‘No,’ Beck whispers, ‘I’m sorry for this.’ He sucks in air, strength, and then looks her in the eyes. ‘We’re done, OK? We did the paper, so you don’t need to come around any more.’
August looks at him steadily.
‘I don’t need a friend,’ Beck says. ‘I actually don’t want one.’ Life was less painful when he didn’t know what he was missing. ‘So – so leave me alone, OK?’ Please.
Will she demand an answer? Slink off like he kicked her? Lash out because he’s unfair?
There’s a stagnant pause and then –
She laughs and punches his shoulder. ‘You’re messed up, kid. But, you’re also stuck with me, and a super-scary mum isn’t going to send me screaming.’
He groans. ‘August, I’m not kidding around—’
‘Neither am I, but I do have to go.’ She backs away, thumbs tucked in her pockets. ‘I meant it when I said I want to hear you play!’
‘Absolutely not,’ Beck yells after her.
She turns, ready to sprint off her excess energy. ‘That’s how you can repay me! Write me a song. Then we’ll be even.’
Write her a song? What – no –
She takes off down the road, the twilight swallowing her before he can reply and he’s left standing in the cold with a mouthful of words he can’t say.
He doesn’t want to go inside, but –
The Maestro is waiting, her eyes cold, calm. Beck shuts the door and leans on it, ready but not ready, angry but tired.
The Maestro looks at him, really looks, like she hasn’t in a long time. Then she shakes her head and laughs.
It’s a terrible sound.
‘It won’t last long,’ she says. ‘Especially after you leave for Deutschland.’
The unfortunate thing about being fifteen is growing taller. Beck tries to stop, for the sake of fitting his clothes, but his body doesn’t listen.
He attempts to disappear behind the $10 clothes racks while the Maestro flips through and scrutinises the colours. Joey is impersonating a tornado and has knocked hangers off shelves, dismantled the shoe aisle and is currently clomping around in men’s gumboots that come to her thighs while wearing a straw hat.
‘We should just go,’ Beck whispers to no one who cares.
The Maestro yanks a black and yellow striped polo shirt off the rack. Everything she does is fast and angry and vicious, like the clothing has particularly insulted her. ‘What about this?’
Does he want to look like a bumblebee? ‘Not really my, um, style.’
The Maestro concedes and puts it back. ‘What you need, Sohn, is a haircut.’
He likes his hair, though, the way it looks like an electrified steel scourer. And he can’t imagine the Maestro paying for a barber and clothes, which leaves her to do the trimming and – basically, no.
It’s weird enough clothes shopping with her. Her rage has burned to embers and, yes, the smoulders are ready to flare, but they can actually walk through the shops without imminent fear of doom. It’s his uncle that’s done this. Jan Keverich. Which makes no sense since the Maestro seemed to hate him and his success enough to leave Germany in the first place – but maybe it’s the thought of home, of shooting Beck to stardom, of finally succeeding, that makes her happy.
Happy? He shouldn’t throw that word around so easily. Happy is August. Not-destroying-something-momentarily is the Maestro.
‘I don’t need a haircut,’ Beck says. ‘It’s the Keverich trademark.’
The Maestro grunts. ‘Well stop sulking and go find a shirt.’
A shirt to replace the one smudged with blood.
Beck half wishes he could just wear it, prove something, and use this money to buy a fat steak and an ice cream sandwich for once. Instead the Maestro chooses to notice he’s grown and decides to do something about it.
The Maestro shakes out a black button-down shirt.
‘Great,’ Beck says. ‘Buy it and let’s go.’
The Maestro squints at it and picks at a piece of fluff. ‘The quality is rubbish. And not – not …’ She glares at the clothes, searching for the word. ‘Not enough.’
Enough for what? To prove they’re not dirt poor?
For the first time, Beck actually wonders if she wants him to look nice in front of his uncle because she’s ashamed. Of all of them.
Beck slinks off to pretend to inspect socks. He has a strange knot in his chest – probably because he’s out with the Maestro, right? Definitely. Not because she seems, despite her size taking up half the store, somehow … frail.
He glances at her, between socks, as she drops the black shirt, picks it up, drops it, and then stabs the coat hanger at the neck hole with shaking hands.
No. He refuses to feel sorry for her.
Beck finds plastic packets of cheap white shirts and he selects his size. When he returns, the Maestro holds mustard jeans and a black and grey knitted jumper. Beck resists the urge to flee.
‘Dressing rooms,’ she barks. ‘Now.’
Trying clothes is complicated because Beck is swallowed by the male side while the Maestro waits outside, and he hates the thought of parading in the open in strange clothes. What is wrong with normal-coloured jeans anyway? But these fit, tighter than the baggy trousers he’s used to, and the jumper is soft, if a little big, and encases him in the warmest hug he’s had in years.
He slinks out, twisting to see the price tags.
‘How much does this—’
The Maestro cuts him off with her voice as bold as an orchestra. ‘Gut,’ she says.
Good? She said good in relation to him?
Beck forgets he’s trying to grab the price tag behind his neck.
Joey, bouncing at the Maestro’s side, pauses to survey him. ‘Wow.’
Beck sighs.
The Maestro motions to the jeans. ‘Too tight? Too loose?’
Despite the unaccustomed tightness, they feel – good. ‘They fit.’
‘Comfortable?’ the Maestro prods.
‘I guess.’ Beck’s so confused. Why is she caring? What is she doing this for?
Joey pokes him. ‘Does the tag say nine and three?’
‘What?’ Beck spins and catches the price tag. $39. Why is she insisting on spending so much on clothes? ‘We can’t – I can’t—’
The Maestro tells Joey to hush.
Panic rises in his throat. ‘What’s going on? Why do I need expensive clothes?’
The Maestro folds her arms to stop her shaking hands. ‘It’s no crime to have something nice in your wardrobe.’
‘I’m hungry.’ Joey starts to wilt. ‘I’m so hungry.’
‘No lunch until we’re done here,’ the Maestro says.
Joey folds her arms, bottom lip out.
‘But what are the clothes for?’ Beck grits his teeth, aware he’s spoken too loud.
The ice in the Maestro’s eyes is warning.
‘Sorry,’ he mumbles. ‘But please …’
The Maestro grabs Joey’s hand. ‘We’ll take them,’ she says, briskly.
In the changing room, Beck whips off the clothes, cursing them and his mother, and even Joey for fraying the Maestro’s nerves when she was in a semi-good mood. He slips into his holey hoody and baggy jeans, rocking the homeless look, and then glares at the three full-length mirrors. Only a skinny, angry idiot scowls back.
If she’s buying him nice clothes, maybe she plans to pack him off to Germany with or without Jan’s blessing. Maybe she’s happy because she can see the end of his irritating presence in sight.
He stalks out and tosses the jeans, jumper and new white suit shirt in her basket. Her money. Who cares? She can waste it on some freaking clothes.
They move towards the checkouts, both the Maestro and Beck taking turns to make sure Joey isn’t stuffing shiny items in her pockets.
‘There will be a lesson,’ the Maestro says, finally.
‘I thought it was a performance.’
‘Ja und nein. First there’s a performance at an acquaintance of Jan’s mansion. A small detour from his main tour.’
Mansion? Rich people.
‘Then,’ the Maestro says, ‘a lesson. For Jan to assess you. We’ve spoken and arranged this.’
‘But—’ Beck stops. He shouldn’t carry on – but they’re in an open place. Not like she can slap him. ‘But I don’t want to go to Germany.’