by Sarina Bowen
Claiborne College is my “reach” school. And—grudgingly—I check the box indicating I had a Claiborne College parent, and I fill in his name.
Frank and Alice drive me to the airport in Kansas City. After quite a few hugs, they send me off to Boston.
And Jake. I’m so excited to see Jake. The kiss I get from him when I finally reach Habernacker lets me know that he feels the same.
Way back when Jake was still just a name on an email account, he warned me that New Hampshire winters were no joke. Turns out he’s right about that. I spend the entire month of January shivering. The tile floor in our ancient dormitory bathroom is so cold it hurts my feet. The window seat in our room becomes uninhabitable due to the drafts that blow through the old-fashioned leaded glass windows.
“This is what minus-twenty feels like,” Jake says one morning when we leave the dining hall together after breakfast.
I take a deep breath. “The inside of my nose is freezing.”
“At least you don’t have to walk a mile to the college,” he says, rewrapping the scarf around his neck, leaving only the top half of his face showing. Jake is taking two science courses and an advanced calculus course at Claiborne College this semester, because he’s already taken everything that CPrep has to offer.
With a track record like that, there’s no way he won’t get accepted to the college this spring. But he hates it when I say so, because he’s superstitious.
I stand on my toes to give him a quick kiss on the bridge of his nose. “I’ll see you in English?”
He nods. “Now run before you freeze.”
I trot off to the first class of the day. Sitting down in the music department’s lecture hall, the only thing I’m willing to shed are my gloves. The old radiators under the windows clank to life, but the lecture hall is still cold.
My phone buzzes with a text, and I reach for it with stiffened fingers. It’s from my father.
Hi Rachel. Meet this imbecile for coffee?
“Imbecile” is a good addition to the canon, and I wonder how long it took Frederick to think of that one.
I’ve been getting these clever, begging texts for a while now. He’s managed to use “dejected” and “disaster,” this week too.
I don’t reply to any of them, even though the word “inept” begs to be used right about now.
When he’d hightailed it to California, I’d given myself a well-deserved break from all things Frederick. But now that he’s back in Claiborne, I’ve begun to feel ridiculous. Frederick is the one who had acted childishly—who couldn’t even get through a few days with his parents without blowing up.
Ignoring him while he was a few thousand miles away was one thing. But if I snub him after he’s traveled so far to be near me, that makes me into an immature beast, doesn’t it? It’s the equivalent of slamming my bedroom door and pouting.
By now, an entire month has passed since we’d spoken. He stopped leaving chatty voicemails about two weeks ago. But at least once a day his name lights up as an Incoming Call. And his texts have begun to weaken my resolve.
Even worse, ignoring him makes me increasingly insecure. How long will he hang around before he gives up on me entirely?
From the front of the room, the professor opens his lecture with a discussion of key signatures.
“Now, an accidental is a note in the piece that departs from the stated key signature. But there’s nothing accidental about an accidental, in spite of its name. The use of accidentals adds color and depth to the music, effectively allowing the composer an expanded color palate from which to paint.”
Shrugging off my coat, I begin to take notes. Thank God for school and its many distractions.
* * *
The following Thursday, expecting a call from Jake, I answer my phone without checking the caller. “Hello?”
“Hi, Rachel.” Frederick’s words are rough and warm in my ear.
I close my eyes.
Into my silence he asks, “Is my long lost-daughter there?”
Seriously? “Frederick, you did not just say that.”
He snorts. “It’s just gallows humor. I’m in town,” he says, as if I don’t already know that. “And it’s a gorgeous day outside. Come out, we’ll get a cup of coffee.”
I waiver. Refusing to see him is confrontational. And good girls avoid that like the plague. And I have no midday class, so there’s really no reason I can’t go.
“I’m just about to meet…” I almost say Jake’s name, but something holds me back. “I’m having lunch with Aurora. How about one thirty? I’ll meet you in front of the Inn.”
“I’ll be there,” he says.
He comes outside at the appointed time, wearing the hat I gave him for Christmas. He gives me a quick squeeze around the shoulders. “You’ve been busy?”
“Sure,” I say, grumpily. “New classes.” New boyfriend. I’m still not sure he deserves the inside scoop on my life. So I ask him a question instead. “What have you been up to?”
“A few new songs. I keep busy.” We walk down Main Street together, toward the pale winter sun. “What classes are you taking this semester?”
We’re back to safe topics, just like in Orlando. “An English class that’s doing Chaucer. Spanish again. Art history. Music theory.” I just slip that one in at the end, wondering if he’ll notice.
“Really.” He gives me a sideways glance. “I didn’t know that was an interest of yours.”
“I’ll let you know,” I downplay it. “I like music, but I’m wondering if it’s one of those things that gets less beautiful the more you know about it. Like astronomy.” I like stars just fine, but unlike Jake, I don’t need to know that they’re gaseous balls undergoing nuclear fusion.
“Music theory is a great class,” Frederick says. “I liked knowing there was a reason that some things sound good together and others don’t—that the listener always wants a dissonant chord to resolve to a consonant one.”
“But doesn’t that make everything seem too simple? Like we’re all so predictable?”
