I feel Isaac’s eyes on me and look over. He’s watching me watch Dave. It must be to make sure I pay attention. He’s gauging my reaction to the performance. I smile and return to watching Dave. I sneak a few more glances at Isaac, but each time, he stares at his hands.
When Dave’s finished, I clap and give him a quick hug. “Inspiring. I’m next.”
This time, I’m happy to play in front of them. I feel like I can relax and enjoy myself, knowing I’m among friends who want to see me succeed. It’s a nice feeling—one I’m not used to, but one I could get used to. My mind wanders during the song. If you’d told me a month ago I’d have two hot, talented NEC graduates in my studio, I’d have laughed you into the Gulf of Mexico.
When I finish, both Isaac and Dave think I’ve improved in just the last hour. Dave is enthusiastic. Isaac says, “Well done.”
At last, Isaac scoots back the bench and sits. He cracks his knuckles and closes his eyes. Dave coughs into his hand, but I distinctly hear diva! Isaac pushes up his imaginary glasses with a certain finger. We use the rest of the afternoon and part of the evening to analyze our performances.
***
Dave and Conrad fly back to Boston. I ask Isaac if he’s sorry to see them go.
“Yes. No. They’re like brothers. Spent all of undergrad and graduate school together. But they belong in Boston.”
“Do you miss it?”
He runs his fingers through his hair and sits, elbows on his knees. Without looking up, he says, “Yes. There’re some things I miss. Lots of things. But there are other…things I don’t miss at all.” He pauses. “Please don’t ask me about it again, Juli. It’s none of your concern, and it won’t affect our rehearsals. I apologize for what happened at Felix’s. Don’t remember much, but I made Dave tell me. It was really unprofessional. Just don’t ask again, all right?”
I’m stunned. And a little hurt. Still, that’s the most he’s ever said at once.
“Sure, no problem, Isaac. I didn’t mean to stick my nose in your business. I was just concerned. I’m sorry.”
“So we’re both sorry now. How about we stop being sorry and work on something fun? Something fast.”
“Deal.”
“Actually, I could use your help. Doing Mozart with the symphony in a couple of weeks, and I’d like you to take a listen. Keep stumbling over a couple of parts. You’re the technical expert, so you might figure out the problem.”
“Sure. Wow. I’ll do whatever I can to help.”
“It’s the Piano Concerto No. 23 in A. The runs are kicking my ass. Tomorrow I’ll bring the score.”
“Um, yeah. That sounds great.”
Part of me thinks he’s patronizing me, but when I see the score the next day, I know he’s not. It looks like someone sneezed black ink on the pages. Mozart is often complicated, but this is a hot mess.
I point at the page. “Okay, right there. Yeah, in that measure. That’s where it starts to fall apart, and you don’t get back into it until…here. What fingering are you using?”
He shows me.
“Yeah, that’s your problem. Let me see your right hand.”
He holds it up, and I mirror it with my left to match palm-to-palm.
“See the difference? You’re getting in the way of yourself. Back off a little, and I think you’ll be all right. Like this.”
I show him. And I nail it.
“Isaac, you’re twenty-seven, right?”
“Twenty-eight. Birthday was last week.”
“Oh my gosh, happy birthday! Why didn’t you say anything?”
“No big deal. After twenty-one, they all suck.”
“Whatever. You’re not forgiven for not mentioning it. Let me see your hand again.” I inspect the joints and, sure enough, there’s tell-tale swelling. “Isaac, do your fingers get really hot sometimes? Like, hot to the touch?”
“I know what you’re thinking. Arthritis, right? Son of a bitch.”
I’m still holding Isaac’s hand when Daddy walks into the studio. Isaac sits at the piano, a fearful expression on his face, like a little boy caught being naughty.
Déjà vu strikes. I’ve seen this before. Except it happened in our kitchen. The boy had brown, shaggy hair, blue eyes, and seemed too tall for his own good. Daddy wore a shirt and tie, just like now, except his face had fewer worry lines. I shouldn’t be surprised when Daddy crosses his arms and clears his throat—it’s what he did the last time I saw this tableau. I can’t stop the cold tingle that works its way up my back. My acting skills kick in.
