Porcelain Keys (21 page)

I stared at him and sniffed, trying to catch my breath. “Okay,” I finally said, mostly to appease him.

But soon I found myself in my room, sinking to my knees. I felt the floor crumble beneath me. I was falling, but there was nowhere to land.

As I wept silently through the night, slowly accepting Thomas’s permanent absence from my life, I gathered up all my painful experiences—Mom’s death, Dad’s cruelty, Thomas’s disappearance—and pushed them all deep inside, locking them in a hidden place where they could never afflict me again.

Six months later

I
 
hovered over the
desk in my bedroom on a January evening, painstakingly dotting manuscript paper with chords for a harmonization exercise. Occasionally my pencil would slip through the paper into a long scratch in the surface of the desk. No matter where I placed my paper, it always seemed to end up on the scratch. The sun was setting and the room was growing dim, so I turned on a lamp and stood to stretch and rub the kink out of my neck. I stepped over to the window to shut the blinds, pausing to take in the view. The setting sun cut through the cityscape, casting long shadows across the campus and making the snow-covered trees in front of the Lincoln Center sparkle like sapphires. It didn’t take long for an unwelcome memory to spring up in my mind. Thomas, the morning he’d said good-bye, the winter sun sparkling in his sad blue eyes.

When memories of Thomas surfaced, which was often, I
had my own way of dealing with them. I closed the blinds, went back to my desk, and pulled out a piece of manuscript paper. Pressing my pencil to it, I started drawing notes on the staff lines, focusing on making each one the perfect shape. The wide hollow of a whole note, the two flags curving from the tip of sixteenth notes, the ascending beam connecting four eighth notes, the hook at the bottom of a quarter rest. I focused on my pencil leaving trails of lead on the white surface, and I wrote, unaware of what the music sounded like, until my mind had wandered elsewhere. Once I could focus on safer thoughts, I crumpled up the newly created music and tossed it into the wastebasket. I didn’t want to hear the music my soul produced when thinking of Thomas.

I went back to my harmonization exercise, and the phone rang in the living room. I stayed put, knowing one of my roommates would get it. A few seconds later, the bedroom door cracked open and Nakira popped her head in.

“Devin’s on the phone.”

“I’m not here.”

“Aria, he lives down the hall. He knows you’re here.”

“Then I’m sleeping.”

“It’s only five.”

I glanced at her and did a double take. Her slick chin-length hair was a new color—black with pink ends. It had been streaked with blue the day before.

“I like the new color,” I said.

She rolled her eyeliner-caked eyes. “So are you going to talk to Devin or not?”

I sighed. “I’m busy.”

“Too busy for a one-minute conversation?”

“I have a test on Monday.”

“Fine, I’ll just tell him to come over then.”

“Wait!” I jumped up and ran after her, but when I caught up to her in the kitchen, she was already inviting Devin over.

“I don’t want him to come over!” I said as soon as she hung up.

“Chill out, Ari. Devin’s nice. And cute. And it wouldn’t kill you to have a social life.”

“I have a social life.”

“With who? Me? Brinna? Kadence? You rarely talk to us, and you live with us.”

There was a playful tap on the door, and Nakira went to open it.

“Wait!” I said.

Nakira froze, her hand on the doorknob. She glared at me, daring me to convince her to keep Devin in the hallway.

“I really don’t want to talk to him.”

“Then
you
tell him you’re busy.” She swung the door open wide, and Devin Fineberg stood there, towering in the doorway with his usual easy smile. He wore designer jeans and a gray Beatles T-shirt with the black suit jacket he wore every day.

“Hey,” he said, flicking a piece of shiny caramel hair from his forehead. He looked from me to Nakira and back again, and when I didn’t say anything, Nakira invited him in. He planted himself on the wooden-armed sofa, resting his long legs on the coffee table.

“So, what are you girls up to tonight?” he asked.

I turned away to get a glass of water from the kitchen.

“I’m going out with Justin,” Nakira replied, plucking
her purse from the counter. “I’ll see you kids later. Have fun,” she sang, smirking at me before disappearing out the door.

I felt Devin’s eyes on me as I put my glass in the sink. Maybe he was wondering how long it had been since I washed my hair. I pondered that question myself for a moment, inconspicuously turning my head into the hair on my shoulder to take a whiff. Two days? That wasn’t so bad.

