Consent

by Nancy Ohlin

  “Really?”

  “Really.”

  He sits down at one of the student desks and adjusts his tall frame to fit the small space. The hem of his trench coat grazes the floor. It’s been so long since we’ve done this—been in the same room, discussed and played music—that I feel positively giddy with pleasure. I also feel guilty because we’re breaking the rule we made for ourselves, except that no one knows about that rule except for us, so it’s a thrilling sort of guilty.

  “Beatrice?”

  “Sorry! Just trying to find my beginning.”

  “Of course. Sorry.”

  I start the Fantasy from the top. As I play, I can feel Dane watching me intently, which makes me attack the piece with greater fervor. I now understand how Schumann must have felt, weaving a passionate love letter out of music because he couldn’t be with the object of his desire.

  Complex. Not straightforward. Intense love and longing. Unattainable.

  When I reach the final chord of the piece—the final two chords, which are identical and marked pppp—I caress the keys so lightly and tenderly that they are barely audible. As my hands melt away, a quiet ecstasy ripples through me.

  After a long moment I glance up to see Dane’s reaction.

  I recognize the burning, hungry look.

  “Dane,” I whisper.

  A muscle works in his jaw. “I’d better go. It was foolish of me to stay.”

  “I’m sorry!”

  “I’m sorry too. This is more difficult than I thought it would be.”

  “I know.”

  We stand up at the same time. Our eyes meet.

  Then something shifts, and we rush toward each other. He wraps me in his arms and crushes me against his body. We kiss.

  “Beatrice,” he murmurs, his lips moving down my neck. He begins to unbutton my blouse.

  “Dane . . . no.”

  But we can’t seem to stop. He touches me; I touch him; we moan and shudder. My blouse flutters to the floor, and his hands are everywhere, making my skin prickle with fire.

  At one point he steps away from me just long enough to turn the lights off completely and check to see that the door is locked.

  This is a bad, bad idea, I think.

  But still, we don’t stop.

  THIRTY-FIVE

  The next day, eighth period, I walk through the performing arts wing on my way to study hall. New motivational posters cover the walls: BELIEVING IN YOURSELF IS THE FIRST STEP TO SUCCESS! . . . DO WHAT YOU’RE AFRAID OF . . . CREATE YOUR FUTURE. But I’m in such a good mood that they don’t make me cranky like they normally would.

  Actually, I can’t seem to stop smiling.

  We promised each other it wouldn’t happen again. He apologized for getting carried away. I apologized too. He said it was his fault, though, because he was the adult and he should have known better, had more self-control.

  I reminded him that I would be an adult, too, next month. Which is both wonderful and surreal. On December fifteenth I will be a child. On December sixteenth I will be an adult. I don’t understand how that works, but no matter . . . the important thing is that after the sixteenth I can do whatever I want and be with whomever I want.

  Until then, I need to concentrate on my conservatory applications, anyway.

  In the meantime, we swore we would stay away from each other at school. Like, really stay away.

  Still . . . I can’t resist stopping in the hall and backing up a few steps to the door of the music history room. I peer through the glass pane, just for a quick glimpse. Or maybe I can even catch his eye. Just looking can’t hurt, right?

  A gray-haired man is standing at the blackboard.

  My smile quickly vanishes. Who is that? He picks up a piece of chalk and writes: Mr. Pashke.

  He must be a substitute; maybe Dane is sick again. I reach into my pocket and pull out my phone so I can text him.

  Someone taps me on the shoulder. “Excuse me.”

  It’s Miss Haskell, one of the school secretaries. “The principal would like to see you,” she says primly.

  “I’m sorry, what for?”

  “He didn’t say. Just come with me, please.”

  Too much is happening at once. Confused, I tuck my phone back into my pocket and follow Miss Haskell down the hall. What is going on? Where is Dane? And why does Principal Oberdorfer want to see me?

  His office is on the opposite side of the building. It’s actually a network of offices, with secretaries and other administrative types whose jobs seem to consist of creating paperwork and being cheerfully unhelpful to people on the phone. Miss Haskell leads me to a door at the far end. There is a brown-and-gold plaque next to it: FRANCIS J. OBERDORFER, PRINCIPAL.

