Transcendence (6 page)

“How was London?” Veronique asks before she’s even through the door. “I hope you don’t mind me coming twice this week, but I can’t stand missing a lesson.” She’s holding her cello with one arm and gives me a quick hug with the other.

“London was great,” I say, backing up and letting her into the hallway. “And it’s totally fine to come today.”

Veronique is slim and super-fashionable, with her straight
black hair cut in a severe bob—a style that my long wavy hair can only dream about. There’s a tiny brown birthmark that looks like a comma over her right eye, which is good, because otherwise she’d be a little too perfect and I’d have to hate her. She’s in her early twenties and is some sort of scientist over at UCSF. Whatever she does, it makes enough money for the best instrument, the latest clothes, and the freedom to be at a cello lesson on a weekday evening.

She hands me a sealed envelope and I smile, knowing it’s cash. Veronique has only been my student for about six months, but I can always count on her not to forget. “Thanks,” I say, shoving it in the back pocket of my jeans. “Come on in, I’m already set up.”

It is actually enjoyable to teach Veronique—she isn’t a natural, but what she lacks in skill she makes up for in determination. From week to week, I can tell she’s been practicing, although she gets really embarrassed when I compliment her on her improving technique.

“I think I’ve finally decided on a name for my cello,” Veronique says, lifting the instrument from its case.

“I already told you, it’s not like naming is mandatory or anything. Not everybody does it.” Not everybody includes pretty much only me, because everyone else I know in the orchestra has a cute or meaningful name for their instrument. I tried naming my first cello after the main character in my favorite book, but every time I called it “Harry” I felt like an idiot.

“I know, but it makes it so much more personal. Are you ready?” She gives a dramatic pause. “Bono.”

“‘Bono’ as in U2 Bono?” I roll the name around in my head for a second. It could work.

“Yep.” Veronique smiles. “If something is going to be between my knees for so many hours every week, I figure it might as well be the sexiest singer alive.”

“Veronique!” I whisper, giggling. I look toward the doorway to make sure Mom isn’t listening. “Won’t your boyfriend get mad?”

She shrugs. “No. Giacomo thinks he’s sexy too. He’ll probably like it.”

I hold up my hand. “Totally TMI,” I say, getting so embarrassed I can barely look at her.

“Come on, Bono,” she says, pulling the cello into position. “Let’s get down to business.”

We work on Bach’s Variations for a few minutes before I suggest something new. “I just got this, and the arrangement doesn’t look too hard,” I say, placing the music on the stand. “It’s one of the first real classical pieces I ever tried.” I’ve barely gotten through the first bars of Chopin’s
Sonata in G
before Veronique puts her hand on the page and pulls it down, the expression on her face full of pain.

“I’m sorry,” she says. Her voice sounds shaky and uncontrolled, not like her at all. “But no Chopin.”

I look at her out of the corner of my eye. Veronique always agrees on my choice of music. “None?” I say. “No
Polonaise
?”

“No,” she says. “I don’t … I can’t stand Chopin.” Veronique’s face is red, and she seems flustered. I’ve never seen her anything but cool and calm—what is it about a little piece of music that has her almost crawling out of her skin?

“No problem,” I say, picking up the pages and sliding them under my seat. “I’m not a huge fan anyway.” Which is a complete lie; Chopin composed some of my favorite music, but she already looks embarrassed and I don’t want it to get any worse. As I sit back in my chair, my head begins to spin, and I try to tell myself that it’s just a head rush. I sat up too fast is all. The feelings of panic begin as the room feels like it’s receding around me. I can see Veronique speaking, but I can’t understand what she’s saying.

I stand watching from the wings as Alessandra pulls the bow back and the last notes of Chopin resonate throughout the concert hall. Applause thunders through the building as she stands holding the neck of the cello, reaching with the other hand to pull her long, blond hair away from her face. Alessandra has been with the Young Masters Orchestra since she was my age, touring the world with her father as chaperone for the past four years. Now that she’s almost nineteen, she is so much better than I am, and between her beauty and skill I always feel inadequate around her
.

