by Justice
The car slowed and honked. I stopped walking. Since parked vehicles were occupying the far right lane, the Trans Am was blocking traffic. The Jeep on Chris’s heel blasted its horn. He turned around, threw the impatient driver a dirty look, then sped up and pulled the car curbside a half block up. I jogged over. He rolled down the passenger window, told me to hop in.
“I’m not going straight home,” I said. “I’ve got to pick up my little sister.”
“Last I checked the car’s not a two-seater.” He waved me forward. “Come on.”
I opened the door and got inside, dumping my backpack on the floor. “Thanks.”
“You’re welcome. Where are we going?”
“Just go straight.” My eyes were fixed on the front windshield.
Cars were bumper to bumper. Since the ’94 earthquake and the recent flooding by overzealous rain clouds, the West Valley had become a snarl at rush hour. Chris waited for a nonexistent opening. Headbanger music was screaming from his car stereo. It suddenly seemed to annoy him. He punched it off.
A Jetta stopped and waved Chris in.
“Thank you, sweetheart,” he said to himself. To me, he said, “How far are we going?”
“’Bout two miles up.”
“And you walk that every day?”
“It’s good exercise.”
“What do you do when it rains?”
“I take an umbrella. Sometimes, if it’s convenient, my stepmom will let me have the car.”
Chris paused. “You live with your dad and stepmom?”
“Yes.”
“Where’s your mom?”
I hesitated. The question was way too personal, but I answered anyway. “She died when I was born.”
Chris waited a beat, then raised his brow. “Your dad’s a good Catholic, huh?”
I looked at him, stunned. His face revealed nothing.
“The unbaptized before the baptized.” He pulled a crucifix from under his T-shirt. “Takes one to know one.”
I didn’t answer. In this city of religious nothingness, it was rare to find an overt Catholic boy, let alone one who looked like Christ.
He said, “What about you? Are you a good Catholic girl?”
“Good enough to feel guilty about my mother’s death.”
“The nuns must have had a field day with you.”
“Mostly my father.”
“What’d he say?”
“It’s what he didn’t say.”
He turned quiet. I stared at my lap.
“You still go to Mass?” he asked.
“Sometimes.”
“I go sometimes, too. Old habits are hard to break.”
I smiled and nodded. He was determined to talk. That being the case, I steered the conversation from myself. “You live by yourself, don’t you?”
“Yep.”
“So where are your parents?” I asked.
“They’re dead.”
“Both of them?”
“Yes, both of them.”
I felt my face go hot. “That was stupid.”
“No such thing as a stupid reaction.” He tapped on the steering wheel. “My mom died of breast cancer when I was thirteen. My father was murdered when I was almost ten. A gangland thing. I was hiding in the closet when the hit went down, witnessed the whole thing—”
“Oh, my God!” I gasped. “That’s dreadful!”
“Yeah, I was pretty scared.”
The car went silent.
“Only the upshot of the mess was I hated the son of a bitch.” He scratched his head. “So after the shock wore off, I was kind of happy. My dad was a two-fisted drunk. He’d get soused and pummel anything—or anyone—in his way. That’s why I’d been hiding in the closet. Lucky for me. Otherwise, I wouldn’t have made it into double digits.”
I didn’t answer. I couldn’t think of anything to say.
“I don’t know why I’m telling you this,” he said. “Must be your confessional aura. How far is this school, Terry?”
“Oh, gosh, I’m sorry. We passed it.” I looked over my shoulder. “Turn left at the next light.”
Chris inched the Trans Am forward. “Distracted by our stimulating conversation?”
“I think the operative word is morbid.”
Out of nervousness, I started to laugh. So did he. He turned on the radio, switching to a classical station. Mozart’s Jupiter Symphony—good commuter music.
“So what’s your middle name?” he asked. “Mary or Frances?”
“Anne.”
“Ah, Teresa Anne. A respectable Catholic name.”