“I think I’m going to catch a show tonight,” he said. “You want to come with me?”

I walked over to the couch and stood in front of him. “I’m not exactly dressed to go out.” I had on a faded black T-shirt and holey jeans, and it had been days since I’d made an honest effort at makeup. The only time I dressed up anymore was for performances and competitions.

“I’ll wait for you to get ready. It’s still early. You should wear that little red number you wore at the performance a couple weeks ago. You looked amazing in it.”

I hated to admit it, but Devin was cute. His shaggy-cut hair fell in wisps around his copper eyes and defined jaw. His lips were full and perfectly shaped, and his infectious smile was famous.

“I don’t know.” I hesitated, though I knew full well I wouldn’t be going anywhere with him. “I have a lot of studying to do.”

“Come on. It’s Saturday night. It wouldn’t hurt to take a break.”

“I’m sure you can find someone else to go with. Just pick someone off your
Date with Devin
waiting list.” I’d watched him flirt with countless girls, only to leave each one heartbroken and bitter, and I was determined to be the only girl to resist his charms.

“Didn’t I tell you? You’re next on the list.” He smiled, a glint of playfulness in his eyes.

“Brinna would never forgive me. She’s still pining over you.”

“Brinna?” He dropped his legs to the floor and leaned forward. “We weren’t even that serious. She’s nice, but too quiet.”

“I’m quiet too.”

“Yeah, but you’re not afraid to speak your mind. I ask Brinna a simple question and her cheeks turn red.”

“I heard you went out with Jen Sommers last weekend. Are you already tired of her?”

“Of course not. She’s my friend.”

“Is that what she thinks? Because she seemed overjoyed when you stopped seeing Brinna.”

“You mean Amber? I stopped seeing Brinna two months ago.” His mouth tipped in a lazy, flirtatious smile, and his eyes sparkled with razzing delight. He had a way of making the most chauvinistic things sound charming, and it infuriated me.

“Whatever. The point is, Jen sees you as more than a friend. I heard her say she’d been waiting for a shot with you since August.”

He held open his hands and shrugged innocently. “Is it my fault she’s misinterpreting my signals? I haven’t done anything to encourage her.”

“You don’t think taking someone on a date is encouragement?”

“It wasn’t a date. I was on my way to a movie and I saw her in the hall, so I asked if she wanted to come with.”

The front door opened and Brinna walked in, juggling a violin case and a stack of sheet music. Brinna was my age, but with her petite frame, innocent face, and unruly curls,
she didn’t look older than thirteen. She pushed the door shut with her shoulder, then turned to see Devin and me.

“Hey, Brinna,” I said, conscious of how she must feel seeing Devin in our living room.

“Hi.” She gave a fleeting smile, then dropped her head and went straight to our bedroom, closing the door behind her.

I turned back to Devin. “See? She’s still upset about you,” I whispered.

“There’s nothing to be upset about,” he whispered back. “We never even kissed. She’s just quiet. That doesn’t mean she’s pining over me.”

Just then, a melancholy strain of violin music played from the bedroom, like the theme of a tragic love story. I arched an eyebrow at Devin. “Either way, she’s my roommate, and I don’t want to risk hurting her feelings.”

“Next week then, maybe?” He shrugged and stood to leave.

I huffed out an irritated breath and took a step closer to him. “I know this may surprise you, but you’re not as irresistible as you think. Just because you’ve won a million competitions and have played concertos with major orchestras since you were fourteen doesn’t mean you’re God’s gift to women. I’ve never wanted a shot with you, and I don’t want one now.”

“Come on, Aria.” His hands fell open. “You know I’m just razzing you. I only do it because it gets such a rise out of you.”

“What? You enjoy getting a rise out of me?”

“It’s the only way you’ll talk to me,” he said, smoothing out his suit jacket over his muscular chest.

“Why do you wear that thing all the time, anyway?” I asked, annoyed.

“What, this?” He looked down and pinched the notched lapel of his jacket. “Because I’m a performer. And when I’m on stage performing, it doesn’t feel restrictive or awkward because I’m already used to wearing it all the time.” A wicked grin lit up his face. “See, you are interested in me. Otherwise you wouldn’t have asked me about my jacket.”

