Consent (2 page)

I raise my hand.

“Yes? You in the back,” Mr. Rossi says, apparently to distinguish me from the dozens of others with their hands up.

I sit up in my chair and smile. He smiles back.
That smile.
For a moment I forget what I was going to say.

“Did you have something you wanted to . . . ?” he prompts me.

“Yes. Hi! So, ‘Classical' with a capital
C
describes a period in Western musical history between the middle of the eighteenth century and the early nineteenth century. ‘Classical' with a little
c
describes a style of music that follows certain forms and conventions that were popular during that period. Like Mozart's or Haydn's music—or certain works by Stravinsky or Poulenc, who were twentieth-century composers. Also, people often use the term ‘classical music' to describe any music that's not pop, rock, jazz, folk, world music, et cetera.”

Mr. Rossi blinks at me. “Yes, that's very . . . um, that's excellent. Thank you.”

“You are so brilliant. It is such a turn-on,” Nelson whispers.

I give him a withering look. He's being disgusting; plus, he's ruining my special moment with Mr. Rossi.

“Like I said, we will be focusing primarily on Western classical music,” Mr. Rossi goes on. “By ‘Western,' we're talking about North America and Europe—and, of course, Russia, which geographically and culturally straddles both Europe and Asia.”

Some students giggle at the word “straddles.” Mr. Rossi blushes again as he turns back to the blackboard. Has he never taught high school before? He's going to have to develop a
thicker skin. Still, it's very quaint and nineteenth-century of him—the blushing. It's also a paradox, because he seriously looks like a twenty-first-century sex god.

He glances at another index card and writes
1600–1750
next to
The Baroque Period.

“Let's begin with the baroque period, shall we?” he says over his shoulder. “This is an era we associate with such composers as Bach, Handel, Vivaldi, Telemann, Scarlatti, Rameau, and Couperin. The word ‘baroque' comes from the Italian word
barocco,
meaning ‘imperfect pearl.' Why is baroque music like an imperfect pearl?”

Ornamentation,
I think. But I don't want to be that annoying serial-hand-raising girl, so I keep it to myself. I lean over my notebook and doodle an oyster shell with a big, shiny pearl inside. My hair falls across my face, which gives me a useful cover for shameless ogling.

“Pearls are supposed to be smooth,” Mr. Rossi says. “But baroque music is anything but smooth because of ornamentation. Here, let me show you what I mean.”

He strides over to a piano in the corner and pulls the heavy brown quilted cover off of it. I crane my neck to see.
Whoa,
it's a brand-new Steinway. A full seven-foot grand, all gleaming and black like polished obsidian.

Mr. Rossi sits down and curls his fingers over the keyboard.
He begins the aria from Bach's Goldberg Variations. I generally don't like Bach, but I love the Goldberg Variations. I especially love the aria, which is a seamless mash-up of happy, sad, and religious experience.

On top of which, Mr. Rossi is an amazing pianist. He plays Bach like Glenn Gould, like he's pouring his entire soul into each note. Where did he learn to do that? Listening to him, I feel as though I'm in a concert hall in New York City or London or Paris.

“Do you hear this little musical embellishment?” He stops in the middle of a measure and executes a lightning-quick trill. His voice has grown more animated; he seems to be in his element, sitting at the piano. “This is an example of an ornament. Ornaments are like decorations, in that they are not necessary to carry along the melody line of the piece. I'll play the same measure
without
the ornament, and you'll be able to hear the difference.”

He starts playing again—first just that measure, then the whole piece from the beginning, without ornaments. Aziza continues texting. Nelson continues being Nelson.

I tune them out and play along on my knees, quietly humming the aria under my breath. I follow Mr. Rossi's perfect profile as he closes his eyes and leans into the music.

I think I'm going to enjoy this class after all.

After school Plum and I walk over to her house, which is what we've been doing almost every day since we met in ninth grade. It's way better than my house for about a billion reasons. She and her family live on Lark Street in a sprawling green Victorian. They moved from Philadelphia to Eden Grove three years ago because they wanted a yard and a dog and a “slower pace,” whatever that is. Eden Grove is full of people like them: rich transplants from big cities who crave U-pick farms, used bookstores, and expensive restaurants pretending to be not-expensive restaurants.