I sense him behind me well before he speaks. “Are you ready, Clarissa?” Paolo asks, his smile bright in the low lights of backstage, causing my heart to flutter like it always does whenever he’s around. His dark hair shines almost black in the flicker of the footlights as I look up at him and nod quickly. Paolo touches me lightly on the elbow as he guides me onstage, where my cello and chair have been placed next to Alessandra’s, and even though I should be nervous with so many people here to watch my first performance, all I can feel is the physical sensation of his skin on mine. With a slight bow, Paolo takes his position at the piano, and along with the other musicians, I put my head down, trying to concentrate on the opening notes of the next piece. Paolo belongs
to Alessandra; they are so obviously in love that you often have to look away in the face of such fierce devotion. Everyone in the troupe knows that, and to even think anything different will cause an unimaginable amount of trouble
.

Veronique is looking at me with concern. “Is everything okay? You look pale.”

I blink and look around the room. The bright lights of the stage are gone, replaced by the colored shades of the Tiffany lamps my mom loves so much. “Sure,” I say, my voice stronger than I thought it would be. “Just a little dizzy. I think it’s the jet lag still.”

She looks relieved. “You’re probably right. Whenever I go to Italy with Giacomo it takes days to get back on the right schedule.” She glances at her delicate gold watch. “It’s getting late anyway. I should get going. We’re still on for Thursday, right?”

“Right,” I say, hoping that she doesn’t notice how much my hand is shaking as I put the bow back in its case.

I help Mom clear the dining room table after dinner, even though it’s just the two of us. No matter how many of us are home, she insists on setting the table and sitting down to a meal every night. I wonder if she’ll still do that when it’s just her in a few years. The thought of her sitting down here alone while Dad sits upstairs by himself is vaguely depressing.

“I’m going up to see Dad,” I say once the dishwasher is loaded. I’d almost forgotten about my promise to look at the photos.

“Okay,” she calls from the laundry room. “Did you finish your homework?”

“I did some in school.”

“How about your practice time? We can’t have you falling behind just because you went on vacation. Herr Steinberg mentioned that the little red-headed girl is just itching to challenge you for first chair.”

“I’ll do another hour before bed,” I call back. “I won’t be long.”

Dad has the classical music station blasting as I walk up the stairs. I find him at the computer, a half-eaten burrito on a plate next to him, along with some chocolate-chip cookies from my favorite bakery in the Mission.

“Hey, there’s my girl,” he says, turning around and giving me a kiss on the cheek. “There are some great shots from the trip. Want to see?”

“Sure,” I say, grabbing a cookie. I always forget to take pictures, and Kat’s camera is filled with the ones I took of her and various guards and Beefeaters. I know she took a couple of Owen in front of the Crown Jewels building, and I kick myself for not having her sneak a picture of Griffon. Despite the pang I get in my chest whenever I think of him, his image is already fading in my memory, and I’m not sure if I’d even recognize him again. Not that it matters.

Dad, on the other hand, takes pictures like he’s terrified of short-term memory loss. Every moment has to be documented so that nothing is forgotten. “There’s you and your sister on the plane, all sleepy,” he says as the slide show starts on the computer.

I wince at the huge image of myself with my hair sticking out of a messy bun and bags under my eyes. “It was like three o’clock in the morning, our time,” I say defensively. I’ll have to sneak in later and delete all the unflattering shots.

“Oh, you look beautiful, as always. Look, here’s one of that place we ate dinner that first night. The one in the theater district.”

Dad has a comment for every photo. The doorman at our hotel, a series of big red buses, us in front of the nearest tube station. “These are from the walk we took to Piccadilly Circus that evening, remember? Here’s the two of you in front of that statue.”

I glance at the photo of me and Kat on the cement steps, but something in the background makes me gasp. “Wait, stop.” I look closer, a chill running up my spine. “When did you take this one?”

Dad puts the slide show on pause. “Well, they’re in order, so that would have made it the second day of the trip.” He looks at the photo up on the screen. “That
is
a nice sunset, isn’t it? See how the sky is all pink behind the buildings? It almost matches the neon of the signs on the other side.”

But I’m not looking at the sunset or the signs. I’m staring at a guy about five feet behind us, casually leaning against the statue, but staring right into Dad’s camera. If that was taken on the second day, then it was a full four days before I actually met him at the Tower. I’d thought I might not recognize him, but my heart races as I look at the random stranger with the curly hair and sharp brown eyes lounging in the background of the photo. Griffon.

