New Year's Resolutions

by Briggs, Laura

  “Grape martini,” she repeated. “Sure.” Waving towards their waiter, now clearing a neighboring table, she felt a slight sinking in her chest. Was Blake always so casual?

  He had already flipped open the menu and was scanning the contents. “BLT San Francisco wrap for me,” he said. “How about you?”

  “I think I’ll have the special,” she answered. Remembering it was some sort of soup with a side of sesame bread. She watched him study the wine menu, occasionally raising his eyes to scan the room as if looking for a diversion.

  “So, um, long day at work?” she asked, as the waiter collected their menus and maneuvered the cramped dining room towards the kitchen. Blake shrugged.

  “It was a crap day,” he answered. “Slow. So I took off early to meet some guys at my health club. Worked on weight training until about twenty minutes ago.” He took a sip of water. “By the way, are you a fan of Incan art? Because if so, you can have that book I bought yesterday. Total loss, since I already owned a copy. Found it on my shelf–same title, different cover.”

  “Really,” she answered, forcing herself to look interested. “I’ve never studied Incan art, actually. The classical style was more my area of interest when I visited museums.”

  “Oh, like Monet and those guys,” he said. “I get it. Art snob, right?” With a cocky little grin as squeezed half a lemon into his glass.

  Her face flushed. “Not an art snob,” she answered, “I just never diversified, that’s all. Maybe you can show me around a few pieces sometime. An exhibit or something.”

  Blake shrugged. “There’s one in town a week from now. If I can find some time, then I’ll give you a call.” He offered the waiter a casual grin as he appeared with their drinks. Abby sipped her daiquiri, watching the bubbles rise from the two purple grapes submerged in his cocktail glass.

  “Do you eat here often?” asked Abby. “I’ve never been here before, but a couple of my friends have. They recommend the pea pod salad and grilled squash.”

  “I have lunch here practically every day,” he said. “It’s basically where I hang out with my friends. They’re all at the game tonight–usually we get a corner table, make a lot of noise and get stares from the other customers.”

  That sinking feeling in Abby’s chest was progressing; she fiddled with the stem of her glass as she racked her brain for topics that would steer them to a subject beyond Blake’s carefree existence. Providing he had a more serious side, that is.

  When their plates arrived, Blake dug into his with enthusiasm, forking mouthfuls of bacon and tomato slathered in an oil-based house dressing. In comparison, Abby’s soup seemed meager. She lifted a spoonful, noticing flecks of garlic along with something dark red and spicy to the taste.

  “Tried any of those recipes in your book yet?” he asked. “I’m guessing from what you said at the book store that you must cook a lot.”

  “Actually, I’m sort of learning,” Abby answered. “I live mostly off takeout and cookies in packages–not exactly the kind of diet a responsible grownup should eat. This New Year’s, I resolved to change that. Among other things.” This last part she almost mumbled, taking a long sip from her glass.

  “I would be, too, but my roommate’s a total health nut. Into yoga and all kinds of greens and salads. Any time I raid the fridge, it’s all broccoli and spinach on her side.”

  Her side? For a moment, Abby’s spoon was frozen midway to her mouth. Picturing a workout goddess doing yoga stretches as Blake admired her behind the open fridge door.

  “That must be nice,” Abby answered. Her voice and smile took on a new level of tightness. Across from her, Blake’s fork decimated the green tortilla wrap holding his BLT together. He hunched over his food, absorbed in forking shredded carrots and bacon bits.

  “Yeah,” he answered, “Totally helpful, since I pretty much never grocery shop.” He offered her a wink. “Except for when she chews me out for taking her tofu.”

  “Mmmm,” said Abby. Her eyes were beginning to wander –towards the door, the neighboring tables, anywhere but the pair of blue eyes she found so attractive yesterday. “Does she work in the health industry, too?”

  “Yeah, a yoga instructor,” he answered. “Pretty sweet job. But, I mean, not compared to health retail, since there’s no travel option in being a physical coach.” The grapes in his cocktail bounced as he lifted the glass.

