Dad apparently used to go on runs when he was working through his music. It’s one of the few things Mom has told me about him.
When I get home, I forgo a shower and make a beeline to the piano. I play the melody, stopping and starting a hundred times to scribble down new lyrics, and then I rearrange the chords until the little black dots are swimming around on the staffs.
“Angie, I’m home!” Mom yells.
The sky outside has turned an electric shade of blue.
I massage my temples and get up from the bench. Stretching my arms over my head, I walk to the kitchen, where Mom slides two brown paper bags onto the emerald granite island.
As I help her put the groceries away, I ask, “What are we having for dinner?”
“Butternut mac ’n’ cheese. Want to help make it?”
“No. But I’ll watch and play DJ.”
“Why don’t you ever want to cook?”
“Because I suck at it, Mom. I either burn everything or measure things wrong. Remember when you asked me to make glazed carrots for Thanksgiving, and I added a quarter cup of salt instead of sugar?”
She smiles. “Still don’t understand how you could add that much salt without thinking it was too much seasoning.”
“My point exactly.” I scroll through my phone for my current playlist and synchronize it with the kitchen’s wireless speakers. As music spills into the room, I fill a glass with soda water and settle on one of the cowhide barstools tucked underneath the island.
Mom peels the squash, slices it in half, scoops the mushy insides into the InSinkErator, and then dices the hard flesh. As she fills a large pot with water, thyme, and other stuff, I toy with the idea of playing her my song.
Before I can cop out, I say, “I wrote a song today.”
I don’t mention the Mona Stone contest. I’ll have to bring it up soon but don’t feel brave enough today.
She glides the cubed squash into the simmering broth. “Can I hear it?”
I nod, and she trails me out into the living room and takes a seat on our cream-colored couch. I roll my head, and my neck cracks, and then I stretch my fingers and place them on the keys, which are still warm. I don’t peek at Mom while I perform my song, scared of what I might see on her face.
I don’t look her way once I’m done either.
At least not for a long moment.
When her silence becomes too oppressive, I rub my clammy hands on my leggings and spin around. “What did you think?”
“I thought it was”—she runs a finger over one of the decorative patches on her army-green blouse—“good.” She offers me a smile that doesn’t reach her eyes.
I feel like she’s trying to be polite, which is weird, because she’s my mom. She doesn’t need to be polite; she needs to be honest.
I look up at the cove lighting, which is buzzing. Or maybe the buzzing’s inside my head.
“I—I need to go check on the pasta,” she says. If she’s trying to destroy my drive, she’s doing an awesome job.
I turn back toward the piano. “Do you mind if I keep practicing? I need to work on the chorus.”
“Sure. Take your time.”
I punch a couple of keys as the floorboards creak beneath her retreating footfalls.
I play my song again, and the notes color my bleak mood.
What does my mother know about music anyway? Nothing. My father was the one who understood harmonies. He might not have gushed about my musical prowess, but at least he would’ve offered constructive advice, unlike Mom’s total disinterest.
As I run through my song again, I create a note on my phone and dictate the lyrics. When I finish, the silence sounds louder than my song. I stop playing and scroll through what I wrote, change a word here and there, and then I take it from the top and match the new lyrics to the chorus’s melody. I make a few adjustments, then play the entire song again, singing the lyrics softly.
Like my fingers, my heart holds incredibly still, because this time everything fits. I close my eyes briefly, relishing this tiny, perfect moment. I wish I weren’t savoring it alone, but it beats sharing it with someone who detests music.
On legs that feel like fragments of clouds, I drift back into the kitchen, sit on the barstool, and sip my soda water that’s no longer chilled or bubbly.
Mom’s stabbing at our freezer with a metal pick. A huge slab of ice cracks off and thuds at her feet. She wipes her flushed brow on her forearm, then crouches, scoops up the ice, and chucks it into the sink. “Dinner’ll be ready in thirty minutes.”
For once, I’m not hungry, but I don’t tell her that. I simply watch her hack at our poor freezer again.
Guilt swarms me, because I think my music did that. Made her stressed and angry. “Do I sound like Dad? Is that why you hate it?”
She flinches. Even her arm that’s suspended in midair shudders. “Can you set the table?”
She can’t even answer me. Heaving a sigh, I do as I’m told.
She rinses the icepick, then sets it on the drying rack and wipes her hands on her jeans. Although she didn’t use it on me, my heart hurts as though it’s been de-iced too.
We eat in silence. At some point, she tucks a lock of hair that’s escaped from my ponytail behind my ear. I think it’s her way of apologizing for not being more supportive. And I forgive her because I love her.
That’s how love works. If you can’t forgive someone, then you don’t love them enough.
10
The Voice
On Monday, I don’t say hi to Ten during calc. I don’t even glance his way. Or at least I try not to. But as he jots something down in his notebook, the sun bounces off his bracelet and blinds me. When he rests his forearms on the desk, I catch the inscription on his bracelet: I ROCK.
Seriously, I rock?
He’s obviously not referring to music considering his distaste for it. How big is this guy’s ego?
Class drags by. The only thing remotely interesting about it is Mrs. Dabbs’s outfit—she wears all green today, which lends her a startling resemblance to a tulip. Where does she get her style cues from? House & Garden?
As we study derivatives, I stretch my neck from side to side. Every Sunday, before our usual dumpling and spring roll feast at Golden Dragon, Mom and I go to a power yoga class. Yesterday’s was particularly strenuous, but at least it took my mind off the chorus I can’t nail and the infuriating boy with the stupid bracelet.
“No questions for me today?” he asks as I gather my things after class.
I eye him. “Nope. I know all I need to know about you.”
He inclines his head to the side as though he doesn’t quite believe me.
“I’m going to get my old phone fixed, so—”
“Angie, please stop with the phone. I don’t want it back.” He lines up his books before sticking them into his backpack.
But I don’t want it either. Instead of bringing it up again—I’ll just give it back to him, and that’ll be that—I shoot out of my chair and stride out of the classroom. I’m so concentrated on putting distance between Ten and myself that I smack into a hard chest. Hands come around my biceps to steady me.
I lift my eyes and meet bright-blue ones.
“Hey there, Conrad.” Jasper’s breaths hit my forehead in bursts, as though he’s been sprinting through the hallway to reach me.