Want

by Stephanie Lawton

  “Way to go, kiddo. You’ll knock ’em dead.”

  On Monday morning, Isaac says pretty much the same thing, though not in so many words. When I finish, he smiles and pats my shoulder.

  “Knew you could do it.”

  I glow.

  Chapter Three

  “So what’s the best part about the NEC? Besides, you know, that it’s prestigious, you have one-on-one instruction, and you become famous?” I peek over my shoulder, but Isaac’s not looking at me. I got the school’s information packet in the mail yesterday. I may have spent a few hours petting the pretty, glossy photos and hitting “repeat” on the enclosed CD.

  “Wish it was that easy.” He blows out a big breath. “Pretty great, I admit. But I had a hard time at first. Coming from here”—he gestures out the window—“was rough. Big city life isn’t like here, where you know everyone. Plus, it gets cold as hell.”

  He’s reliving some pleasant memory, I can tell. I wonder if his memory matches any of my daydreams about Boston. Maybe he’s walking down the street, soaking in the neon lights; sitting in a concert hall on a Saturday evening; wolfing down pizza at a little eatery where the waiters are all struggling musicians. I’ve dreamed of these scenarios time and again.

  “Still, it’s a great place. Traveled a lot doing master classes and with the orchestra, but Boston is a world of its own. Can’t explain it right. Always something to do and great people-watching. Seen things you wouldn’t believe.” He grins.

  “Like what?” I hope to draw him out a little more. Usually I can count his words on fingers and toes, but today I’ve run out of digits.

  “Well, like snow piles big enough to bury a car. Fall leaves. Skating rinks. People from all over the world.”

  I’ve never seen snow. His list only fuels my already overactive imagination. Eleven months until graduation, and I’ll see these things for myself.

  That night, I empty my change jar, count out quarters, and drop them into my front pocket. I have six minutes until the city bus stops a block away from the back of the studio.

  God knows what she’d do if she knew.

  I’m distracted from this dreadful thought by the people-watching. Or rather, people who watch me. There’s an obvious line between the haves and have-nots in parts of Mobile. By riding public transportation, I clearly infringe on the de facto segregation everyone tries to ignore.

  A young black girl in too-small, mismatched clothes sits across from me. She doesn’t even try to hide the fact that she’s staring. She’s about ten years old, but her eyes tell me she’s seen things I couldn’t dream of. Grimy hands clutch a tattered stuffed unicorn and a plastic shopping bag from the grocery store located at the bus stop before mine. Through the thin white plastic I see she’s got a Red Bull and condoms. I’m not sure which disturbs me more—that someone would send her out to buy those things, or that she may have bought them for herself.

  I bolt out of my seat when the bus squeals to a halt at my stop. The bar, Felix’s, is located downtown, so Mama would have a complete meltdown if she knew I was here, but I try to come at least once a month when she’s out at one of her committee meetings. Tonight’s a big one, so she shouldn’t be back until late. Daddy’s hardly ever around and isn’t an issue.

  I slide into my usual seat across the room from the tiny stage, just big enough to accommodate an upright piano and a few other musicians. Percy, the bouncer, nods to me, and the bartender tips an imaginary hat. The waitress brings me my usual soda and saunters off to refill her hard-drinking customers. The whole staff knows I’m underage, but they let me in because they know I come here to listen, not sneak booze.

  The band tonight is the Cotton City Rollers. Although he also plays trombone, Lenny plays piano during the off-season, and he’s on a kick tonight. Everyone taps their toes, drums fingers on the tables, or waves invisible handkerchiefs in the air.

  That includes Isaac Laroche, who beats the drum line on the brown bottle in his hand.

  I’m so busted.

  I slink down in my chair and cross my arms. I know it won’t help, but I do it anyway. Nothing to see here, folks. Just an underage girl on the wrong side of town.

  No such luck. He spots me and heads over. He’s got on a gingham button-down shirt and bizarre surfer shorts with flip-flops. He’s accessorized by clutching a beer. This is certainly a different side of him.

