Part 21 (1/2)

I wasn't really enjoying this trip down memory lane. It had been a stressful enough night already, without adding this to the pile.

”What's your point?”

”You're not in a position to be giving relations.h.i.+p advice. Unlike Hannah, who clearly knows what she's doing.”

”Fine!” I said. ”Then why don't you just call Hannah?”

”Maybe I will!” Charlie retorted.

There was another long pause, and I again wondered if Charlie had hung up. Then I considered hanging up. But then I decided that I wasn't up to getting into a big fight with Charlie right now. I had enough conflict in my life at the moment.

”Are you still there?” I finally asked.

”I'm still here. Do you really think I should tell him how I feel?” Charlie asked, in a very different sort of voice from the one she'd been shouting at me with a moment before.

”I don't know. You're probably right. I shouldn't be giving out relations.h.i.+p advice.”

”I shouldn't have said that,” Charlie said, sounding contrite.

”No, I mean it. I don't know what I'm talking about. I don't know about anything anymore,” I said wearily. My eye was still twitching, and a headache had started to throb at my temples. ”But I probably should go and try to get some sleep. I have to get up early for work tomorrow.”

”Okay. Feel better. I'll talk to you tomorrow,” Charlie said. Then she hesitated. ”Sorry I yelled.”

”No worries,” I said. ”Bye.”

Chapter Twenty-four.

When Mrs. Fisher answered the door the next morning, she didn't look happy. Her eyes were hard and narrowed, her mouth was a taut line, and her cheekbones were flushed high and bright. I took an involuntary step back from her, tripped over the edge of the step, and ended up stubbing my toe on the walkway.

”Ouch,” I said, standing on one foot to favor my throbbing toe.

Mrs. Fisher did not seem to have noticed my lack of grace. ”Miranda,” she said, ”please come in. My husband and I would like to have a word with you.”

”Mr. Fisher?” I asked tentatively. I'd never met Mr. Fisher. And, judging by how angry Mrs. Fisher seemed, I wasn't at all sure I wanted to meet him now. But I couldn't think of a way to gracefully bow out, so I limped into the house.

It was silent again, but, even so, I glanced through the French doors into the living room, half expecting to see Amelia at her piano as she almost always was when I arrived. The living room was empty.

”Where's Amelia?” I asked.

Mrs. Fisher didn't respond. Instead, she strode off to the kitchen, heels clicking loudly against the tile floor, clearly expecting me to follow. My heart started to beat a bit faster. I had a bad feeling about this.

Reluctantly, I followed her. Amelia's father was sitting at the table, looking somber and vaguely uneasy, as though he didn't want to be there any more than I did. In person, he looked even more like Amelia than he did in the family photo I'd seen. They both had the same large, serious eyes, the same angular face, the same too-pale skin.

I managed a smile at Mr. Fisher, despite the nervous wriggling in my stomach. He didn't smile back at me. Instead, he just nodded, looking grave.

”Michael, this is Amelia,” Mrs. Fisher said shortly. ”Amelia, please sit down.”

I sat in one of the ladder-backed kitchen chairs and folded my hands on my lap. Mrs. Fisher took a seat on the opposite side of the table from me, next to her husband. She sat very erect, her shoulders squared.

”Do you know what we want to talk to you about?” Mrs. Fisher asked.

I've always hated it when you know you're in trouble, and the person in charge-a parent or teacher-starts off with this question. What happened to my Fifth Amendment right not to incriminate myself? Sure, this might not be an official courtroom, but at the moment, it sure felt like one. Only Mrs. Fisher was the prosecutor and judge all rolled into one. What did that make Mr. Fisher? I stole a glance at him, and saw that he was gravely regarding me. He was the jury, I decided.

The thing was, I did have a pretty good idea why I was there-Amelia had talked to her mom about cutting back on the amount of time she spent practicing the piano, and somewhere in the midst of that discussion, my name had come up.

I drew in a deep breath. ”Amelia talked to you about not wanting to practice quite as much.”

Mrs. Fisher looked surprised. ”So you don't deny that you know about it,” she said.

I shook my head. ”No.”

”What business do you have telling an impressionable young girl that she should give up the great pa.s.sion in her life, the one thing she's been dreaming of and working towards for years?” Mrs. Fisher asked. Her voice was as sharp and cold as an icicle.

”I didn't tell her that,” I said indignantly.

”You just said you did!”

”No, I didn't. I never told Amelia that she shouldn't play the piano!” I said.

Mrs. Fisher's lips curled down, somewhere between a frown and a sneer. I could tell she didn't believe me, so I turned to Mr. Fisher.

”Amelia was upset. Partly because she doesn't want to change piano teachers, but also because she feels like she's under a lot of pressure and that all of the decisions about the sort of life she's going to lead have already been made for her. And I told her that she should talk to you about all of that,” I said.

”Would it surprise you to hear that Amelia told us that you told her she doesn't have to be a pianist?” Mrs. Fisher asked.

I tried to remember if that was exactly what I'd said. ”I guess I did say that, but I didn't mean-” Before I could finish, Mrs. Fisher cut in again.

”Your story keeps changing, Miranda. One minute, you say that you just told her to talk to us, and the next you're admitting that you told her to give up the piano. Which one is it?” Mrs. Fisher asked. She folded her arms over her chest and looked levelly at me.

I felt like I was standing on a hill of sand, and with every step up I took, I slid down even farther.

”It's neither. Or, I mean, it's both. Sort of,” I said, starting to feel fl.u.s.tered. ”The main thing I told her was that she should talk to you about her feelings.”

”And that's exactly what she did do. At dinner last night, Amelia announced that she was tired of practicing, and that she wasn't going to play anymore. And she told us that you'd told her it was okay,” Mrs. Fisher said.

”No! I just told that it was her life and she needed to be involved in any decisions that were made about her future,” I said. ”She's just under so much pressure-”

Mr. Fisher looked up sharply then, his eyes troubled. But Mrs. Fisher just pressed her lips into an even tighter line and said, ”The only pressure Amelia is under is that which she puts on herself. And she's hardly an ordinary ten-year-old. She's a musical genius. It would be a tragedy for her to throw her gift away.”

”I don't think she really wants to do that,” I said, twisting my hands together my lap. ”But she's getting burned out. She needs to have a life outside of the piano. To get away from it sometimes.”

”You don't get to make those decisions for Amelia,” Mrs. Fisher said coldly.