Consent

by Nancy Ohlin

  I guess it can’t hurt to meet Mr. Rossi at this Café Tintoretto place. Because I’ll only stay for a minute. Or thirty minutes. Whatever.

  I type:

  Dear Mr. Rossi,

  Wait . . . he’s “Dane” now.

  Dear Dane,

  Who starts an e-mail with “Dear”?

  Thank you for your note. Tomorrow doesn’t work, but it happens that I’m free around 4 p.m. on Saturday, so I will stop by Café Tintoretto then. If anything comes up last minute, here is my cell . . .

  Too businesslike.

  I stare at the blank screen for what seems like forever.

  Finally, I type:

  Yes, Saturday, Café Tintoretto at 4.

  Simple and unambiguous.

  I add my phone number as a P.S. and hit Send.

  Now there is no going back.

  TWELVE

  On Saturday, I rush into Café Tintoretto at ten minutes past four. It’s on a tiny side street and not easy to find. The inside is small and dimly lit, with stained-glass windows, high tin ceilings, and a handful of antiquey tables. Gold-framed paintings of Greek gods and goddesses cover the orange walls. A scratchy but beautiful rendition of the “Flower Duet” from the opera Lakmé spins on an ancient record player.

  I am wearing the red top Plum likes, but only because it’s laundry day and nothing else is clean.

  Mr. Rossi—Dane—jumps to his feet when he sees me. When I reach his table, we stand there awkwardly for a second; do we shake hands or what?

  “I—,” I begin.

  “I—,” he says at the exact same time.

  We both smile. “Sorry, you go ahead,” he says.

  His gaze lingers on my face. Does he notice that I’m wearing makeup for once? Although “makeup” might be an exaggeration, since it’s just a new lip gloss color, Naked Peach, and an invisible layer of blush. I tried eye shadow as well, but it looked too obvious, so I baby-oiled it off.

  “I just wanted to say, this is my first time here. It’s nice.”

  “Yes, isn’t it? It’s rather an anachronism.”

  Dane is in weekend mode in a gray cashmere sweater, jeans, and tortoiseshell glasses. The sweater looks impossibly soft, and I have to resist the urge to touch it; that would definitely not be cool.

  A sleek silver laptop sits on the table next to a pile of scores. Stickers cover the lid: ASPEN MUSIC FESTIVAL, TANGLEWOOD, ROYAL ACADEMY OF MUSIC, CONSERVATOIRE DE PARIS.

  “Lesson planning,” he says, nodding at the scores. “I’ve found this to be a good place to get work done. It’s often empty this time of day.”

  I point to one of the scores. “ ‘Suite from Cinderella’? What’s that?”

  “It’s a suite by Prokofiev, arranged for two pianos. Fantastic piece. You know, you and I should play it together sometime.”

  “Really?”

  “Really. The orchestra room has two pianos, so we could rehearse there.”

  Dane and me playing “Suite from Cinderella” together . . . the thought of it makes me strangely giddy. And it’s not just the prospect of having lots of practice sessions with him alone. The chamber rehearsal on Thursday made me realize how nice performing with other people can be. With Lianna and Braden, it was great. With Dane, it would be . . . epic.

  He is asking me a question.

  “I’m sorry, what?” I say.

  “I haven’t ordered yet. Can I get you something?”

  I hesitate. I was only going to stay for a short while.

  I glance around; there’s no one else from A-Jax here, which is no surprise, since everyone goes to The Grind. The only other customers are a couple in the corner who are discreetly making out. I try not to gawk at them.

  “Um, sure. Yes. Thank you,” I say quickly.

  Dane smiles at me—not his usual devastating smile, but a shy, eager smile—and for a moment I swear he looks like a teenager and not a teacher. What is that about? He seems different outside of school: friendlier, less guarded.

  We walk over to the marble counter together. Behind it an old man in an apron pours foamy milk into a white cup while a strange-looking silver urn hisses and sputters steam.

  “Ciao, Professore!” he booms jovially at Dane.