“And you?” I asked.
“Sean. Christopher Sean Whitman. A respectable Irish Catholic name. Is that the school up ahead?”
“Yeah. You’ll have to pull over. I have to fetch her.”
He parked curbside and I got out. In all fairness to my stepmom, Jean treated her biological daughter with as much apathy as she displayed toward me. Poor Melissa. I worked my way through the school yard until I spotted her. Usually when I arrived, I was tired, anxious to get home. But with Chris driving, I had the luxury of observing her at play.
My sister was attacking a tetherball, dirty blond pigtails flying in the wind. She had an intense look of concentration, little fists socking the leather bag, turning her knuckles red. Her opponent was a second-grade boy and she was clearly outmatched. But she put up a valiant struggle. After her defeat, she shuffled to the back of the line. I called out her name. She looked up and came running to me.
“You’re early!” she shrieked
“I bummed a ride home. Come on.”
“Will we be in time for Gornish and Narishkite?”
Melissa’s favorite cartoon show. It was off-limits by my stepmom and not without logic. The characters were a fat crow and an over-plumaged macaw. They had nothing better to do than peck out each other’s body parts.
I checked my watch. “If we hurry.”
“Yippee!” She jumped up and down. I picked up her backpack—an amber thing emblazoned with Simba from The Lion King—and slipped it over my shoulder.
She took my hand, half skipping as we walked, tugging on my shoulder. But I didn’t mind. Her hand was soft and warm. She smelled sweaty, but it wasn’t an unpleasant odor.
“I can’t believe I get to see Gornish and Narishkite. You won’t tell Mom?”
“I won’t tell Mom.”
“Who’s taking us home? Heidi?”
“Someone else,” I said. “This way.”
I led her over to the car, opened the door, and got her settled into the backseat. “This is Chris,” I said. “He was kind enough to offer us a ride home. Say thank you.”
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” Chris answered.
“Is he going to pick us up tomorrow, too?”
“Don’t press it, Melissa.” I closed the door. “Besides, you have gym class tomorrow. Put on your seat belt.”
“I can’t do it. It’s too hard.”
I turned around, hanging over my seat as I looped the belt around Melissa’s waist, securing the metal into the latch. As I straightened up, I accidentally brushed against Chris and felt him immediately stiffen. I sat back and scrunched myself in my seat.
“Excuse me,” I said.
“What for?”
“I accidentally…never mind.” I looked out the window. “You need tutoring, Chris?”
“Yeah.”
“You could have just called.”
“I’ve got a unique situation. I’ll explain when we get to your house.”
I was quiet and so was he. Mozart, however, was working himself up into a lather. Chris parked the car in front of my two-story claptrap. It wasn’t a bad house, just in need of repair. The siding needed paint, the stucco was chipped, and the roof was old and leaky. We’d gone from two buckets last winter to five the last time it rained. The roof upgrade was supposed to be my father’s weekend project. Instead, he opted for hooch and sports on TV. My father wa
s a passive lush—the kind who’d drink himself into a coma, gradually slipping away until Jean’s nagging became elevator music.
Chris helped Melissa out of her seat belt. Liberated, she sped to the front door, then raced upstairs as soon as I undid the lock.
“Uh, excuse me, young lady,” I called out to her. “The dishwasher is still full.”
“I’ll do it later,” she shouted from the top of the stairs.
“Famous last words,” I muttered. I shouted back, “Never mind. I’ll do it.” I turned to Chris. “Have a seat at the dining-room table. Can I get you something to drink? Juice? Soda? You know, I can even make you coffee I’ve got so much time.”
“Coffee would be great.”
I marveled at my good fortune, having gained the better part of an hour. I put up coffee, then looked in the fridge. Jean had prepared a chuck roast. I took it out.