“Daddy, can you see this?” I hold up Isaac’s hand, still in mine. “Isaac’s already got arthritis in his knuckles. Isn’t that horrible?”
“Yeah, terrible. Listen, have you guys finished that recording? When you called last week, you said you had all the equipment ready.”
Isaac nods. “Yes, sir, it’s in the back of my car. Plan to run acoustics tests tonight, then do the recording tomorrow evening, if Juli’s ready.”
Daddy shifts his weight from one foot to the other. “Yeah, here’s the thing. I think when you finish the recording, we’ll cut the lessons down to three days a week. Then if she gets an audition, we’ll talk about going back up to five. With school and all, five is too much.”
He talks to Isaac like I’m not even here. Like I have no say in this.
“Daddy, I really think—”
“Sorry, Juli. You need to spend time on schoolwork, too. I think it’ll be good for you to back off the piano for just a little while.”
“You think it’ll be good for me? That’s hilarious. Like you have a clue what’s good for me.”
“We’re not doing this right now, young lady. I’ve made my decision. If you want to discuss it, we’ll do it later in private.”
“Of course we will. Wouldn’t want to air our dirty laundry.”
Isaac interrupts. “It’s fine, Juli. You’re ready. And your father’s right. You need to think about school, too.”
As if I wasn’t pissed already, hearing Isaac take Daddy’s side certainly does it. “Fine. Run the tests. I’ll be ready tomorrow.”
I bolt out of the studio and up to my room, where I realize I took things out on Isaac again. But at least I kept one promise: I didn’t throw anything at him.
Chapter Eight
My fury at Daddy is still a rolling boil when I come down to breakfast. The planets must be out of alignment, because he sits at the kitchen table with the newspaper and a bagel. He’s usually gone before I drag my sorry butt downstairs.
“Mornin’, sunshine.”
“Whatever.” I grab a box of cereal out of the pantry.
“You still mad?”
“You think?”
“Sweetie—”
I slam the box on the counter. “Really? You’re calling me sweetie?”
“Stop it. I know you’re not happy with me, but I have my reasons. I know you think I don’t care. And I’m not around enough to have any right to assert parental authority—”
“Parental authority? Nice legal-speak. I wasn’t aware of any parental authority in this house. Last I checked, you’re a lawyer, she’s half psycho, and I’m pretty much on my own.”
“That’s enough, Julianne. Be mad, I don’t care. But I want you to know I cut back your lessons because I think it’s what’s best. It’s not about money, and it’s not that I don’t want to support you.”
“Then what is it?”
He folds up his newspaper and stands. “You spend an awful lot of time in the studio, that’s all. You need equilibrium in your life.”
“Equilibrium? Could you just talk like a normal human being?”
“It means balance.”
“I know what it means!”
“Well, I think you need balance.”
I cock my head. “You know that’s funny, right?”
He closes his eyes and sighs. “If I could fix things, I would. I’ve tried. I hope you’re old enough now to see that not everything can be fixed. I
don’t have all the answers. Sweetie.”
He made his choice a long time ago. He was supposed to choose us—me and R.J. But he didn’t. He chose work and Mama, and I can’t forgive that.
“Whatever.”
“Stop it. Look at things from my perspective. Every time I come home, you’re cloistered away in the studio with Isaac Laroche, and I have no idea what goes on in there.”
“What do you mean, ‘what goes on in there’? We rehearse. What do you think? And today we’re supposed to do the recording. Which reminds me, please keep pissing me off, because it helps me play better.”
“I’m not trying to piss you off.”
“No? Insinuating I’m doing things I shouldn’t be—”
“I’m not insinuating that you’re doing anything—”
“What? You think Isaac’s doing something wrong? If only.”
“Glad to hear that. It confirms what I always believed.” He fills his travel mug with coffee.
“What do you mean?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“No, you said it, now you’re going to explain it.” Oops, that was the wrong thing to say.
