“We’ll be spending three hours a day together, every day, for the rest of the year. Music Theory, Piano Seminar, Performance Master Class, and for some of you, private lessons… This is what Mommy and Daddy shelled out the big bucks for.” My leisurely walk ends at the front of the room, and I turn to face them. “Don’t waste my time, and I won’t waste your parents’ money. Don’t take me seriously, and I will seriously fuck up your prospective futures. Are we clear?”
I can almost smell the mix of trepidation and startled respect in the silence that follows.
“I’m not going to lecture or put you on a piano bench today.” I glance at the student files on my desk. “I’m going to use the next few hours in one-on-one conferences with each of you. Don’t think of it as an interview. Just a brief meeting to help me become acquainted with your backgrounds and academic goals.”
Unbidden, my thoughts dart to Ivory and all the ways I can’t become acquainted with her. I push a hand through my hair, avoiding the prick of her gaze. I’m itching to talk to her again, to learn how a girl from Treme affords one of the most expensive tuitions in the country.
Maybe I don’t want to know.
But I do know I need a moment to gather some damn self-control. “Mr. Roth, I’ll start with you.”
I’ll save the temptation for last.
Ivory
I twirl a pencil between my fingers and try not to chew a hole in my lip. Sitting on the floor in the back corner of the L-shaped room, I watch Mr. Marceaux through the maze of chair legs while he conducts private meetings at his desk.
A huge space separates us, the length of two normal classrooms filled with desks and instruments. But when he glances my way, which he does unnervingly often, I can see him. I can also shift ever-so-slightly and obstruct the eye contact.
Sometimes I don’t move, my gaze paralyzed under the force of his. Why? It’s the strangest thing, this preoccupation I have with him. I want to learn more about him—what he eats, the music he listens to, and where he goes when he’s not here. I want to study his calculated movements, watch the path of his fingers along his jaw, stare at the hard angles of his face, and memorize the way his slacks outline the shape of him. He’s enchanting, distracting, and positively terrifying.
Why can’t I just focus on something else? This has nothing to do with my ambitions for college and his role in it. Good lord, I haven’t even thought of that. I just want… What? For him to look at me? I hate his eyes, yet I watch them, wait for them to shift my way. That’s so fucked up.
He told us we could use the free block of time to study, but I can’t concentrate. I can’t think about anything except the enigma in the front of the room.
Two of the students, Sebastian and Lester, left after their meetings. Sarah chose to hang out after hers, and Chris is up there now, perched stiffly on the edge of his chair, nodding at whatever Mr. Marceaux is saying.
That leaves me, and the wait for my turn is flaying my insides.
“Psst. Ivory.”
I turn toward Sarah, who mirrors my cross-legged position—our loose skirts stretched over knees for modesty—at the other end of the back wall.
“C’mere,” she whispers.
I shake my head, unwillingly to give up my view.
With a sigh, she sets her textbook down and crawls toward me.
This should be interesting. I think she’s talked to me twice in the last three years. I gave up trying to be friends with her when she said the hamburger I was eating was made of greed, lies, and murder. I don’t have the luxury to choose food that saves farm animals and boycotts political agendas.
Her brown, stick-straight hair is so long it drags along the floor as she edges toward me on hands and knees. She has an old-school hippie look about her, with ropes of multi-colored beads dangling from her neck, a long flowing dress that she hitches up her thighs, and a mischievous twinkle in her eyes. I’m pretty sure she’s not wearing a bra, but she has the kind of svelte build that doesn’t require one.
She tumbles into a sprawl beside me, all arms and legs and smiles. What is she up to?
In a volume too low to be heard beyond our huddle, she asks, “What do you think of him?”
Kill me now. I’m not going there with her. “He’s stern.”
She glances at Mr. Marceaux, and lines form in her forehead. “Not him. I mean, yeah, he’s stern and sexy and… hello? Didn’t you hear about his other uses for his belt?”
His belt? I shake my head. “What do you mean?”
“It’s just hearsay. I want to talk about Chris Stevens.”
I don’t have an opinion on Chris, other than he tried to sleep with me sophomore year, and I’ve been avoiding him since. “What about him?”
“Have you fucked him?”
My cheeks burn. “What!”
Mr. Marceaux cuts his splintery eyes at me.
Shit. I lower my voice, clipping the words. “I haven’t done anything with him.”
“Sorry, sorry. It’s just….” She separates a lock of her hair and proceeds to plait it into a skinny braid. “I know you’ve been with Prescott and Sebastian and…others. They don’t shut up about it, and well, never mind. It was rude to assume.” She drops the braid and flashes me a pair of dimples. “Are we gravy?”
“Yeah, we’re good.” I guess?
“Cool, because I need some advice.” She lowers her chin, whispering, “On sex. And since you’re…um…”
A slut? A tramp? A dirty whore? I fight my shoulders into a relaxed position. “I’m what?”
“Experienced.”
I grit my teeth.
She doesn’t seem to notice. “Chris and I are kind of a thing. Like, we’ve made out and stuff, and I’ve been…I don’t know, saving my V-card for something special, you know?”
No, I don’t know. I can’t imagine anyone or anything being special enough to go through that for.
She puts her face so close to mine all I see is freckles. “What’s it like?”
I tilt back, growing increasingly uncomfortable by the second. “What? Sex?”
“Yeah.” She licks her lips. “That.”
Just the thought of sex makes my stomach swarm with a thousand bees. Enduring it is worse than licking an oozing cold sore covered in dead skin and pus. But I don’t know if it’s like that for everyone—people act like girls are supposed to like it—so I shrug.
She cocks her head. “Does it hurt? The first time?”
“Yeah.” My voice cracks, and I clear it. “It hurts.” It never stops hurting.
“How old were you?”
I don’t want to talk about this, but at the same time, my chest aches with an overwhelming need to share. No one has ever asked me about my sexual experiences. Definitely not my mom, and I’ve never had a close friend. Isn’t this what I’ve always wanted? Girl talk without judgment?
I search her face for signs of cruelty and find only bright-eyed curiosity. It produces a warm sensation deep in my core. She’s interested, maybe even envious. Because I have something she doesn’t. Experience.
Stretching my legs out, I rest my head against the wall. “I was thirteen.”