needing saving.

  I don’t tell anyone Asher’s class is my favorite and while there are other things I should be doing, I find a way to make sure I’m in my office so I can mock participate from the small space in the back.

  When Asher’s classes are done, he hangs back for a few minutes, doing God knows what. I sit in my office practically holding my breath listening to the stillness of the adjacent room until he decides to pack up and head back to wherever it is he comes from. If I were a dreamer I’d hope he were standing there, conjuring up the courage to walk into my office and apologize, even profess his love to me. But I am a realist and I know what happens when you start dreaming: you get your heart broken. The reality is he never enters my office and I’m grateful for that. Feigning indifference is exhausting enough without having to be in direct contact with him.

  Today, after Asher’s class is complete and he has left the vicinity, I make my way down to the first floor to accept a shipment we are expecting.

  When the shipment arrives, I open every box and make sure they are all filled with the exact books I requested and the precise quantity is here. When I am satisfied with the delivery, I tell the man from UPS he can leave and I bring the boxes into the supply room, myself, to ensure they are where they are supposed to be.

  I lock the door to the supply closet and walk the hallway back toward the stairwell when I hear my name said from inside one of the offices. No one is calling my name. Instead, it’s being said in conversation.

  “We played Heinz Hall together. They gave her a solo that would have blown you away. It was incredible.”

  That is Frank. If I didn’t know his voice, I know he is the only person here who played in the Pittsburgh symphony with me. It is against my better judgment and eve
rything I stand for but for some reason I feel compelled to stop, step closer, and listen in.

  “I saw a few clips on YouTube. She was very good.” Asher’s distinct masculine voice echoes through the wall. Why isn’t he back on his merry way to his dark fortress ruling the city? And “very good”? I was magnificent! The term good shouldn’t even be an adjective allowed to describe how well I played. “How is she doing as assistant director?”

  “She is possibly the one person who cares about this place more than you do,” Frank replies and is followed by silence. Damn Asher really knows how to take his dramatic pauses. He’s the kind of person who makes you want to say something just to fill in the void. “I’m glad you informed me of her accident.”

  “That wasn’t me.”

  “Well, I’m glad your office told me. I had no idea.” Frank’s tone takes a nosedive into the melodramatic. “Talent like Emma Paige should not be wasted. She’s remarkably brave to have gone through what she has.”

  I fight an urge to kick the wall.

  “What was she like? Before the accident, I mean?”

  Frank chortles. “You mean because she’s so serious? You think it has something to do with the accident?”

  I assume Asher is nodding his head, since I can’t see or hear his response.

  “What was Emma Paige like a year ago?” Frank asks himself out loud. His seat creaks back and forth and that’s the only sound I hear from a few seconds.

  “Fire.” He finally states. “She was fire, like a bolt of lightening striking down on the stage. Emma was fierce and she had this confidence about her that as soon as she walked out on stage, you knew you were going to hear magic.

  “She wasn’t cocky though. No, she was kind and shared the accolades. It made it hard for the rest of us to hate her.” Frank laughs at his own joke and then his tone comes back down. “Emma was . . . is . . . very special. You’d be hard-pressed to find someone as genuine as her. Don’t let the frown fool you.

  He continues. “I spoke to her a few times about playing again. Apparently it would take a miracle to get her to lift a bow. Praise be the person who gets her to try.” Frank’s words are followed by more silence and I’d kill to see the expression on Asher’s face. “Well . . . needless to say, she’s doing an outstanding job.”

  Asher lets out a loud breath accompanied the sound of his chair rubbing against the floor as if he leaned back in his seat. “Let’s hope so.”

  I push off the wall I’ve been glued to and make my way down the hall and back up to my office. My teeth are rubbing together fiercely.

  Let’s hope so.

  Let’s hope I don’t ram his cello up his—you know where I’m going with this. Alexander Asher is making the douche with a flute look like Romeo.

  I swing open the heavy stairwell door like it weighs as much as a feather and huff my way into Lisa’s classroom.

  She’d asked if I would swing by her beginner’s class; she still hasn’t gotten an intern and it’s starting to cause her problems. Eight kids, all between the ages of seven and nine. It’s even younger than I was when I started to play.

  By the time I get to the room, the students are all in their seats. It’s the fifth lesson for them, so they know where to go. Lisa begins by showing each child how to hold the instrument properly. Walking from child to child, she rests the violin on the collarbone, explaining the left hand and the shoulder should support the weight while the head stabilizes the violin on the collarbone.

  It’s an awkward posture for a child to hold.

  By the time Lisa has gotten to child eight, the first four kids are already losing their proper hold. I can see why she asked for assistance. She instructs them to grab the bow with the right hand and starts to talk about up strokes and down strokes.

  I see a young boy struggling with the instrument, squirming in his seat like he has ants in his pants. Walking around to his spot in the room, I take a chair and sidle up next to him.

  “Hi,” I whisper.

  The young boy just stares at me. His eyes big and brown, darker than mine. I look down at my paper and his seating placement to find out his name. “Are you Charlie?”

  Charlie nods. His face is set in a frown.