  That moment in the bookstore had been so promising; Abby recalled his smile, the tingle when she touched his hand. Perhaps it was the dim light in the restaurant that transformed his features into wolfish angles. Could working out extensively have killed off some of his brain cells, inspiring the remarks about bringing her to his favorite hangout–or his female roommate?

  “Actually,” he said, interrupting her thoughts. “My roommate’s at a conference this week. A yoga training seminar of some kind.” He tapped his fork against his plate.

  “I had no idea that yoga instructors had conferences,” said Abby, rousing a polite smile in response.

  He cleared his throat. “So my apartment’s empty tonight.” A thick silence hung between them after these words. His eyes moved from the contents of his plate, meeting hers with a hinting smile.

  Abby stared at him, her mouth slightly open. As if she expected him to say something else, although she knew perfectly well what he meant.

  “I think you and I have different plans for the evening,” she answered, after a moment. Rising from her seat, she collected her coat and purse as he watched, perplexed.

  “Did I misunderstand you?” he said. “I mean, yesterday you were all over me–”

  “Yes,” she interrupted. “Yes, you did misunderstand me. At least, I misunderstood myself. Because there’s no possibility that what you’re thinking is going to happen tonight.”

  Without looking back, she moved through the crowded tables towards the door. Her knees bumped against chairs and brushed tablecloths, her body feeling suffocated in the close atmosphere. Dark, stuffy, a cacophony of silverware and mingling voices, in which the sound of Blake’s swearing was completely lost to her.

  The open box of Thai takeout piped with steam when she opened it. Green vegetables atop a pile of rice, awaiting her paper-wrapped chopsticks attached to the side.

  Forking a generous mouthful, she chomped it noisily, pushing aside the pile of cookbooks on her counter to make room for the box of noodles and pork. Feeling a slight sense of guilt as one of the volumes thumped to the floor, opening to a page on preparing Asian dishes.

  She chomped another mouthful of steamed vegetables. How could she be so mistaken in her judgment? She was like a teenager with a crush in the bookstore, practically feeling his muscles beneath his t-shirt.

  Sighing, she slurped a mouthful of noodles from between the chopsticks, grateful that Maureen couldn’t see her at this moment, since this was hardly a self-prepared meal.

  Maybe she was working to keep the wrong resolutions. Maybe the resolution she should be concerned about was the one everyone kept pushing her away from keeping, the hard decisions behind the box in her closet and the distance between herself and her family. The memories of her mother’s illness and her father’s anger were with her every day in some form, in the back of her mind even in the best moments.

  As she shifted her weight, her foot struck the book on the floor. Staring down at the open pages, she surveyed the smiling cook holding a bag of rice, the dancing images of shrimp and vegetables. Her toes nudged the cover closed, hiding the images of culinary triumphs from sight.

  Chapter Twelve

  Abby dreaded the end of May every year. Not because it brought life to the desolate flower boxes and drab skies–for which she was grateful after a long, cold winter–but because it signaled the end of something else. The end of anything was hard for her to endure, even the end of a good movie, the final page of a book she enjoyed, the last bite of pasta on her plate.

  The school bulletin boards were covered with farewell messages in the
hallways; teachers unpinned crayon and colored penciled drawings from their walls and tore old educational posters to make way for a new year of curriculum. Students cleaned out their desks and lockers and played more rowdily at recess in anticipation of their upcoming freedom.

  A lump formed in Abby’s throat as she packed her cds and sheet music into a cardboard carton. Her fingers traced the modified pages: notes for her students, who frequently borrowed them when they practiced outside of class.

  Most of them would return for the fall, but there were always a handful who didn’t come back. Foster children whose parents gained custody again; families moving away, students who were too troubled or too shy to return. Abby kept a list of all their names, tucked into a box in the closet above the one she never opened.

  The class was restless today, the open window carrying the warm breeze from outside. Paper wads flew, feet thumped against the floor, hands pushed at classmates in playful fun that sometimes turned to tears and frustration.

