Finding Yvonne

by Brandy Colbert

  He leans his head against my shoulder, and I wrap my arms around him, pulling him close.

  17.

  The Walt Disney Concert Hall is one of the most beautiful buildings in Los Angeles, the kind you stop to stare at every time you drive or walk by, no matter how many times you’ve seen it.

  I am running late the night of the L.A. Phil performance, so I call a car and do my makeup on the way over. It’s a relief not to have to deal with driving downtown and parking in the garage, which is always a clusterfuck the evening of an event.

  Omar is waiting for me out front. He seemed embarrassed when he told me he didn’t have a car and would have to take the subway, but I don’t mind meeting him here. It gives me more time to get my nerves in check. I guess the evening at his house was our first date, but this feels more like a real one. Just the two of us, all dressed up.

  “You look gorgeous,” he says, kissing my cheek.

  I wanted him to greet me with a kiss on the lips, but maybe we’re not there yet. And he called me gorgeous, which makes my neck flush with heat.

  I decided on the blue dress. No one saw me in it on my birthday except Sabina and Warren, and nothing else felt right for this evening. Now, seeing the way Omar is looking at me, I’m glad I wore it.

  “You look nice, too.”

  His locs are pulled back again, and he’s wearing a blue button-down shirt and gray dress pants. I’ve never seen him in anything so nice, and I like it. He smiles and takes my hand. “Ready to go in?”

  I’ve heard that people in Los Angeles don’t dress up like they do in New York, but you couldn’t tell from this crowd. The terrace and lobby are bustling with crisp suits and glittering dresses that probably cost more than every piece of clothing I own.

  “They go all out here, huh?” Omar looks down at his outfit. “Should I have worn a jacket?”

  “You’re fine.” I loop my arm through his as we walk. “That guy isn’t wearing a jacket…. Neither is he….”

  I point out enough jacketless guys that Omar relaxes.

  “It’s been a while since I’ve been to one of these things,” he says. “Never been to the L.A. Phil.”

  “I went last year, with some people from my orchestra.”

  “Oh, yeah? How’s that going?”

  “Okay, I guess…. I talked to my teacher about ways to have music that don’t involve performing. I’m thinking about quitting, but I can’t bring myself to do it.”

  “Why not?”

  I bite my lip before I speak. “Do you feel attached to your violin?”

  “Yeah, of course.”

  I hesitate because I’m so afraid of sounding immature or pathetic, but if I can’t talk to Omar about this, who can I talk to? “I mean, really attached. Like, it would feel as if you lost someone close to you if you set it down forever?”

  I look down at my shoes, afraid that he’ll mock me for sounding like a little girl who doesn’t want to give up her stuffed animals. But when I look up, he’s considering my question, not dismissing it. “I never thought about it like that. For me, it’s more about the music. About playing. If I lost a finger or a hand, it would be tragic for the obvious reasons, but I’d kind of feel like what’s the point of even having a violin if I can’t play?”

  “I wish I felt like that.” I look up at the sky, where the sun has almost finished setting, making room for the moon.

  “How you feel is fine, Yvonne.” His fingers find my hand at my side. He gently strokes my wrist. “Sometimes it takes a while to figure out what you want. No one could’ve told me I would’ve dropped out of Berklee and been happy today.”

  “You don’t regret it?”

  “Not for a minute.” And then, as if he knows I needed it, he kisses me on the lips. It’s swift but sweet. When I open my eyes, he’s looking at me. “You have to trust yourself. Do what’s right for you, no matter what anyone else says.”

  I wish I could do that, but after talking to my dad, who I thought was the most confident person in the world, shutting out other people’s opinions seems easier said than done.

  Our seats are really good, and I want to text Warren to thank him, but I’ll have to wait until later. Omar is never on his phone—always attentive and present. Which is new; not what I’m used to from hanging out with guys my age. He’s not that much older—he’s twenty, a year younger than Warren. But he reads older. Like an old soul.

