Want (9 page)

I listen for a while, but the mosquitoes make a feast out of me, and I can’t stay on his porch forever. I move from the door to the window and tap on it with my knuckle. His head jerks up, and the pencil falls from his teeth.

He knocks over the bench when he stands, and that’s when I notice he doesn’t have on a shirt. He must realize it, too, because somewhere between the piano and the front door, he’s pulled one on. The door jerks open.

I shouldn’t have come here
.

“What happened? What’s wrong? You hurt?” He quickly looks me over then out at the street beyond.

“No, I’m fine.”

“Then what are you doing here? This neighborhood isn’t safe at night.”

“Technically, it’s morning.”

“Semantics. Tell me what’s going on.”

“Can I come in?”

He blinks. “Oh. Yeah. Sorry.” He stands back, and I brush past into a tall foyer. The house is a disaster, like someone was in the middle of a renovation and walked away. There’s scaffolding on the staircase, big white buckets at the bottom, and the finish on the hardwood floor has worn away. It’s the dull, grayish color of decay.

“Sorry about this mess. Guy who owns it is a friend. He lets me stay here as long as I fix it up.”

“Couldn’t you stay with your mom or uncle?”

He shrugs. “Both offered. But I like it here. It’s a challenge, and it’s got character.”

I wander into the room with the piano. It must have been a formal parlor in the past, the ornate crown molding and baseboards still mostly intact.

My steam is gone. I came here for a reason, but I can’t seem to work up the nerve to say what I need to. Instead, I inspect Isaac’s things. Well, lack of. Next to the piano is a floor lamp whose cord disappears into a dark corner. In the opposite corner is a weight bench, and below the front window is a sad futon whose glory days probably ended with Isaac’s college graduation.

“Where are your shoes?”

“What?”

“You’re barefoot. Where’re your shoes?”

I look down. I
am
barefoot.
Huh.

“I was in a hurry to get here?”

“Don’t mean to sound rude, but you wanna tell me why you showed up here in next to nothing in the wee hours?” His eyes linger on my bare legs.

I take a deep breath. “I came here to apologize. I’ve been thinking about how self-centered I am, and how I take everything out on you. I couldn’t wait another minute to make things right. Now that I’m here, I see that interrupting you in the middle of the night was pretty self-centered, too. I’m a constant screw-up. I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be so…difficult.”

“Juli, I know—”

“Please, Isaac, let me finish or I’ll lose my nerve.”

How much do I tell him?

“I’m sure you’ve guessed, but things at home…I can’t give details.”
Chicken
. “But I’ve got a lot to deal with. When I get angry, it’s because I’m mad at myself, not you.”

There. I said enough, but not too much
.

“Kinda figured.”

“Did Mr. Cline tell you anything? About me?”

He leans against the
door frame
with his arms crossed. “No. But he did tell me to look after you. Wasn’t sure what he meant. Want to explain?”

“No.”
Look after me? I’m not completely helpless
…
am I?
“So what were you playing when I interrupted?”

“Oh, just something that’s been running through my head. Couldn’t sleep until I got it on paper.”

“Life hands you insomnia, so you write a lullaby?”

“I guess.” He chuckles.

“Can I hear it?”

He runs his fingers through his already tousled hair. “Why not?”

I settle on the sagging futon and tuck my legs underneath. Isaac rights the overturned bench and plunks out a few measures.

“It’s not done yet. Just tinkering. Not much to hear. Sorry.”

“Mmm, it’s okay. It’s beautiful.”

It’s dreamy, actually, just like a lullaby should be. Kind of like the music box Mama got me for my seventh birthday, with a miniature ballerina that twirls in the center, around and around until she slows and someone has to wind her up again. I close my eyes and smile.

When I open them, the room is much lighter and my neck is stiff. I smell coffee, and my stomach rumbles when I stretch. There’s a sheet over me that smells like Isaac’s clothes. I press it to my face and inhale.

This is nice.
Weird, but nice.
And no nightmares last night.

Bare feet whisk across the hardwood floor. Isaac hands me a steaming cup of coffee in a New England Conservatory mug.

“Everything looks better—”

“—
by
the light of day.” I finish his sentence. Aside from
chivalry is not dead
, it’s Mr. Cline’s favorite saying.

“Listen, I left a message at your house so your parents wouldn’t worry. Said you were upset about a piece and wanted to go over it. And you passed out on the couch.”

“Thanks. But I doubt anyone noticed.” He gives me a funny look. “Trust me, they’ve got other things on their minds. Their pain-in-the-butt daughter is pretty far down the list.” I take a sip of coffee so I don’t have to say any more.

Isaac heaves a sigh and motions for me to scoot over. “Okay, listen. I’m going to tell you something. About a theory I have.”

“About me? Oh, sorry. There I go again with the selfish crap. It’s not all about me.”

“This kind of is.
Both of us.
It’s artistic burden, the theory that all creative people
like
being weird and moody and need some…unbalance or crisis. The thing that makes us great is the same thing that drags us down. Writers and painters suffer, too.”

He totally gets it. He totally gets me
.

“So you understand?”

“Yep.” He knocks his knee against mine.

“Of course you do. You would. Guess it would be pretty self-centered of me to think I’m the only one with this problem. Thanks, Isaac. For letting me crash here.
And everything else.
I can’t promise I won’t get pissed and yell at you, but I’ll try not to throw anything at you.”

“Sounds fair.”

We both grin.

