Boy Shopping (7 page)

“Oh, nothing. What's up with you?” Kiki hoped she didn't sound squeaky. She had a lot of talents, but lying wasn't one of them, and her voice usually climbed half an octave when she was hiding something.

“Nothing much. Thinking about going to that Trip-Hop Triple Threat at the Maze. You going?”

“I don't think so.” She almost added, “I've got a date,” but she didn't. She was hoping, of course, that he would be jealous. But he was more likely to say, “Congratulations.”

“Oh. Okay. Well, I guess I'll see you tomorrow.”

“Yeah, sure,” she answered, though she wasn't at all sure where she was supposed to see him. Were they scheduled to be in the studio? Or maybe he just assumed that they would run into each other somewhere—Laura Keller's party, maybe? She didn't have time to try to figure it out—Lyman would be there in twenty minutes, and she had just discovered a moth hole in a place where it wouldn't go unnoticed. It would be easy to fix if she had some spare rhinestones lying around, but she didn't.

“Talk to you later, Mark.” She hung up and ran back to the spare room. She threw on a silver satin ball skirt that she'd bought because it had pockets, and a silk-knit tank top in basic black. The casual top balanced the formal skirt, making it appropriate for any special occasion—that's what Kiki told herself, anyway. She didn't have the time for another costume change. The doorbell rang as she was carefully lining her lips, jarring her so she drew way outside the lines. She cursed, dabbed on a bit of makeup remover, and started over. She knew that her father would trap Lyman with supposedly friendly small talk for ten minutes anyway.

When she made her way downstairs she could hear Lyman laughing at something her father had said. It was a nice laugh, low but light, and not too loud. It didn't sound forced either, which said something about Lyman. Most of Dr. Kelvin's jokes had to do with cutting into people's brains, which was not a subject most people considered funny. Kiki couldn't decide if it was a good thing or a bad thing that Lyman seemed to be getting along with her father just fine.

“
Here
she is. I told you she wouldn't take long.” Kiki thought her father was standing somewhere near the fireplace. She wasn't sure, because the instant she saw Lyman relaxing on the couch, she couldn't look away.

“Maybe he
is
gay,” she thought once her brain started working again. He was wearing a simple black suit that fit—really fit, unlike the vast majority of suits Kiki saw on her classmates on Parents' Day at Wentworth. Under it, he wore a fitted, faded purple T-shirt that matched both the lavender rosebud in his lapel buttonhole and the laces in his battered black sneakers. He had a bouquet of purple roses for Kiki, and a brilliant smile. His wild hair was paler in person than it seemed in the picture, and his eyes were more hazel than blue, but, if anything, he looked better in real life. If Jasmine were here, she would definitely pronounce him hotter than a biscuit—even if she would tease him mercilessly about all the purple.

“Hi,” Kiki said, hoping she didn't sound as shy as she suddenly felt.

“Salutations!” He leapt to his feet, terrifying the cat, Mr. Lister, who was curled up at the other end of the couch. Mr. Lister shot toward the kitchen, which gave Kiki's mother an excuse for wandering into the living room herself.

“Oh, a guest! I didn't know you were here. I'm Janine Kelvin.” Unlike Kiki, her mother lied smoothly. “Let me put those in some water . . .”

“This is Alex Lyman,” Dr. Kelvin supplied on cue.

“Lovely to make your acquaintance, Mrs. Kelvin. And please, call me Lyman.”

Kiki looked on in horror as Lyman approached her mother with his hand outstretched. She thought he might actually bow and kiss her hand. She could deal with the ten-dollar words, but if he had eighteenth-century manners, too, no matter how hot he was they were in a lot of trouble. Mark and Franklin would make fun of him twenty-four-seven. Jasmine, too.

Fortunately, when he finally made his way across the room, avoiding the ottomans, occasional tables, and stacks of magazines, he gave Mrs. Kelvin a firm handshake before handing over the bouquet. Handshakes were fine.

“Katrina, come choose a vase,” her mother said, and Kiki reluctantly followed her into the kitchen.