“Last I checked, you didn’t give me orders, young lady. This conversation is over.” He picks up his mug and shoves the kitchen door open and closed.
“God, you’re such a jerk.”
There’s no one here to disagree.
***
Thirty minutes later, I’ve showered and dressed, and it’s time to run through the songs once more before school. And even though I’m pumped with adrenalin, my nerves want to get the best of me. I don’t let them. The exchange with Daddy makes me more determined than ever to give the kind of performance no panel can ignore.
I survive the school day, but the only bright spot happens after the final bell. Today’s the weekly meeting of Keys for Kids, an after-school program for children who’d never get to learn an instrument otherwise. I give group piano lessons once a week downtown at the public performing arts magnet school. It’s just two blocks from Felix’s in a rundown part of the city.
This semester, there are two boys and two girls in my class. All of them show aptitude and a desire to learn. None can afford lessons, materials, or a piano of their own. I teach them the basics: how to read music, elementary terms, and fingerings. By the end of the semester, they’ll be able to play scales in C Major and G Major, along with a few simple tunes. I usually have a helper with these classes, but he’s been incapacitated lately. Which is why I’m shocked when he walks in.
“Mr. Cline! Mr. Cline!” The kids abandon their pianos and cling to his legs. The tallest hugs his waist. Mr. Cline sways, putting a burden on his cane.
“I’m happy to see you, as well. One couldn’t…ask for a better w-welcome.” In no time, the children discover candy in his coat pockets. “Children, I would love it…if you showed me what you’ve learned. Please go practice while I talk to…Miss Juli.”
Guilt blossoms when I notice how much better Mr. Cline seems. I would know he’s better if I visited more. He opens his arms, and in two strides I’m surrounded by his candy-coated eucalyptus scent. He’s thinner now but feels solid. I know he’s well, and that nearly triggers happy tears, but I swallow them back. I hang on a second longer than he does.
“I’ve missed you. So much has happened.” I sniffle.
“So I hear. Isaac keeps me in the…loop.”
“He does? Then maybe you can tell me.”
“Juli?”
“You forgot to tell me he hardly talks, at least about anything other than music. It took weeks before I could get him to smile. You warned me not to tease him, but I had to so he’d loosen up.”
He laughs, and happiness zings through my veins. I’ve missed that laugh. “I can see…this has been good for him. He needed to come home. Thank you for helping him.”
“Me? How have I helped him?”
“I think…you gave him a challenge.”
Before he can explain more, the children’s “practicing” disintegrates. They pound their small fists on the keys.
“Mr. Cline, listen to what I can do!”
“No, me!”
“I wanna go first!”
Mr. Cline smiles. “Children, I missed your energy. Now show me what Miss Juli has taught you.”
***
Afterward, I make a beeline for the studio where I find all the recording equipment in place. Isaac sits on the loveseat with his arms crossed and head back. I throw my things on the floor with more force than necessary.
“Let’s do this.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He jumps up to fiddle with his laptop. “Whenever you’re ready.”
I’ve never been so ready in my life. I want this. I need this. The New England Conservatory will beg me to come there. I take a moment to summon the colors and images associated with the first piece—Dave’s visualization method proves very helpful—and begin.
The Bach is golden toffee, smooth and liquid, but precise. The Mozart is black and blue. Peacocks. Paper fans. Sibelius is more difficult to nail down…sometimes red, sometimes blue. Always with white. One of his most famous compositions was turned into a hymn, so I often see church sanctuaries. Last is the Rachmaninoff. I’m practically high by the time I begin. Red. Black. Mahogany. Skittering leaves and paper burning. Lust. Passion. Heartache. Power.
Isaac presses the stop button and turns off the microphone. Every rational emotion has been siphoned through my fingers into the music. I’m a deflated vessel.
The sun disappears over the horizon, the sky an interesting pool of pink, orange, and periwinkle. It’s a sign. For me. The sun knows what I just accomplished, and it approves. I don’t believe in psychics and all that nonsense, but I do believe tonight’s dreamy sunset is a message. I surprise myself with this optimism and confidence. I feel…good. Cocky? In control.