“This’ll be shoe leather if I cook it now,” I said to myself. “Maybe I’ll turn down the heat and roast it slowly.” I said it into the oven and turned the temperature to 300 degrees. Then I went into the laundry room and threw the wet clothes from the washer into the dryer. I came back into the kitchen and took out lettuce and tomatoes from the vegetable bin. I washed them under the tap, shook them dry, then started making the salad. I glanced up and saw Chris staring at me from the dining room. I was so caught up in my routine, I had forgotten about him.
I put down the lettuce and dried my hands. “Coffee’s almost done.”
He came into the kitchen. “Do you do this every day?”
“Do what?”
“The cooking, the laundry…child care?”
“They wrote a story about me. It’s called ‘Cinderella.’” I fetched down two coffee mugs. “Tell you one thing, though. I’m not waiting for Prince Charming. I’d rather have a maid.” I turned the coffeepot off and took out some milk and sugar. “How do you like your coffee?”
“Just black.”
“A real man.”
“Very macho.”
I loaded my coffee with the accoutrements, went back into the dining room, and took my datebook out of my backpack. “I’ve got an opening on Monday at eight. Or I can give you an hour on Thursday at eight—”
“Terry, why don’t you sit down and let me tell you what’s going on?” He showed me the chair. “Please.”
I sat, then wondered why I was listening to him. It was my house, but he was playing host.
He took a sip of coffee and looked at me earnestly. “If all goes well, I’m slated to go to the Eastman School of Composition in New York next fall. I squeaked by my junior year. This time I don’t know what’s flying. I’m not a great student, but I can pass tests if I concentrate.”
I nodded.
He flipped a chunk of blond hair out of blue eyes. “Also, I’m away a lot. I play gigs.”
“Gigs?”
“I do fill-ins for ensembles, orchestras, small chamber groups. Once in a while, I even do solos in some of the smaller towns for special occasions. It’s usually for only one or two performances. But my time away includes another day or two for practice beforehand. So I can be gone as much as a week at a time. I miss a lot of class.”
He sipped more coffee.
“I talked to Bull Anderson. He says you charge fifteen an hour.”
“That’s right.”
“Then you’re going to make out like a bandit from me. ’Cause I figure I need five days a week, ’bout two hours a day. I need a teacher as well as a tutor. Are you up for it?”
He stopped talking. I stared at him. “That’s one hundred fifty a week.”
“You can add.”
“Classical music must be a high-growth industry.”
“Money’s not a problem. You save your dollars, Terry, you can earn yourself a fine set of wheels by spring break. What do you say?”
I paused. “Sounds great in theory.”
“The money won’t be theoretical.” He stood. “We can start tomorrow. I’ll pick you up at ten to seven, take you to my place, and have you back here by a little after nine.”
“That’s a big commitment for me, Chris. I need time for my other students. Plus there’s my own studying.”
He sat back down. “How about this? I’ll pick you and your sister up from school every day. That’ll save you five hours just like that.”
“I still have other students—”
“Terry, why don’t you open your appointment book and we’ll go through it together. Find a schedule that suits both our needs.”
I was being pushed, but the money was too tempting to protest. I opened my datebook. With some rearranging and haggling, we decided on four days a week—two hours a day, with Wednesday our day off.
“Mondays and Fridays I can come to your place at seven,” I said. “But Tuesdays and Thursdays it would be better if you just came here right after school. Melissa goes to gym so we’d have privacy. Sound okay?”
He took a pen and a sheet of paper from his backpack. “Tell me the schedule you want.”
I dictated. He wrote. “You’re left-handed,” I said.
“Yeah.”
“Don’t you play cello right-handed?”
“Yeah.”
“Isn’t it hard?”
He looked up from his writing. “I don’t know any differently. I play all my instruments right-handed.”
“What else do you play?”
“Anything with strings.”
“Violin?”
“Yep.”
“Are you a prodigy on violin like you are on cello?”
“Why? You want to exchange violin for French lessons?”
“No, Chris. I think I’m hopeless.”
