Part 13 (1/2)

Then she started playing, gently, and I recognized the piece instantly. It was the sad, almost menacing beginning of Mozart's Piano Concerto No. 20. Not an easy piece to play, under any circ.u.mstances, much less if you were badly out of practice. She was being almost falsely modest, because her execution was perfect. Better than perfect, it was haunting. And not the least of which was because my mother had once played it in this very room. I looked over at Sean, half expecting to see him blow up.

He was sitting on the couch, nose stuck in his textbook. But that didn't mean he wasn't listening. In fact, this was normal behavior for him when faced with something overwhelming. He just scanned the words, down one column, then the next, then the next, and then he flipped the page.

My dad, though ... he stood in the doorway, leaning against it, and his eyes were watering. He saw me look at him, and an almost angry expression came over his face. He blinked his eyes, then roughly wiped them and looked away from me.

Of course, I knew why he gave me that look.

I felt like I was holding my breath as she played. That piano hadn't been played in six years, and it would have been six more if Sean hadn't insisted on it. The music was overwhelming. When I was little-really small-my mother used to play all the time. With each year that went by, she looked older, sadder, more exhausted. And then one day she just stopped. And then she was gone. Now, she made appearances for some holidays, and that was it.

Screw it. Time for some new memories.

I walked over and slid onto the piano bench next to Julia and said quietly, ”Know any four-hand pieces?”

She didn't hesitate. Without a smooth transition, she began the opening bars of Sonata for Piano, Four-Hands in D Major, K.381. It was if she'd taken my question as a personal challenge. It's a beautiful piece, and also one that my mother taught me to play. I positioned my hands and joined in at the next measure. It starts out slow, measured, thoughtful, but by the third movement it's a challenge for even two people to play. And I hadn't heard it in years, much less played it. That's okay-it didn't have to be perfect. This was for fun. So we played, our hands moving together on the keyboard.

I glanced over at her at one point, and she was smiling, a small, secret sort of smile. Her hair was coming loose from the careless bun she'd put it in, a few stray strands covering the right side of her face. They framed her eyes. I swallowed, looked back down at the keyboard. And the funny thing was, I was smiling too. I'm not big on smiling. I'm not big on happiness, to be honest. This was both uncomfortable and strange territory.

But, before you think I've changed and become some preppy piano player in a monkey suit and bow tie, I was also very, very aware of her thigh in those black jeans, brus.h.i.+ng against mine. It was hot, and let me tell you, I've never once in my life been aroused while playing the piano. That could be wicked embarra.s.sing.

We got to the third movement, with its aggressive and very fast fingering, and we both started to fall apart. She laughed and tried to get back on track, and I did the same. But that didn't work so well, because now we were off kilter, ragged, and it sounded awful.

”Oh, dear G.o.d,” she muttered, and that was all it took. I broke out into loud laughter, and so did she, and we fell together, for just an instant, laughing. She put an arm around me, for maybe a second, max, and then yanked it back.

”Okay,” I said. ”We've got to try that again sometime.”

”It's a deal,” she replied, a wide grin on her face.

”Tell you what ... we've got a piano back at the studio. Want to stop by tonight?”

She blinked her eyes, and a vulnerable, exposed expression flitted across her face. Her smile died, but she tried to bring it back, only it was that fake smile she sometimes got on her face, and then she said, ”I can't ... um ... I've got a date.”

Aw, c.r.a.p. Of course she has a date. She's a beautiful, smart as h.e.l.l girl-she's probably out every weekend.

On second thought-somehow I didn't think so. I was sure she could if she wanted to. But something about her was remote, lonely, isolated. And for just a few minutes, while we played side by side, it felt like I'd broken through.

”I'd love to do it some other time,” she said, sounding extremely uncomfortable. ”Really, I would. I just ... this was ...”

”Don't worry about it!” I said, too fast. ”Have fun on your date.”

I didn't want to say that. In fact, I wanted to find the guy and pound his face into the Southie pavement. Or the cobblestones or whatever the h.e.l.l the Barnies have over at Harvard. But I couldn't say any of that. She wasn't mine ... we weren't even really friends. What the h.e.l.l was wrong with me?

My dad cleared his throat behind us. Both of us spun around, quickly. Jesus. I'd forgotten anyone else was in the room.

”That was beautiful,” he said. His voice cracked, ”Thank you. That piano ... it needed someone to play it. No one plays it any more. It was wonderful.”

Julia laughed, a little uncomfortable. ”The end, not so much.”

Dad smirked. ”Can't win everything.”

She looked at me, her fast downcast. ”We should get going.”

I nodded, strangely reluctant. ”All right.”

Dad looked off to the side for just a moment, as if he were debating something. Then he looked back at her. ”Listen ... next Sat.u.r.day we're having a little birthday party of sorts for Sean. I'd like you to come, Julia.”

”Oh,” she said, her eyes wide. ”I ...”

”Not taking no for an answer.”

Her eyes darted to me and back to Dad. ”I'd feel like I was imposing.”

”I'm cooking,” my dad said. ”You said you don't get home cooked meals.”

”Well ...” She started to say, her defenses down.

That's when Sean chimed in. ”Please?”

She didn't hesitate. ”Okay. I'd love to.”

So we stood, and she ran off to use the restroom before we left. I started to head upstairs to change, but my dad grabbed my arm.

”Hey,” he said.

”Yeah, Dad?”

”Listen ... be nice to her. All right? She's a good kid, and ... I think she's been through a world of hurt, somewhere along the line.”

I took a breath. ”Is that the best you can think of me?”

He shrugged. ”I never know what to expect of you, Dougal. Just ... try not to hurt that girl.”

I swallowed. ”I won't,” I said.

He gave me a nod, his expression serious, and then let go of my arm.

CHAPTER EIGHT.

What happened to you? (Julia) The ride back to Somerville was tense and awkward. Something, I don't know what-maybe the humidity or the wind direction or b.u.t.terflies in China-had put Crank into a mood again. He wasn't exactly hostile, but he wasn't friendly either. He sat in the pa.s.senger seat, staring out the window, a frown on his face.

I don't know why this bothered me. It's not like we were a thing. It's not like we were anything. But he'd switched moods so quickly, from anger and hostility last night, to open and laughing this morning, and now he was cold. I didn't get it, I didn't like it, and I was starting to not like him. At all.

”So,” I said, trying to break the heavy silence. ”Once you get your car checked out, just give me a call. Unless it's going to be a lot of money, I really don't want to get involved with the insurance, because that'll mean my parents getting involved.”

He nodded. ”All right.”

I got off 93 for Somerville, and we were in traffic again. He was still silent, staring out the window. He was starting to irritate me. A few blocks from the Metro Club, I said, ”Did I do something wrong?”