Your Voice Is All I Hear

by Leah Scheier

  I nodded and swallowed hard, concentrating on the target in front of me. It took all my effort to breathe normally. I felt his hair brush lightly against my skin, his warm breath on my cheek. Stay still, I told myself. Stay still and let him lead.

  With a swift movement, he brought my right elbow back and pivoted my left shoulder forward. “Now follow through the motion with your hips,” he instructed, guiding my arm. There was a satisfying thump, and the bag quivered in place. “Not bad!” he said, releasing me. “A little practice and you can try to knock me out.”

  “Awesome. Is that how you start all your friendships?” I retorted, aiming a few more jabs at the trembling bag.

  He laughed. “No. I only let cute girls punch me.”

  I stopped smacking the bag and twisted around to look at him.

  “Wow. Sorry. That line sounded a lot better in my head,” he muttered. He was smiling broadly, but his cheeks were flaming crimson. It was sweet that he blushed so easily. It made my own shyness feel normal.

  “So are you a good fighter then?” I asked him.

  “I’m okay. I can defend myself if I have to.”

  “Really?” I laughed. “Why? Is someone after you?”

  He hesitated for a moment. “I just can, that’s all,” he said. There was a ring of defiance in his voice. I wondered if I’d accidentally stepped into forbidden territory again.

  “I was only joking.” I pointed to his clutter of papers. “So where are you hiding your sketches? Somewhere under this mess?”

  His face brightened. “Don’t worry about the mess,” he told me. “I can clean that up later.” He bounded across the room. “If you want, I can show you where I keep them.”

  He led me out into the hallway, then down the corridor past a purple play area to a narrow door at the far end of the hall. I didn’t ask him where we were going. His unpredictability was exciting and mysterious to me; I was actually enjoying his little mood swings.

  Without a word, Jonah pushed the door open and I followed him inside.

  “Oh!” I said, taking it all in. “Is this your studio?”

  The floor was dark, bare hardwood; there was a single metal stool standing near the window and a small desk piled high with paint bottles and brushes. The rest of the room was filled with easels, each holding a canvas draped in a clean, white sheet. The sunlight from the open window hit the corner of one easel and made it glow; I reached out to touch the edges of the cloth and brushed the warm fabric with my fingers.

  “Are there finished paintings behind these?”

  He nodded. “You can look underneath it if you want.”

  Carefully, I lifted the corner of the sheet and pulled it back.

  Grinning back at us, winking from behind a speckled mushroom, was Jonah’s sister, Katie. He’d drawn her as an elf, a miniature woodland sprite surrounded by fireflies and stardust, peeking at us from her tiny toadstool home. Jonah had captured her perfectly—the expression in her eyes, the little tilt of her blond head, the teasing, knowing smile.

  “It’s a surprise,” he whispered. “Promise you won’t tell her.”

  “I promise.” I dropped the cloth back into place. “Is that why you keep them hidden behind sheets? Are they all presents for people?”

  He looked confused. “No, I just—I don’t know. I always cover my paintings.”

  “So the sunlight doesn’t damage them?” I asked, putting up a hand to block the rays streaming through the window. “That makes sense. Can I see another one?”

  He gave me a pleased nod, and I stepped over to an easel in the corner. “How about this one?” I’d picked it at random, but I saw him tense slightly before he answered me.

  “All right, I guess. Why not?”

  I flipped the cover over and stepped back to look. This one wasn’t magical at all. It was hard to believe that the artist who’d captured Katie’s fairyland had also painted this. I was looking at a study of sharp angles. There was a shiny metal desk, a pile of heavy textbooks, pointed pencils in a mesh cup, a silver calculator, and a razor-sharp letter opener, slicing through a stack of blank white paper. Behind the desk, a dark-haired, handsome man was sitting, leaning slightly forward, his arms crossed, his clear gray eyes concentrating on some point directly in front of him. His expression was faraway, severe, determined.

  “Who is that?” I asked.

  “That’s my father.”

