Allegra (11 page)

I shrug; I still have nothing to say.

“Everything's going to be okay, honey.”

“Whatever.” Once again, it's the best I can do.

She rubs my back, then suddenly pulls back my blanket. “Allegra. You're still in your dance leotard.”

I don't respond.

I hear her sigh and feel the blanket return to my shoulder. The mattress springs up as she gets to her feet. “We'll talk more tomorrow,” she says, and I hear my door close.

I flip over and pull my knees up into my chest. The icy-cold sensation continues, radiating from my core out, and my breathing becomes ragged. Tears spill down my cheeks, followed by sobs, and I just let go, not holding anything back. I cry until I feel empty, mercifully pain-free. Warmth returns to my body, and finally, finally, I fall into a deep sleep.

I don't bother to get up in the morning except to use the bathroom. Mom comes into my room with a mug of tea. “Not going to school today?” she asks.

I sit up and accept the mug, but I don't look at her. “Maybe later.”

“Do you want to talk?” she asks, sitting on the end of my bed again.

“Not really.” I do, but I'm afraid of what I might say. I'd like to tell her there wouldn't be a problem if it weren't for her.

And Marcus, the guy with the sports car. I bet he's a bassoon player. I never did like the bassoon.

“Dad's going to move in with Steve, for the time being,” she adds.

Now I do look at her. “How come?”

“It's just easier that way,” she says.

Easier for who? I think, but I don't dare say it. Certainly not easier for me. And not for him either. His studio is here.

“He'll still be around,” she says. “To rehearse and to see you, of course.”

“Of course,” I say, more sharply than I intend. I feel Mom's gaze.

“Are you sure there's nothing you want to talk about?” she says again.

I shrug. How do you go about asking your mother if she's having an affair?

I don't bother going to school after all. Late in the morning I hear my parents leave. They return a few hours later. I'm still in bed. Another knock on my door. This time it's Dad's face that appears.

“Can I come in?” he asks.

I nod.

He sits on the end of my bed, not looking at me. He pulls a pillow into his lap, and his fingers twirl the decorative fringe. We sit in silence for a moment.

“I've never been very good with words,” he says quietly. “I tend to express myself in music.”

“You write great lyrics,” I remind him.

“That's different. I can fiddle around with those words until I get them just right.” He hesitates. “But talking with my daughter…well, I'm still struggling with that, though I feel we've been connecting better since I've been home this time.”

I nod. I think so too. Silence fills the room. He goes back to twirling the pillow fringe.

“Will you write out your dance schedule for the next couple of weeks so I can watch your classes?” he asks.

I nod. “I was hoping you'd keep on helping me with my music composition.”

“I will when I can,” he says. “But that's a year-long project. There's not much I can do when I'm on the road.”

“You'll be back, and besides, there's still a couple of weeks.”

“We'll set up dates,” he suggests.

“I still don't see why you can't stay here. There's a sofa bed in the studio. You could sleep there if you don't want…” The sentence is too awkward to finish.

It's his turn to shrug. “I'm trying to do everything the way your mom wants things done. This is her idea.”

“You're going to be gone soon enough.”

“It's complicated, Legs. Relationships are always complicated. That's why there is so much music written about love and heartbreak.” He smiles sadly.

I have a sudden idea. “Why doesn't she move out until your road trip? That's only fair. You're gone enough already.”

“She still has her harp students coming here.”

“You still have your band rehearsals.”

Dad finds my foot under the blanket and squeezes it. “We're going to do it your mom's way,” he says, and I know he's closing the subject.

My cell phone jangles. I check the caller
ID
. Spencer.

“Take it,” Dad says. “I've got to go pack up my things. Steve is coming to get me.”

I take a deep breath. “Hello?”

“Hey, Legs!” Spencer's voice sounds chirpy, light, uncomplicated.

“Hey, Spencer.”

“We missed you at school today.”

“Oh. Thanks. I…I wasn't feeling well.”

“Are you contagious?”

“No, why?”

“I wondered if…if I could come by for a visit.”

I can hear my dad in the next room, opening and shutting drawers as he packs up his clothes. Sadness begins to well up in me again.

“No,” I tell him, hoping he can't hear the quiver in my voice.

“Allegra?”

Uh-oh. He heard it. “Yeah?” I'm on the verge of losing it again.

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah.” I try clearing my throat, but the lump in it is too big. “But I gotta go.”

“Will you be at school tomorrow?”

“Maybe. Bye, Spencer.”

I hang up before he can ask me anything else. How can I tell him that my dad is leaving?

Dad must have finished packing. The floor outside my room creaks as he carries his things to the front door. My heart sinks deeper than ever. I have to get out of the house. I can't be here when he leaves. I quickly pull on some clothes and running shoes, and when I hear Dad pass by my room and the screen door slams, I slip down the stairs to the studio and head out the basement door to the backyard. Pulling open the gate, I turn left into the alley. I begin to run, slowly at first, but picking up speed once I'm warmed up. I pound along the sidewalk, trying not to think about what's happening at home.

