A Season of Eden (6 page)

I was floored to realize that Leesa had examined me.

I wandered the walkways. Knowing that Mr. Christian was still around kept me at school. I didn’t care if I looked genuinely happy. I doubted anyone else could tell the difference. Few got close to me. Leesa Weitz was an exception.

Matt came toward me in the main hall. He’d just gotten out of gym—his dark hair was wet at the tips. He stared at me. Expecting a fight, I kept walking.

“Why are you hanging around?” he asked, falling into step with me.

“Why do you care?”

“Why shouldn’t I?”

“Excuse me?”

“We spent six months together. I think I know you, Eden.”

I stopped, hating that he was right. “Yeah, I know.”

His brown eyes pierced mine. Neither of us moved.

“Why did you do it?” he whispered with a look around.

“I…” I couldn’t hurt him, he looked alarmingly sad. “I don’t know.”

“Were you bored? Am I not good enough?” Urgency tightened his face. If I wasn’t honest, he’d come back like a boxer refusing to leave the ring, even with a broken nose.

“It was fun while it lasted. I mean that.”

Spread out behind him was a panoramic view of Senior Park and the outdoor corridors of the school, including the hall leading to the music room. A flash of movement drew my gaze there. Mr. Christian was leading one of his classes to the open space of the park.

Matt followed my intrigued gaze but then turned and faced me, intent on finishing our conversation. “But now we’re not fun anymore? Come on, Eden. I thought we were nothing but fun.”

My eyes remained magnetically drawn to the sight of Mr. Christian now arranging his last period class in a circle.

He stood in the middle.

“We’re hanging at my house again tonight. I think you should come and we could, you know, just be like we used to be.”

“Maybe,” I muttered.

It had been fun with Matt. But I wanted more now. Mr. Christian’s analogy of meat and potatoes versus junk food came into my mind. Of being hungry and being filled.

My gaze shifted back to Mr. Christian. “I’ve got to go.”

I passed Matt without any more explanation, crossing the grass to where Mr. Christian stood in the center of the large circle, but I didn’t go near enough that he would see me.

The singers broke out in acapella, singing something I’d never heard but that sounded like renaissance. The tune filled the hollow of Senior Park, bringing a spiritual sweetness to the tainted halls.

Mr. Christian couldn’t see me, even as he made a slow circle conducting. I sat on one of the many benches scattered through the park and listened. I’d never enjoyed religious music before. The sharp pitches brought to mind dark, cavernous churches and even darker, cloistered confessionals.

For a second I saw myself inside one of those confession boxes. I wondered what it would be like, to share my sins with a hidden stranger. I wondered if James Christian had anything to confess.

Was he a religious man?

The song ended and the group applauded and started talking to each other.

“What, you like this stuff?” I started at the sound of Matt’s voice behind me. I kept my focus on the group, waiting for a glimpse of Mr. Christian and to not further encourage Matt by looking at him.

“It’s kind of cool.”

“Sounds like death.”

“When was the last funeral you went to? I know for a fact you don’t go to church.”

“Neither do you.”

“Would you go?” I looked up then, because I wanted to see the truth. His face tweaked.

“Why would I go to church?”

I looked at Mr. Christian and his group. “I would.”

Matt let out a laugh. “Yeah, for confession.”

I stood, filled with frustration that I had ever let Matt touch me. Out the corner of my eye I saw Mr. Christian walk back to class with the students. More than anything I wished I was a pure and sweet like that music.

I started toward home.

“Don’t be pissed,” Matt called after me. I was glad he had the brains not to follow.

I went home feeling like I’d just been given a shot at the doctor’s office. Matt’s honest words, our past, and what I wanted for my future, stung enough that I couldn’t blow it off.

I could go get a Starbucks with Brielle. Go on a drive.

Or shop. For a moment, I debated. But even as I texted Brielle, I knew the frivolous act wouldn’t serve to cover up anything. I deleted the text, not wanting to see anyone, ashamed I was drawn to something totally self-indulgent when I was low when I should really look myself in the mirror and assess what I saw.

I was sure that when Mr. Christian got stung he didn’t indulge himself.

I walked into the house and found it quiet. Dumping my stuff on the entry table, I walked out the back French doors, around the pool and to edge of the property so I could look at the ocean.

Fleeting memories of my very worst days entered my mind. Days when I’d been so unhappy, I’d considered falling off that cliff to the rocks and violent waves below.

Thankfully those days were gone. Oddly, the same vast, incomprehensible site before me that had catapulted me into hopelessness was the same vast, incomprehensible site that had also given me hope that there was more out there for me.

I perched myself on one of our pool chairs and took in some sea air. I hadn’t done anything inspired to save myself, just eliminated what I hated and thrown myself into my friends. Dad and Stacey hadn’t even noticed that I was never around. My absence had only given them more time to indulge themselves.

I was early to class every morning thereafter and always found Mr. Christian already in his room. What set him apart from the older teachers, besides his gorgeous face and youth, was his enthusiasm for teaching. Older teachers moseyed in with five minutes to spare. Mr. Christian arrived early, arranged the chairs, picked up trash and fallen sheet music, or wiped down the piano with some sort of orange smelling oil. In the few weeks since he had started, the black baby grand was undergoing a makeover before our eyes.

I was always glad to find him alone. Only once or twice other girls were there, hanging out under the guise of ‘being too early.’ When Mr. Christian’s back was turned I’d shot them looks. I saw right through their juvenile operation. It was stupid. They hadn’t been back since.