  “Oh. Is your father an accountant?”

  “No, he’s a cardiac surgeon. But I’ve never seen him in the operating room. That’s how I imagine him—when I think of him.” Jonah’s tone was strangely dull—emotionless, just like the painting.

  “Can I look at another one?” I asked him after an uncomfortable silence.

  “Be my guest.”

  I wanted to uncover all of the easels, but I sensed that he’d view that as an intrusion. I scanned the room for a moment and spotted a canvas hidden in a corner behind some empty cans. Something told me to choose a different one; as I approached it, I saw him bite his lip and look away. A moment later, I wished I’d listened to my instinct.

  I only stared for a few seconds before I threw the sheet back down, but I will never forget it. The painting showed a red-haired, fair-skinned boy who was holding on to a balcony railing with an outstretched arm. He’d slipped and fallen, and his body was dangling over a steep drop, his muddied clothing wet and clinging to him. The fingers around the metal bar were bleeding; he was just a second away from falling. And yet, it wasn’t the pose that shocked me—it was the look in the boy’s eyes. He was staring directly at me, with an expression of indescribable fear.

  “There are more than twenty portraits in this room, but you had to pick that one,” Jonah muttered.

  “I’m really sorry. I was just curious—” I paused, remembering the boy from Jonah’s Facebook photos. “That was Ricky, wasn’t it?”

  He nodded. “I finished that one before we moved here. My parents haven’t seen it yet. Actually, come to think of it, you’re the first one to see it.”

  I hesitated and glanced back at the covered canvas. “Ricky hasn’t…I mean, he—” I stopped, unsure how to finish the question.

  “No, I did that one from memory. He never saw it.” He studied me quietly for a minute. “Ricky died before I painted it.”

  “Oh.” I reached my hand out to him, but he didn’t notice the gesture, so I let it drop to my side. “I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have brought it up.”

  He nodded and sank slowly onto the wood floor. I sat down next to him and leaned back against the wall. “I’m not trying to be mysterious or anything,” he said after a moment. “I’m just tired of talking about it, tired of watching other people trying to get me to talk about it—as if that would solve anything. I’ve been through my share of counselors, believe me. But what could they possibly tell me? That it wasn’t my fault? That I’d been a good friend to him? I was so sick of hearing that. Ricky’s father said that at his funeral, went on and on about how much I’d meant to his son. I knew what he was thinking though—what they were all thinking. And they were right. When it mattered most, I wasn’t there.”

  I didn’t understand; I was still missing a big part of the story. “But if it was an accident,” I began, carefully picking my words, “you couldn’t have known—”

  He was glaring at me now, not in anger, but in protest, as if he couldn’t stand that I was trying to defend him.

  “It wasn’t an accident. He didn’t fall, there was no balcony, and it wasn’t raining either. But I couldn’t paint what actually happened. That wouldn’t be fair to anyone.”

  I felt terrible for bringing it up. He seemed miserable and exhausted, like I’d just added to the weight that he was carrying. He’d recently lost his childhood friend, and I was making him relive the trauma now. When Kris had left my school and neighborhood, I’d felt
so alone. I couldn’t imagine how I’d feel if I had to say good-bye to her forever. “Jonah, you don’t have to explain. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have asked. We could talk about other things—”

  “That would be nice, thanks.” He rubbed his hands over his eyes and smoothed his dark curls back from his forehead. We sat quietly for a few minutes, and when he turned to me, his face was pale and calm.

  “There are, like, fifteen other portraits in here,” he said. “I promise none of the others will freak you out.” He got up and walked over to the nearest one. “Look, here’s one I did last year of my old math teacher.” He uncovered a picture of a heavy, elderly woman with white curls and ruddy cheeks. She was standing in an empty garden, reaching out to touch a wilted ivy stem. “What do you feel when you look at her?” Jonah prompted. “Don’t think—just say the first thing that comes to mind.”

  “She’s waiting for someone,” I said quickly. “She misses them. She’s been waiting a long time.”