  “Isn’t this a school night, little girl?” He smirks. My first instinct is to beg him not to tell my parents. And cry. Instead, I try a different tactic.

  “Aren’t you too old to talk to ‘little girls’ in a bar?” For effect, I twirl my hair around a finger. “Besides, it’s June, remember? No school?”

  “Touché. Just didn’t expect to see you here, Miss Casquette. You sure you’re only seventeen?”

  “I didn’t expect to see you here either, Mr. Laroche.” I uncross and cross my legs.

  “Please, it’s Isaac. I’m not that old, and it sounds creepy coming from you. Especially in a place like this.” Amusement flickers in his eyes as he locks them on mine.

  I hold my breath. He turns his head to watch the band. Even in the dim light, I see the muscles in his square jaw clench and relax. I follow the line down to his broad shoulders and that little curve that connects his shoulder to his chest. I can’t help but compare him to the boys at school. He’s even bigger than R.J., and older. He doesn’t look a thing like a stereotypical pianist. In fact, he looks like he could be the bouncer.

  “Okay, Isaac, here’s a little secret.” I smile up at him, despite the unease that flops around in my stomach. “I come here to listen to Lenny, the guy on piano tonight. His band always plays at the Mystics’ balls.”

  “I know.”

  “Oh, right. Well, I love this stuff.” It’s the kind of music that’s best heard live because it changes every time it’s performed. It’s so different from what I play. I admire the musicians’ abandon and ability to improvise—two things I can’t do. “Most people—you know who I mean—don’t know about this place. So how come you’re here?”

  He doesn’t answer. Instead, he lifts his chin toward the seat next to me. I give him my good-girl smile. He takes that as a green light and sits down, careful to leave a modest amount of space between us. I lick my lips, which have suddenly gone dry. This new tactic could get me in trouble.

  He leans in close. “Can I tell you a secret?”

  Oh, this is bad. This is very bad.

  “I’ll keep yours if you keep mine.”

  Wait, did I just say that out loud?

  “Fair enough.” He stares off again, listening to Lenny’s solo.

  I can almost hear the little angel on my left shoulder do battle with the devil on my right. If I keep this up, I’ll be schizophrenic. Which, when you consider my family, is a definite possibility.

  Go ahead and flirt. You’re in a bar. The rules don’t apply here. And he stared at you. Stared! You could totally score an older guy.

  Oh, shut up. He’s not into you. Just look at yourself. How could he be? He’s just buzzed. Plus, he’s Mr. Cline’s nephew. It’d be like making out with Mr. Cline.

  I choke on my drink.

  He still stares at the band, thank goodness, caught up in the bluesy riffs that float on the smoky air. His eyes are darker tonight, almost charcoal in the dim light from the stage. There are lines just forming at the corners of his eyes and deep concentration grooves between his brows, like he scowls too often.

  He takes a sudden swig of his beer, and I’m jolted out of my reverie as though I’ve gotten caught red-handed. As though he felt me studying his profile. I’m surprised at his next words.

  “My secret is that I used to come here when I was your age, too. Got tired of the canon stuff and wanted to see how the other half played, so to speak. That’s why I minored in Jazz Studies.” He snickers. “Although I did sneak a few beers now and then, unlike you and your…” He waves toward my drink.

  “Coke.” Gulp.
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  “Ah. Can I get you another?”

  “Thanks, but no. I have to get back before Mama comes home.”

  “Aw, leaving so soon? Mean to tell me your mama doesn’t let you sneak out to bars and talk to older men? Can’t imagine why.” He winks.

  I seriously forget to breathe. Relax, it’s the beer talking.

  I punch him in the shoulder.

  “Hey, you promised to keep that a secret. I know you’ve been in Boston for a while, but you’re back in ’Bama now.” I channel Vivien Leigh and give him my best Southern belle. “You’re bound by a code of honor to keep your word.”

  No matter where you end up in life or how long you’re gone, if you’re from south of the Mason-Dixon Line, the code of the Southern Gentleman is in effect. And the minute you violate it, your mama will know by some Southern sixth sense.

  “Yes, ma’am. Nothing short of a voodoo curse could get me to spill it.” He places his hand over his heart. “Hey, did you drive here?”

