chapter Eight
My fury at Daddy is still a rolling boil when I come down to breakfast. The planets must be out of alignment, because he sits at the kitchen table with the newspaper and a bagel. He’s usually gone before I drag my sorry butt downstairs.
“Mornin’, sunshine.”
“Whatever.” I grab a box of cereal out of the pantry.
“You still mad?”
“You think?”
“Sweetie—”
I slam the box on the counter. “Really? You’re calling me sweetie?”
“Stop it. I know you’re not happy with me, but I have my reasons. I know you think I don’t care. And I’m not around enough to have any right to assert parental authority—”
“Parental authority? Nice legal-speak. I wasn’t aware of any parental authority in this house. Last I checked, you’re a lawyer, she’s half psycho, and I’m pretty much on my own.”
“That’s enough, Julianne. Be mad, I don’t care. But I want you to know I cut back your lessons because I think it’s what’s best. It’s not about money, and it’s not that I don’t want to support you.”
“Then what is it?”
He folds up his newspaper and stands. “You spend an awful lot of time in the studio, that’s all. You need equilibrium in your life.”
“Equilibrium? Could you just talk like a normal human being?”
“It means balance.”
“I know what it means!”
“Well, I think you need balance.”
I cock my head. “You know that’s funny, right?”
He closes his eyes and sighs. “If I could fix things, I would. I’ve tried. I hope you’re old enough now to see that not everything can be fixed. I don’t have all the answers. Sweetie.”
He made his choice a long time ago. He was supposed to choose us—me and R.J. But he didn’t. He chose work and Mama, and I can’t forgive that.
“Whatever.”
“Stop it. Look at things from my perspective. Every time I come home, you’re cloistered away in the studio with Isaac Laroche, and I have no idea what goes on in there.”
“What do you mean, ‘what goes on in there’? We rehearse. What do you think? And today we’re supposed to do the recording. Which reminds me, please keep pissing me off, because it helps me play better.”
“I’m not trying to piss you off.”
“No? Insinuating I’m doing things I shouldn’t be—”
“I’m not insinuating that you’re doing anything—”
“What? You think Isaac’s doing something wrong? If only.”
“Glad to hear that. It confirms what I always believed.” He fills his travel mug with coffee.
“What do you mean?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“No, you said it, now you’re going to explain it.” Oops, that was the wrong thing to say.
“Last I checked, you didn’t give me orders, young lady. This conversation is over.” He picks up his mug and shoves the kitchen door open and closed.
“God, you’re such a jerk.”
There’s no one here to disagree.
***
Thirty minutes later, I’ve showered and dressed, and it’s time to run through the songs once more before school. And even though I’m pumped with adrenalin, my nerves want to get the best of me. I don’t let them. The exchange with Daddy makes me more determined than ever to give the kind of performance no panel can ignore.
I survive the school day, but the only bright spot happens after the final bell. Today’s the weekly meeting of Keys for Kids, an after-school program for children who’d never get to learn an instrument otherwise. I give group piano lessons once a week downtown at the public performing arts magnet school. It’s just two blocks from Felix’s in a rundown part of the city.
This semester, there are two boys and two girls in my class. All of them show aptitude and a desire to learn. None can afford lessons, materials, or a piano of their own. I teach them the basics: how to read music, elementary terms, and fingerings. By the end of the semester, they’ll be able to play scales in C Major and G Major, along with a few simple tunes. I usually have a helper with these classes, but he’s been incapacitated lately. Which is why I’m shocked when he walks in.
“Mr. Cline! Mr. Cline!” The kids abandon their pianos and cling to his legs. The tallest hugs his waist. Mr. Cline sways, putting a burden on his cane.
“I’m happy to see you, as well. One couldn’t…ask for a better w-welcome.” In no time, the children discover candy in his coat pockets. “Children, I would love it…if you showed me what you’ve learned. Please go practice while I talk to…Miss Juli.”
Guilt blossoms when I notice how much better Mr. Cline seems. I would know he’s better if I visited more. He opens his arms, and in two strides I’m surrounded by his candy-coated eucalyptus scent. He’s thinner now but feels solid. I know he’s well, and that nearly triggers happy tears, but I swallow them back. I hang on a second longer than he does.
“I’ve missed you. So much has happened.” I sniffle.
“So I hear. Isaac keeps me in the…loop.”
“He does? Then maybe you can tell me.”
“Juli?”
“You forgot to tell me he hardly talks, at least about anything other than music. It took weeks before I could get him to smile. You warned me not to tease him, but I had to so he’d loosen up.”
