by Nancy Ohlin
The boy zips by on his bike again. For a second I flash back to when I learned to ride one. Dad actually taught me, over a couple of Sundays, on the rare occasions when he acted like a normal dad. When I was finally able to pedal on my own without him holding on, he took a picture with his phone. He probably deleted it by accident afterward.
When Plum and I reach her front yard, she steps gingerly across the stone path instead of hopscotching like we usually do. Ouch. “Are you staying for dinner? Or do you have somewhere you need to be later?” she asks glumly.
“I wouldn’t miss sushi from Tokyo Palace!” I say, forcing a smile.
“You missed it last week. You’ve missed most of our dinners lately. Mommy’s been asking where you are.”
“I’m sorry.”
“It was Shakespeare’s birthday on Tuesday. You missed that, too.”
“I’m really, really sorry.”
Inside, Mrs. Sorenson is waiting for us in the hallway. “Darlings!” she wraps her arms around us and kisses our heads. “How was your day? Are you all ready for the SATs tomorrow? Bea, sweetheart, we’ve missed you.”
“I know, Mrs. Sorenson. I’m sorry I haven’t been around.”
“No worries. It’s such a treat to see you. Pernilla told us about your trio. We’re so looking forward to hearing you at the Christmas concert!”
“The holiday concert, you mean,” Plum corrects her. “Where’s Daddy?”
“He’s still in L.A. He’ll be home tomorrow. Now, you girls go relax or study or whatever you want to do while I make us a fruit salad.”
Mrs. Sorenson smiles and pulls her hair back with a clip as she pads toward the kitchen. Plum and I take our backpacks upstairs. Shakespeare is napping on the second-floor landing. He opens one eye, thumps his tail, and goes back to sleep.
Inside her room, Plum and I tackle a couple of SAT worksheets while listening to Adele on her computer. When “Set Fire to the Rain” comes on, I automatically think: Key of D minor. Mrs. Sorenson brings up a wooden bowl filled with mango slices, raspberries, and mint leaves. She hugs us again before leaving to pick up our sushi from Tokyo Palace.
Everything is the same and yet not the same. Plum is upset with me. I’m lying to her more than usual. I want things to go back to where they were, before Dane . . . but I know that’s not possible, at least not until I’ve put this Juilliard pipe dream, detour, whatever behind me.
Telling lies used to make everything easier. Now it’s the opposite. What is happening to me?
Thankfully, the mood is lighter at dinnertime. The table, set for three, is as festive as ever. Garlands of bittersweet surround clusters of white votive candles. Mrs. Sorenson lets Plum and me have some Japanese wine in tiny porcelain cups. As we eat, she tells us stories about her and Mr. Sorenson’s Princeton days.
“I met him the fall of my freshman year. He was a graduate student. I was on my way to the bookstore and was just about to walk through FitzRandolph Gateway, which is one of the gates on Nassau Street, the main street. All of a sudden, your father appears out of nowhere and pulls me away. I didn’t know this at the time, but it’s a tradition for students to wait until graduation to exit through that gate. Otherwise, it’s bad luck. I was a bit shaken up—you know, having a strange young man grab me and all that. He insisted on taking me out for coffee. The rest, as they say, is history.”
As I listen, I tip back the Japanese wine, which burns pleasantly down my throat. I try to picture Plum and me at college together: sharing a dorm room, strolling across an ivy-covered campus, meeting smart boys. It’s such a perfect picture, and I wish I could get excited about it.
And then I picture me in New York City, majoring in piano performance at Juilliard. Dane could visit and come to my recitals . . .
Maybe it’s not a mere pipe dream after all. He has unleashed something in me—not just romantic-with-a-small-r yearnings, but that part of me which was hidden away and buried for so long. Music.
Plum watches me from across the table. Her eyes look sad and also a little drunk. My heart sinks; does she know? Has her best-friend sixth sense intuited that a part of me may leave her? May have already left?