“Where on earth did you meet that creature?” her mother asked, pulling a few dusty vases from underneath the sink. “He looks like he's about to start tap dancing or something.”

“How about the blue vase?” Kiki suggested, carefully avoiding the question. She wasn't sure how her parents would feel about her going out with a guy she met online.

“It clashes with the flowers.”

“I know. But I like it.” Kiki drifted toward the door. “You can just leave them on the counter. I'll take them up to my room later.”

“Whatever you say, Kiki. Have a nice night.”

“Thanks, Mom. Don't wait up.”

Kiki thought she heard her mother say, “Yeah, right,” but she wasn't sure. Lyman and her father were laughing uproariously again at something her father had said, ending with, “Sure I expected to find it. But not up there!”

“Are you ready to go?” Lyman asked her as she entered the room.

“You bet. See you later, Dad.”

“Have a good time.”

Kiki paused for a moment, waiting for him to add his habitual threat. She sometimes thought he spent all week thinking them up—some of them were seriously disturbing, even if Mark, Franklin, and even Jason thought he was kidding. But her dad didn't say anything about evisceration, abacination, or any other twisted, medieval methods of torture that Kiki had had to look up in the dictionary.

“Good night, Dr. Kelvin. It was a pleasure meeting you.”

Lyman opened the door for Kiki, then followed her down the walk. He helped her into his newish Volvo so politely that Kiki wondered if he thought her parents were watching from the window. Ordinarily they would be, but her mother was probably still in the kitchen, cutting the ends off the rose stems, and Lyman had charmed her father completely. Maybe he thinks Lyman's gay, too, she thought, and she had to stifle a giggle as Lyman let himself into the driver's side.

“So, I'm Lyman, as you probably gathered,” he said, clearing his throat twice. His voice slid up and down anyway, the car keys jangling in counterpoint as he cranked the ignition. Kiki could see that he was as nervous now that he was alone with her as he had been comfortable dealing with her parents. This was a very bad sign. The whole point of trying HelloHello was to find boys who weren't intimidated by her. If he couldn't get through five minutes of small talk without blushing crimson, she was in for a long night.

“Yeah, I figured that much out.” She watched him wince, and had to stop herself from laughing out loud. This was ridiculous. He had to know how hot he was—there was a mirror in his house somewhere. And he came off as more than a little arrogant in front of her parents. If he didn't pull himself together, this relationship would be over before it began, no matter how cute he was. “But your first name is Alex?”

“Only my mother calls me Alex,” Lyman told her. “So I seriously hope you won't.”

“Okay,
Lyman
,” she said, drawing out his last name for emphasis.

“Your real name is Katrina?” he asked.

“Katrina Isabella Kelvin.”

“So ‘Kiki' comes from your initials?”

“Nope.” She slouched in her seat, not exactly looking forward to spending the evening with someone who asked such boring questions. They were headed toward the interstate, which meant they were going someplace downtown. She crossed her fingers, hoping it would be someplace interesting.

“And Kiki is not usually a diminutive of Katrina,” he continued.

“No, it's not. Katrina is a diminutive of Katherine, and it is redundant to truncate a truncation.”
You're not the only one who knows a few big words,
she added silently.

“So where'd you get the nickname?”

“Guess.”

Oddly, he seemed to perk up at the challenge. His brilliant smile was back, brighter than ever. “Okay, let's see. You're listed as Kiki Kelvin on the liner notes to
Free for All
, so it's not a reaction to Hurricane Katrina.”

She shook her head. She didn't like sharing her name with such a terrible storm, but she had already been Kiki to her friends for years when the hurricane flattened the Gulf Coast.

“Big anime fan?”

“When I actually have the time to sit down and watch a movie, yes, but I didn't name myself after
Kiki's Delivery Service.
”

“It's great, isn't it? I like it better than
Spirited Away
.”

“
Spirited Away
is a much better movie!” Kiki said, straightening up.