He laughs, and happiness zings through my veins. I’ve missed that laugh. “I can see…this has been good for him. He needed to come home. Thank you for helping him.”
“Me? How have I helped him?”
“I think…you gave him a challenge.”
Before he can explain more, the children’s “practicing” disintegrates. They pound their small fists on the keys.
“Mr. Cline, listen to what I can do!”
“No, me!”
“I wanna go first!”
Mr. Cline smiles. “Children, I missed your energy. Now show me what Miss Juli has taught you.”
***
Afterward, I make a beeline for the studio where I find all the recording equipment in place. Isaac sits on the loveseat with his arms crossed and head back. I throw my things on the floor with more force than necessary.
“Let’s do this.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He jumps up to fiddle with his laptop. “Whenever you’re ready.”
I’ve never been so ready in my life. I want this. I need this. The New England Conservatory will beg me to come there. I take a moment to summon the colors and images associated with the first piece—Dave’s visualization method proves very helpful—and begin.
The Bach is golden toffee, smooth and liquid, but precise. The Mozart is black and blue. Peacocks. Paper fans. Sibelius is more difficult to nail down…sometimes red, sometimes blue. Always with white. One of his most famous compositions was turned into a hymn, so I often see church sanctuaries. Last is the Rachmaninoff. I’m practically high by the time I begin. Red. Black. Mahogany. Skittering leaves and paper burning. Lust. Passion. Heartache. Power.
Isaac presses the stop button and turns off the microphone. Every rational emotion has been siphoned through my fingers into the music. I’m a deflated vessel.
The sun disappears over the horizon, the sky an interesting pool of pink, orange, and periwinkle. It’s a sign. For me. The sun knows what I just accomplished, and it approves. I don’t believe in psychics and all that nonsense, but I do believe tonight’s dreamy sunset is a message. I surprise myself with this optimism and confidence. I feel…good. Cocky? In control.
“A penny for your thoughts?” Isaac’s question breaks the silence. He sits with his chin in his hand, like Rodin’s “The Thinker.”
I give a soft laugh. “I think…I’m going to get in.”
He chuckles. “That’s my girl.”
“Your girl?” I arch an eyebrow.
It’s cute to see a grown man blush. I like it. I know he probably didn’t mean anything by it, but now’s my chance. A door opened just a crack and I will totally walk through it, to hell with the consequences.
In one smooth motion, I rise from the bench and step in front of Isaac, who still slouches on the loveseat. He sits up straight and tilts his head back to look at me. I take a huge risk in crowding his personal space when my knees brush the insides of his thighs. I take an even bigger risk when I ask him a question.
“You’d like that, wouldn’t you? If I was your girl?”
I don’t know where this intoxicating confidence comes from, but I need to bottle it. His eyes glass over, and he doesn’t say no. Instead, he reaches up with his right hand and trails a finger along my jaw from ear to chin. I don’t expect an answer, so I don’t wait for one. I slip out of the studio and discover I’ve got a new little wiggle in my walk. Before I shut the back door, I take one last peek.
Isaac has his head in his hands.
***
I don’t need scissors anymore. It’s been weeks, and my arms have healed nicely. Because I don’t cut deeply, there are hardly any scars. And now that I know I really have Isaac’s attention, and possibly Dave’s, it’s like a whole new world has opened up. Now I know why R.J. keeps warning me, why Daddy wonders what “goes on in there.” I didn’t think it was possible, but it is.
I’m not as hideous as I thought.
I spend a ridiculous amount of time at school in a daydream. I analyze the evidence, over and over. Until now, most of my feedback has come from Mama. According to her, I’m too tall, my hair is too curly, too red, and I’m too curvy. Translation: I’m a red-headed Amazon freak.
Now I’ve been flirted with by two hot guys, and when I came on to Isaac, he definitely responded.
Let’s take this for a test drive.
I sit in A.P. Government with all the other brains, and honestly, there’s no one here I want as a test subject. Besides, I’ve known most of them too long. It’d be weird—they’ve seen me with braces, monthly acne, and knobby knees.
Except for him. He stands at the front of the room delivering a lecture on neo-conservatism. Mr. Nelson looks about Isaac’s age, though time hasn’t been as kind. He shaves his head, not to be tough but because his hair has receded past his ears. He’s not ugly, though he’s let himself slide right into middle age. There’s no wedding band on his left hand, but I’m certain he’s straight.
Perfect.