“A penny for your thoughts?” Isaac’s question breaks the silence. He sits with his chin in his hand, like Rodin’s “The Thinker.”
I give a soft laugh. “I think…I’m going to get in.”
He chuckles. “That’s my girl.”
“Your girl?” I arch an eyebrow.
It’s cute to see a grown man blush. I like it. I know he probably didn’t mean anything by it, but now’s my chance. A door opened just a crack and I will totally walk through it, to hell with the consequences.
In one smooth motion, I rise from the bench and step in front of Isaac, who still slouches on the loveseat. He sits up straight and tilts his head back to look at me. I take a huge risk in crowding his personal space when my knees brush the insides of his thighs. I take an even bigger risk when I ask him a question.
“You’d like that, wouldn’t you? If I was your girl?”
I don’t know where this intoxicating confidence comes from, but I need to bottle it. His eyes glass over, and he doesn’t say no. Instead, he reaches up with his right hand and trails a finger along my jaw from ear to chin. I don’t expect an answer, so I don’t wait for one. I slip out of the studio and discover I’ve got a new little wiggle in my walk. Before I shut the back door, I take one last peek.
Isaac has his head in his hands.
***
I don’t need scissors anymore. It’s been weeks, and my arms have healed nicely. Because I don’t cut deeply, there are hardly any scars. And now that I know I really have Isaac’s attention, and possibly Dave’s, it’s like a whole new world has opened up. Now I know why R.J. keeps warning me, why Daddy wonders what “goes on in there.” I didn’t think it was possible, but it is.
I’m not as hideous as I thought.
I spend a ridiculous amount of time at school in a daydream. I analyze the evidence, over and over. Until now, most of my feedback has come from Mama. According to her, I’m too tall, my hair is too curly, too red, and I’m too curvy. Translation: I’m a red-headed Amazon freak.
Now I’ve been flirted with by two hot guys, and when I came on to Isaac, he definitely responded.
Let’s take this for a test drive.
I sit in A.P. Government with all the other brains, and honestly, there’s no one here I want as a test subject. Besides, I’ve known most of them too long. It’d be weird—they’ve seen me with braces, monthly acne, and knobby knees.
Except for him. He stands at the front of the room delivering a lecture on neo-conservatism. Mr. Nelson looks about Isaac’s age, though time hasn’t been as kind. He shaves his head, not to be tough but because his hair has receded past his ears. He’s not ugly, though he’s let himself slide right into middle age. There’s no wedding band on his left hand, but I’m certain he’s straight.
Perfect.
I don’t have a plan, so I wing it. It’s not like I’ve done this before. I start by making eye contact. He notices right away. I’m usually hunched over my desk, furiously scribbling notes. I smile the next time he looks my way. He smiles back, but continues his lecture without missing a beat. Under my desk, I cross my legs, which are so long I have to angle them out into the aisle a bit. The standard-issue uniform skirt may fit most girls, but on me it’s almost a micro-mini. For once, I’m not annoyed and don’t tug it down. I chew on my pencil and occasionally tap my lower lip.
Oh, yeah. He noticed.
I wonder how far to take this when the bell rings, only seconds left to decide whether I should gather my things and leave or stick around and see what happens. Mr. Nelson makes the decision for me.
“Julianne, you seemed to enjoy today’s lecture more than usual.”
I kneel in the aisle, stuffing things in my backpack, when he saunters up and plants himself in front of my desk. Which puts his crotch right at eye level. If this had happened yesterday, I’d have fallen backward and scrambled out of the room with a wicked blush.
Not today. Today, I hold my ground. I let my gaze slowly travel upward to look into his eyes. By the time I get there, he’s breathing a little fast. I stand but don’t step back.
“I think, for my final paper, I’ll explore neo-conservative themes in George Orwell’s 1984 and compare them to American political novels of the same time period. Sir.” I bite my lip for good measure.
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