  “Ciao, Signor Vitale. Come stai?” Dane replies.

  “Bene, bene. E tu?”

  “Bene, grazie.”

  Dane pulls out a slim black wallet and turns to me. “Beatrice, what would you like?”

  “You speak Italian?” I ask, surprised.

  “I’m Italian on my father’s side. How do you feel about cappuccinos?”

  “I feel fine about cappuccinos. Wow, so you’re bilingual.”

  “Actually, I speak four languages. Not because I’m brilliant or sophisticated, mind you. I was forced to take French and German at my school, and I hated every minute of it. Also, we traveled quite a bit. “Due cappuccini, per favore,” he says to Signor Vitale.

  “Si, arriva subito.”

  We? I wonder if he’s talking about his family growing up or about a family now. I sneak a glance at his left hand. Still no wedding ring. Also, traveled, past tense.

  We take our cappuccinos back to the table. The make-out couple gets up to leave, their arms snaked around each other. Dane glances at them and then at me. He rakes a hand through his hair and clears his throat. “So.”

  “So.”

  “What are you working on these days?”

  “You mean, like, music?”

  “Yes, I mean, like, music.”

  “Well, there’s the Rachmaninoff and the Schumann Fantasy, obviously. I’m also working on the Beethoven Opus 111, ‘Jeux d’eau,’ and some other stuff: Bach, Chopin . . . oh, and Prokofiev, speaking of.”

  “Which Prokofiev?”

  “The sixth sonata.”

  “Ah, yes, the first of the three War Sonatas.”

  “War Sonatas?”

  “He wrote them at the onset of World War Two. They were a reaction to Stalin, whose secret police arrested and shot his friend. Have you gotten to the third movement yet? It’s quite lyrical and romantic, in contrast to the other movements which are quite . . . well, violent.”

  “I’m only on the first movement. It’s seriously difficult.”

  “Has your Mrs. Lugansky pointed out the conflict between the A-major and A-minor keys?”

  Mrs. Lugansky. “N-no.”

  “It gives the piece a very tense, unstable mood. Have you picked up on that?”

  “Yes, now that you mention it.”

  We sip our cappuccinos. It’s incredibly delicious—strong, sharp coffee with an airy layer of warm milk. Sunlight streams through the stained-glass window above us and ornaments our table with flecks of ruby, emerald, and sapphire. I touch one of the rubies, and my hand glows red.

  “Beatrice?”

  “Yes?”

  “Listen, the reason I asked you to meet with me . . . the thing is . . . okay, I’ll just say it. Why do you want to major in pre-law?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “You mentioned the other day that you were thinking of pursuing pre-law at university. Why?”

  “Well . . . um . . .”

  His ocean eyes flit across my face as he waits for my response. This is what he wanted to talk to me about? And how am I supposed to answer? I have zero interest in pre-law, it’s just something I made up to explain why I’m not going to be a piano performance major. Ever.

  “My dad is a lawyer. I think I’d be good at it too,” I say, improvising.

  “I see. What kind of law does your father practice?”

  “Mostly criminal defense.”

  “Is that what you’d like to specialize in? Criminal defense?”

  “I’m not sure. Maybe?”

  “And what does your mother do?”

  “My mom is . . . she passed away.”

  Dane gives a start. “Oh! I’m very sorry. I had no idea.”

  “That’s okay. It’s pretty much ancient history.”

>   “Yes, but still . . .”

  He sits back in his chair and gazes pensively out the window. How did we get on this subject? I don’t talk about my mom often, or ever—not even with Plum.

  “Beatrice?”

  “What?”

  “I hope I’m not speaking out of school. It’s just that I’ve never met anyone like . . . anyone your age with so much musical potential. You belong at a conservatory, not a regular college. You have a great future as a pianist, if you choose to go that route.”

  You have a great future as a pianist. No one has ever said those words to me before. For a fleeting moment I’m insanely pleased, before the warning bells start going off in my brain.