  Inside, Principal Oberdorfer is talking to a police officer.

  What the . . . ?

  The two men rise to their feet. “Ah, there you are, Miss Kim. Come in, come in. This is Detective Torres,” Principal Oberdorfer says, introducing us.

  “H-hello.”

  Detective Torres nods curtly at me. My head spins with worry. Has Dad been in an accident? Or Theo? Has Theo been arrested? There was that time in ninth grade when he was picked up for shoplifting.

  Miss Haskell leaves, closing the door behind her. Principal Oberdorfer points to a chair, and I sit down.

  “Is my family okay?” I blurt out, unable to contain my anxiety.

  “What? Yes, of course, your family is just fine. Candy?” Principal Oberdorfer pushes a crystal bowl across his desk.

  Candy? “No, thank you.”

  “Detective Torres would like to ask you some questions about a certain matter.”

  I swivel in my chair to face the other man. “Yes?”

  Detective Torres reaches for a small notebook and flips it open. “So. Miss Kim. Earlier today a student came forward alleging that you and Mr. Rossi engaged in sexual activity last night. Here at school, in one of the classrooms.”

  He gazes steadily at me and waits for my reaction. Panic freezes my brain. Someone saw us?

  I swallow and try to recover my equilibrium. Make something up, I tell myself, but my thoughts are in complete turmoil.

  “Miss Kim?” Detective Torres prompts me.

  “I . . . I’m sorry, I’m kind of in shock right now. This is . . . it’s insane. Who told you? They’re lying.”

  “So you’re saying that this witness’s account is untrue?” Detective Torres presses. He clicks on a pen and scribbles something in his notebook.

  “It’s totally untrue. Ugh. Mr. Rossi is my teacher. He helps me with my piano music. That’s all.” Now the lies are flowing more smoothly.

  “Were you in the performing arts wing last night around six, six thirty? In Room 124? I believe people refer to it as the music history room?”

  “I’m not sure about the exact time, but yes. Our trio was wrapping up our rehearsal. We’re playing Rachmaninoff in the holiday concert.”

  “Was Mr. Rossi present at this rehearsal?”

  “No. It was just me and Lianna and Braden. Lianna Morrissey and Braden Hunt.”

  “Did you stay on in the music history room after the rehearsal was over? After Lianna and Braden left?”

  I manage a casual shrug. “Just for a little while, to practice.”

  “Did Mr. Rossi happen to stop by while you were practicing?”

  “Just for a minute. He forgot his bag. But seriously, nothing happened. That’s just gross. Who is this ‘witness,’ anyway?” I try to sound annoyed, even a little indignant.

  “We’re not at liberty to say. But we will be investigating this matter further.” Detective Torres slaps his notebook shut, tucks it into his back pocket, and stands up. “Thank you for your time, Miss Kim. I’ll let you know if I have any other questions.”

  “Sure, anytime. Nice meeting you.”

  Detective Torres doesn’t budge; he and Principal Oberdorfer must want to talk in private. I force myself to smile as I get up from my chair and leave.

 
; As I head into the deserted hallway, my pulse throbs in my ears. Did they believe my story? Dane won’t be arrested, will he?

  I find my phone and text Dane with trembling fingers: Do you know that the police are asking about us?

  A moment later he texts back: I will ring you later. Please don’t try to contact me in any way. Will explain. Delete immediately.

  Oh, God. What is going on?

  A sickening feeling fills my chest.

  THIRTY-SIX

  As soon as the dismissal bell sounds, I grab my stuff from my locker, rush into the parking lot, and call Dane. He doesn’t answer. I send him a couple more texts, too, but he doesn’t answer those, either. I know he said no contact, but I can’t help it—I have to know what’s happening.

  And then suddenly, I get paranoid that the police seized his phone. I’ve seen it on TV, and I’m pretty sure they do it in real life, too.

