I glance up. “What?”
“He can get pretty loud when he’s mad, but he won’t hit her. He’s never hit anyone in his life. Not even a dude.”
My body relaxes and I let out a bitter laugh. Because this is ridiculous, right? That this is what I’m worried about. Because I never know exactly what we’re getting into; with every new guy, every fight, every scream, there’s always a chance it’ll turn ugly.
On my rumpled bed, the fingers of my right hand move subtly, tapping out the bass clef of Schumann’s Fantasie. Jay stays put, watching me. I can’t look at him. Yeah, he’s an ass, but I’m acutely aware right now that I’m the girl whose mom just stole from his hard-working dad—?the man whose house we’re living in, whose food we’re eating, who could kick us out at any minute. I can’t remember the last time Mom sold a piece of jewelry or worked a shift at Reinhardt’s Deli. If she’s slipping twenties from Pete’s wallet or wherever, then things are bad and could get worse any minute. I feel an overwhelming urge to apologize, and I swear to god, I’m about to, when I think of my own stash of tips from LuMac’s.
It’s not much. I’ve only worked one shift, but when I got home yesterday, I put the thirty bucks in my Wizard of Oz music box that I’ve had since I was five, a birthday present from Emmy. Jay’s eyes follow me as I get up and cross the room to my dresser, flipping open the box’s lid. “Over the Rainbow” twinkles through the room, slightly off-key after so many years of play. Dorothy spins slowly in her ruby slippers.
The box is empty.
I knew it would be. Just like I know I won’t ask her about it. Just like I know if she had asked me for the money, I would’ve given it to her.
I stare at the dingy, emerald-green velvet interior, a little yellow brick road curling through the faux forest floor. Gently, I close the box and lift my eyes to the mirror. My hair is stringy from being outside last night, the wind and running tangling it up, and there’s a mess of smudged eyeliner I was too exhausted to wash off when I got home.
I look like her.
“Where’s your mom, Jay?” I ask, eyes still fixed on my reflection.
“Huh?”
“Your mom. I assume you have one.”
He clears his throat, and I turn to look at him. He’s staring at me, his lower lip tucked under his teeth. “She’s in Chicago. Has been for about four years.”
“Why?”
“They got divorced, obviously. She moved there for work. She’s a lawyer. A career-obsessed bitch, honestly, with a whole new family. I usually see her at Thanksgiving.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah.”
“You were supposed to stay with her this summer, weren’t you?”
“Her new husband surprised her with a trip to Key West,” Jay says, shrugging and picking at a loose fleck of paint on the door frame.
“How did I not know all this about her? I mean, when we were together?”
He tilts his head at me. “You never asked.”
After a couple of awkward seconds, he turns around and leaves. The house is quiet now, my senses filled with the image of a girl in a mirror—?the girl I am, daughter of a sad woman who takes what isn’t hers and never, ever asks.
Chapter Seventeen
THE KEYS FEEL ROUGH UNDER MY FINGERS. They’re yellowed and a few of them are cracked. Hell, the lowest A key isn’t even there, but it’s a piano with pedals and it’s only a tick out of tune, and I can create music on it, practice for my audition, distract myself, and focus on a future I’m not even sure I can have.
Except I can’t concentrate. I bang on the piano, the dissonant clang causing the Book Nook’s owner, Patrick, to tsk from the front of the store. I ball my hands into fists and stretch them out before starting the piece again. I drift into autopilot, my hands obeying me for a few seconds, but my mind wanders. It creeps over to Mom picking Fruity Pebbles off the kitchen floor as I left this morning, but I can’t think about her right now. Don’t want to. Don’t even know what to think about her stealing and necklaces for Eva and not needing me and whatever else the hell.
So I let myself think about Eva. Last night we ran all the way to the lighthouse driveway, and only when our feet slowed did our hands falls away. Eva kissed me once and then kept heading farther into town, a little smile on her lips as she waved goodbye.
And my hand. My mouth. They tingled. I couldn’t get them to stop. They’re tingling right now just thinking about it all, and my fingers slip and hit an E-minor chord when it’s supposed to be E major.
I shove my hands into my hair and groan. The early-morning sun filters in through the window in the storage room, blinding me for a split second.
“Scholarships don’t win themselves!” Patrick calls from behind the register. He’s in his midthirties, completely bald—?by choice, he swears—?and is a classic Cape Katie busybody, one of those who feasts on Bethany Butler’s radio show just so he feels like he knows everything about everybody in town.
Still. He has a piano, and he lets me sit in here for hours a day, free of charge.
“Thanks for clearing that up, Patrick,” I call back, but he’s got a point. If I don’t get a scholarship, I don’t go, plain and simple, and a lot of other pianists vying for a spot at a school like Manhattan come from performing arts high schools and money. I’m miles behind just by simply existing.
Patrick grunts acknowledgment, and I get back to work. This time forcing every thought other than college, scholarships, dorm rooms, and ice cream socials in the quad out of my mind.
Schumann’s Fantasie unfurls from my fingers. It’s soft and haunting and I love it. I pour myself into it—?every wish, every shitty duplex, a girl named Eva, a mother who steals from her daughter—?it all rises and falls with the piece’s dynamics. The first movement unfolds in a sort of stream of consciousness, various states of the mind and heart mimicked under my hands.
Fear. Fury. Hope. Love.
I let it all fall out of me and onto the neglected keys. It’s a rush, a complete letting go, and I can think. Everything is clear when I’m at the piano. I know who I am. I know what to do.
I know how to leave.
Blasting through the rest of the first movement, my fingers ache and tingle, but it’s a very different sensation from last night. This one is pure drive, surety, confidence. The last notes reverberate through the store, my hands suspended in midair. The mad dance I always fall into with the piano whenever I play tosses my hair into my face. I push it back just as a tiny exhalation of air reaches my ears.
I whirl around on the creaking bench to find Eva gaping at me. She’s in a slouchy tunic and a short denim skirt, legs for literal days.
“Wow,” she says. “You are good.”
I smile. “Don’t sound so surprised.”
“Humble, too.”
“Hey, I don’t have a whole lot else going for me.”