I don’t have a plan, so I wing it. It’s not like I’ve done this before. I start by making eye contact. He notices right away. I’m usually hunched over my desk, furiously scribbling notes. I smile the next time he looks my way. He smiles back, but continues his lecture without missing a beat. Under my desk, I cross my legs, which are so long I have to angle them out into the aisle a bit. The standard-issue uniform skirt may fit most girls, but on me it’s almost a micro-mini. For once, I’m not annoyed and don’t tug it down. I chew on my pencil and occasionally tap my lower lip.
Oh, yeah. He noticed.
I wonder how far to take this when the bell rings, only seconds left to decide whether I should gather my things and leave or stick around and see what happens. Mr. Nelson makes the decision for me.
“Julianne, you seemed to enjoy today’s lecture more than usual.”
I kneel in the aisle, stuffing things in my backpack, when he saunters up and plants himself in front of my desk. Which puts his crotch right at eye level. If this had happened yesterday, I’d have fallen backward and scrambled out of the room with a wicked blush.
Not today. Today, I hold my ground. I let my gaze slowly travel upward to look into his eyes. By the time I get there, he’s breathing a little fast. I stand but don’t step back.
“I think, for my final paper, I’ll explore neo-conservative themes in George Orwell’s 1984 and compare them to American political novels of the same time period. Sir.” I bite my lip for good measure.
I stifle a giggle when he shudders. I imagine him sitting in his living room, totally turned on by CNN.
“I look forward to hearing more about that, Miss Casquette.”
“I bet you do.”
I smile all the way down the hall.
***
My successful experiment at school makes me too bold.
“Julianne. No.”
Isaac has finished playing for me again, and I thank him with a quick brush of the lips on his cheek. He grabs my arms and pushes me away.
“Juli, stop. It’s wrong on so many levels that I can’t think straight. Doesn’t mean you’re not good enough—that’s not it at all. But, no.”
I pushed too hard too fast. Normally, I’d be humiliated and back down. Not today.
“I want you to tell me why. I want to hear it from you.” But I don’t let him answer. “You know what I think? I think this has nothing to do with me. I think you’re scared. I’m the one who’s trapped in this hellhole, but you’re just as trapped in your little box.”
He looks skeptical, so I press on.
“You’ve been moping around here for months. Admit it—I’m the only bright spot, aren’t I? So, what? You’re afraid of a little happiness?”
He barks out a humorless laugh. “Happiness? You think you’re the only one with problems? Grow up.”
I turn my back. That stings. Clearly, I’m not the only one with problems, but mine seem pretty severe. I don’t see anyone kicking the snot out of him.
“Look, I know you’ve got problems. Jesus, Juli, I’ve seen your problems firsthand.” He rubs the back of his neck. “Okay. Fine. Remember when Dave and Conrad were here a couple of weeks ago? When I got trashed at Felix’s? Of course you remember. I’m the one who doesn’t remember.” He takes a deep breath and blows it out. “My ex is pregnant. Could be mine. Won’t know until after it’s born. Ironic thing is we broke up because I wanted to settle down.”
Anguish is written on his face. I understand anguish.
“And now your future hangs in the balance. Just like mine.”
“Exactly. Dave and Conrad came to tell me they’d seen her, Marie, and she was showing. They knew I didn’t have a clue, so they cornered her and then came here. At least they did it in person.” He heaves a big sigh. “Thing is, I don’t know…don’t know whether I want it to be mine or not. I mean, it’s probably not. But…” He stands and paces the room. “But I couldn’t make it work with Marie, and that kid deserves two parents who get along.” He pulls his fingers through his hair, lacing them behind with his elbows out. “Wow, sorry. This is definitely not your problem. Didn’t mean to dump on you.”
“You didn’t dump on me. I mean, you know about my problems, so now we’re a little more even. And it explains a lot.”
“Pretty messed up, aren’t we?” A sad smile spreads across his face. “Well, kid, I’ve got to go get ready for tonight. Still coming, aren’t you?”
Tonight is Isaac’s performance with the Mobile Symphony. He got me a front-row seat with Mr. Cline and the rest of his family.
“I wouldn’t miss it.”
“Good. Uncle Robert’s picking you up, right?”
“Yes. Seven o’clock. He told me to wear something smashing and he’d be debonair. He sounds like his old self again.”
“Being able to drive has a lot to do with it. He didn’t take well to being cooped up with my mama. Right, so see you in a couple of hours. I’ll look for the smashing young lady and debonair old man in the front row.”
He flashes a rare smile, white teeth gleaming, and my heart breaks into a million pieces.