Consent (9 page)

“Why don't I meet you at the D wing exit, then? Say, five minutes? I'll dash over to my office and get my coat. I won't keep you.”

He knows where my locker is.
“Um . . . sure.”

Braden's gaze bounces between Dane and me. He seems confused, which makes two of us—possibly three.

Thinking quickly, I smile at Braden and touch his arm. “I'll catch you later, okay? Maybe we can grab a coffee or something?”

I notice Dane noticing my hand and feel a stupid rush of pleasure.

“Sure, anytime. You'd better be there tomorrow,” Braden says, also staring at my hand.

“Tomorrow?”

“You know, rehearsal? Our trio? Please convince her to stay, Mr. R.”

“Yes, of course. Beatrice, I'll see you over there in a few minutes.”

“Okay.”

Dane takes off down the hall. I take off in the other direction, toward the D wing, wondering what's up.

“Good-bye to you too,” I hear Braden call out.

“What? Oh, sorry. Bye, Braden!”

But my mind is already a million miles away. Or as far as the D wing exit, anyway.

Outside, the sky is gray, and a fine, icy rain mists down. Students pour into the parking lot and disappear into cars and buses. In the distance the varsity football players set up their orange training cones and run frenzied S's around them, kicking up mud.

I lean against one of the faux-Greek columns and wait for Dane. I'm not sure if he meant for us to meet out here or in the hallway. What does he want to discuss? Is this how guys normally act around girls? Hot and cold, there and not there?

And then I remind myself:
He is not “guys.”

The doors swing open, and Dane comes rushing out, his messenger bag slung over one shoulder. He looks very British and handsome in an olive trench coat.

“Hey.” I wave.

He extracts an umbrella from his bag and opens it over
my head. The umbrella is small, so we have to stand very close together. “You're getting soaked. Why don't we go back inside?” he suggests.

“Here's fine. What did you want to talk to me about?”

“Right.” Dane fidgets and coughs and digs through a pocket. He pulls out a random piece of paper, stares at it, and crumples it in his fist. I watch, intrigued; I've never seen him quite this nervous.

“Listen, I want to explain about the other day. At the café,” he begins.

Oh.

“I hope there was no . . . that you didn't misunderstand. You were upset, and my first instinct was to . . .” He fidgets and coughs some more. “Needless to say, it won't happen again.”

Well, that was anticlimactic. I thought he liked me in a not-teacher way, but obviously, I was very wrong.

Silence gapes between us.

“Okay. Is that it?” I ask, forcing myself to sound casual.

“Yes.
No!
There is the other matter, and it's far more important. I can explain while I walk you to your car. Or do you take the bus?”

The other matter?
“I walked.”

“What? Please let me give you a lift, then.”

“No, really, I'm—”

“
Nonsense. You shouldn't be out in this dismal weather.”

I take a deep breath.
It's just a ride.
“Fine.”

“Right, then!”

Dane leads me to a little silver sports car and opens the passenger side door for me. I don't know much about cars, but this one looks . . . expensive. Is his family rich? Is
he
rich?

I slide in and glance around. Random CDs, travel mugs, and a crinkly map of Eden Grove cover the backseat. A paperback splays half open on the floor:
Love in the Time of Cholera
by Gabriel García Márquez.

I am in Dane's car,
I think, and it's surreal because it's a piece of his private life, the life that has nothing to do with A-Jax or classes or rehearsals. Like his gray cashmere sweater, like cappuccinos, like his four languages. Although he has just put up a new wall between his private life and me, so . . . so much for that.

He hurries around to the other side and gets into the driver's seat. He shakes the rain from his umbrella and closes it.

“Is that good?” I ask, pointing to the García Márquez. It occurs to me that they both have the same first name:
Gabriel.

“You haven't read it?”

“No.”

He picks it up and hands it to me. “Well, then, you must take it home and read it immediately.”

I laugh. “Immediately?”