  “I love this feeling, before it begins.”

  I don’t realize I’ve said it out loud until Omar looks over and smiles. “What do you like about it?”

  I feel shy now, but I make myself talk. “It’s, like, a feeling in the air… like everyone knows something special is going to happen. And I like watching the orchestra get ready. I love hearing them tune up and wondering how important the performance is to all of them… who it means more to.”

  He looks around for a minute, then leans in. “Do you ever feel weird at things like this? Being around all this money?”

  “It can be a lot,” I say, though it doesn’t weird me out. This city is full of rich people who don’t look rich; it’s always interesting to be around the ones who have no problem flaunting their wealth.

  Tonight, the orchestra is playing pieces from Romeo and Juliet, selections adapted from the ballet composed by Prokofiev. I don’t think there’s any way Warren could have known this, but the orchestral suites contain some of my favorite classical work.

  I lean forward through the whole suite, closing my eyes when the strings are front and center, imagining myself onstage. Ortiz has never had us play Prokofiev, but Denis assigned me some pieces to work on, and the “Montagues and Capulets” was one of them. It is so authoritative and determined and beautiful, I always felt powerful when I practiced. Playing it was one of the few times I really lost myself in the music and came out of it at the end staring at Denis confused, as if someone else had taken over my body.

  There’s no intermission, and I’m glad because I prefer watching the program without taking breaks. I glance at Omar a couple of times, hoping he’s not bored. He looks enthralled, his eyes dancing across the stage as he takes in the performance. The second time I catch his eye, he smiles and takes my hand, resting them both on his knee. It’s hard for me to focus on the music after that, because I feel so good sitting like this with Omar, my hand enveloped in his.

  The orchestra receives a well-deserved standing ovation, and when it’s all over, I sink back into my seat with a sigh.

  “What’d you think?” Omar asks.

  “I loved it. Everything about it.”

  “I was kinda worried about coming to this,” he says. “I thought I might miss this life… or what could’ve been my life. But I don’t. I feel like I’m doing what I was supposed to do, even if it’s tough, you know?”

  I nod, even though I don’t know. I haven’t found that yet. And it scares me.

  Outside, we stand again in front of the concert hall, watching people stream out to waiting cars and take pictures in front of the building. The moon is out, its natural light competing with the aggressive street lamps of Grand Avenue.

  “So… what should we do now?” It’s sort of bold and definitely presumptuous to assume he still wants to hang out, but we spent the evening next to each other, not talking at all. I don’t want the night to be over yet.

  “Even though it’s a school night?”

  “I don’t have a curfew.” But I don’t think that’s the issue. Especially when I see the uncomfortable look that flickers across his face.

  Omar has never said he’s broke, but all signs add up to that. I can’t imagine he makes a lot at the youth center.

  “I have to tell you something,” he says, “and I don’t mean for it to be a big deal, but I think you should know.”

  “Okay….”

  “I told you Keely and I are roommates, but we actually share a room at the house. Not a bed,” he adds quickly, and I’m not sure that makes me feel any better.

/>   The whole thing makes me feel a little sick, actually. How can you just share a room with someone you used to care about and sleep with and then pretend like everything is normal?

  “I hope that doesn’t change anything between us.” He steps closer and tilts his head to the side as he looks at me. “I really like you, Yvonne. I thought the high school thing would be weird, but it’s not. You don’t act young.”

  “I’m not that young. I’m eighteen.”

  “I know.” He clears his throat. “Anyway, I want to ask you back to my place, but I can’t. Not unless we want to hang out on the swing set all night. I’m sorry.”

  He does sound sorry, which makes me think maybe his feelings for Keely have truly faded. Omar seems like an honest guy. He’s shown me where he lives—it doesn’t get much more personal than that.

  “I don’t know what to say.”

  “I get it. And I’ll understand if you don’t want to keep seeing me, but—”

  “That’s not what I mean. It’s just… something I haven’t dealt with before, I guess. I don’t want to stop seeing you.”

