Except …
The times he punched the wall so his knuckles bled, the macabre fantasies of chopping off his hands, the way he loses hours in the music he claims to hate, the way he wanted to kill that bully …
‘And you are going to Germany.’ The Maestro gets out an egg, flour, butter for the potato pancakes. ‘Here is advice you need to learn, Junge. If you do not say hello, you do not need to say goodbye.’
He hates her in that moment, utterly hates her. When she doesn’t say anything else, he walks away, fighting fear that she’s right. She can’t be right. August isn’t – but she is. A rescuer. A fixer. A saviour. And that’s why he likes her, isn’t it?
‘The Kartoffelpuffer will be ready for those who practise hard,’ the Maestro calls out.
As if he’s hungry.
Beck wants to punch a hole through his chest and rip out his own stupid heart. Why did he think he could get away with being near August? He doesn’t deserve her, anyway – not the happiness, the kindness, not the way her smile rubs off on him, or the flippant promise of a kiss.
He is like the Maestro. Why would he want to inflict himself on August?
Beck shuts his door – quietly – and slides on to the piano stool. The keys stare at him, blank, cold, unforgiving.
He just wanted a friend. A real friend.
One
single
friend.
His fingers crash against the keys so hard the room shakes around him. He hammers the Chopin with hate, hate, hate. Every single note of agony and fury and suffocating despair.
And when his door cracks open, and he’s ready to scream at the intruder, the Maestro appears. She nods at him, just once. ‘Gut gemacht,’ she says. Good job. ‘Now come for dinner.’
He could cry.
He’s waited for the words good job for so long. But now that they’re finally given, he can only hold them in tired, hollow hands and hate himself for craving them so desperately.
But he doesn’t cry. He unchains himself from his eighty-eight keys and eats dinner and does the dishes, and speaks politely, and understands that the Maestro plays a mind game with him. But maybe she won’t win this time?
When he closes his eyes that night, he composes August’s song.
There’s a wall of ice between Beck and August, ice with doubt taped over the cracks. Every time Beck snatches a glance at her, he’s not sure what he sees any more. The August of trees and coconut and bare feet is blurred with the August who’s only interested in rescuing broken things. Either way, he’ll have to say goodbye to her one day. Maybe it should be now.
It’s easier than he thought. He suddenly has nothing to say.
At first, August doesn’t notice the ice, the silence. Although, on the second day, she stops pummelling jabs and quips at him and just walks in silence. It’s a heavy silence. Her walk lacks its usual bounce, she keeps stealing swift glances at him, and she doesn’t hum any Twice Burgundy melodies under her breath.
Beck should be relieved.
Pretty soon she’ll wander back to her real friends. Or she’ll adopt another battered kid in the class and feed them sesame crackers and do their homework. She’ll move on.
With Joey still suspended on the third day, Beck nearly walks home alone.
Well, he tries.
August is also a fast runner.
She catches up with him, satchel rattling with her ever-present collection of Sharpies. She falls into step beside him. ‘Hey there, Beck.’
They haven’t spoken today. Why break it now? Beck shrugs and keeps walking. There’s a knife in his throat.
‘You’re angry,’ she says.
‘No.’
‘Ah, of course. This is how you treat all your friends.’
Beck gestures to the empty footpath around them. ‘Ja. This is why I have so many friends.’
It’s bitter, sharp enough that they fall into silence again. August’s shoes make a flapping-slap sound, like her soles need gluing. Since he recreationally stares at the ground, he focuses on her broken shoes, not her face, and notices she’s doodled over her legs today. Compasses and lists of cities. Paris. Rio. Kuala Lumpur.
Maybe she would visit him in Germany …
Stop.
Don’t think like that. It’s not worth it.
‘This is about what I said the other day.’ August’s voice is unusually quiet, but not timid.
‘What?’ Beck knows exactly what.
‘About kissing you.’ She looks up, unabashed, unashamed. ‘I meant it, but I can also get over it if girls aren’t your thing.’
His face burns.
‘No.’ His tongue is in nineteen knots. ‘It’s not – that’s not it. It’s – I mean. I like girls but not—’
‘Don’t say “but not you”,’ August says. ‘You’ll break my heart.’
‘I wasn’t going to say that.’ Yes he was! Why is he still talking? Shut up, you idiot! ‘Doesn’t matter. Forget it.’ He walks faster.
‘I won’t.’ August keeps up easily. ‘We’ve got to get this sorted before my birthday.’
‘Your birthday? But it’s only July.’
‘Yes, you genius. My birthday is in July.’
‘But isn’t your birthday in, um, August?’
August groans to the heavens. ‘No! My parents aren’t that bad.’
‘So who are you named after? Augustus Caesar Salad?’
‘Firstly,’ August says, holding up a finger to tick off her points, ‘Augustus Caesar is not a salad, and secondly, I’m not named after anyone, my mum liked the name, and thirdly—’
‘Please let there only be three points.’
‘There are nine points, but you’re so deplorable I’ll stop after three.’ She sniffs, put out. ‘Thirdly. “August” means majestic, and my parents want me to sit on a throne eventually.’ She elbows him in the ribs. ‘Why are you called “Beck”? Your mum wanted a Rebecca?’
Beck doesn’t talk about his full name. No one does. It’s the most off-limits conversation in the entire universe. But knowing August? She’s not going to leave this alone. In fact, while his silence stretches, she rips up a piece of long grass as they walk and tickles him behind the ear.
He snatches it off her.
‘Beck is my nickname.’ That’s all he’s giving.
‘Short for Beckett? Or Beckham? Becker?’
‘No.’
‘Don’t make me threaten you,’ August warns. ‘Because I have so much blackmail material and I can also kick really hard and – oh! Remember when I gave you cake? You owe me.’
Beck’s voice folds into a whisper. ‘Beethoven.’
‘Sorry? What was that?’ August cups a hand to her ear. ‘I could’ve sworn you said—’
‘BEETHOVEN BLOODY KEVERICH.’ He yells it straight in her ear so she winces and nearly falls into the gutter. He gets a small amount of satisfaction from that.
August stops, her mouth drops, and she just stares at him. He hesitates, fingering his backpack straps. She wouldn’t – no, because August is nice, she’s not going to—
She doubles up and cracks up laughing.
Beck takes everything back. She is not nice.
‘Are you serious?’ she squawks. ‘Beethoven? Your name is literally Beethoven? And you’re a pianist? Did your parents hate you or plan this or—’
‘Shut up.’ He takes off, walking fast.
She’s laughing too hard to even walk straight, so she stumbles along behind him, wiping her eyes. Finally, the snorts subsiding, she dances to his side.
‘Well, Beethoven –’ she pauses to giggle, so he shoves her, harder this time, and she ducks away ‘– you’ve gotten me so off track. I was talking about my birthday before that beautiful reveal.’
‘If you call me Beethoven ever again,’ he growls, ‘I’ll throttle you.’
‘You do have large hands,’ she agrees. ‘But no friends to help you bury a body.’ She fakes a pout. ‘So sad, little Beethoven. You’re destined to put up with me.’
This sends her into another howl of laughter, and it’s nearly a minute before she’s composed enough to whip an envelope out of her satchel and smack it in his face.