TWENTY-ONE
When I get home that night, Cream Puff greets me at the door with an angry yowl, like she’s way overdue for a meal. Obviously, I spaced on her breakfast this morning; I’ve been a bad cat-mom lately.
I head for the kitchen, clicking on lights along the way. My head is still a little fuzzy from the Japanese wine. The curtains are open, and the windows stare out at blackness: black sky, black woods, black asphalt—it’s all the same in this place. The only sign that Dad may have been here earlier is a pizza box on the coffee table along with a pile of manila folders. His last trial wrapped up in late September, and he’s starting a new trial now—a murder case, I think, which is rare for Eden Grove. The most exciting things that happen around here are shoplifting, domestic incidents, and once, during the Super Bowl, some old guy shooting his TV set with a hunting rifle.
In the kitchen I bang open cupboard doors in search of cat food. I find a brand-new ten-pound bag of Kitty Feast that Hannah must have picked up. Cream Puff circles my ankles as I pour the kibble into her bowl. Dad hasn’t made me kick her out yet; he’s probably forgotten about her existence, which is par for the course for him.
My phone buzzes with an incoming call. Dane’s number flashes on the screen. I perk up and hit Talk.
“Hi!”
“Am I ringing too late?”
“No, it’s fine. I’m feeding Cream Puff.” I reach down to pet her, but she’s way more interested in her food.
“Sorry, what is a Cream Puff?”
“She’s my . . . she’s a cat.”
“Ah! I adore cats. My cat, Mr. Bumble, is still with us—or rather, with my family back in London. He’s nearly twenty now.”
“Twenty! Wow.”
“So how are you?”
“I’m fine.”
Actually, I’m better than fine, because Dane has never called me before. We usually just text each other to arrange for lessons and such. Talking to him on the phone, late on a Friday night, seems so intimate—even more intimate than being in his house. But I don’t articulate any of this because I don’t want to sound cloying. Or stupid. Or stalkerish.
“So listen, I just spoke to Annaliese. She needs to change the date of your appointment in New York. Would that be all right?” he is asking me.
“Sure.”
“Great. It turns out Annaliese has to be in Texas on the nineteenth to adjudicate a competition. She’s filling in for another judge. Quite by chance, one of her students had to cancel his recital next Saturday. I convinced her to meet with you then.”
Next Saturday? “Wait! That day’s no good. Is there another day she can see me?”
“What’s wrong with the twelfth?”
“I’m going to Boston with Plum.”
“You must postpone it, then.”
“I can’t. She’s been planning this forever. We’re visiting colleges.”
“Sorry, you didn’t mention . . . I wasn’t aware that you were . . . Which colleges?”
“Like Harvard, a bunch of other schools. I don’t remember exactly.”
Silence.
“Beatrice, are you interested in those schools?”
“I don’t know. Maybe?”
“Maybe.” Another silence. “Listen to me. You can visit Harvard and so forth anytime. But you may not get another opportunity to play for Annaliese. It’s very difficult to get an audience with her. She almost canceled this meeting altogether. Needless to say, she’s extremely in demand.”
“But—”
“It’s up to you. I can’t force you to go. You must decide what your priorities are.”
“Yes, but—”
“Do you want to go to Boston next weekend?”
I sigh.
“Beatrice?”
“Okay, fine! No, I don’t want to go, except for the hanging
-out-with-Plum part.”
“Do you want to play for Annaliese?”
“Y-yes.”
“Good. It’s settled, then. I’ll let Annaliese know.”
We talk for a few more minutes, then hang up. I lie down on the cool linoleum tile and stare up at the ceiling fan whirring around and around. Has it always been there? Did I accidentally turn it on? Cream Puff climbs onto my stomach and settles into a meat-loaf position, purring. This is all it takes to make her happy: a bowl of Kitty Feast and a warm body. If only.
When did life get so complicated?
How am I going to tell Plum that our road trip isn’t happening?
Suddenly, my excitement about the New York City trip and my whatever with Dane disappears into a black hole. All I can think about is Plum and the fact that I’m about to destroy her happiness—and maybe our friendship, too.