“Good night, Devin,” I said, rolling my eyes as I opened the door.

“Until we meet again,” he said melodramatically with his hand over his heart. He swaggered to the door and turned at the threshold, giving me one last, longing glance with his puppy-dog eyes.

I shoved him into the hall, which only made him laugh, and I shut the door firmly.

I turned and leaned against the door, listening to Brinna’s mournful playing. The sound of it tugged at my heart, and I knew I wouldn’t be able to stay here and listen to it if I wanted to keep my thoughts in check. Maybe I would go try to find an open practice room.

I gathered up some sheet music and took the elevator to the fourth floor. After a long search, I found an empty practice room. Velvet curtains dressed the walls of the small room, and the violet sky sulked through a sealed window. I set my music on the Steinway grand that filled most of the room and adjusted the bench before sitting down. With a pencil, I made some fingering notations, then sunk into the piece and began unraveling the complex passages. Measure by measure, phrase by phrase. Left hand alone, then right, then together. Slower, then faster, then up to tempo.

Work was the only thing I had control over. It kept me from thinking about the past, and kept me safe in my own little world. I had kept my distance from other people
since I came to school, and soon everyone around me had become nothing more than background noise. Irritating at times, but easy to ignore. And harmless. Perfectly harmless.

Nathaniel came to town a couple weeks later to see one of his old friends conduct a symphony at Carnegie Hall, and he invited me to the symphony and took me out to dinner beforehand. I took the opportunity to dress up and make use of my neglected makeup. I wore a dress I’d found on a discount rack, comfortable yet elegant, burgundy velvet with a knee-length skirt and capped sleeves. I curled my hair and left it down, then added a pearl necklace.

Nathaniel met me at my apartment, and we walked down Columbus Avenue to a cozy Italian restaurant with high-backed fabric chairs, linen tablecloths, and walls lined with wine bottles. Nathaniel pulled out my chair, then sat across from me after taking off his suit jacket and draping it over the chair back.

We exchanged pleasantries while perusing the menu, discussing everything from the pieces I was working on to my nonexistent social life. After we’d ordered and the menus were out of the way, Nathaniel leaned toward me, resting his elbows on the table.

“I met with Margo this morning,” he said, a touch of concern in his voice. “She says you’re struggling a little.”

“No.” I shook my head, confused by his statement. “I’m not. I’ve aced ear training, theory, chamber. Professor Nguyen told me that I’m the only one who’s done every ear training exercise perfectly. And Margo is always complimenting me on my style and accuracy and fluency.”

“No need to get defensive.” He held up his hands. “I
think she was talking about the love of the art. Your passion for the music itself. She says you’re struggling a little with taking a piece to heart and making it your own.”

I fidgeted with my flatware. “I just find myself focusing a little too much on the technicalities sometimes instead of the emotion.”

“Why do you think that is? I mean, you didn’t used to be that way. Your emotional interpretations are what got you into Juilliard.”

“I don’t know. I guess sometimes it’s just too emotionally taxing to throw my heart into a piece.”

He gave me a long, searching look. “What’s going on, Aria?”

I sighed. “I don’t know. Maybe I’m just burned out.”

“No, I don’t think that’s it. If you were burned out, you wouldn’t be so strong with your accuracy and fluency. Margo said that you tackle technical demons like nothing. But that any time a piece requires more than a little emotion, you become distant and mechanical. It just surprises me.”

I didn’t respond, because he was right. And I didn’t know what to do about it. He fixed an assessing gaze on me, and I averted my eyes to the group of customers entering the restaurant. Not that they were interesting, I just didn’t want to meet Nathaniel’s stare. A long silence passed between us, the clattering of utensils and glasses seeming to grow louder with each ticking second. He was waiting for me to explain, and I didn’t want to explain. Instead, I stuffed corners of my napkin between the gaps in my fork.

“You know,” he finally said, his voice gentle, “sometimes when we’re trying to forget, or block something we don’t want to feel, it can affect our playing.” He paused. “I know
what you’re trying to forget. What you’re trying not to feel. Aria, you need to allow yourself to grieve. It’s the only way you’ll be able to move ahead.”