  He exhales slowly. “That makes me happy, Yvonne.”

  “Are you hungry?” I ask after a few moments. “We could grab some food and go back to my house.”

  “Your parents won’t care?”

  “My dad works late. He won’t be home for a while.”

  “If you’re sure…”

  “I’m positive. I know a great place where we can get takeout.”

  I call a car and on the way over, I read the menu to Omar, and we choose a few items to share. I call in the order, telling the host who I am right away, because technically my father’s restaurant doesn’t do takeout. It’s the middle of the week, so it’s probably not too busy for us to snag a table, but I’m sure Warren is working. And I don’t want to have to explain to my father who Omar is. I haven’t exactly mentioned I’m seeing someone.

  “I’ll be right back,” I say when we get to the restaurant, jumping out before Omar can offer to come with me.

  The restaurant is busier than I figured, so I think maybe I’ll get in and out without having to see my father or Warren. But when the host comes back with the bags of food, he’s accompanied by Warren, who is sweaty from the kitchen but looks a little less anxious than the last time I saw him. A little.

  “Thanks, Frank.” I take the bags from him, then walk a few feet away with Warren. “What’s up?”

  “What’s up with you?” he says, gesturing to my dress.

  “Oh. The L.A. Phil.”

  “That was tonight?”

  “Yeah, I—you said I didn’t have to take you.”

  “I know. And I meant that. How was it?”

  “It was perfect. The seats, the music, everything. Thank you.”

  He smiles. “It’s the least I could do. But don’t tell me you’re eating all that yourself?”

  “No, it’s—Sabina’s waiting in the car, but we didn’t feel like eating here.” I hate lying to Warren.

  “Well, I’m glad you stopped by. I wanted to tell you that I emailed him back today. My dad.”

  “And…?”

  “And he wants to meet this weekend. Sunday brunch. He said I can pick the place. You’re still down to come with me?”

  “Warren, of course.” His eyes are so scared and unsure that I have to resist the urge to reach up and cup his face in my hand. “I wouldn’t miss it.”

  He looks like he wants to kiss me, so I give him a quick hug and say I have to go, practically sprinting out the door and into the waiting car.

  18.

  Nice house,” Omar says as we walk from the front door to the kitchen. “Just you and your parents?”

  “Just me and my dad. My mom isn’t around.”

  “Oh.” He stops there, but I can tell there’s more he wants to say.

  “That was a loaded oh.” I grab plates from the cabinet and bring them back to the table.

  “Okay, promise you won’t think I’m an asshole for saying this, but you don’t really seem like the sort of person whose parent just wouldn’t be around.”

  “Well, I am. She disappeared when I was six.”

  He helps me unload the food from the containers: butter lettuce salad, calamari, lobster Bolognese, roasted sea bass, and a sampling of fresh bread. Omar’s eyes widen.

  “I guess I didn’t realize how much food we got. This is… a lot. Let me know how much I owe you.”

  “You don’t owe me anything. My dad owns the restaurant.”

  “What?”

  “Yeah. They don’t really do takeout.”

  “We don’t see a lot of food like this at the house,” he says. “Guess they’re hitting up the wrong alleys.”

  “They wouldn’t find anything there.” I sit down with my plate full of food. “He donates anything left over to a food rescue program that feeds the homeless.”

  “Sounds like a good guy,” Omar says, taking the seat across from me. He spreads a napkin over his lap.

  “He’s all right.”

  “Just all right?”

  “I don’t really know him.”

  “He’s your dad.”

  “Exactly. He doesn’t reveal a lot about himself. I never know what he’s thinking or feeling. Sometimes it’s more like we’re roommates.”

  “That sounds frustrating.”

  “Yeah.” I pause. “So… why did you say I don’t seem like the type of person whose mom wouldn’t be around?”

  He twirls a bite of pasta onto his fork and chews, thinking. “Well,” he says after he swallows, “for starters, your dad owns a restaurant that serves lobster Bolognese. I’ve never even heard of lobster Bolognese.”