Mostly, I think Eden Grove is pretentious and boring.

As Plum and I walk, we discuss teachers. “Who did you get for your afternoon classes?” I ask.

“Mr. Rodriguez for chem, Mrs. Erlich for French, Ms. Lee for calculus, and Mr. Ferguson for English,” Plum replies. “What about you?”

“Mr. Sappenfield for bio, Mr. Smith for English, Ms. Hillier for U.S. History, and Mr. Rossi for music history.” I pause. “Do you know him? Mr. Rossi?”

“I think I saw him in my study hall. Is he the one who looks like Kit Harington?”

“Hmm. Yeah, I could see that.”

Plum giggles. “Bea! Do you have a crush?”

“Right. Very funny.”

“Because you haven't dated anyone since that violin guy.”

“Seriously, Plum.
Cello.
You really are illiterate about music. And I'm not going to date a teacher, that's gross.”

“If I were going to date a teacher, it would be Mr. Anderson in
The Perks of Being a Wallflower.
Or Mr. Thackeray in
To Sir, With Love.
”

“If we're dating imaginary people, I would probably go with Batman.”

“You would!”

“I wonder if he has sex hanging upside down?”

We laugh and hurry our steps.

At Plum's house we hopscotch to the door along the path of inlaid stone: slate, then jasper, then quartz, then repeat. This is another one of our traditions, along with Mad Sandwich Mondays. On either side of the path is her mom's garden, which is a profusion of zinnias, sunflowers, herbs, and vegetables. The
late-afternoon sun makes everything look warm, sleepy, and hazy-golden.

Plum pauses mid-hop, plucks a cherry tomato, and plops it into her mouth. “Someone's home. The Volvo's here. I wonder what's for dinner?”

“Isn't today spicy chicken stew day?”

“Oh, right!
Doro wat.
You know my family's recipe rotation better than I do.”

“Tuesdays are Swedish food, Wednesdays are make your own tacos, Thursdays are pasta or pizza, Fridays are sushi from Tokyo Palace, and Saturdays and Sundays are anything goes,” I rattle off.

“I am
so
impressed!”

“Yeah, well, I'm very impressive.”

Once inside Plum drops her backpack on the shiny oak floor. I set mine down carefully on the front hall table next to a ceramic bowl full of keys. Shakespeare, who is part Saint Bernard, part German shepherd, and part lots of other things, lopes out of the living room. He greets us with a friendly bark and slobbery kisses.

“Mom? Dad? We're
hoooome
!” Plum shouts.

“Pernilla!”

Mrs. Sorenson emerges from the kitchen holding a glass of white wine in one hand and a spatula in the other. Her red
sundress is striking against her dark brown skin, and her long black hair spills down her back. She looks like a model, which is what she was before she became a full-time mom and author. She writes picture books about a frog named Sir Ribbit and is practically a rock star in the under-six set.

She kisses Plum's forehead and then mine. Her scent is a mix of Chanel No. 5 and sautéed onions. “Hello, my loves. How was your first day back?”

“Great!” says Plum.

“So boring,” I say at the same time.

Mrs. Sorenson touches my cheek. “It's senioritis, darling. I had it too. Honestly, I couldn't get to college fast enough.”

“Where's Daddy?” Plum asks.

“He's on his way home. His flight from L.A. just landed. Bea, sweetheart, you're welcome to stay for dinner.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Sorenson.”

“You girls can help me with the salad. I found the loveliest spinach at the farmer's market this afternoon. And it's organic!”

Mrs. Sorenson turns and heads back to the kitchen, still raving about the spinach. Plum, Shakespeare, and I trail after her. As we pass the dining room, I notice that the table has already been set for four. Everything looks so festive: the crystal vase flush with half-open roses, the pearly-white wedding china edged with gold, the silver candlestick
holders. Mrs. Sorenson always says that nice things aren't meant to gather dust and that every day is a special occasion.

She is pretty much a grown-up version of Plum.

In the white, sun-dappled kitchen, the
doro wat
bubbles on the stove. An array of ingredients covers the marble counters: garlic, ginger, half an onion, a stick of butter, and a carton of eggs. Jazz piano plays from an iPod dock—Oscar Peterson or maybe Bill Evans. The finches, Hansel and Gretel, twitter at each other in their ornate antique cage.