“I don’t know where the camera is,” Kat says. “It’s probably still in my carry-on bag—like most normal people, I don’t unpack my suitcase the second I get home.” She shoots me a look as she heads toward her room, but I don’t want to get into it with her right then. I’ve waited up late for her to come in, alternately glad that I have a photo of Griffon and totally freaked out that he’s there at all. Maybe it
is
just a coincidence. After all, lots of people go to the tourist spots in London. Happens all the time. And then we met him at the Tower because that’s where he was staying. I’m just going to tell myself that over and over until I believe it.

I follow her to the back of the house, lowering my voice so as not to wake Mom. “Well, can I see it?”

“What’s the hurry?” Kat kicks her shoes off and flops down on her bed.

“I … I just want to compare your shots with some that Dad took, that’s all,” I say.

She studies me for a second. “All right,” she says, hauling herself back off the bed. “Let me see if it’s in here.” She rummages through her bag and tosses the camera case to me. “But don’t delete any. I’ve got some good shots of Owen in there that I want to put up as a screen saver.”

Owen. “Have you talked to him?”

“He’s been messaging me.”

“So he knows how to get ahold of you?”

She looks at me funny. “Yeah. Why? He’s a totally hot guy. A totally hot Scottish guy. You never know when he’ll end up on this side of the world.”

Of course she’d be in touch with him. Why haven’t I thought about that before? There’s a glimmer of hope stirring somewhere down deep. Owen is only one step removed from Griffon. I hesitate, but I have to ask. “Does he ever talk about Griffon?”

“Sometimes. I know that they’ve been friends forever. I guess Griffon went home right after we did, but he gets to go back during the summer.” Kat smiles. “I wish we could go back this summer. Do you think Dad can get another business trip to London? That would be so cool.” I can see that she’s already imagining herself with Owen in a chic London flat along with two impeccably dressed blond children sporting adorable British accents.

I turn the camera on and try to sound like I don’t really care. “Do you think he ever talks about me?”

Kat puts her arm around me, but it feels more condescending than sisterly. “You really liked him, didn’t you? Those curls were
amazing. Made you want to run your fingers all through them.” She looks over my shoulder at the camera display. “No. I don’t think he mentioned you. At least, Owen didn’t say anything.”

Something about the way she glances away from me tells me she’s lying. Maybe Griffon did mention me, but not in a way she’d be in a rush to talk about. I shrug. “Not like I really knew him or anything,” I say. “We only hung out for a little while.”

“Yeah,” Kat says. “You didn’t exactly meet him on your best day.”

I don’t answer, just start flicking through the photos, searching the backgrounds for any sign of Griffon. There’s Kat at Buckingham Palace, Kat on the London Bridge, me at the symphony, and the pictures of Owen at the Tower, but nobody in the background that looks even a little bit like Griffon, at least as far as I can see. I’m relieved. Mostly.

“Did you find what you were looking for?” Kat asks.

“No,” I say, handing the camera back to her. “But that’s a good thing.”

“So you have no idea where he lives?” Rayne asks. “Not the city or the state, or anything? I thought I trained you better than that.”

I smile at her. Rayne is always trying to pull me back from the edge of Loserville. I’ve spent so much time with the cello the past few years that it’s like I’ve been dating it instead of boys. Rayne’s trying her best to help me make up for the time I’ve lost.

“No. He could find out my info through Owen and Kat, but it looks like he hasn’t bothered. It’s … awkward. I mean, I fainted
right into him. He was just being nice by getting me something to drink. Nothing more to it.”

Rayne shakes her head and takes a sip of her extra-hot soy latte. “I don’t know. If you’re talking about him at all, that means you’re thinking about him. A lot.” She looks over at me. “You are, aren’t you?”

I don’t want to have this conversation, but it feels like if I don’t share just a little of the feelings swirling inside I’ll go crazy. I printed out the picture from Dad’s camera and have it in my folder, but I’m not ready to show anyone. Not even Rayne. As much as I don’t want to admit that I think about Griffon so much, I can’t lie to her. “Yeah,” I say. “I guess I do.”