  I decide to go to his house. I know that qualifies as “contact,” but there’s no other way. Besides, his house is set way back from the street, and he has a tall fence around his yard and lots of trees, so no one will see me there.

  Determined, I start down School Spirit Boulevard. As I walk, I text Plum to say that I won’t be able to come over tonight. I need to talk to her about what happened, but that will have to wait. A moment later she texts back that she has to work on her applications anyway. She adds that her dad is making Swedish food for dinner, off schedule since he usually does that on Tuesdays, and did I want to stop by later for that?

  Swedish food is seriously the last thing on my mind.

  I hurry my footsteps, ignoring the cars rushing by and the crowds of carefree, chattering students walking as one toward downtown. On the median the maples have lost their leaves and turned into thin brown skeletons.

  Gnarled old trees. My first time at Dane’s house, when things between us were still unspoken . . . when he was just my teacher. How can a relationship that was so magical and exciting turn into this? Into pure awfulness?

  My phone buzzes, startling me. I check the screen and the words “Unknown Number” come up.

  I answer hastily. “Hello?”

  “Beatrice.”

  “Dane?” His voice is so strained, I barely recognize it.

  “Yes, it’s me. Are you alone?”

  “Yes! Oh my God, are you all right? I’m on my way to your house.”

  “No! Beatrice, listen to me. You absolutely cannot come over. I’m not at home anyway.”

  “Where are you calling from?”

  “I borrowed a friend’s mobile. Have the police talked to you?”

  “Yes. Miss Haskell pulled me out of eighth period. Dane, what’s going on?”

  “Tell me everything you told the police. Please. From the beginning.”

  “O-okay.”

  I spot an empty bench, brush off some dead leaves, and sit down. It’s cold out, a damp November cold, but I hardly notice. I take a deep breath, then recount my conversation with Detective Torres to Dane, word for word.

  “Is that all? Nothing else?” he says when I finish.

  “Nothing else. Dane, who saw us?”

  “I don’t know. But I need you to listen to me carefully.”

  “You’re scaring me.”

  “Don’t be scared. Just listen.”

  “Yes, okay.”

  “This morning Principal Oberdorfer summoned me into his office. He told me about what this witness said. I denied it, of course; I said it was preposterous. He said he was obligated to report it to the police anyway. I’m on my way to the station now; they want to interview me there.”

  “They’re not going to arrest you, are they?” I cry out.

  “I don’t know. I hope not. But for now, though, we need to get our stories straight.”

  “What do you want me to say?”

  For the next half hour we comb over every last detail of our time together: Music history classes. Chamber rehearsals. Café Tintoretto. Our private lessons. Even New York City. By the time we are through, we have a coherent narrative in place as well as a plan of action, sort of.

  “One more thing,” Dane adds. “My solicitor has advised me that you and I should stay away from each other for a while. So from now on, no calls, no e-mails, no texts. And definitely no visits.”

  “Your solicitor?”

  “My lawyer.”

  I feel myself start to shake. “Oh my God, Dane. So this is really serious.”

  “Yes, it’s very serious. Last night . . . it was very stupid of me to . . . I don’t know what I was . . .”

  He doesn’t say anything else.

  I can barely hold on to my phone, my hands are shaking so badly. How could this have happened? Dane has been nothing but wonderful to me. Also, we care about each other. We may even be in love. . . .

  “Beatrice, I need to go. Just so you know, I won’t back to school for a while. Principal Oberdorfer wants this issue resolved first.”

  “O-okay.”

  “I’ll ring you again when I can. Find Braden and talk to him, like we discussed. Your friend Plum, too. We’ll get through this.”

  The line goes dead.

  Now my whole body is shaking.

  Get through this . . . how?

  I call Plum immediately.

  “What do you think are my strengths and my weaknesses?” she asks when she picks up.

  In response, I burst into tears.

  “Bea! Oh my gosh, what’s wrong?”

  “Everything! My life is falling apart.”

  “What do you mean?”

  I tell her the whole story.

  “You had sex in his classroom?”

  “It was crazy, I know. We just . . . we got carried away. But apparently, someone saw us. And now the police are investigating.”