He studied at my face. “Violin’s a hard instrument.”
“You’re diplomatic. What else do you play?”
“Viola, bass, mandolin, guitar. I started guitar when I was about twelve. Picked it up like that.” He snapped his fingers. “But then my mother died and I was taken into custody by an old-fashioned aunt. She thought electric guitar was a very rude invention. I was instructed to find a more suitable instrument. You want to do Tuesdays and Thursdays here?”
“It really would be more convenient. Are you still in contact with your aunt?”
“Nope. She died two years after my mom.” He looked up. “Natural causes, Terry. She was in her sixties.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You had a look on your face.”
“Just because a sixty-year-old woman seems old to be your aunt.”
“Yeah, she was old and old-fashioned.” He flipped his hair back again. “But she wasn’t without her good points. She fancied herself a real classy lady. I was a punk when I went to live with her. She reinvented my life. Sent me to private school, taught me about music and art. She even gave me diction lessons. I useda towk like a real Noo Yowkeh.”
I smiled. “You should have given your accent to Blake Adonetti.”
That got a laugh out of him. Encouragement. I was on a roll. I said, “Yeah, Blake’s trying very hard to be the resident street guy. Someone should tell him that street guys don’t drive Porsches, they don’t have neurosurgeons for fathers, and they don’t live in ten-thousand-square-foot houses. They also don’t mousse their hair.”
He said, “How do you know Blake?”
“I tutored him for a couple of months—chemistry. His dad harbors hope that Blake’ll be a doctor.”
Chris said, “You tutored him, you tutored Bull.”
“Yeah, also Trish and Lisa for a while. I went through most of your group—”
“They’re not my group.”
His vehemence took me by surprise. I looked away. “Sorry I pigeon-holed you. It’s just that our class is so large, one is more or less defined by one’s clique.”
He said nothing.
I kept blathering on. “I mean everybody has to hang out with someone. Being a B.M.O.C. is infinitely better than being president of the nerd squad, the honore
d post occupied by yours truly.”
He was still stone-faced. I gave up. “I’ll need your backpack…to see what classes you’re taking.”
He dropped his knapsack to the floor. “Funny how we see ourselves. Guys I know don’t find you nerdy. Matter of fact, they think you’re very pretty. Just a little…frosty. But that’s okay. It’s good to be picky.”
I felt myself go hot. He told me he’d see me tomorrow. I nodded, keeping my eyes on my shoes. I knew he’d left when I heard the screen door slap shut.
3
In school, Chris stayed with his crowd, I stayed with mine. I’d have liked to talk to him, but one never crosses party lines unless invited to do so. And Chris didn’t hand me the scepter. So I looked on from afar, seeing him laugh with the beautiful people, Cheryl Diggs giving him neck rubs. A righteous-looking troop—both girls and guys being lean and lovely—typecast for a syndicated TV school serial. I guess I would have played the odd girl out. Because that was what I was.
The dismissal bell rang and he made it to my locker before I did. He waited as I rearranged my books, then carried my backpack as we walked to his car. I reminded him that we didn’t have to pick up Melissa today. She went to gym with a friend whose mother drove them both. Jean did the pickup.
By six in the evening, I was expected to have finished the laundry, set the table, and prepared dinner. Afterward, Jean would load the tableware in the dishwasher. Unless, of course, she and my father had plans for that evening. Or Jean had a date at the health spa. In that case, my stepmother assigned cleanup to Melissa. Which meant she assigned it to me. When Jean yelled at me, I shined her on. But I hated it when Jean yelled at Melissa.
As talkative as Chris was yesterday, he was quiet as we rode to my house. Last night, I had gone through his backpack, scanned his textbooks, and flipped through his spotty notes. He wasn’t much of a student, but he was a great artist. His sketches seemed to be a cross between Matisse and Picasso. Just a few well-placed lines and there was an image. Amazing to me because I couldn’t draw a straight line.