On the drive home, I think more about what he said, about the need to be a little crazy. Would I wish away all of the craziness in my life? Most of the time, yes. Well, parts of it. I’d wish away Mama—no, her illness—in a heartbeat. I still love her. She wasn’t always like this. I’d stop the scraping, but I’d keep my personality. Yet, if Mama’s illness and the scraping disappeared, and Daddy was around more often, would I be who I am? Would I be able to play like I can?

It’s scary, this back and forth. It’s horrible to feel out of control. There are times when the howling and raging eclipses everything else in my head. I have to obey or implode. And yet, there’s the tiny part that
says
“Stop. Enough.” I’m grateful for that flicker of restraint, even as I want to stomp it out. It’s the voice that delivers guilt, both good and bad. Enough guilt to make me quit acting like her, but more than enough guilt to throw me back into chaos. It’s inescapable.

Loudest of all is the little voice of sabotage that whispers
You
’re not as good as you think. This won’t last. There are so many others who are better. They can see you’re a freak and a fraud. They know your secrets.

Turns out, I’m not the only one with secrets.

Chapter Seven

Fall’s as hot as summer. One runs into the other with only the start of school to mark the season change.

It’s a boiling Thursday night when I next run into Isaac at Felix’s. It’s rained for three straight days, which makes the air so thick it clogs my lungs. My hair is hopeless, so I pull it up in a clip. Even in the air conditioning, my white linen top clings to my back, and sweat drips down my
décolletage
, as Granny used to call it. The little makeup I wear dripped off hours ago. I reapply
lip gloss
and call it good.

Mama, as usual, is out with the Mystics ladies organizing…something. I love to sneak over to Felix’s on nights like this when they open the shuttered windows and the sound of the band rides the humidity out into the neighborhood. It feels like a summer block party where people hang out of second-story windows hollering to each other. Most of the people in the poorer neighborhoods only have decades-old air conditioners, so they lounge on each other’s peeling porches with dilapidated steps and fan
themselves
with whatever’s available.

Heat lightning flashes in the distance and briefly illuminates the bay as I step off the bus. The water looks dark and muddy from the recent storms. I hear Lenny’s soulful riffs drift up the street as broken glass crunches under my feet.

Percy, the bouncer, leans against the wall next to the door. “Hey there, Miss Juli, good to see you tonight. It’s been a while. You doing okay?” He’s as black as a crow and as sweet as they come—unless you cross him. Then he draws himself up to his full six feet four inches, and you’d better run before he takes a single step. I’ve seen him pick up two full-grown men at the same time, one in each hand, and heave them out the door by their shirt collars, just like in a cartoon.

But with the ladies, he’s all
gentleman
. He knows I’m not technically supposed to be inside Felix’s, but he also knows I only come to listen and never cause trouble. He keeps an eye out for me.

“Hey there yourself, Percy. I’ve been busy practicing. Got that audition coming up.”

“Yes ma’am, I know you do. Lenny been talking about how his little girl’s
gonna
blow them judges away, and you gonna leave us all here. Can’t say’s I blame you, but we’ll sure miss your pretty face.”

I’ll miss them, too, but in the meantime, I intend to soak up some soul. I pat his shoulder as I pass through the door. My usual table isn’t open, so I end up closer to the bar than I’d like. I order my Coke and spend the next ten minutes peeling the backs of my thighs off the plastic seat cushion. I alternate sides and eavesdrop on the crowd that sits at the bar.

“…the apartment smelled for weeks, but…”

“ …
now
he stays over at…”

“ …
was
lookin’ at the movies…”

I get the impression no one’s here to listen to Lenny and his guys tonight. The soda goes right through me. I manage to get up without leaving behind any skin. The ladies’ room is to the left of the stage and the right of the bar. When I step out of the restroom, a big, burly guy practically falls out of the men’s room and slams into me.

“Ouch!” I smell the lighter fluid scent of hard liquor mixed with the sour stench of vomit plus sweat.

“Sooosorrymiss.” The man’s speech slurs.

You’ve
got
to be kidding.

“Well, looky here!” Isaac drapes his arm over my shoulders and nearly knocks me to the floor. “It’s my
star
student. Hey, everyone! Meet Juli-Julianne Casquette, my best student. She’s
so
great.”

And you are so wasted.

“You gotta hear her. Lenny! Move over, brother! Let Juli have a turn.” He hollers over the crowd.

Fortunately, Lenny’s lost in his own world and doesn’t pay attention to the loud, drunk jerk who drags me over to a couple of guys waiting at the bar.

“So, um,
Mr. Laroche
, have we had a little to drink tonight?”

I hope he’ll take the hint and let me go. He absolutely reeks and leans on me with most of his weight. This is the same guy who swept me up and carried me in his arms, and now I’m the one holding up his
drunk
butt.

We’re even.

“Yeah.” Apparently his accent thickens when he’s trashed. “Been here all afternoon. My buddies from Boston came to, uh…
visit
. Had news for me. Greatest damn news from Bean-fuckin’-town.”

And we’re dropping F-bombs. Nice.

He pulls me closer and squeezes tighter, until it’s hard to breathe. Nervous sweat trickles down my back. He gives me a huge, sloppy grin—his sickly sweet breath heats my face and reminds me of Mama’s. I’m relieved when one of his friends speaks up.

“So, Ike, buddy, who’s the cutie? Little young, isn’t she?” His voice sounds familiar and he grins like he’s swallowed the canary.

There are two of them, both clearly from points north. The one who called him Ike is blond and short, on the stocky side, and wears all black with a chain hanging from his front pocket to his wallet in the back. I can make out his Chucks in the dark of the bar. His shirt used to have some name on it, like a band, but I think it wore off long ago. The other one is slightly taller with black, wavy hair and watery blue eyes. He doesn’t smile, but he sure stares a hole through me.