  His face glowed with pride. “That’s what I was going for!” he told me. “She was always talking about her grandchildren—knitting for them, baking for them—but then she’d bring whole plates of cookies into class, untouched. And her office—wall to wall photos, stacks of them in every corner. I asked her once—she told me that her kids moved to England a long time ago. She lived alone, and she spent all year waiting for them to visit.”

  I looked away. “How awful. Not the painting, of course—that’s fantastic. Are there any happy pictures in here? Besides the one of Katie?”

  He considered for a minute. “I don’t know. I’ve never thought of it like that. I don’t paint them happy or sad. They are who they are.”

  “Well, you have to show these to people. Maybe put together an exhibit? They’re beautiful.”

  There was a soft knock at the door, and Katie entered, dragging a purple feather boa behind her. “Mom says to come down to dinner,” she began, and then stopped mid-thought. “Oh, I don’t like the lonely teacher painting, Jonah!” she exclaimed. “Show her a good one.”

  Jonah threw the cover down. “My favorite eight-year-old critic. Katie, you know you’re not allowed in here; I’ve told you about a hundred times.”

  “I knocked. Anyway, Mom wants you downstairs. She can’t open a jar.”

  Katie and I followed Jonah out of the room. Halfway down the stairs she grabbed me by the hand and gestured for me to lean down. “I’ve been in his studio before,” she whispered confidentially. “I sneak in when he’s at school. Have you seen the picture he did of me?”

  I nodded, smiling. “It’s supposed to be a surprise.”

  She wrinkled her nose. “Don’t tell, okay?”

  I thought about the other paintings that I’d seen—about Ricky’s terrifying final portrait. “Katie,” I began, trying to sound stern, “have you looked at all the paintings in there?”

  She gave me a tired look, as if I’d just insulted her young intelligence. “You mean the one of Ricky on the balcony? Yeah, sure. Jonah did that a couple of months after Ricky was killed.”

  “Wait a minute—you know what happened to Ricky?”

  She sat down on the bottom step and stared gravely up at me. “They didn’t realize I was awake. But I overheard Jonah screaming at Daddy.”

  I wasn’t sure what to say to her. I couldn’t ask an eight-year-old to explain what she should never have heard. And she clearly assumed I knew the details, like everybody else. “Katie, I don’t think we should talk about this anymore.”

  She shrugged. “I don’t want to anyway. I just wish they’d start speaking to each other again.”

  “Jonah doesn’t talk to your dad?”

  She shook her head and sighed. “It was bad enough before Ricky died. But at least we were all talking to each other then.”

  “I’m sorry, Katie. I’m sure it’ll get better soon.”

  She looked doubtfully at me. “It’s been like this for a long time.”

  I was about to answer her when Jonah called to us from the dining room. Katie sprang up from the bottom step. “Don’t tell him what I said!” she whispered and then danced off to the kitchen.

  Jonah was setting the table when I came in, and his mother was carrying a huge tossed salad and a bowl of dumplings on a server. The dining room looked like it had been decorated for a special guest; there were three large pots of food stewing on the stove.

  Jonah smiled at my embarrassed expression and handed me the tray of silverware. “Don’t worry,” he said. “My mom cooks like this every night. She didn’t even know that you were coming.”

  “Well, enjoy it while it lasts,” she remarked. “I go back to work next week.”

  “Where will you work, Mrs. Golden?” I asked her as we settled ourselves around the table.

  “I’ll be joining Reisterstown Decorators. I’m an interior design consultant.”

  Of course, I thought. Why hadn’t I guessed that? No normal person could match a real seashell with a light fixture.

  “You have lovely taste,” I told her, because that seemed to be the only polite thing to say.

  Jonah grinned wickedly into his chicken stew. “As you can see, April, art runs in the family.” His mom beamed at him and spooned another helping of potatoes onto his plate. I had the urge to kick him under the table.

  We spent the next few minutes intently cutting up our food and chewing. I knew that Jonah’s mom was dying to ask me something about myself. I could tell by the bashful glances she kept shooting at me and the way she kept opening her mouth to speak and then shutting it again.