  “Oh my gosh, what can I do?”

  “If the police ask you, can you tell them that you were with me the few times I went over to Dane’s house for piano lessons?”

  “Got it. You’ll have to tell me dates and stuff, though. And what his house looks like. And if he has pets. He seems like a cat person. And—”

  “I’ll call you again later tonight. Or I’ll stop by, if I can. Right now I have to find Braden.”

  “The violin guy?”

  I am too upset to bother correcting her. “Yeah, the violin guy. Dane wants me to ask him to cover for us too.”

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  It’s strange, going to Café Tintoretto without Dane. But it was the first place I thought of when I told Braden that I needed to see him ASAP.

  When I walk into the café, Signor Vitale waves to me from behind the counter. The silver urn is hissing steam, and the air smells like coffee beans. “Ciao, signorina. You have returned! Where is the professore?”

  “I’m meeting a friend. May I have a cappuccino?” I ask with a tight smile.

  “Si, arrive subito. Coming right up.”

  When I turn around to find an empty table, I see that Braden is already here, sipping at an iced something and scrolling through his phone. His cello case, covered with stickers, is propped up against the wall. Did he overhear the professore comment? I smooth my hair and try not to look nervous as I hurry over to join him.

  He glances up from his phone and beams at me. “Hey, Bea!”

  “Hey, Braden. Thanks for coming on such short notice.”

  “Well, you did say that we should go out for coffee sometime.”

  “I did? Oh, yeah, I did. Listen, Braden. I have a favor to ask you.”

  Disappointment flickers in his eyes. “Ah! The favor. And here I was, thinking we were on a date.”

  “Well, ironically, we kind of are.”

  “I don’t follow.”

  We fall silent as Signor Vitale delivers my cappuccino along with a plate of biscotti. “Buon appetito!”

  “Grazie.”

  “You speak Italian?” Braden asks when we are alone again.

  “Yeah, like two words. Um, about that favor. I ne
ed you to . . . this is really awkward . . . I need you to pretend to be my boyfriend for a while.”

  I wait for a knee-jerk barrage of questions: Why? What for? Is this some kind of joke? But instead, Braden gives me an odd look. “Yeah, I know what this is about.”

  “You do?”

  “Last night. You and Mr. R’s X-rated duet in the music history room.”

  I gape at him.

  “Some people were talking about it today,” Braden explains.

  “They were?”

  “Yeah. I wonder if Lianna’s the one who saw you guys?”

  “Lianna?”

  I sag back in my chair and stare blankly at the stained-glass window. Ruby, emerald, sapphire. How could Lianna have seen anything? How could anyone have seen anything? The room was pitch-black. The door was locked.

  “Look,” I say, turning back to Braden, “nothing happened between Mr. Rossi and me.”

  “Nothing, really?”

  “No, of course not! How can you even ask me that? And why do you think it was Lianna who went to Principal Oberdorfer?”

  Braden shrugs. “You know she doesn’t like you, right? You’re a way better musician than she is. And/or she was angling for the job of teacher’s pet, and then you came along.”

  “I am not Mr. Rossi’s—”

  “Don’t worry. I get that you and Mr. R have a very Shostakovich-Nikolayeva relationship. Actually, maybe more like Pogorelich-Kezeradze.”

  “What does that even mean?”

  “Doesn’t matter. I’ll help you.”

  “You will?”

  “Yeah, why not? I’m a nice guy.”

  He smiles at me in this rueful way, and for a brief moment I flash back to summer: the two of us making out in the backseat of his car, wasted from the bottle of red wine that I swiped from Dad’s liquor cabinet. I remember the sweat pouring off our bodies—we were in the middle of a heat wave—and the bright, tiny fireflies that punctuated the darkness outside. The air was thick with heat and honeysuckle. Most of our clothes were off, and we came this close to going all the way.

  But at the last minute, just as he was reaching for the condoms, I had a panicky change of heart. I have no idea why; it just felt wrong. He was really understanding about it, even the next day, when I told him that I wanted to go back to being just friends.