He was gently rubbing orangey oil into the piano when I arrived one morning. I came to realize that he had three pairs of pants he wore: jeans, brown cords and a pair of khakis. Today he wore khakis with a denim shirt and dark tie. Always, he wore the jacket with the elbow patches.

Classical music played from his portable boombox.

Violins mixed with a piano in a simple, pretty tune.

He only paused from his tender application to glance at me when I came in. For a moment, I was jealous of the piano.

“Morning, Eden.”

His hands moved in such care over the abused surface, I couldn’t take my eyes from them, swirling in slow, loving application.

“Hey.” I set my planner on my chair and stood watching. “She’s looking good.”

“Amazing what a little attention will do.” He continued slow strokes over the sides. “The thing is I can’t understand why Mr. Horseman didn’t take better care of her. I mean, a piece will only perform well if you take care of it. It takes so little.”

“You sound frustrated.”

He stood back, appraising his work. “I am.” Then he looked at me and shrugged, tossing the rag from one hand to the other. “I shouldn’t let it bug me. She’s my responsibility now, and as long as I’m around, she’ll be taken care of.” His palm caressed the side he had just finished oiling. The sight made me tremble inside, wondering what his fingers would feel like against my skin.

He took the rag to the office and disappeared for a moment. I listened to the music and looked at the piano as I heard the piano on the CD play. It was amazing that something so beautiful could come from something so decrepit.

Setting my hands on the gleaming keys, I wished that by just placing my fingers where his touched, I would somehow be able to produce music. Foolish. It took years to be able to play with such expertise.

“So did you start taking piano when you were, like, three?” I asked.

He laughed in the back room and came out wiping his hands back and forth. “No. Almost, but, no. I was seven.”

“Was your mom a piano teacher as well as a voice teacher?”

He nodded, coming over. “They often go hand in hand.”

“So what was it like? Breakfast of champions followed by piano scales and voice lessons, then she’d send you out the door to school?”

He looked entertained by my deduction. “Not quite.

Voices need time to warm up in the morning, as you know. That’s why we go through exercises before we start singing.”

“So it was just the breakfast of champions then?”

His smile remained, settling with something I couldn’t pinpoint as his look at me shifted. What was he was thinking? I drew my lower lip between my teeth and his gaze dropped to my mouth. My body filled with heat. After a heavy blink, he took a step back, accidentally bumping into the piano.

I pretended like he hadn’t noticed my mouth. “So when did your mom teach you? After school?”

One of his hands laid on the top of the piano, the other rested on the belt at his waist. He was trying to look casual, but he looked stiff. “That’s when she taught all of her students. She treated me just like them when it was time to learn.”

“I don’t think I’d like that.”

“She didn’t want me to feel like she was partial.”

“Still, you were her child, you deserved to feel special.”

He studied me. “It wasn’t a matter of not feeling special. I knew she loved me.” For a moment we stared at each other. Then he continued, “She knew that I knew the difference.”

An involuntary sigh eased away from me. “Good. I was about ready to go after her.”

His lips turned up a little. “I wasn’t treated unfairly, Eden.” His intense gaze inched over my face as if searching for secrets. Then he glanced up at the clock. I did too. My heart plunged… five minutes until the bell rang.

“Did your brothers and sisters also learn how to sing?” I asked.

“I don’t have any siblings.”

“Yeah? Me either.”

He looked at me curiously. “That fits you.”

“Oh, yeah? Why’s that?” My face warmed. I was pleased he’d given me a moment’s thought.

His shoulder lifted. “Only children are often their parents’ prodigies, intentional or not. When my mother started teaching me for instance, it was with the intent that I would someday go further with my voice and talents than she had been able to. I imagine your parents have taken the same care with you. You’re more assertive than most kids your age. Confident. Not afraid to step over boundaries most kids spend the next few years figuring out as if crossing a mine field.”

“Wow.”

He flushed an adorable shade of red. “It’s just my opinion.”

“You were totally right about most of that. Amazing.”

His eyes grew dark and serious. I knew he wondered what part of his statement was accurate and what was not.

I wasn’t about to tell him neglect had made me into the person I was.

He cleared his throat. “Hey,” his voice was soft, “could you pass out the music for me?”

“Sure.”

I centered each piece of music on the seats, savoring the sounds of his movements behind me. Occasionally, I snuck a glance at him. He fiddled with the boombox.

Wrote instructions in chalk on the board. Straightened piles of paper on the piano.

Class started at eight o’clock. Up until that week, various freshman and sophomore class members had volunteered to take roll. Pride kept me from stooping to the token act.

“Eden.” Mr. Christian walked over with the clipboard.

“Could you be in charge of taking roll every day?”

Though I wanted to help him, I saw this as a devastating cut. He viewed me like any other student.

Disappointed, I said, “I’m sure one of the freshmen would be glad to help out with that.”

A flash of confusion shadowed his face. I almost felt guilty. All around me girls raised their hands. One even had the nerve to grunt, like an anxious elementary-aged child waiting to be called on by an oblivious teacher.

He handed the panting girl the clipboard and she gleamed. My heart felt like it was being squeezed. Our private chats had meant nothing. Though I kept my eyes on him as he took us through rehearsal, I did so only because I didn’t want him, or anybody else to sense the rupture inside of me.