  “Hasn’t your Mrs. Lugansky told you as much? Surely, she’s offered to advise you on conservatories and help you prepare your applications?” Dane goes on.

  I fold and unfold my napkin, which has Café Tintoretto printed on it in gold cursive. I take a few deep breaths to try to quell my growing anxiety. If only I’d taken photography with Mrs. Lutz instead.

  But then I might have never met Dane.

  “There is no Mrs. Lugansky,” I confess.

  “Sorry . . . what?”

  “There is no Mrs. Lugansky. I don’t have a piano teacher. I’ve never had a piano teacher.”

  “You’re not . . . are you telling me you’re self-taught?”

  “Yes. From books and online and stuff. I invented Mrs. Lugansky a long time ago.”

  “Why in the world would you do such a thing?”

  I fold my arms across my chest defensively. “I didn’t want to tell people that I taught myself piano because . . . well . . . how you reacted just now. It makes me sound like a complete freak. So I created a fictional piano teacher.” I don’t add that sometimes lies just come out of my mouth for no good reason, and then I have to tell more and more lies for maintenance purposes. I also don’t mention the thing about my mom and dad.

  “You’re self-taught,” Dane says with a stunned expression. “Do your parents . . . I mean, does you father . . . is there some reason why he didn’t enroll you in lessons when you were a child?”

  “It’s complicated.”

  His brow furrows. He seems to be considering something.

  “Listen. Beatrice. I’d like you to play for someone I know,” he says after a moment.

  “Someone who?”

  “My teacher. My former teacher. I can ring her and ask her if she would be willing to hear you.”

  “Does she live around here?”

  “No, she lives in New York. She’s on the faculty at Juilliard.”

  “Juilliard?”

  The warning bells are going crazy now. God. I should never have taken music history. I should never have snuck into Dane’s classroom to practice. I should never have agreed to join his little trio.

  Tears well up in my eyes. I swipe at them quickly so he doesn’t see.

  He frowns, alarmed. “Did I say something wrong?”

  “No, of course not. I have to run now. Thanks for the coffee.”

  I stand up to go. Dane stands up too and catches my wrist in his hand.

  We stare at each other. The room disappears.

  What is happening?

  “I’m so sorry,” he murmurs.

  “Sorry for what?”

  “For upsetting you. That’s the last thing I wanted to do.”

  He moves closer, and his hand travels up my arm, leaving sparks of fire in its wake. He is a millimeter away from . . . what? Hugging me? Kissing me?

  And then I feel a sudden cold void as he jerks away.

  “I shouldn’t have . . . I’m sorry. See you in class.”

  He scoops up his laptop and pile of music scores. And then he is the one to run.

  THIRTEEN

  Later, I’m due at Plum’s for a sleepover. Actually, it’s a sleepover/Common-App-essay-writing party, which was of course her idea.

  As I walk to the Sorensons’, my backpack slapping against my side, the air is cool and smells like moss. The leaves on the trees are beginning to tweak gold and orange. The sky is the color of metal.

  My neighborhood looks different. Unreal. Hazy and shimmery, like the inside of a kaleidoscope. The cookie-cutter houses of the Pleasant Meadow development, the SUVs parked in the driveways . . . they have become interesting and even beautiful in this weirdly altered light.

  I am a mess right now. Buzzy and tingly, rattled and agitated. Something has changed between Dane and me. I’m not sure what it is, but . . . something.

  We didn’t hug or kiss this afternoon at the café. He barely even touched me. But that moment we shared was more profound, more electric than anything I ever experienced with the inconsequentially few guys from my past. Andy McDermott, who I used to make out with in eighth grade, clothes on, whenever I was bored. Gil Northman, who I dated for a semester sophomore year because he was smart and funny, but whose kisses were all barbed-wire braces and peanut-butter breath. Braden, who I almost lost my virginity to over the summer—not because of love or even lust, but because I thought I should get the experience over with, and he’s an okay person.

  Plum always said that she and I were too good for Eden Grove boys, that we would find our soul mates when we were older and living glamorous, successful lives in some big city.

