Lynn shoots me a pained look.
I shrug. “I know, I know. Thousands of people are going to submit something, but a girl can dream, right?”
“Let’s hear it.” Lynn walks over to the window and sits on the edge of the teal chaise Steffi scored at a flea market. Mom loves that sofa chair.
Inhaling a deep breath, I press my fingers against the piano keys and let my creation pour out of me. The melody starts out slow and quiet, but then quickens and turns louder, the beat pounding and churning, slicking the parlor in fluorescent pinks and yellows, brightening the very air. By the time the last note peters out, Lynn is no longer sitting on the chaise. She’s standing behind me, watching my fingers intently.
I pull my hands into my lap and wring them. “So? What do you think?”
Lynn bobs her head, as though the melody’s still playing out in her head. “It has a ton of potential.”
I sit there dazed because Lynn doesn’t dole out compliments easily, but then reality knocks into me as hard as Ten’s Range Rover. “You’re not just saying that because you’re my music coach and you adore me?”
“I do love you to bits, but that right there”—she wags her finger at the piano—“made me proud to be your teacher.”
My eyes prickle.
“Let me hear the lyrics now,” she says, settling down on the bench next to me.
“Those still need work.” A lot of work.
“When’s the deadline?”
“Halloween.”
“Better get cracking, then.”
“You think I have a chance?”
She levels her gaze on mine. “Did your mom okay it?”
“Not yet.”
She squeezes my shoulder. “Well, I hope she does.” She nods to the sheet music in front of me. “Now, practice this piece.”
I dip my chin and start playing it, wishing that every beat of the day were accompanied by a melody—a soundtrack to life. Music would spill from the sky, curl from the grass, and seep out of the asphalt.
Ten would hate it.
I falter and hit a wrong note.
Why did he have to creep into my mind? Of all people …
Right before my hour’s up, Lynn asks me to perform my song again, so I do, and she studies the way my fingers move over the keys and spread to reach chords. She’s memorizing it. After I’m done, she scoots next to me on the bench and gives it a go. Lynn’s amazing like that—she can flawlessly play back anything she sees or hears.
“Okay, so now listen and think of the story you want to tell,” she says.
I sit up straighter. As my melody spirals through the room, an image begins to form in my mind, faint and shiny at the edges. Smears of yellow and deep red bloom. And then a slash of lime green and thick dabs of steel black. Melodies always appear to me in Technicolor.
“Anything?” she asks.
“A girl running. Gazing at the sun.”
“And?”
“Stepping out of shadows or pushing them away?”
“Good…”
She tucks a lock of traffic-cone-orange hair behind her ear. When I met her four years ago, her hair was yellow—and I don’t mean blonde, I mean corn-on-the-cob yellow. The following year, it was pink, then blue, which earned her the nickname of Skittles.
Long after my song comes to an end, the notes keep swirling in the air like dust motes. Silver and gold. Shiny. Cheerful. Hopeful.
“You should make your mother listen to it,” she says.
I tense up. What if Mom asks me why I wrote it? I’m not ready to have my dreams ground up like food waste in our InSinkErator.
“Ask her what the music makes her feel. It might help you with the lyrics.” Lynn checks the wall clock mounted over the shelves that sag from the weight of binders filled with sheet music and dusty rows of CDs. “You better go before Steffi marches up here to claim you.”
I smile, because Steffi’s done that quite often. Lynn and I get lost in music and forget how much time has passed. Thus, the clock. There was no clock my first year. Steffi nailed it to the wall after my repeated tardiness.
“See you next Friday.” I grab my bag and denim jacket from the chaise and dash down to the basement.
Transforming the cluttered gray space into a dance studio was my mother’s wedding present to Lynn and Steffi. She lined the walls with floor-to-ceiling mirrors, hung heavy beige drapes to conceal electrical wiring and pipes, screwed a barre into the mirror, and covered the cement floor with hardwood planks. But it’s the lighting that really makes the place spectacular, the mix of large, color-changing stage lights and tiny spotlights scattered like faraway constellations.
“I was beginning to think you’d forgotten about me,” Steffi says, her torso folded over one stretched-out leg.
“Never.”
“Did Skittles wear you out?” She unhooks her foot from the barre.
“She tried. Only you ever succeed.”
Her large dark eyes, which are the same shade as her buzzed hair, crinkle with a grin.
“Try not to kill me too much,” I add.
She laughs. “Why? Do you have a hot date tonight?”
“Yes.” When her eyes spark with intrigue, I add, “With Mom and the TV.”
“You lead an exciting life.”
I’m aware my Friday night could be a tad more exciting, but once I make it big, I’ll be out on the road or at parties all the time. The thought catches me by such surprise that I drop my bag and jacket on the floor instead of on the bench.
Where’s this confidence when I need it?
8
Even Lawyers Have Pinterest Boards
When I get home, Mom’s sitting at the round table, sipping a glass of wine while flipping through a fabric sampler. She runs her fingers over a piece of violet raw silk. “Hey, baby. How were your lessons?”
“Great.” I grab an ice-cold bottle of water from the fridge, then walk over to her and sit, stubbing my toe against the fossilized tree-trunk base. I always stub my toe against it even though we’ve had the same table for over ten years now. “Why didn’t you tell me Mr. Mansion’s son goes to my school?”
“Mr. Mansion?”
“Jeff Dylan.”
“Oh.” She runs the tip of her finger down the stem of her glass. “Jeff didn’t want me talking about his family.”
“Why? He’s an entertainment lawyer, not a movie star.”
“Does that mean he’s not allowed privacy?”
I frown. “I just meant that a heads-up would’ve been nice.”
She returns her attention to the fabric sampler.
“Does he represent anyone famous in the music industry?” I ask, before guzzling down some water.
“I didn’t ask.”
“I bet he does.” Considering his new mansion, he must have some serious heavyweights in his roster of clients.
“Angie…”
Even though Mom doesn’t finish her sentence, she doesn’t have to. I understand her the same way she understands me—she doesn’t want me to pester him or his son. Not that I ever would. Even though a connection would be nice, I’d rather make my own way in the world.
“So? Does he have a clue about what he wants?”