by J. L. White
Of course, that’s the exact same thing that hurts.
I finally pull my eyes away. I look at the ground in front of me as I sidestep down the row and to the aisle.
I glance at him, up ahead.
He’s coming down from the stage one slow step at a time, and he’s watching me with an expression of... what? Shock? Longing? Regret?
I pull my eyes from his, but as we continue to near one another, the sensations in my body ratchet up a notch. These sensations reach a frightening peak as we pass in the aisle—I’m careful not to touch or look at him—then decline again as we move farther away from each other. It’s like my body is one giant Erik detector.
I grab the cold hand rail and concentrate on each step, certain I’ll trip and fall if I don’t. As I cross the stage—a stage I’ve been on a hundred times—it all feels so foreign to me, because I’ve never crossed this stage with Erik watching. Is he watching?
Without thinking, I glance toward the auditorium. My eyes find him immediately. He’s standing in the aisle, and oh yes, he’s watching me.
I turn away and focus on walking, a task which is suddenly more awkward and difficult than it should be. My body feels like butter.
I sit down on the edge of the bench. It’s a bit too far away from the piano for comfort, but I’m too flustered to do anything about it. I bring my fingers to the keys out of habit, but I don’t play. There’s a sharp moment of panic when I remember why I’m here but can’t remember what I’m playing.
Why didn’t I bring my music? My hands hover over the keys, trembling. I wonder if the people in the audience can see it.
Then it comes back to me, thank God. Liszt. Yes, okay. I can do that.
I play a measure with rubbery fingers that race into the second measure with such clumsiness they trip all over each other.
I’m a trained musician. I know to keep going if I make a mistake. But this is so bad and I’m so shocked by the whole thing that I actually bring my fingers off the keys and clasp them in front of me.
This snaps me out of it. At least, out of it enough that I’m determined to play this piano like I actually know what the fuck I’m doing.
There’s some murmuring in the audience and Professor Reinecht says, “What in the hell was that?”
He’s not known for his subtlety.
“Sorry, I—”
“Start again. No more chances, Ashley.”
“No, sir.” No shit.
I take hold of myself and pull the bench up where it needs to be.
Liszt, I think forcefully, and begin to play.
It seems like an eternity, but I finally manage to get through my piece. I didn’t make any obvious mistakes, but it definitely wasn’t my best either. When I look up, I see Erik’s back retreating out the auditorium door.
Oh, screw you, I think.
“Well that was better, at least,” Reinecht says tersely. He’s no more happy about my performance than I am. God, what a time for Erik Williams to show up!
The panel converses for a few seconds. They all nod and go back to their paperwork. Professor Reinecht leans into the microphone. “You’re in. Get your packet and get off my stage.”
SIX YEARS EARLIER
Chapter 2
As I walk along a branch of the Boise river, I can’t believe I just got the first day of my senior year of high school under my belt. I still remember my first Monday as a nervous little freshman, walking those big halls and feeling so overwhelmed. Today, the other seniors and I were the ones strutting around like we own the place. The top class at last!
But it’s a little intimidating, too. This time next year I’ll be in college. It’s crazy.
The path I’m on winds along the river, which is on my left. On my right is a line of fancy houses with impressive decks and patios, and perfectly landscaped backyards. The wrought-iron fencing allows people walking on the Greenbelt a perfect view of the privileged life of those who live here. This particular subdivision finally finished construction a few months ago. It’s new enough that I haven’t grown used to the presence of these houses, and my dad still complains about the consumption of the natural landscape thanks to the greed of the wealthy.
I don’t know that I’m as bitter about it as he is. After all, even our rundown little house—in a neighborhood not terribly far from the river either—was an intruder on the landscape at some point. Granted, that was forty years ago. But still.
No, as I walk past one grand house after another, my reaction is more one of envy. I try not to feel that way, but I can’t help it. Some of these houses are just so stunning. My favorites are the ones with huge bays of windows that give a broad view into the beautiful homes inside. I like to imagine being inside and wonder what it’s like to have such a great view of the river every day.
Funny thing though, I almost never see anyone inside these homes. Where are they all the time, I wonder?
I come to the point where the river and the path curve off to the left, while a broad green area extends away to the right. More houses line the massive sculpted lawn as it retreats deeper into the new neighborhood. The lawn even boasts its own private pond. Just off the side of the public Greenbelt I’m walking along is an elegant-looking sign at the head the lawn that reads: “Private.”
I always feel a bit of a twinge at this point, like I’m being excluded from the country club or something.
My steps don’t slow however. This latter part of my walk is actually my favorite. There’s a bridge up ahead that I like to stop on to enjoy the view.
Before I pass the private green area, however, I hear piano music that’s so beautiful it stops me in my tracks. It reaches right into my chest and stops my heart, too. It must be coming from one of the homes lining the private lawn.
I hesitate.
Private.
But the music pulls my feet off the path and onto the private green. I walk slowly, glancing from one house to the next as I seek the source of the music. I feel like I’m being led along by the Pied Piper.