“People are predictable,” he argues. “I don’t mind knowing why.”
We walk in silence for a moment. “How was your New Year’s concert?”
“Good.”
I wait for him to say more, but he doesn’t. And I’m sick of feeling like the cool parts of his life are off limits to me. “You never tell me a single thing about your job. Why is that?”
“Fine.” He chuckles. “We played a ninety-minute set for six thousand people, mostly music I wrote ten years ago, because that’s what they came to hear. People clapped. And Henry deposited ninety thousand dollars into my account.”
“Just another day at the office,” I mutter.
“Exactly. What I do for a living is the most egotistical thing in the world. It’s like…professional masturbation.”
Now it’s my turn to snort. “There’s a phrase for US Weekly.”
“No kidding. I don’t talk about it because…” He pauses so long that I wonder if he’ll finish. “Your mom became a nurse, right? For sick children. Christ. How can anyone compete with that?”
I make a choking sound, because he sounds just like Alice now.
“Can we go in there?” He points at a store.
I’ve been too busy trying to keep my head from exploding to notice where we’re going. “Why?”
“There’s something I want to show you.”
I follow through the store to a display rack. “Wool long underwear? Sounds itchy.”
“That’s what I thought too,” he says. “But it’s merino. Feel this. A friend of mine convinced me to try them. Let’s get you one pair, and I guarantee you’ll be back for more.”
“We’ll see.” I wonder which friend of Frederick’s discusses underwear with him.
“By the time winter is over, we’ll have this cold weather thing figured out,” he says. “What do you think of this?” He hands me a giant furry hat.
“It’s great. For so
meone else.” I replace it on the rack.
The February sun pours down on us when we leave the store. Its warmth begins to thaw out my heart. We take an outside table at the coffee shop. “It’s a heat wave,” I announce, tipping my face back to feel the sun. “I’m photosynthesizing.”
Sipping a cappuccino, I let myself bask in Frederick’s attention. He begins to talk about music theory. And for once my little-kid idea of hanging out with him becomes true.
“You really can’t learn the circle of fifths on a piano,” he says, waving his hands for emphasis. “A keyboard is set up to play major scales easily. But on a guitar, you can feel the intervals. It’s like looking right at music’s DNA. I’ll show you sometime.”
“That would be nice.” I still harbor a secret fantasy that Frederick will teach me to play the guitar. Someday I’ll work up the courage to ask.
“It will be the only homework I can ever help you with. The Chaucer you’ll have to figure out on your own.”
I swirl the foam around in my paper cup. In my peripheral vision, I notice a woman watching us. Actually, two of them. They’ve stopped on the outskirts of the coffee shop crowd.
At first I think they’re gawking fans. That still happens sometimes, even in Claiborne. But then I recognized the woman I saw through the window of Mary’s restaurant, and on the real estate listing sheet. And she’s staring at us, disbelief on her face.
Why?
I feel something go slightly wrong in my gut. Very deliberately, I put my hand on my father’s sleeve. I leaned in, my face closer to his. “When did you start playing the guitar?”
His smile is at close range. “In middle school,” he says. “I bought a Les Paul Junior with my carwash money.”
Of course I know that already. I’d read about it years ago. When I glance quickly toward the woman again, she’s still there, her face transfixed, as if she cannot look away.
“Oh, shit,” my father says. Now he sees her too.
“What’s the problem?” I ask, trying to keep my voice casual. Frederick looks like he wants to leap out of his chair.
At the edge of my vision, the two women put on a burst of speed. They pass the cafe and walk up the street.
My father lets out a strangled breath. “It’s…just a misunderstanding heading my way. Perfectly avoidable, of course. My usual good work on display.”
“She’s your girlfriend?”
He turns to me, his eyes narrowing, and he pauses longer than the question requires. I can see him trying to decide whether or not I’d caused confusion intentionally. “Yeah.”
“And she doesn’t know you have a daughter?” Even as I say it, my heart contracts with surprise.
He closes his eyes for a brief moment. “Right. But she’s about to learn.”
“Seriously? I didn’t know I was still unacknowledged. Wow.” My voice squeaks on the last word.
“That’s not fair.” His face flushes red, startling me. “I really like this woman. And it’s been hard to find a way to tell her that I’m a founding member of Assholes Anonymous.” He stands up. “But that’s what I’ll be doing now.”
I look up at him, still shocked. “So…nice of you to drop by.”
He scoops his hat off the table, a look of defeat on his face. “Right. I’m going to go now, and apologize to Norah for being an ass. And then later I’ll call you and do the same. It’s what I do. Stay warm.” And he strides away from our table.
I turn to watch him go. The woman has stopped halfway down Main Street. She and her friend watch Frederick approach.
Standing up, I turn my back on all of them. Tossing my coffee cup into a trash barrel, I walk back toward campus.
Chapter Twenty-Two
I hold the book in my hands, but I can’t concentrate on Chaucer’s poetry. Instead, I keep replaying my combustible hour with Frederick. For weeks I’ve felt guilty about not seeing him, and he probably hadn’t even cared. He’d been too busy shacking up with his girlfriend.