  Abby sensed this as she dropped her bag beside the desk. “This is our last week, guys,” she said. “This Friday’s your big recital, then you’ll have to practice on your own until September–unless you remember to call me to come by.” Waggling her finger in a fake warning as she held up the stack of notes that students were supposed to take home to their guardians, a list of Abby’s free hours for coaching students through practice sessions.

  Sometimes only a handful of students took advantage of her offer; occasionally so many wanted lessons that she was forced to rotate them by week. She was always surprised by the dedication that some of their parents and guardians showed, especially those who appreciated Abby’s willingness to provide refurbished instruments at the practice session for students who couldn’t afford one, as well as purchasing sheet music for them to study.

  “I need one,” said Jacqi, who followed this statement with a shriek as a paper ball hit her in the head. Tyrel, who was usually quiet, was whispering with Travis near the back of the room. Their short attention spans had already forgotten the recital practice, the limited number of hours left for them to access their instruments and music.

  She sighed. Today wouldn’t be the day for coaxing them on posture and breathing as they practiced their song for performance.

  “Who wants to do their spring dance?” she asked, popping open the cd player and putting in a disc containing fast jazz tunes from the forties. At the sound of the fast beat, several students scrambled from their seats and began jumping enthusiastically, including Rodney. His “happy dance” interrupted class multiple times throughout the year, arms and head flailing as his feet moved. Sometimes shrieking noises accompanied the dance, something Abby tried hard to avoid by keeping the dance session short–usually she ended it with a slower song the kids liked to sing, “Chattanooga Choochoo” or “I Can’t Get Started With You.”

  Her advantage over the scholarship school orchestra–her students were expected to be restless, meaning she could afford to indulge them now and then.

  As the music played, she caught hold of Bobby and Tina’s hands, joining them in a swaying dance that was more like a maypole turn than the freestyle of Rodney or Jacqi. A few shy students remained at their desks, heads barely nodding to the tune as they stared downwards. They would be the ones for whom the practice session would mean the most, the handful with whom Abby would make a difference musically. As for the rest, today they were just happy to dance with their teacher to a jazz song.

  *****

  “So when I complained, he actually laughed at me. Laughed at me–all because I reported a leak in his lobby ceiling.” Maureen stirred the swizzle stick around her glass, chasing the cherry at the bottom. The sequins on her white jacket glittered beneath the colored lanterns of Jazz and Jive’s eclectic interior.

  “I don’t know why you bothered mentioning it. I mean, the building’s older than my great-great grandfather and the carpet in the lobby looks like rats borrowed it for a nest lining,” said Richard. “I would’ve forgotten about it before I–”

  “Well, you’re not me, so I guess that’s why I didn’t,” Maureen answered, giving him the stubborn look she reserved for obstinate clerks at the DMV.

  Their rapport went unnoticed by Abby. Shaking today’s gloom was the theme of this evening, prompting her to order a cosmopolitan and wear her favorite green lace top in lieu of the patchwork jacket she often wore for fun. Bright colors reminded her of Blake’s tie-dyed t-shirt–thinking of that disaster prompted her to think of other unpleasant subjects she planned to forget for one evening.

  Music was the best means of forgetting. Head propped on one hand with her thoughts lost in a song, Abby let the beat and melody sink in as a cure for the blues. True to its diverse taste, the Jazz and Jive ran the gauntlet in music styles when it came to performers, although it favored smooth modern jazz. Once Abby heard a pianist perform jazz compositions with a style so carefree and flawless it sent shivers down her spine.

  “I thought you resolved to be more patient,” said Richard, continuing his newlywed’s argument. “You remember, the vow to think twice before speaking aloud?”

  “I’ve given it up,” Maureen answered, moodily. “Just like I’ve given up trying to find a lipstick that matches my skin color and pretending to laugh at all your workplace stories.” Richard retreated into silence after this remark.