  Do not get in his car. Do not get in his car. Do not—

  “No, I took the bus. There’s a stop a few blocks down from the back door of the studio. Mama checks the hood of my car to see if it’s warm.”

  “Jeez. Doesn’t she trust you?” His question is like a bucket of cold water.

  I look away. No, she doesn’t trust me. She—

  The waitress comes by to collect my empty glass. I dig into my purse to find my wallet but hesitate, distracted by the other contents. They’ve been rearranged. Again. I push that realization aside and flick open my wallet to get a couple of dollars. By then, Isaac’s beat me to it.

  “Said it yourself, I’m back in ’Bama now. It’d be rude not to pay for your Coke since I invited myself over to your table.” When I protest, he puts up a hand. “Besides, your daddy pays me enough to teach you. I can spare a couple of dollars.”

  “Fair enough. That’s kind of you, Isaac.”

  He puts down a tip for the waitress and stands, stretching his large frame. “Think I’ll go now, too. Have to meet with the maestro tomorrow morning.” He rolls his eyes.

  Outside in the suffocating heat of the evening, we part ways. I turn to walk to the bus stop. Across the street, a homeless man yells something unintelligible. Even though it’s ninety degrees, he wears several layers of grimy clothes, jeans torn at the knees and an army-green stocking cap.

  “Hey, purty thang! Mmm-hmm, a redhead, too. I’m mighty hungry. Got some change?”

  I ignore him but he gets louder. When he gets to his feet and stumbles to the curb, I pick up the pace. But what he says next stops me in my tracks.

  “The Lord is watching you. He see what you are, what you gonna do.”

  An unnatural breeze dries the sweat on my forehead and I shiver. Isaac’s black Charger appears, and he lowers the tinted passenger-side window.

  “Guess I’ve been in Boston too long. My manners are gone. Let me give you a ride home, and I’ll drop you off a block away so you don’t blow your cover.” I open the door and get in, all previous resolutions forgotten. “Those buses are scary. And you won’t have to deal with him.” He nods to the man hobbling across the street.

  “I’ll take you up on your offer. Thanks.” I pull on my seatbelt and don’t look back.

  ***

  “Don’t you do anything?” R.J. asks. He looks like he’s imitating Daddy. He stands in the doorway of my bedroom with his hands on his hips. R.J., short for Richard Junior, is the male version of me, except his hair is more brown than red, and he’s a few inches taller. We both have athletic builds, but he developed his during high school football.

  “What do you mean, don’t I do anything? I’m reading, obviously.” I roll over onto my side. Besides music, books are my other passion. R.J. thinks it’s a waste of time. “And what should I be doing, your majesty?”

  “I don’t know. Something. Anything.”

  “You do realize it’s ninety-four degrees outside, and it’s not even”—I glance at my bedside clock—“ten o’clock yet.”

  “Well, then couldn’t you go to the mall with your friends or get a mani-pedi?”

  I sit up and shoot him a look. “Did you seriously just say ‘mani-pedi’? Do you even know what that is?”

  “Well, yeah, a manicure and pedicure. Hands and feet, you know?”

  “Who are you?” I shriek, grab a pillow from behind me and lob it at his head. He ducks and it smacks the opposite wall in the hall.

  “See? You’ve got a great arm, but you don’t play softball, you don’t play volleyball. You just…read. And practice. You’re going to be two tons if you don’t get up and do something once in a while.”

  Ouch.

  “Don’t you start with me, too. You know I get enough of that from her.” I lower my voice before I ask him what I really want to know. “Have you seen her lately? I mean, doesn’t she look different from when you were here over spring break?”

  I pick up the book again, trying to find where I left off before R.J.’s rude interruption.

  “You think I’m disgusting. She’s disgusting.” I find my place and begin reading again. I feel R.J.’s eyes still on me. “What? What do you want?”

  “Nothing. I just thought maybe I’d see how you were. And I never said you were disgusting.” He peeks over his shoulder and down the hall. He drops his voice. “Everything okay? Seems to be, but I thought maybe I missed something. I mean, she’s still on your case, but no more than usual, right?”