When I went to meet Frederick today, I’d carried my report card along in my coat pocket. I’d meant to show him that I’d received two As and two A-minuses last semester.
I’m eighteen and a half years old, and still desperate for my father’s approval.
Still pathetic.
On the sofa next to me, Jake groans. “Help me out here,” he says. “‘He thakked her about the lendes weel?’ Am I supposed to know what that means?”
“I think he pinched her on the backside.”
Jake rolls his eyes. “This Old English is killing me. It makes even fun things dull.” One of his hands snakes over to give me a quick pinch on the rear.
I shrug off Jake’s arm and squirm farther into the corner of the couch. I turn the page and try to read on.
“What did I do?”
“Nothing.” I sigh. “I’m mad at my father.”
“Okay. I asked you how that went, and you said ‘fine.’ But it wasn’t?”
“It was…just typical Frederick. He doesn’t think about other people.”
Jake closes his book. “What did he do now?”
“He has this girlfriend…” I stop, because it probably won’t make sense to Jake. She doesn’t know about me. Said aloud, the complaint will only sound self-centered. “He didn’t tell me about her,” I say instead. Which was also true.
“Why, is she, like, twenty-one?”
“No, he just…” I shake my head.
“It sounds like… Isn’t it better for both of you if he’s happy here?”
I look up sharply. “It sounds like you don’t know a thing about it.”
“But I would if you told me,” he says softly.
“Yeah,” I whisper. “I know.”
Then I feel even worse. I raise my stupid book and hide behind it. Jake and I are both reading The Miller’s Tale in preparation for tomorrow’s English class, which we have together this semester. But I’m not in the mood for the carpenter, his cheating wife, and the musician who cuckolded him. It’s slow-going.
“Do I ever get to meet him?” Jake asks after a time.
“Who, Frederick? No.”
“So…that wasn’t the right time to ask that question, was it?”
“Bingo.”
He puts his book down. “I didn’t mean it like I want to be his groupie. I just like you, is all. If my parents lived in town, I’d show you off immediately. ‘This is Rachel. She likes me even though I don’t understand Chaucer.’”
I close my book too, still feeling brittle. “I have rehearsal in fifteen minutes.”
Aurora’s voice comes out of the bedroom. “Jake, you’re not getting any of the good stuff tonight, honey. Better luck tomorrow.”
Jake lifts his book with a sigh.
* * *
The temperature has dropped along with the sun, so I run all the way to rehearsal. The chill stings my face, but it feels good to move, to shake off the day’s disappointments. I’ll soon be warm, anyway. The Belle Choir practices in an overheated classroom.
I’m only one minute late, and the others are still unwinding their scarves and shucking off their jackets.
“Let’s go, people!” Jessica calls. “We have only four rehearsals left before the jam. And Rachel and Daria still don’t have solos. Lots to do here!”
I take my place on the alto side of the horseshoe formation.
“Actually, I’m taking ‘Blackbird,’” Daria says.
“Oh, good.” Jessica makes a note on her clipboard. “That leaves Rachel.” Jessica fixes me with a stare. Lately I’m getting a weird vibe from her, as if I’ve done something wrong.
“Well,” I begin. “I can take whatever solo you want me to. But I had an idea for something new—if you don’t think it’s too weird.”
“Weird can be interesting,” Daria pipes up.
“It’s not the song that’s weird,” I say quickly. “In fact, it makes a great vocal piece. The only weird thing is that my father wrote it.”
“Well
, that’s kind of cool,” somebody says.
“Is he coming to hear us?” Daria asks.
I can’t even look at Daria, because I really have no idea. I still haven’t mentioned the Belle Choir to Frederick, let alone the concert.
“But how can we write a new arrangement in two weeks?” Jessica asks.
“Don’t have to,” I say, taking the music out of my back pocket. “I did it already. It was really easy, honestly. It’s like this song wanted to be a cappella.”
This earns me another frown from Jessica. But then she says, “Let’s warm up, run through what we have, and then we’ll look at it just before we break.”
We begin by singing some arpeggios, rising a half step from one to the other. Standing in my spot—third from the right—with warm voices vibrating around me, I finally begin to feel better.
The first song we rehearse is “Fly Me to the Moon,” which is Other Jessica’s solo. I let my voice dip and soar with the others. Often during rehearsal, my mother comes to me, unbidden. I can picture Mom looking down on the half-circle of shining heads, listening to me blend my voice with the others. Standing there, concentrating on the notes, it’s possible to be sad and happy at the same time.
We’d never fought about choir. Even though Mom disapproved of my interest in Frederick, she never saw choir as the same threat. It was orderly, it was beautiful. It would look good on college applications. The school chorus had always been my middle place, where I could please everyone at once. I could hone my voice, dreaming of the day my father would hear me, and please my mother at the same time.
For ten years I’d imagined Frederick turning up to hear me sing, and in my daydreams, the fated performance was always magical, with Frederick hooting from the back row.
Now the chance to realize this weird little dream has presented itself, I’m terrified. Furthermore, if I expect him to attend, I’ll have to tell him about the jam soon.
Damn him.