Some five houses in is an elegant two-story with a wall of windows giving the inhabitants a view of the lawn and its broad private pond. Inside is a great room with a high ceiling, and to the rear is a gorgeous staircase leading up to the second floor landing. Other windows in the home give me a glimpse into its modern kitchen and dining area, but I give this barely a glance.
In the living room is a gleaming black, grand piano, its raised lid currently blocking my view of the player. My steps slow even more, but I continue until my view of the player is unobstructed.
I stop, stunned.
It’s not an adult playing like that, it’s a kid. He looks to be the same age I am. He’s gorgeous too, I don’t fail to notice that, but really it’s the whole package that overwhelms me. Someone so young creating such a magical picture. God, that music.
It holds me in place until the song ends. Even the silence that follows is enhanced by the music I just heard. I let my breath out in a slow exhale. Who is this boy?
He looks up and—since I’m directly in his line of sight—he looks right at me.
I startle and tuck my head down and hustle away. I’m too scared to look back to see if he’s still watching me, but after passing a few more houses I realize I’ve gone deeper into the forbidden country club. I should’ve gone back to the Greenbelt.
I look back over my shoulder.
The line of houses is quiet. No movement. No sounds. No boy.
I stop and face toward the Greenbelt, clasping my hands in front of me. Okay, I’m just going to go back to the Greenbelt and go on my way.
I force myself to walk forward at a normal pace and try to look like I belong here. Me, in my cut-off shorts, flowing Bohemian shirt, and knit beanie. Yeah, I don’t stick out at all.
When I get back to the house, the piano is empty. I’m disappointed—I wanted to hear more music—but I’m also nervous. Where is he? I don’t think I want him to see me again.
Do I?
>
I glance in the other windows. No one in the kitchen. No one in the great room or up on the landing.
The backyard, also vacant, is beautifully landscaped and has a few little nooks for sitting. The wooden patio deck runs almost the entire length of the house. There’s an iron outdoor table set with thick cushions on the chairs. The yard and patio both have little decorations to give the whole thing a polished, rich look. Even these people’s back yards are more decorated than my house.
On the right side of the patio is a French door leading into the house. My heart clenches as the door opens and out steps the boy, like he’s looking for something. His eyes land on me and stay there, like I’m the one he was looking for.
I stop. I can’t help it.
One corner of his mouth turns up in a half-smile. “Hi,” he says.
“Uh, hi.”
He’s wearing tan pants and a blue, collared shirt with a crest embroidered on the breast. I recognize it as the uniform for the private school so many of these rich kids attend.
“I was just listening to your music,” I say.
He smiles broader. It’s a friendly smile and I start to unclench a bit.
“It was really good,” I add.
“Thanks.” He closes the door behind him and starts to come down the patio steps. I drift closer to the black, wrought iron fence that only comes to my waist. “Do you live around here?” he asks.
I have a fleeting thought that I’m about to get busted for being on private property, but I don’t think he’s going to care. “No. I’m over in Brookside. I was just walking along the Greenbelt when I heard you playing.”
“I’m glad,” he says. “I mean, that’s cool.”
He looks a little embarrassed and I smile. We both stop a few feet from the fence between us. “I’m Ashley, by the way.”
“Erik,” he says, stepping forward and extending his hand to shake mine, just like a grown up.
I come closer and take his hand. I give him an awkward shake. I don’t know why, but we both chuckle a bit.
“Do you play an instrument, Ashley?”
This question always makes me feel a little weird. “Uh, kind of. I guess.”
“Oh yeah? Which one?”
Oh man. I should’ve just lied and said, No. “Uh...”
He smiles again. I like it. He’s so cute. If he were a boy at my school, he’s the kind of boy I would drool over in history class and admire from afar as he walks through the halls.
I realize I need to give an answer, so I finally confess, “Piano.”
“Really?” His eyes light up. “How long have you been playing?”
I shrug. “I took a semester at the end of middle school, but they don’t offer it at the high school.”
“No private lessons?” he asks easily.
I shake my head. My parents could never afford private lessons. “Do you take lessons?” A stupid question, given the way he plays. I’d kill to play like that.
“Yeah. Since I was about six.”
My eyebrows must’ve gone clear up into my hair. “No wonder you’re so good. I just kind of watch YouTube videos and practice on the piano at school.”
I’m actually surprised I admitted this, but I’m even more surprised how comfortable I feel admitting it.
“Don’t you have a piano at home?” he asks.
I shake my head, but smile so he doesn’t feel bad for me. Even if we had the money for a piano, we’d have nowhere to put it. Unless we got rid of my bed and put it in my room. I could sleep underneath it in a sleeping bag. That would be fine by me if it meant I could have access to a piano any old time I wanted instead of just an hour before and after school. Though, my parents did get me an electric keyboard for Christmas, which was just amazing. It’s not the same, but it’s not nothing.
There’s a pause in the conversation as we consider each other. Erik gives me a tentative smile. “Wanna... come in and play a bit?”
I shouldn’t. I don’t know him. My parents wouldn’t approve. But how can I say no? A cute boy has just asked me to come into his fancy house and play on his grand piano. My heart has a fluttery feeling in my chest. “As long as you agree to play more than I do,” I say smiling. “I’m not trained or anything.”