After a long time, I slow to a walk, and my breathing begins to return to normal. I wipe the sweat off my brow and turn, reluctantly, to begin the walk home. I wish I had somewhere else to go. Anywhere else. I grew up in this neighborhood; I should have friends I could drop in on. I wrack my brain. I don't.

The street I've run to looks familiar. I study the houses as I walk past them. A memory of a summer afternoon spent near here begins to surface in my mind. And then I see it, the large front yard with the rancher-style home set neatly back from it. I attended a birthday party here once. I must have been about ten years old, in grade five. All the girls in my class had been invited to the celebration. We started the party at an art studio, where we each chose a ceramic figurine to paint. I could handle that, simply withdrawing into myself while I painted. I listened to all the chatter around me but didn't join in.

When that was done, we returned to the birthday girl's house. It was a hot day, so the girls changed into bathing suits and ran back and forth through the spray of a sprinkler on the front lawn, screaming in delight when the water hit their skin.

I stood off to the side with the parents, mostly moms who'd helped with the driving. My dad was with me that day. He was the one who'd encouraged me to attend the party in the first place. Mom would have let me skip it.

As I stood there, not knowing how to join in, Dad gave me a little push. “Go on, Legs. Go have fun.”

I took a timid step back. The girls looked so silly to me, squealing like piglets when the water hit them. Then they'd crowd together in a tight pack until one of them dared to run through it again, and the rest would follow.

I wanted desperately to escape from that yard. I realized I should never have listened to Dad. I'd only gone to the party because I wanted to please him, to spend time with him on one of his rare weekends home. But I knew he would be disappointed when he saw that I didn't fit in with those girls.

Suddenly Dad bolted from my side. I watched as he ran, fully clothed, through the spray of water. The girls shrieked and the mothers clapped in delight.

He turned and began to run back again, but this time he did a cartwheel over the spray. The blast of water hit him directly in the face. The girls screamed even louder and jumped up and down. The moms clapped harder.

I felt more isolated than ever. When Dad got back to my side, dripping wet, he said, “See, Legs? It's easy.”

I knew he thought he was helping, but he'd only made matters worse, drawing more attention my way. I simply pulled my towel tighter around me.

Dad knew better than to push the issue. He put his arm around my shoulder, and we watched as the other girls did cartwheels through the spray.

We stayed at the party long enough to watch the birthday girl open her presents and blow out her candles and then I caught Dad's eye and motioned to the door.

His eyebrows arched in surprise, but he excused himself from the circle of women who were fawning over him, the local celebrity.

“Let's go,” I whispered.

“You're not staying for a piece of that cake?” he asked, eyeing it hungrily.

I shook my head.

“Okay,” he said. “Grab your things and we'll say our thank-yous.”

Back home, I heard my parents talking in the kitchen when they thought I was in my room.

“I told you,” Mom said. “She's just not social. There's nothing wrong with that.”

“Maybe she needs to be encouraged a little more,” Dad said.

“She is who she is,” Mom said, coming to my defense as always. “Not all of us are party animals like you.”

Dad didn't answer, and I felt sick. There was nothing I wanted more than to please him.

He wasn't really a party animal, but he
was
comfortable hanging out with groups of people, and I'm still not, despite the counseling Mom eventually agreed to take me to. Now, I realize, my parents had practically this same conversation about me just a few evenings ago. Some things never change.

I think that may have been the last birthday party I was ever invited to. I was never shunned by the other girls; I was simply left alone. That was fine with me.

I push the memory from my mind and continue toward home. I think of Angela, the girl I met when I was allowed to start dance classes. She also started taking classes later than most of the other girls, and she also takes nearly as many as I do. We are friends, but not outside the studio. I don't know why. Maybe she's like me; she knows that while we're at the dance school we can relate, but outside, who knows? I pick up the pace. Dance. I will go to class tonight. Dance will take me away from my worries, help me escape the painful situation at home. I begin to run again.

N
ine

I'm so lost in thought the next morning that I just about hit the ceiling when Mr. Rocchelli taps on the sound-room window. He opens the door and steps into the room. “There, we're even,” he says, grinning. “I just got you back for that first day of school, when you nearly gave me a heart attack.”

I smile, remembering how high he'd jumped. It seems so much longer ago than just two weeks.

“What were you concentrating on so hard?” he asks.

I look down at the computer screen and realize I haven't done a thing over the hour-long class. “Just thinking about the music,” I lie.

Through the window, I see the students filing out of the room. Julia is walking beside Spencer, chatting up at him. He pauses at the door, turns back to look at me and waves. I wave back. Julia's eyes flash.

Mr. Rocchelli glances at Spencer too. “So how's it going in here?” he asks. “Do you need some help?”

“I'm okay for now,” I say.

“Your friend Spencer”—he nods toward the door— “is in my sound-engineering class and seems to know his way around Logic. He might be able to give you a hand with the technical stuff.”

“Thanks. I'll remember that.”