  “I think she’s given you license to complain about her bad habits, Richard,” said Abby, tearing herself away from the performance momentarily. “The way she snorts at the end of sarcastic statements or double parks her car on–”

  “Hey, don’t get me into trouble,” Richard said, laughing. “I want to go home in the same cab tonight–if she’ll let me.” He bumped Maureen’s shoulder, receiving a hint of a smile before she recovered herself.

  The girl onstage in the club glowed beneath its spotlight, pink-tinted hair that matched her pastel jeans and sneakers. Instead of a guitar, she played a mandolin for accompaniment, its surface covered in stickers of anime characters. A voice like ripe fruit, full and luscious as it rose with the chorus.

  Abby’s eyes sank closed as she listened. The mandolin a tinny sound plunking along beneath the lines of a ballad composed by the girl onstage, words on hourglass moments and frozen time propping open the windows between worlds. Artist Shanika Rice, proclaimed the posters on either side of the performance zone.

  “She’s not as good as you,” Maureen whispered close to Abby’s ear. Abigail opened her eyes with a laugh.

  “She’s better than me. Simply because she’s doing it and I’m not,” she answered.

  “That could change,” suggested Maureen, in a hinting tone of voice. She lifted her drink and took a sip.

  “What? Me record an album?” asked Abby. According to Shanika’s poster, her debut indie project Apples and/or a Gin had been released last September. “The last time I visited a recording studio was a high school field trip.”

  “Whose recording an album?” Richard stirred, their conversation distracting him from the performance.

  “Not me,” Abby answered. Maureen rolled her eyes.

  “I was talking about performing, silly. Who said anything about recording a cd?” Her sequins flickered shards of colored light as she snuggled against Richard, rays of lavender and maroon glinting from the white surface.

  “It was implied,” Abby teased. “Besides, I suffer from terminal stage fright. Only my students will appear onstage next year. I’ll be safely positioned with my back turned, conducting them in my usual half-skilled manner.”

  In her mind, however, she entertained a flash of fantasy: herself onstage in Shanika’s place, her battered acoustic guitar balanced on her knee. She pictured her lips moving effortlessly through a traditional country ballad–no, make that a jazz song. The tune melded in her head from “Walking after Midnight” to “Moonlight Serenade.”

  A favorite fantasy whenever the radio was on or a record was spinning on the turntable. Herse
lf enjoying a moment in the spotlight, making songs alive for an audience below. Without the terrors of stage fright and sweaty palms, that is.

  She realized after a moment that she was chewing on her swizzle stick; dropping it into the glass, she set her cocktail aside. Maureen’s suggestion was a persistent fly, awakening the debate Abby had conducted more than once. She should be satisfied with her behind-the-scenes contribution to music–and satisfied that her current performances were before students and not a room of judgmental strangers.

  “Whose next for tonight?” asked Richard, checking his watch.

  “Some rock band, I think,” Maureen answered. “The posters said Techorati–or something that sounded sort of like a Japanese cartoon.” She reached for a cashew in the bowl of mixed nuts between them.

  “I was thinking maybe we’d leave early and catch a movie at the independent showing,” he said. “The French film you wanted to see was playing tonight...”

  “Le Poulet?” said Maureen. “The French comedy?” She squeezed his arm as a smile of surprise appeared on her face. “The next showing will be at midnight, probably. We have plenty of time.”

  From her spotlight, Shanika offered audiences a shy smile. “My next number is the first song I ever wrote. The one, actually, that got me to come onstage in my hometown. Something I think about every time I play it...” Her fingers plucked a few notes as she leaned closer to the microphone, lips barely parted as if a kiss away from the moment of performance.

  “What about you, Abby?” asked Richard. “You mind if the three of us skip Tech–what’s it’s name? Or if you want, we can leave early.”

  “Let’s stay a little longer,” Abby answered, softly. “Just a few more songs, anyway.” Crossing her fingers beneath her chin, she gazed at Shanika’s performance as if watching something extraordinary unfold beneath the spotlight.

  The pink-glazed hair bobbed in time to the rhythm, the shy smile reappearing with the opening lines. I wish I had an apple for every time you called, and every time you changed your mind and showed up not at all...