Do I really want to go there?
TWENTY-TWO
After the SATs, Plum and I meet in front of A-Jax so we can walk over to Sweet Temptations for hot-fudge sundaes.
“How did you do?” I ask her as we fall into step together, shivering in our matching jeans jackets. It’s one of those intensely bright, sunny fall afternoons that belie how Arctic-cold it is.
“I think I did well!” Plum says, beaming. “What about you?”
“Fine. It was fine. Plum?”
“What?”
I wanted to tell her last night, on the phone. Or via a cowardly text. But I figured I should at least wait until we got through today. I didn’t want to be responsible for making her get less than her coveted 2200.
“I have bad news,” I announce.
Plum stops on the sidewalk and grabs my arm, her eyes wide with worry. She is such a good friend to me. I am such a bad friend to her.
“Bea! What is it?”
“I don’t know how to . . . the thing is . . . I have to cancel Boston.”
In an instant her expression of concern morphs into devastated disappointment. I’m not a bad friend; I’m a sucky, terrible friend. “What? Why?” Plums asks.
“My brother. He’s, um, sick.”
My lies usually flow so easily, but this one sticks in my throat like wet paper. It was either a Theo medical crisis or having to put Cream Puff down. It was the best I could come up with at two a.m.
“What’s wrong with him?” Plum demands.
“We’re not sure. But he’s getting some tests done on Friday at the hospital, and my dad wants us to be there to support him.”
“Tests? Oh my gosh . . . is it . . . cancer?”
“No! I’m sure it’s not that serious.”
“Is it something, you know, hereditary?”
My chest tightens; is she referring to my mom? “No. It’s probably just a virus or something. I really, really wanted to go to Boston; I still do. But my dad is insisting. I’m so sorry!”
“Of course! Oh my gosh, you don’t need to apologize!”
She gives me a crushing hug. We stand there on the sidewalk, bear-hugging, wobbling a little as the bitter wind stings our eyes and faces. A small part of me is relieved because I can go to New York City now. The other part of me wants to slap the first part.
Why can’t I just tell her the truth?
Tommy Vacco and one of his meathead friends walk by.
“Get a room!” Tommy calls out. He and his friend crack up.
“Neanderthals!” Plum shouts.
She hooks her arm through mine, and we start toward Sweet Temptations again.
“People can be such jerks,” she says, eyeing the guys up ahead.
“Yeah, they sure can,” I agree.
Like I’m in any position to judge.
• • •
I never told Plum how my mom died, or under what circumstances, so I guess she’s taken to filling in the blanks herself. Obviously, she thinks Theo is suffering from an inherited disease or some other Kim family curse.
There actually is a family curse, and I’m responsible for it. Me. If I hadn’t shown up, my mom would still be alive and well, living in New York City with Dad and Theo. She had a successful music career, teaching young kids and playing in chamber groups.
Then I had to be born and ruin everything.
Afterward, Dad went crazy and sent Theo and me to live in Eden Grove with Grandma Min. We didn’t see him again for a long time, until she forced him to move to Eden Grove and take care of us. But by then, Theo was a complete delinquent, and I was a cliché of overachievement and loner personality.
Although there was a pinprick of light in all that darkness: the piano. One day when I was little, I sat down at Aunt Jeanine’s old upright and discovered that I could make sounds. Lines of emotion. Beauty.
It was the only joy I had ever experienced in my short, stupid life.
The second or third or fourth time, though, Dad walked in and started screaming at me, tears running down his crazy face. I’m not sure how I managed to play a single note after that. I guess it helps that I’m almost as crazy as he is. It helps, too, that I’m such a master of deception. I practiced in secret all these years and managed to teach myself from YouTube and such.
Dad made noises about selling the piano, but Grandma Min said he couldn’t because the house and everything in it belonged to her. He grumbled about it but let it go, I guess, because the piano is still here. Grandma Min is in a nursing home near Tucson now, and she’s pretty out of it. Still, whenever we visit her, she squeezes my hand really hard and tells me never to give up.
