‘Write my song about being alive,’ she says.
‘It’s not going to have lyrics.’ Great. He just admitted he’s working on it.
‘What kind of song is it? Wait – oh wait.’ Her eyes sparkle wickedly, like she’s just eaten the best joke. ‘You don’t play classical piano, do you, Keverich?’
‘No,’ he growls.
She tips back her head and hoots to the frosty sky. ‘Classical! My mum would be in love with you. Classical.’ She steps back, hands on her hips, and looks him up and down. ‘You are a scrawny, bitter, nasty classical pianist and I don’t know whether that’s the best thing I’ve ever heard or just the funniest.’
‘Ha, ha. I’m dying of laughter here.’
Her eyes glint. ‘Someday I’ll do something extraordinarily spontaneous and you’ll learn how to smile.’
‘Yeah? Like what?’
She whirls and Beck half expects wings made of frost and longing to sprout from her back and fly her home. He wants to catch her, pin the wings just for a second and ask to fly with her. Ask to be saved.
‘Oh, who could know?’ she shouts over her shoulder, running down the street. ‘Maybe I’ll kiss you.’
She’s gone. The golden afternoon swallows her and leaves Beck at the end of his driveway more confused than if she’d slapped him.
Did she mean it?
Is she –
no.
They don’t have that kind of relationship. They’re barely friends now and she’s just messing with him, friend-to-friend style.
Or she likes him.
He cannot think about that.
Realising he also can’t spend the rest of his day staring off down the street, he goes inside. It’s probably a throwaway remark. She probably kisses all the boys she meets, just to see how kissable they are. He wouldn’t be kissable. He’s piano keys and flinches and crumpled music trapped in his soul. Not kissable. Kickable.
The Maestro is home. Worse, she’s actually cooking dinner. From the mounds of potato peels and the applesauce brewing on the stove, it must be Kartoffelpuffer – potato pancakes. A hot, homemade meal instead of frozen fish cakes for once?
He stares for a minute as she struggles with a potato and a knife. It slips in her shaking hands and slices her finger. Cursing, she jams it in her mouth and turns to see him.
‘I can, um, peel them for you,’ Beck says.
Surprisingly, the Maestro steps back and jabs a finger at the stack of potatoes. ‘Ja, be useful.’
He could be a lot more useful around the house if he wasn’t practising the freaking piano all day.
Beck dumps his backpack and remembers the letter. He’s betraying her, but what can he do? She’s five. Joey’s forgotten her disgrace and sits in front of the TV.
‘Um, this is from Joey’s teacher.’
The Maestro raises her eyebrows and accepts it. Beck busies himself with the potatoes and knife and pretends not to notice how long it takes her to open it. Her hands have definitely gotten worse.
She sucks in a sharp breath. ‘Verdammt nochmal. Johanna!’
Joey slinks into the kitchen.
‘She said she bit some kid,’ Beck says.
‘Ja, and the teacher too.’ The Maestro looks shocked – an unusual change from her normal scowl. ‘She swore violently at a student and threatened them with scissors. Then bit the teacher intervening and hit repeatedly—’ The Maestro breaks off, nostrils flaring.
Joey goes boneless and flops, face first, on the floor.
Fear crawls into Beck’s throat. What if – no. The Maestro can’t possibly punish Joey when she is the reason Joey’s so violent. The Maestro has to see that, right? He ducks his head and peels potatoes fast.
‘This is not how you behave, Johanna.’ The Maestro slams the letter against the bench. ‘This is besch?mend.’ Disgraceful.
Joey raises her head a fraction off the tiles and gives a pterodactyl screech.
The Maestro doesn’t bat an eyelid. ‘Go to your room, go on, naughty girl! No television. You stay in your room until dinner. Go.’
Beck flips potato peels into the sink and tries not to sag with relief.
Joey kicks her feet, but a few sharp words from the Maestro has her picking herself up and running in a whirlwind of childhood fury to her room. She slams her door.
Beck hacks chunks off his potatoes. If the Maestro didn’t swear at him, Joey wouldn’t—
‘It is my fault,’ says the Maestro.
Beck drops the knife and it clatters in the sink. He stares at her.
The Maestro leans heavily against the bench, her enormous frame looking tired and completely done. Even her normally wild hair just droops about her ears.
‘If you didn’t try my patience so—’ The Maestro stops again and sighs deeply. Then she leans over the sauce and gives it a stir.
Yes, blame him. Totally fair.
Beck scoops the peel into the bin and starts to slink away, but the Maestro holds up a hand.
‘Wait.’
Here it comes. A blasting because somehow everything is always Beck’s fault.
‘You and I need to talk – about this girl.’
‘Girl?’ Heat rises up Beck’s neck.
Joey’s bedroom door pops open. ‘Do you mean August? August is my bestest of best friend. And she’s Beck’s girlfriend.’
‘To your room!’ the Maestro barks.
Growling, Joey slams her door again.
‘She’s not my girlfriend,’ Beck says, desperately. He’s not discussing this. Ever. With anyone. ‘There’s nothing—’
‘Bah.’ The Maestro hefts a huge knife from the drawer and starts slicing onions. ‘The window was open. I heard.’
She’s spying on him? She controls his whole freaking life, and she needs to have this too?
‘She meets you for school every day,’ the Maestro goes on. ‘That girl is your fifth limb.’
‘She’s just a friend,’ Beck says, struggling to keep his voice even. ‘I want a friend. I’m practising—’
‘You call that schreckliche L?rm practising?’ The Maestro snorts, but at least these insults are usual and Beck doesn’t blink. ‘But this is not about practice.’ Her knife slams against the board. ‘Although friends are distractions from the piano, which is not good. Not good at all. When a boy distracted me, my career nearly collapsed – and I got pregnant with you.’ With a snick her knife beheads another onion.
‘I’m sorry,’ Beck says bitterly.
‘Never mind that,’ the Maestro says, oblivious to the sarcasm. ‘The problem was the distraction. My music was nothing to me when he was on my mind. Notes disappeared and all I saw was his eyes, his smile.’
This is the most she’s talked about Beck’s father.
She slams the knife down. ‘He was too jealous of the piano, always too jealous. Even after my hands …’ Her voice roughens. ‘He did not come back, the Schwein. Those without music in their bones are not to be trusted.’
No music? Sounds like paradise.
‘That girl,’ the Maestro says, ‘August. She does not love you. She loves broken things.’
Beck’s eyes snap to hers.
‘It’s obvious, Schwachkopf.’ The Maestro scoops the chopped onions into a bowl. ‘The way she dresses, her hippy hair –’ she says it with a sneer ‘– the way she fawns over you.’
‘She doesn’t.’
‘Don’t be blind,’ she snaps.
Emotion strains the Maestro’s voice, and Beck can’t understand it. He can’t understand this entire conversation.
‘She is the kind of girl,’ the Maestro says, ‘who falls in love with a broken toy, but once it’s fixed, she moves on. She wants to “save” you.’ She drips with bitterness. ‘No doubt you’ve painted me the monster. Well, fine. I shall be your monster. But I will also get you into the greatest concert halls in the world, get you the best tutor, make your name be known, make you a famous pianist who will want for nothing. Your little girlfriend will take that away.’
Stop it. Stop it.
‘This August is … sweet.’ The Maestro probably chokes on the word. ‘But you are her project for happiness, not something real. You are a puppy to cuddle. So stop. Be done with this. You are like me and relationships are not for us.’
He’s not like the Maestro. He’s not. He’s –
not?