On the refrigerator is a photo magnet of Plum from when she was in kindergarten. With her curly Renoir hair, enormous blue eyes, and caramel complexion, she looks almost the same as she does now. Next to the magnet is a crayon drawing of three dinosaurs and the words “I LOV YOU MOMY DADY ROARRRRR.”

Plum tears a piece of
injera
and offers me half. “Can Bea and I go to Boston Columbus Day weekend?” she asks her mom through a mouthful of bread. “We want to visit Harvard really badly. We're going to apply Early Action!”

“Wait, what?” I whisper to Plum. She waves her hand to shush me.

“Not Princeton?” Mrs. Sorenson says, sounding disappointed. She and Mr. Sorenson both went there.

“We
do
want to apply to Princeton, Mommy. Just not Early
Action. So is it okay if we go to Boston? And can we borrow the Prius? And can I ask Aunt Jessika and Ingrid if we can stay with them for the weekend? Please, please, please?”

Mrs. Sorenson laughs. “You have it all figured out, don't you? Well, it sounds like a fine plan. Let me talk to your father first.”

Plum flashes me a triumphant smile. “
Yes!
Road trip!”

I frown at her:
But I haven't agreed to this yet.

She gives me a breezy look back:
Just trust me!

“You girls might want to fit in some other school visits while you're there,” Mrs. Sorenson says as she dips a wooden spoon into a tin labeled
ETHIOPIAN BERBERE
. “Like maybe Tufts and BU and Wellesley? There are so many other good colleges, too.”

“I'll have to ask my dad,” I say, hedging. “I'll have to clear it with Mrs. Lugansky, too. She doesn't like it when I miss a lesson, and my lessons are always on Saturdays, and it's really hard to reschedule with her.”

“I'm sure Scary Russian Lady will let you go,” says Plum. “After all, this is about
college.
”

Her face is so shiny and hopeful, like she's talking about Christmas morning.

It's very hard to say no to Plum.

This is where I should tell her the truth. That I have no interest in Harvard or Princeton or any other college. That my
dad wouldn't even notice if I went away for a weekend, any weekend. That Mrs. Lugansky is not a real person.

But it's been so long since I've lived in the world of facts that I'm not sure how to even start that conversation.

“I'll see what I can do,” I promise without looking at her.

“Yay!” Plum grabs me in a fierce embrace that falls somewhere between bear hug and death grip.

The Sorensons are an effusive people.

• • •

Aside from the lying thing, Plum and I have a great friendship. We care about each other and watch each other's backs. Also, it's really easy to be with her; she's like a sister who is so familiar, like every-molecule-in-our-bodies familiar, that we can slip in and out of osmosis without the slightest effort.

I also love her parents and desperately wish I were a Sorenson.

When Plum and I first met, it was ninth grade, and she was the new girl who sat in front of me in English and raised her hand even more than I did. One day, during a discussion of
Romeo and Juliet,
she turned around and whispered: “Do you want to come over after school and meet my new dog? His name is Shakespeare, too.” For some reason, I found this funny and burst out laughing. She laughed too. Mrs. Jacobs gave us a stern look before resuming a tedious speech about the individual versus society.

I accepted Plum's invitation. This wasn't like me at all,
since I generally kept to myself; even back then, I was way more “individual” than “society.” I had some friends but no one really close. There was something so irresistibly sunny and smart about Plum, though.

So we went to her house. I met Shakespeare and also her perfect parents, including her dad, who is a famous architect. We played backgammon and Clue and Ping-Pong in her groovy retro basement. We watched silly YouTube videos on her laptop.

Soon I was over there all the time. At first Mrs. Sorenson seemed worried and asked me if my parents didn't miss me. When I told her that it was just my dad and that he worked late most nights, she got teary-eyed and made me a huge mug of hot chocolate with tiny marshmallows.

So later that fall, when Tommy Vacco called Plum “Fatso” in phys ed, I punched him. I actually punched him. It was my one and only time getting a detention. But it was worth it, and Tommy totally left her alone after that.