“Technically, I'd agree with you. But I like
Kiki's Delivery Service
better. There's something about the tone, I guess you'd say, that's so much lighter—”

Soon they were arguing like she and Mark did on a good day. Lyman wasn't hung up on being right, though—he was as eager to listen to Kiki as to make his own case. And Kiki was so busy defending
Spirited Away
, even if it was a lot more depressing than
Kiki's Delivery Service,
that she didn't realize where they were going until Lyman pulled into a parking lot behind the Schermerhorn Center.

Oh no, she thought, but it was too late to try to convince Lyman to take her somewhere else. Schermerhorn was the just-built home of the Nashville Symphony, a building Kiki had toured with her arts appreciation class in the second week of school. And she did appreciate the building itself—she dreamed of playing a venue with acoustics like the Schermerhorn. But she wasn't crazy about classical music. She only took the class because it seemed like a good way to get more sleep three days a week—she had napped through slide shows on painting, architecture, and sculpture, and snored through two weeks of Bach and Brahms. Any teacher who played nineteenth-century lullabies to teenagers after lunch ought to know what to expect.

But Lyman was still rattling on about Japanese movies, nodding at the ticket-taker by the door as if he knew her by name. Kiki didn't think he was showing off—he really seemed to know the Schermerhorn well. And he seemed completely unaware that Kiki might not be quite as happy about being there as he was.

“Tonight's program is kind of special,” he whispered as they took their seats. They were good seats, too—only ten rows back. Kiki had no idea how much symphony tickets cost, but she knew it was a lot more than dinner and a movie. “The guest pianist is one of my teachers, Jascha Kent. He almost never performs now, since he's got arthritis, but he's amazing. He hasn't played on stage in two years.”

“Um, wow.” There went any chance of convincing him to leave before the concert started, while he could maybe get a refund on the tickets. Well, there was always the off chance that he'd be willing to sneak out during intermission. “How long have you been playing the piano?”

“Basically forever. My mom started teaching me when I was three, I think. She says I wanted to learn, but that's not how I remember it.”

“But you must like it now.”

“Well, yeah. I love it. But I'm not sure I want to do it professionally. I sometimes feel like . . . oh, I don't know. I mean, I love playing. Really. And I like traveling, too, and the competitions. But sometimes I wish I did something a little more . . . normal, I guess. You know? I haven't gone to a real school since I was eight.”

“You're not missing much,” Kiki said, but she gave his arm a little squeeze. After all, she knew exactly what he meant.

He smiled, and was about to say something else when the lights went out.

“Welcome to the Schermerhorn Center. Please silence your cell phones,” boomed a recorded voice in the darkness, so Kiki and Lyman both whipped theirs out and switched from ring to vibrate. Onstage, lights bloomed, and the curtain opened to reveal the orchestra already in place. The concertmaster—the lead violin—got to her feet and played a clear, ringing “a.” Soon, the magnificent acoustics magnified the chaos of an entire orchestra tuning up, but it was silent again after a minute. Kiki knew that the piano was not always part of an orchestra, but she was surprised to see that there was no piano onstage.

“I thought you said your teacher was a pianist,” Kiki whispered.

“He's playing in the second half, after intermission.”

Oh well. Another plan foiled. Kiki sighed silently and settled in for a couple of hours of sheer boredom. She hadn't decided what she was doing with the beats on a couple of their new songs—if the music wasn't too annoying, maybe she could get that figured out. But if she was going to be sitting quietly for two hours, she would rather get some reading done for AP English. Unfortunately, that was not an option.

The conductor walked onstage, a very tall woman with long, dark hair, wearing the traditional conductor's tuxedo. The faint buzz of whispered conversations died as she crossed the stage, bowed swiftly, then climbed onto the little dais that held her music stand. She waved a slim ivory wand up once, then down, and the orchestra plunged into something fast and wild that Kiki had never heard before. It sounded more like Latino dance music than Brahms lullabies, but there was a certain sophistication along with the swing. It was fascinating, which was not something Kiki said about a lot of music. Unlike when she listened to rock, this music made her want to dance
and
to think.