Consent (11 page)

We talk for a few more minutes, then hang up. I lie down on the cool linoleum tile and stare up at the ceiling fan whirring around and around. Has it always been there? Did I accidentally turn it on? Cream Puff climbs onto my stomach and settles into a meat-loaf position, purring. This is all it takes to make her happy: a bowl of Kitty Feast and a warm body. If only.

When did life get so complicated?

How am I going to tell Plum that our road trip isn't happening?

Suddenly, my excitement about the New York City trip and my whatever with Dane disappears into a black hole. All I can think about is Plum and the fact that I'm about to destroy her happiness—and maybe our friendship, too.

Do I really want to go there?

After the SATs, Plum and I meet in front of A-Jax so we can walk over to Sweet Temptations for hot-fudge sundaes.

“How did you do?” I ask her as we fall into step together, shivering in our matching jeans jackets. It's one of those intensely bright, sunny fall afternoons that belie how Arctic-cold it is.

“I think I did well!” Plum says, beaming. “What about you?”

“Fine. It was fine. Plum?”

“What?”

I wanted to tell her last night, on the phone. Or via a cowardly text. But I figured I should at least wait until we got through today. I didn't want to be responsible for making her get less than her coveted 2200.

“I have bad news,” I announce.

Plum stops on the sidewalk and grabs my arm, her eyes
wide with worry. She is such a good friend to me. I am such a bad friend to her.

“Bea! What
is
it?”

“I don't know how to . . . the thing is . . . I have to cancel Boston.”

In an instant her expression of concern morphs into devastated disappointment. I'm not a bad friend; I'm a sucky, terrible friend. “What?
Why?
” Plums asks.

“My brother. He's, um, sick.”

My lies usually flow so easily, but this one sticks in my throat like wet paper. It was either a Theo medical crisis or having to put Cream Puff down. It was the best I could come up with at two a.m.

“What's wrong with him?” Plum demands.

“We're not sure. But he's getting some tests done on Friday at the hospital, and my dad wants us to be there to support him.”

“Tests? Oh my gosh . . . is it . . .
cancer
?”

“No! I'm sure it's not
that
serious.”

“Is it something, you know,
hereditary
?”

My chest tightens; is she referring to my mom? “No. It's probably just a virus or something. I really, really wanted to go to Boston; I still do. But my dad is insisting. I'm so sorry!”

“Of course! Oh my gosh, you don't need to apologize!”

She gives me a crushing hug. We stand there on the sidewalk,
bear-hugging, wobbling a little as the bitter wind stings our eyes and faces. A small part of me is relieved because I can go to New York City now. The other part of me wants to slap the first part.

Why can't I just tell her the truth?

Tommy Vacco and one of his meathead friends walk by.

“Get a room!” Tommy calls out. He and his friend crack up.

“Neanderthals!” Plum shouts.

She hooks her arm through mine, and we start toward Sweet Temptations again.

“People can be such jerks,” she says, eyeing the guys up ahead.

“Yeah, they sure can,” I agree.

Like I'm in any position to judge.

• • •

I never told Plum how my mom died, or under what circumstances, so I guess she's taken to filling in the blanks herself. Obviously, she thinks Theo is suffering from an inherited disease or some other Kim family curse.

There actually
is
a family curse, and I'm responsible for it.
Me.
If I hadn't shown up, my mom would still be alive and well, living in New York City with Dad and Theo. She had a successful music career, teaching young kids and playing in chamber groups.

Then I had to be born and ruin everything.

Afterward, Dad went crazy and sent Theo and me to live in Eden Grove with Grandma Min. We didn't see him again for a long time, until she forced him to move to Eden Grove and take care of us. But by then, Theo was a complete delinquent, and I was a cliché of overachievement and loner personality.

Although there
was
a pinprick of light in all that darkness: the piano. One day when I was little, I sat down at Aunt Jeanine's old upright and discovered that I could make sounds. Lines of emotion.
Beauty.

It was the only joy I had ever experienced in my short, stupid life.

The second or third or fourth time, though, Dad walked in and started screaming at me, tears running down his crazy face. I'm not sure how I managed to play a single note after that. I guess it helps that I'm almost as crazy as he is. It helps, too, that I'm such a master of deception. I practiced in secret all these years and managed to teach myself from YouTube and such.

Dad made noises about selling the piano, but Grandma Min said he couldn't because the house and everything in it belonged to her. He grumbled about it but let it go, I guess, because the piano is still here. Grandma Min is in a nursing home near Tucson now, and she's pretty out of it. Still, whenever
we visit her, she squeezes my hand really hard and tells me never to give up.

I'm not sure she knows what she's talking about anymore. But it makes me feel good anyway.

I don't know why I haven't told Plum about all this. Or about how much I wanted—want?—to become a pianist, like Mom. I guess I figured it would never happen, so why bother with a gut-wrenching confession that won't solve anything?
I killed my mom. My dad and brother hate me. I can't become a pianist because I won't hurt my family more than I already have.

I probably will tell her, someday. That is, if we're still friends, after everything.

As for Dane . . . he actually thinks I
can
become a pianist.

Maybe he's crazy too.

“Did you see Mr. Rossi while you were in New York City?”

“Actually, he gave me a ride there and back. He wanted to introduce me to Professor van Allstyne personally and also show me around Juilliard.”

“I see. And what did the two of you do after your Juilliard appointment?”

“Nothing. He went to visit with some friends, I think. I went to my hotel.”

“Which hotel?”

“It was a youth hostel or a Y on West something Street. Or maybe it was East something? I'm sorry, I don't know New York City very well.”

“When was the next time you saw Mr. Rossi?”