  “My name is Emma. Do you mind if I help you?” My voice is soft, so as not to disrupt the rest of the class. When Charlie nods that it’s okay, I place my hands on the violin, resting it properly on his neck. “Relax your neck. You’re very tense. You’ll hurt yourself this way. Rest your head right here.” I pat down and he rests his head a bit. “Very good, Now, place your left hand right here.” I move his hand in place, noting it’s very stiff. “If you hold your bow up in your right hand, it will help relieve the tension in your left. Does that make sense?”

  Charlie nods but I don’t think he entirely gets it. He’s still very young. In time, the instrument will seem like second nature to him. Until then, it will take practice.

  He takes the bow, placing his thumb on the base and the other four fingers to rest at the top.

  “Good job, buddy.” His finger placement is great except for the pinkie. “Don’t hook your pinkie like that.” I think for a moment, trying to make this lesson relatable to a seven-year-old. “Do you like Peter Pan?”

  “Like Jake and the Neverland Pirates?”

  Who the hell is that? I look up to Lisa, who is assisting another child. She gives me an assuring nod that this Jake is, in fact ,just like Peter Pan. She would know, she has two children of her own.

  “You see this guy?” I pinch Charlie’s pinkie with my thumb and pointer finger. “This is Captain No-Hook. Can you say that?”

  Charlie lets out a laugh. “Captain No-Hook.”

  A smile crosses my face. “Yeah, Captain No-Hook. Don’t let this guy hook your instrument.”

  “Does that mean I’m a pirate?” His eyes light up with the question.

  I nod and continue to smile. “Yes. Now don’t let Captain No-Hook hook your violin.”

  Charlie looks at his fingers carefully and tries very hard to keep them in place. To my surprise, he does it correctly. I just taught him how to properly hold an instrument. I look over at Lisa who is nodding and smiling. My face blushes a bit. Yeah, teaching is pretty cool.

  I stand to see if any of the other kids need help when a commanding figure in the doorway catches my attention. I almost trip over a backpack when I catch the intense stare of the one person I don’t need seeing me right now.

  Asher.

  He is looking through the partially opened doorway, his brows creased and his head tilted ever so slightly. His lips are pursed but not the way he does when he’s mad. This time, he looks thoughtful.

  He’s different. Something about him has changed and I’m afraid to find out what it is.

  I lower my chin and go back to helping the students. After a few minutes I risk a look back at the doorway to find it empty. I don’t know exactly how I feel about that.

  If my mom knew what I was about to do she’d freak out.

  If my dad knew what I was about to do he’d cry.

  I kinda feel like doing both right now.

  It’s a warm October day, warmer than the past few weeks. My park is filled with people who are getting their last bit of sunshine until the cold weather settles in.

  I’m here later than I usually am. I like to get to my park before the girl with the wrong violin shows up. Today, however, I paced in front of the chesterfield, staring at my Laura Vigato violin propped up on the cushion, wondering if I should go through with it.

  When I left Cedar Ridge in August to come to New York, my mom tried to shove the violin in my arms. I had enough bags to lug through the airport but I reluctantly took it just to make her happy. It has been sitting on a shelf in my bookcase collecting dust since. Except for this morning when it sat on my couch staring at me as if saying, “Make a move. I dare you.”

  “Well, I’ll tell you, Miss Violin, what kind of move I’m going to make,” I said, pointing to the
wooden instrument on my sofa while walking back and forth in front of it, “I’m going to . . . I’m . . . shit!” I exclaimed and then grabbed the violin off the couch, placed it back in the case, and hauled ass out of the apartment before I could change my mind.

  So here I am, at Washington Square Park, staring at the brown-haired girl with her ponytail, playing beautiful music. Squaring my shoulder I walk up to her and hold out my hand.

  “Here.”

  She stops playing at my brash assault on her space and takes a step back as if I am about to attack her.

  “Here. Take it.” I say, practically throwing the violin case at her.

  She looks back at me with hesitation and shakes her head a little before looking around to see if someone is going to save her from the crazy lady practically throwing a violin case at her.

  Okay, she is not going to make this easy. I put the case down on the ground, open it up and lift the violin out of it. The beautiful fir-wood still shines and glistens in the sun.

  “I’m giving this to you.” I show her the violin and while her eyes beam when she sees the gorgeous carved fillets of the Vigato, her body falls further back.

  My cheeks puff out with air as I think of another way to approach this. I rest the violin at my side and instead of holding out the instrument again, I offer her a hand.

  “My name is Emma.”

  She looks at my hand for a second before placing her violin and bow in her left hand together and offering me her right in return.

  “Allyce.” She says, shaking my hand quickly and then motioning to a place behind where I’m standing. “I’ve noticed you on the bench over there. Why do you always give me so much money? Most people just drop a dollar or two.”

  “You look like you could use it.” As soon as I say it I see her body go on the defense. “I don’t mean it like that. I mean, you could use a new violin. That is for an intermediate player.” I hold up the Vigato again. “This is for a professional. It’s has quite a few miles on it but it’s a better grade for you. You’ll play better.” I offer the instrument to her again.