I’m not sure she knows what she’s talking about anymore. But it makes me feel good anyway.
I don’t know why I haven’t told Plum about all this. Or about how much I wanted—want?—to become a pianist, like Mom. I guess I figured it would never happen, so why bother with a gut-wrenching confession that won’t solve anything? I killed my mom. My dad and brother hate me. I can’t become a pianist because I won’t hurt my family more than I already have.
I probably will tell her, someday. That is, if we’re still friends, after everything.
As for Dane . . . he actually thinks I can become a pianist.
Maybe he’s crazy too.
TWENTY-THREE
“Did you see Mr. Rossi while you were in New York City?”
“Actually, he gave me a ride there and back. He wanted to introduce me to Professor van Allstyne personally and also show me around Juilliard.”
“I see. And what did the two of you do after your Juilliard appointment?”
“Nothing. He went to visit with some friends, I think. I went to my hotel.”
“Which hotel?”
“It was a youth hostel or a Y on West something Street. Or maybe it was East something? I’m sorry, I don’t know New York City very well.”
“When was the next time you saw Mr. Rossi?”
“That Monday. We met in the Juilliard lobby, and he drove me back home.”
“That was it?”
“That was it.”
“Have you seen him since then?”
“Sure, in school.”
“What about your private lessons? Did they continue?”
“Not really. He helped me with my prescreening recordings, though.”
“What is a prescreening recording?”
“I have to play and record a bunch of pieces if I want to apply to Juilliard. Like a classical sonata, a Chopin étude, and so forth. It’s a requirement. Same with the other conservatories.”
“I see. Miss Kim, at any time did Mr. Rossi say or do anything of a sexual nature while the two of you were in New York City?”
“No. Never.”
“How about at school or in his home?”
“No.”
“Are you sure?”
“I’m positive.”
“Are you in love with Mr. Rossi?”
“Seriously?”
“Please just answer the question.”
“No, I’m not in love with Mr. Rossi. Besides, I already have a boyfriend. Bra
den Hunt.”
TWENTY-FOUR
As Dane and I drive across the mile-long George Washington Bridge, everything is shiny and unfamiliar. To the south, the New York City skyline juts across the blue horizon. I spot the silvery point of the Empire State Building, which I recognize from photos and also the movie King Kong. Below us, white sailboats dot the Hudson River, which is so wide that it might as well be the ocean.
It’s so weird. I was born here. Not that I would remember that time, but still . . .
Dane adjusts his shades, which are very James Bond, and turns up the volume on his car stereo. We have been listening to his favorite opera singer, Jessye Norman, since several tollbooths ago.
“Notice the way she breathes,” he tells me. “You’d expect her to take a breath here. But no, she takes a breath”—he hums four long beats—“there! Isn’t it remarkable?”
“Obviously, she has superbreath,” I say.
“Superbreath?”
“You know, like Superman? He could hold his breath for a really long time. He could blow out large fires, too. Oh, and once, he saved a town from destruction by inhaling a tornado. He flew up into space and exhaled it out!”
Dane laughs. “I didn’t know you were a comic aficionado. I’ve always been partial to Batman myself.”
“Batman, why?”
“I’m not sure. He’s dark and mysterious. And he doesn’t need superpowers to defeat his evil counterparts.”
“True. And he’s an orphan. Of course, Superman is too, and so is Spider-Man.”
“Are you saying that being an orphan is a deficit or an asset?” he asks.
“Both. It sucks not to have parents. On the other hand, if they aren’t around, it forces you to be . . . it allows you to be . . .” I search for words. “All three of them, they rose to the occasion.”
“Yes, they most certainly did.”
We fall silent as the next track begins. The song is “Les Chemins de L’Amour,” which I heard once on the radio. I Googled the title; it means “The Paths of Love.” Norman’s voice is so magnificent, it’s like she’s singing from her own inner Fortress of Solitude.