“That Monday. We met in the Juilliard lobby, and he drove me back home.”

“That was it?”

“That was it.”

“Have you seen him since then?”

“Sure, in school.”

“What about your private lessons? Did they continue?”

“Not really. He helped me with my prescreening recordings, though.”

“What is a prescreening recording?”

“I have to play and record a bunch of pieces if I want to apply to Juilliard. Like a classical sonata, a Chopin étude, and so forth. It's a requirement. Same with the other conservatories.”

“I see. Miss Kim, at any time did Mr. Rossi say or do anything of a sexual nature while the two of you were in New York City?”

“No. Never.”

“How about at school or in his home?”

“No.”

“Are you sure?”

“I'm positive.”

“Are you in love with Mr. Rossi?”

“Seriously?”

“Please just answer the question.”

“No, I'm not in love with Mr. Rossi. Besides, I already have a boyfriend. Braden Hunt.”

As Dane and I drive across the mile-long George Washington Bridge, everything is shiny and unfamiliar. To the south, the New York City skyline juts across the blue horizon. I spot the silvery point of the Empire State Building, which I recognize from photos and also the movie
King Kong.
Below us, white sailboats dot the Hudson River, which is so wide that it might as well be the ocean.

It's so weird. I was born here. Not that I would remember that time, but still . . .

Dane adjusts his shades, which are very James Bond, and turns up the volume on his car stereo. We have been listening to his favorite opera singer, Jessye Norman, since several tollbooths ago.

“Notice the way she breathes,” he tells me. “You'd expect her to take a breath
here.
But no, she takes a breath”—he
hums four long beats—“
there
! Isn't it remarkable?”

“Obviously, she has superbreath,” I say.

“Superbreath?”

“You know, like Superman? He could hold his breath for a really long time. He could blow out large fires, too. Oh, and once, he saved a town from destruction by inhaling a tornado. He flew up into space and exhaled it out!”

Dane laughs. “I didn't know you were a comic aficionado. I've always been partial to Batman myself.”

“Batman, why?”

“I'm not sure. He's dark and mysterious. And he doesn't need superpowers to defeat his evil counterparts.”

“True.
And
he's an orphan. Of course, Superman is too, and so is Spider-Man.”

“Are you saying that being an orphan is a deficit or an asset?” he asks.

“Both. It sucks not to have parents. On the other hand, if they aren't around, it forces you to be . . . it allows you to be . . .” I search for words. “All three of them, they rose to the occasion.”

“Yes, they most certainly did.”

We fall silent as the next track begins. The song is “Les Chemins de L'Amour,” which I heard once on the radio. I Googled the title; it means “The Paths of Love.” Norman's
voice is so magnificent, it's like she's singing from her own inner Fortress of Solitude.

I try to ignore the fact that Dane and I are listening to this incredibly romantic song together. And that we are on a road trip to New York City. And that he is wearing his dreamy gray cashmere sweater, the one he wore at Café Tintoretto.

Still, being in my little Dane bubble, my pretending-we're-pianists-together bubble, is so much nicer than dwelling on the rest of my sorry existence.

Jessye Norman finishes with a gorgeous, lingering high note. Dane points to one of the speakers. “Listen! Poulenc wrote that last note as a D-flat. But she goes above and beyond—”

“—and hits the A-flat. Yeah, she's definitely got superpowers.”

“You have perfect pitch?” he says, surprised.

“Perfect-
ish.
It's still a work in progress.”

“At conservatory you will . . . never mind, here is our exit.”

He gets off the bridge and turns onto a road called the West Side Highway. Was he about to tell me more about my imaginary future as a piano performance major? The Hudson River continues to the right of us. To the left are high-rises, a park, and billboards advertising vodka and Broadway shows. I practice arpeggios on my lap, and my fingers make ripples in the green silk of my dress. Dane
drives with one hand and conducts Jessye Norman with the other.

We have been on the road since this morning. Dad took off for his office after breakfast, so it was easy to have Dane meet me in front of my house. If Dad had been home, he would have wondered why a strange man in a fancy sports car was picking me up, and not Plum in her parents' Prius. I don't know what would bother Dad more: the fact that I'm visiting Juilliard or the fact that my teacher is driving me there and back. My young, attractive
guy
teacher. But of course Dad is clueless about everything, so it doesn't really matter. In any case, he thinks I'm in Boston for the weekend with Plum, so that's that.

As for Plum, she's under the impression that I'm still in Eden Grove. All week I went back and forth about just telling her the truth. But I couldn't do it. She left for Boston by herself yesterday. She promised to give me full reports on all the schools, and she's already texted me about a million photos of Harvard, Cambridge, and her aunt Jessika's four cats.

She keeps asking me how Theo is.

At some point I am going to have to sort all this out. But I'm not going to think about that now. Juilliard first, difficult conversations later.

Dane turns right at the Seventy-Ninth Street exit, drives
around a traffic circle, and stops at a light. “How are you holding up? Are you tired?”

“I'm fine. Nervous, though.”

“Don't be.
Si brillare.
”

“What does that mean?”

He turns and smiles at me. “You will shine,” he translates.

I will shine.

And then I picture my mother at Juilliard.
She
was the star, the one who was supposed to shine—not me.

“Beatrice, what's wrong?” Dane is staring at me with a worried expression.

“Nothing's wrong. I'm fine.”

“We're almost there. Are you ready?”

“Yes. No. Maybe.”

He reaches over and squeezes my hand. His touch is warm and strong and reassuring.

I squeeze back. We hold hands for a minute, or maybe many minutes, before he has to let go to shift gears.

Sometimes I'm sorry that he and I ever met, because it's made my life so much more confusing.