He laughs too. “Yes, immediately. Now, where shall I drop you?”

I give him my address.

“You live just a few blocks from me. I'm on Carriage House Lane.” He starts the car and pulls out of the parking lot. “So! I have some good news. I spoke to my teacher. My Juilliard teacher.”

My smile vanishes. “I'm sorry, what?”

“Her name is Annaliese van Allstyne. She's—”

“I know who she is,” I cut in tersely.

“I told her about you, and she said she would be happy to hear you play. She just has to get back to me about her schedule. I believe she has concert engagements in South America over the next few weeks and then in Seoul and Beijing later in October.”

I don't respond.

“You'll go to New York and meet with her. You could also take a tour of Juilliard. If all goes well, and if you like it there, you'll fill out an application for next fall. I can help you.”

Dread twists my stomach. I wasn't expecting this—not today, not ever. I really thought Dane would forget about it, especially after my lack of enthusiasm at Café Tintoretto.

“Beatrice?”

He is obviously puzzled by my reaction. I guess he assumed I would burst into happy tears or something.

“It's very nice of you. To talk to your teacher, I mean,” I manage.

“Yes, well, I was glad to do it.”

I gaze out the window. A chilly fog shrouds A-Jax and makes it look almost mysterious. We drive down School Spirit Boulevard and then turn left onto Main. As we pass that tiny side street, I look for the café, but everything is obscured by rain.

“I can't,” I finally say.

“You can't . . . what?”

“Go to New York City. Play for your teacher. Apply to Juilliard.”

“Why on earth not?”

“I just can't.”

Dane sighs as though I were a particularly stubborn child. “One of the most important pianists in the country, in the world, has agreed to hear you. This can open doors for you in ways you never imagined. You may never get an opportunity like this again.”

My brow furrows, and I slouch down in my seat. He has a point.

“Does this have something to do with your father?” he persists.

I shrug.

“I have no idea why he wouldn't allow you to have lessons as a child,” he says, and he sounds angry now. “You're clearly a prodigy, and you deserve every advantage. Why don't you let me speak to him? Perhaps he doesn't understand how incredibly gifted you are, the kind of future you might have if you are given the proper—”

“She went to Juilliard,” I interrupt.

“Sorry.
Who
went to Juilliard?”

“My mother.”

“Your mother?”

Dane pulls over to the side of the road and stops the car. He turns and stares at me, his eyes wide and bewildered. “Why didn't you tell me this before?”

“Because, I . . . it's not something I talk about.”

“What did she study there?”

“Piano performance.”

“Piano performance.”

He shakes his head and mutters to himself as though trying to process the information. We're parked in front of my old elementary school, which is now a “cooperative kindergarten,” whatever that is. The only people around are a little girl in a ladybug raincoat and a woman who must be her mom or her babysitter. The little girl keeps running back to the playground,
and the woman keeps calling out to her to please let's go home already.

“When was this?” Dane asks after a moment.

“Ages ago. Before I was born, before my brother was born.”

“And you don't want to go to Juilliard because it reminds you of her.”

“No, not exactly. Besides, I told you before. I want to study pre-law.”

He leans back as if to study me from a distance. “I don't believe you.”

“Why not?”

“Because! You were born to be a pianist. I can see it in your face when you play. Piano is your passion, your soul. You come alive when your fingers touch the keyboard.”

Thanks for the motivational speech,
I want to say.
Tell it to someone who cares.
But in truth, his words have mesmerized me and rendered me speechless. How does he know? How can he understand me in such a deep, intimate way when no one else has even come close?

“Look. Beatrice. You don't have to apply to Juilliard if you don't want to. Or you can apply and get accepted and choose not to go there. But you owe it to yourself to at least meet Annaliese and see the campus.”

I digest all this. Yes, but . . . still
no.

“I would be happy to accompany you. In fact, I think that would be best, given your family's . . . Anyway, I can introduce you to Annaliese and also show you around.”