  What is she going to say when I tell her about today?

  Although what is there to say about today? How can I tell her that nothing happened and everything happened, all at once?

  I’ve gone nearly six blocks before I realize that it’s raining and that my hair and clothes are soaking wet. In fact, I’ve turned down the wrong street—I’m on Lake, which leads to downtown rather than to Plum’s street. Are my feet retracing the way to Café Tintoretto?

  Part of me wants never to see him again, because. And there is the Juilliard business too, which absolutely can’t happen.

  Another part of me wants to fall into his arms right this second. Because isn’t this how two people start? A spark of attraction, a shared passion, and then one thing leads to another . . . ?

  But we aren’t just “two people.” Also, I wonder how old he is.

  This is all very complicated and confusing.

  Headlights glimmer at me through the rain. A car pulls up to the curb and stops. The driver’s-side door opens, and a man gets out. For a brief, wild moment I think that it’s Dane. He has followed me to explain, to console me, to confess his feelings. . . .

  No, not Dane.

  The man circles around to the passenger side door and opens it. He holds up an umbrella as a woman gets out and teeters on high heels. He catches her in his arms, and they laugh. He starts to kiss her on the forehead, but she tips her mouth up to meet his, and they kiss for real.

  Arm in arm, they cross the street and walk into a restaurant.

  The sight of them makes my heart hurt. They seem to have figured out this relationship thing—this love thing—and right now I feel as though I will never, ever comprehend it. How do people know? What is it that I feel for Dane, exactly? Is it a dumb crush? Daddy issues? Am I flattered by his attention? Desperate for someone to encourage my piano playing? Or am I genuinely drawn to his intelligence and talent and kindness?

  Or is love just one big, messy combination of all of the above?

  FOURTEEN

  As soon as I knock on the Sorensons’ door, Plum flings it open and pulls me into the hallway. Shakespeare trots up to us, nails clicking against the hardwood floor, and barks dutifully at me.

  “Shakespeare, be quiet ! Bea, you didn’t answer my texts. How was your date with Kit Harington?” Plum demands.

  Mr. Sorenson wanders into the hallway, cradling a bowl of popcorn. He is six foot six and towhead-blond, a veritable Nordic god.

  “Kit Harington? Who had a date with Kit Harington?”

  Plum sighs. “No one, Daddy! It’s just a joke!”

  “Yes, of course it is. I apologize for my obtusity—or is it obtuseness? Hello there
, young Beatrice, how goes the pursuit of truth?”

  I never know quite what he’s talking about; also, he pronounces my name the Italian way, Bee-ah-tree-chay, even though I’m half Korean and half Ukrainian and zero Italian. But he’s so jovial and nice that I don’t mind any of it. “Fine, thanks, Mr. Sorenson. How is your work?”

  “I’ve been commissioned to design a new museum in Los Angeles. I’m thinking of using paper tubes as building materials. Of course, they all think I’m crazy.”

  “You are crazy, Daddy!” Plum says with an eye roll.

  “Lars, darling! You’re going to miss the big scene!” Mrs. Sorenson trills from the living room.

  “I believe that’s my cue! I bid you adieu, ladies.”

  Mr. Sorenson drifts back into the TV room, munching noisily on popcorn. Plum hooks her arm through mine and drags me up the stairs.

  Once we are in her room, she closes the door and turns to me with an expectant grin. “So?”

  “So. I don’t know. It was . . .” I drop my overnight bag on the floor and sink onto the bed. “He, um . . . there was this moment.”

  “What sort of moment?”

  “Well, we were having this kind of intense conversation about music, and I got up to go, and he grabbed my wrist.” I demonstrate. “For a second I thought he was going to kiss me or something.”

  “Did he?”

  “No. It got awkward, and then he left.”

  “It was a date, then!” Plum cries out.

  “Shhh, your parents will hear you.”

  “It was a date, then,” she repeats in a hushed voice.

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Teachers don’t just go around grabbing wrists and acting awkward and so forth.”