I love the way Zoe’s looking at me right now, like she’s eaten an oyster and found an unexpected pearl lurking in the shell. “All right,” she says. “If you’re sure. Thank you.”
She leads me downstairs and into one of the practice rooms, and by the time she closes the door behind us, I’m starting to panic a little. What was I thinking, setting her expectations that high? If I were in my own living room, accompanying Marisol or Christa, I have no doubt I could play most of Birdie from memory. But what if I choke in these new surroundings, when Zoe’s counting on me? I can’t stand the thought of embarrassing myself in front of her.
The room is tiny and windowless and much hotter than it is upstairs, and a bead of nervous sweat slips down my spine. I sit down on the bench and play some scales and arpeggios until my fingers feel limber and relaxed. “Okay,” I say. “I’m ready when you are.”
Zoe digs her music out of her binder and comes to stand right next to me. If she regretted last night, she’d probably try to keep some distance between us, right? “Can we start with ‘One Boy’?” she asks.
“Sure.”
I start playing, and by the time I’m through the short introduction, I already feel much better. I do know this song by heart; hundreds of songs are stored in my fingers, in my blood, in my DNA. I could play them while Marcus threw eggs at me. I could probably play them in my sleep.
I’ve never actually heard Zoe sing before, but the second she opens her mouth, it’s obvious why she got into Juilliard. Her voice is sweet and pure, perfect for Kim, and she sings the song simply, without showing off or adding any unnecessary flourishes. When I accompanied Skye a couple of weeks ago, she stared off into the middle distance as she sang, like she was performing for an invisible, adoring crowd. But Zoe sings right to me, holding eye contact for so long, it unsettles and thrills me at the same time. If she can make me feel like this in a dingy little practice room, I can only imagine what it’ll be like when she’s onstage, backed by an entire orchestra. Everyone in the audience is going to fall in love with her. It’s so easy to fall in love with someone while she’s singing.
And then I start listening to the words.
“One boy, one steady boy,
One boy to be with forever and ever,
One boy, that’s the way it should be…”
I’ve been waiting all day for a signal from Zoe about whether last night meant anything, and I think I finally have my answer. She’s gently trying to remind me that she’s straight, that she has a boyfriend, that they’ve been together for almost a year. How could I have assumed last night meant anything? She was drunk. I was there. It was a game. There’s nothing to talk about.
There won’t be any more kisses, and I can’t believe how disappointed I am.
Somehow I manage to finish the song, and the second I take my hands off the keys, we both start talking at once. “You sound awesome,” I say, and it comes out a little too enthusiastic, like I’m trying to mask everything I just thought.
But Zoe doesn’t even notice, because she’s too busy saying, “Brooklyn, that was amazing. You are amazing.”
“Thank you,” I say, and then I have to concentrate all my energy on not turning bright red.
“Seriously, why didn’t you tell me you could play like that?”
“I don’t know; it never came up. It’s not a big deal.”
“It is a big deal. You know not everyone can whip out some random musical from memory and play it perfectly the first time, right?” Her eyes bore into me, piercing and bright, like she’s really seeing me for the very first time.
I shrug. “It’s kind of like having a good sense of direction or a good ear for languages,” I say. But now I feel like maybe my musical ability is kind of a big deal. Why didn’t anyone at home ever tell me I was great at this? I’ve been playing the piano since I was six, and I’ve always felt like it was a cop-out. The bench was my place to hide. I’ve never even considered that it could be a place to shine.
“Can you play other shows, too?”
I laugh. “Yeah, of course. I know tons of them.”
“Do you know A Chorus Line? Phantom? Merrily We Roll Along? The Secret Garden?”
“Sure,” I say. “I can probably do stuff from all of those.” I wonder if Zoe’s imagining long nights locked up with me in this tiny room, singing her heart out while I play. Even if she doesn’t want to kiss me again, I want to be indispensable to her in a way nobody else is. I send that image to the universe to help things along.