  “Okay… what else?”

  “I don’t notice clothes much, but I can tell that your house is full of nice things,” he says. “The art and furniture look expensive…. You’ve got books everywhere…. Even the rug looks pretty fancy.”

  I’m aware that we have a nice place, but it’s so modest compared with so many of my classmates that I never thought anyone would be this impressed. It’s not a big house, and among the Courtland Academy families, bigger usually means better. Then again, probably anything looks nicer than Omar’s place, with the deteriorating exterior and refrigerators in the dining room.

  “If it makes you feel any better, my dad is a total stoner who pretty much stays high all the time so he doesn’t have to access his emotions.”

  “Whoa,” Omar says, holding a piece of bread in midair. “That sounded pretty clinical.”

  “My best friend figured it out for me,” I say. “One of her moms is a therapist.”

  “You cool with him smoking?”

  “Yeah… I guess.” I don’t tell Omar that I rarely invite new people over precisely because I don’t want them judging my father. I’m not always sure how I feel about him myself, but I don’t need anyone else’s opinion.

  “You know,” Omar says slowly, and my whole body tenses because I wonder if he’s going to drop another bomb about him and Keely. He pauses, then stops.

  “Yeah?”

  “Keely and I…”

  Oh, Jesus.

  “… we were on the streets for a while.”

  My mouth drops open. “Like, actually homeless?”

  “Like, actually homeless. We stayed in a few shelters, but Keely was too skeeved out and couldn’t sleep, so we went off on our own. We set up in a camp under a 101 overpass for a while, then we kept moving west until we heard about an open room in the house. Been there ever since.”

  “Wow. I had no idea. How long?”

  “About three months, I think. Hard to track time when you’re moving around like that.”

  “So, what—I mean, how—” I can’t think of an eloquent way to ask my question.

  “How did we end up homeless? I’d dropped out of Berklee and spent all my money traveling. Keely was in a bad situation at home with her piece-of-shit dad, and once she met me she felt like she could
finally leave. But we didn’t have any place to go. The only things we had worth selling were our instruments, and that was the only way we knew how to make money.” He lowers his head. “I’m not proud of it, but I’m proud we got out of it.”

  “You have nothing to be ashamed of.” I touch his arm. “All my money comes from my dad. I wouldn’t know what to do if things were awful with him.”

  Of course I could call on Sabina or Warren or Lou, or even people I don’t know all that well at Courtland. They wouldn’t let me live on the streets, and it makes me sad to think that Keely didn’t have anyone she could go to.

  Omar flips his hand over, palm up, and catches my hand in his.

  When we’re finished eating, he asks to see my violin.

  “Oh, it’s not that nice,” I say. “It’s no Stradivarius, if that’s what you’re expecting.”

  “With you, I wouldn’t be surprised,” he says, but he’s smiling. “I want to see it anyway.”

  I lead him back to my room, heart thumping under the lace of my dress. No guy has ever been in my room but Warren. I feel a little strange about it, but my excitement about getting to kiss Omar again trumps any of my reservations.

  I retrieve my violin case and snap it open. On the other side of the bed, Omar leans over to peer at it, fingers running across the smooth wood.

  “Looks like a pretty nice fiddle to me. Better than some I saw at Berklee.”

  “Really?” Denis always looked at it disdainfully, as if it were beneath him to work with a student who wasn’t toting around a million-dollar instrument.

  “It’s not cheap,” Omar says. “I’d love to hear what it sounds like.”

  “Be my guest.” I nod toward the case.

  He laughs. “Nice try. I want to hear what you sound like.”

  “I don’t think you do.”

  “Come on, Yvonne,” he says softly. “I was watching you tonight. You still love it. Nobody looks that way if they don’t love it.”

  I stare at my violin like I’ve never seen it, like it’s not something I’ve carried with me almost every day for the past eleven years. I’ve never treated anything so carefully, never owned anything so fragile that was part of my everyday life.