Wait, did he just say . . . ?

“
You
want to take me to New York City?” I say incredulously.

“Just think of it as one of your university visits. You Americans do that, don't you? Visit prospective universities in your senior year?”

I think about Plum and our upcoming Boston trip. “Y-yes.”

“Great! So can I tell Annaliese that you'll meet with her?”

“Dane?”

“What?”

“Why does this matter to you so much?”

Now it's his turn to be caught off guard.

“I felt like you needed somebody,” he says, almost reluctantly.

“What for?”

“To help you become the person you're meant to be.” His voice is husky with emotion, the way it is when he talks about music.

Something inside of me unhinges.

“When did the two of you first meet?”

“In September.”

“He was your teacher.”

“Yes.”

“Did you and he ever get together after-hours? Evenings, weekends?”

“He coached our chamber group on Tuesdays and Thursdays. He gave me some private lessons, too, to get me ready for my appointment with Annaliese van Allstyne.”

“Where and when did these private lessons take place?”

“Most of them were after school, at school. A couple of times it was at his house, because it was a Saturday or Sunday or something and the building was closed.”

“So on these Saturdays or Sundays, were the two of you alone in his house?”

“No. My friend Plum always came with me. Pernilla Sorenson. She turned pages.”

“I see. And this Annaliese . . . she's the Juilliard instructor?”

“Professor. Yes.”

“Why did you have to go all the way to New York City to meet with her? Couldn't you just talk on the phone or by Skype?”

“She wanted to hear me play in person. Also, I wanted to check out the school.”

“This was Mr. Rossi's idea?”

“Yes.”

“These events happened over the weekend of October twelfth?”

“Yes.”

“Was Mr. Rossi in New York City that weekend too?”

“Y-yes.”

The detective leans forward and flips his notebook to a new page.

“Why don't you tell me about that.”

“The entire last movement. You're too polished, too precise. Can you play it again, but this time try to lose yourself a bit?”

Dane stands on the other side of the living room and regards me over the top of his glasses. His shirt is rumpled, and his hair is more disheveled than usual. He sips at a mug of coffee—his fifth this afternoon.

We have been at this for four hours. A four-hour-long piano lesson. And from what I can tell, he intends for us to continue for another four hours.

My appointment with Annaliese has been set for mid-October, and Dane and I have decided that I will perform my Beethoven, my Bach, and the Schumann Fantasy for her. The Beethoven and the Bach we dispensed with relatively quickly. It is the Schumann that has caught us in the throes of its infinite contrapuntal loop. It is without doubt
the most challenging piece I've ever played or tried to play.

Maybe I'm just not good enough. Maybe I need to downgrade to something easier, like Schumann's “Twelve Pieces for Little and Big Children.” Or “Chopsticks.”

“Can we take a break?” I rise from the bench and massage my knuckles. “My hands feel like gnarled old trees.”

Dane smiles. “Yes, of course. I'm working you too hard. Can I get you something? Coffee, tea, a glass of water?”

“I'd love some tea, thanks.”

“Back in a minute.”

He heads for the kitchen, and I sink down on the couch, still massaging my knuckles. While he is gone, I check out his house. This is the first time I've ever been here. We were supposed to have our lesson at the school, like we've been doing these past few weeks, but it turned out the building is completely locked up and deserted on Sundays. My house was out, for obvious reasons, so Dane spontaneously suggested that we have today's lesson at his place instead.

When we first arrived, there was too much awkwardness for me to take in my surroundings—no
Welcome to my home!
or
Let me give you a quick tour,
just him acting more formal and teacherly than usual as he instructed me brusquely to sit down at his Yamaha baby grand and warm up with scales. Now, as I look around, I see Dane in every detail. Shelves of books with
titles like
The Lives of the Great Composers
and
Mastering Piano Technique.
Framed black-and-white photographs of famous musicians. Neat piles of scores covering an Oriental rug.