  Truthfully, things have been a bit better, but I don’t want to tell him why—because he’s home. Things got way worse after he left for college. He doesn’t know about that. I hate to keep a secret from him, but I don’t want him to find out and make that connection. It’d kill him. As much as we bicker, R.J. and I love each other.

  “Nope, it’s been fine lately. Honest. I’d tell you if it wasn’t.”

  Liar. I give him a little smile and he returns it, his eyes an exact reflection of mine. He turns to go down the hall.

  “Hey!” He stops and ducks his head back in my room, a question on his face. Softly, so he knows I mean it, I tell him, “Thanks for asking.”

  He nods and disappears down the hall.

  Some things are better, that part is true, but others aren’t. He didn’t notice my long sleeves. R.J.’s the one who gave me the idea, though I never told him. He’d be mortified and blame himself.

  He had an emo/alternative phase in high school—as much of one as you can have in a Southern household—and introduced me to some of the music. One song in particular lodged in my brain. It was about confusion and the things people do to vent when the pressure gets to be too much.

  Reading is one way I cope. I go somewhere else for a while and submerge myself in the characters’ problems instead of mine. Practicing is the other way I deal, though things have gotten so serious since this New England Conservatory business. Now it’s not an escape. It isn’t enough. Rather, it’s more pressure I have to escape from. I’ll always love it. It’s my life. But right now, it’s in queue with the other chaos.

  I’ve heard that in order to replace one habit, you have to start another. You’re supposed to replace it with a healthier one, but that doesn’t always happen. You know, like smokers who quit, but start overeating? Or Daddy, who stopped drinking, but spends a crazy amount of time at work?

  I still practice day and night, but I’ve picked up a bad habit that even R.J. doesn’t know about.

  Chapter Four

  The scissors are in the drawer in my antique vanity. I keep them safe and secure, away from prying eyes. I open them and scrape the blade up and down, back and forth along the inside of my arm—elbow to wrist, wrist to elbow—like sharpening an old-fashioned razor. It stings and I bleed a little, but I don’t gush like if I cut across my wrist with a blade. I don’t want to die, after all. I just need a release. Kind of a middle finger to the world.

  It’s something she doesn’t know about. I like how it feels to keep secrets fr
om her.

  Scraping has its drawbacks, of course. For one thing, they’ll throw me in a padded room if they find out, but so far no one’s tried to stop me. Not my parents, no one at school, not even Mr. Cline or R.J. I always make sure to clean up my arms and put on antibiotic cream. If the scrapes get infected, I’ll have to show them to a doctor, and that means…I’ll have to explain myself. I’m not sure I can do that.

  I don’t scrape all the time. Only when things are really bad, like when Mama has a long string of her bad moods. Lately I’ve done it more and more because I’m so anxious about the recording. But it’s still summer and I haven’t even nailed down the pieces yet. That’s what Isaac and I are working on when he notices the marks.

  It’s a torturous midsummer day, so humid that I want to shave my head, but I still put on a long-sleeved T-shirt with my shorts. I got too close to my wrists, and the marks show when I warm up. I’m doing an arpeggio when he spots them.

  “Christ almighty, Juli! What the hell is that?” He grabs my wrist and yanks back the sleeve, sucking in his breath when he sees the marks go all the way up my arm.

  I wince. He’s loosened the edges of the scabs, and they throb. Well, you see, Isaac, I’m pretty much numb, so I scrape myself with scissors to see if I can feel. I pull back my arm, but he won’t let go.

  “Is this that cutting stuff I’ve heard about? You been cutting yourself?”

  Scraping, not cutting. There’s a difference.

  “No, don’t be stupid.” I twist my arm away and pull the sleeve back down, careful not to further disturb the scabs. “I was walking Belle and Beaux and they got twisted up in the leashes. There was a toy poodle across the street, and they went wild. They scraped me up pretty good, but it really doesn’t hurt that bad. Honest.” I can’t look him in the eye, so I stare at the keys. “Can we finish this, please?”