  It was Katie who finally broke the silence. “So, Mommy,” she said. “Did you know that April plays the piano?”

  A look of relief washed over her face. “Really?” she cooed, a little too enthusiastically. “What a wonderful hobby! Have you been taking lessons long?”

  “Since I was seven.” Music seemed like a harmless topic. But then I realized that I’d never mentioned my hobby to anyone except for Jonah. “Katie, how did you know I played?”

  Katie gave Jonah a sly smile. “I saw the videos you posted on YouTube,” she told me proudly and shoved a giant meatball in her mouth with a flourish of triumph.

  “You heard me—?” I paused and turned sharply to her brother. He was concentrating on his food and flipping his potatoes back and forth across his plate. “Wait a minute—which recording did you see?”

  “The moon sonata!” Katie called out, spitting beef in all directions.

  “‘Moonlight Sonata,’” Jonah growled, still glaring at his fork. “And I’m locking my door from now on.”

  “He watched the other ones too,” she whispered to me. “But he liked the moon one best. You had your hair up. And you were wearing a yellow dress with no sleeves. He watched that one, like, a hundred times—”

  “Katie!”

  I picked up my napkin and pretended to wipe the pleased smile off my face. “Thank you, Katie,” I said cheerfully. “You’ve just made my day.”

  Chapter 10

  My mom found me in my room that evening. I’d been playing on my keyboard for an hour, rehearsing a piece that my teacher had assigned. It was the most difficult thing he’d ever given me, and I’d struggled over it for months without success. But now I was brimming with new confidence, and for the first time, I found that I could actually make it through. I was determined to post a new recording on YouTube before the end of the week. Wearing the sleeveless yellow dress, of course.

  I stopped playing when I heard my mom knock. She entered, glanced around the room nervously, and then sank down on my bed. “That sounded really good,” she told me proudly. “I was listening at the door.”

  “Thanks, Mom.”

  She plucked at her sleeve and sighed; a few minutes of weird, pregnant silence passed and nothing happened. It was obvious that I was going to have to sta
rt this conversation.

  “I went over to Jonah’s house today,” I told her innocently, as if she hadn’t known that. As if she wasn’t sitting there waiting for this information.

  She nodded slowly. I could see her mind working furiously. What can I ask without seeming too nosy? she was thinking. What can I say that won’t make her shut down and tell me nothing?

  “He seems really nice, Mom,” I said when she didn’t speak.

  She made a brave effort. I could see her making it. There was an exhaled breath, a lip quiver, an eyebrow twitch. And then the frame collapsed.

  “Oh God, Mom. Are you crying?”

  She wasn’t exactly, but her eyes were very red. I heard a squeak from her and nothing more.

  “Mom, I’m going to stop telling you things if you keep overreacting.”

  She swallowed and cleared her throat. “I know. I know. I’m sorry. I’m fine. Give me a second.”

  “Mom. I met him yesterday. Please.”

  “Yes. You’re right. I’m just—”

  “Do you want to talk about something else while you get yourself together?”

  “I’m together. Totally together,” she insisted.

  “Sure, Mom. You know, most girls my age have already been through half a dozen boyfriends. Some of them are on birth control.” What the hell was I doing? She looked like she was going to faint. “You know if Kristin’s parents acted like this every time she met someone, they’d both be in a coma. She’s been in and out of relationships since she was twelve.”

  “I know, April. But you’re not Kristin.” She took a deep breath. “You’re not like a lot of your classmates,” she continued in a steadier voice. “Friendships mean more to you. And so will your relationships.”

  “I’ll be careful. I’m taking things slow.”

  She shook her head at me. “I’m not worried about the speed. I’m worried about the intensity. Honestly, I see a lot of myself in you. Now don’t roll your eyes, I actually know you, believe it or not. We’re the type that can get completely swept away. And we’ll stay loyal to the people we love, no matter what.”