“Agreed,” he says, smiling more broadly now and opening the back gate for me.
And just like that, I’m walking right into one of these beautiful yards and then, following his lead, right up the patio and to the backdoor.
He opens it but steps aside to let me go in first. I give him a tentative smile then go past him.
“Oh wow,” he says. “How long is your hair?”
I’m wearing my blonde hair in double braids down to my waist.
“I mean...” he laughs nervously as I turn back to him. “Sorry, obviously I can see how long it is.”
“Yeah, it’s kinda long. I’ve worn it like this since I was a kid.”
“It’s pretty,” he says.
I feel my cheeks flush, but hope he doesn’t notice. “Come on,” he says, smiling. He leads me into the living room.
His house is even more stunning on the inside than it was from the outside. I try not to gawk at the polished wood floors or the massive ceramic vases on the side table or the artwork I’m willing to bet didn’t come from Target. There’s a gorgeous living room set: a white couch and loveseat and two chairs. It all looks so fluffy and comfortable. And new and clean! We got our set from my grandma back when I was in elementary school. There are great big pink roses all over it and the arm of the loveseat is all scratched up from the cat.
I follow Erik to the piano. We stop at the bench.
“Wanna go first?” he asks.
I shake my head emphatically.
He laughs and slides onto the bench. “Okay. What do you want to hear?”
I slowly come up to the piano and rest my hand on the smooth, shiny wood. Oh I just want to pet it! But I don’t.
“Whatever you want,” I say, taking in the squat bookcase on the wall behind him. It’s filled with music books.
“Well, how about Beethoven’s Sonata in F? That was my recital piece last spring.”
“Okay.”
He puts his hands on the keys, but doesn’t play. He looks at me. “You can sit if you want.” I don’t know if he means to sit on the bench or sit on the furniture. I would feel weird about either option.
“I’m okay.”
“All right.” Then he begins to play. It’s just as good as the other piece I heard him play, and even more amazing because I’m right here next to it. The music reverberates through my body. I watch the hammers hopping against the strings. I watch his long fingers, dancing confidently along the keys. I watch his face. He’s concentrating, eyes on his hands and not me. I slide my hand along the side of the piano some, now that he can’t catch me doing it. God, this piano feels amazing!
I can’t believe I’m standing here, in this house, listening to this music, and watching this boy play it. Oh, if only I’d been able to take lessons for as long as he has. Or any at all! But even if I had, I probably still wouldn’t be able to play like this.
When he finishes his piece, I clap enthusiastically and he laughs.
“Thank you, thank you,” he says in a mock serious voice and bows his head. “Your turn?”
He slides off the bench, so I can’t very well say no. Oh well. What am I going to do about it? I may as well do what I can.
I decide to play one of my favorite songs. It’s not classical, but it has an engaging, confident feel I could use right now.
“Okay. I’ll play the Overture Theme from Phantom of the Opera.”
He raises his eyebrows and nods his head. “Nice.”
“We’ll see if you think so after I play it. Just remember, I’m not trained.”
“It’s okay. We’re just having fun, right?”
I look up at him and he’s giving me a genuine smile. My heart does a little flip flop and I smile back.
I look back at the keyboard, which is considerably longer than the one at school. I want to touch every key. Instead I take a resolute breath and start to play.
I don’t usually play in front of people, so I’m surprised when I slide deep down into the music just like I do when I’m alone. The fancy house I’m in disappears. Cute, cute Erik disappears. It’s only me and my music, and the happiness of it swells inside me so big I let that spill over to what I’m playing.
This is what I love. This is what I love more than anything in the world, even more than my wonderful parents if I’m honest, and that probably makes me a horrible, selfish person. But music is pure magic and belongs to a whole other world. Heaven itself, maybe. I can’t help but give my complete devotion to it.
When I finish, my surroundings slowly come back to me and I realize I’m smiling. “Such a fun song,” I say and grin up at my new friend. Even if I never see him again, we’ve shared music together so that makes us friends now. Not that I’ve ever had this experience before, but that’s how it feels.
He’s giving me a shrewd look. “You were pulling my leg!”
“Huh? About what?”
“No lessons my eye. Who’s your teacher?”
I blink at him. “Just Mr. Bartlett in middle school.”
He’s still grinning, but he rolls his eyes. “Oh come on. You can’t play like that without taking lessons.”
He’s giving me a fluttery feeling in my chest again, but for completely different reasons now. “Was it okay?”
The grin slides off his face and now he’s just staring at me wide-eyed. “You really, really never had lessons before?”
“Well, I practice. And I’ve watched just about every video you can on YouTube.”
“That’s... like... kind of amazing.”
Still gaping, he drops onto the bench next to me. His elbow touches my bare arm for just a second and my heart beats a little faster. “What else can you play?” he asks.
But I don’t answer. With him this close I’m aware of his body in a way I wasn’t before. I realize I haven’t seen or heard anyone else in the house. The combination makes me a little skittish. I’m not afraid of him, but my parents would not approve and I’m not sure how I feel about things either. “Are your parents home?”