Part 23 (1/2)
She shoots up from the edge of her bed. ”What are you doing in here?”
”The door was open . . . and I didn't want to interrupt you.”
”What, did you just walk right into the house? An open door isn't an open invitation. Joe always forgets to shut it. And you're not allowed in my room anyway.”
”Sorry.” I take a long stride backward so I'm now standing in the hallway outside her open door. I jam my hands into the pockets of my jeans because I don't know what else to do with them. ”I knocked on your front door. Your servant let me in. She said I could come on up to find you.”
”We don't have a servant,” she says, like it's an accusation.
”Thin woman? Hair slicked back into a hair . . . ball . . . thing . . . on the top of her head? She seemed too young to be your mother.”
”Oh. That's Marta. Joe's a.s.sistant.” Her tense stance softens a little. ”Why are you here?”
”You said you'd help me with the festival song. It's been a week, as you requested. Is this not your earliest convenience?”
”Oh. Yeah. I guess I didn't mean in exactly a week. The festival isn't until the end of November, you know that right?”
”I don't believe in procrastination.”
”Meaning I do?”
It had been a week since I had an excuse to talk to her, and not talking to her was making me feel addled. But I can't tell her that. I point at her guitar. ”Will you show me how to play?”
”You don't know already?”
”I've had more important things to do.”
”If you were serious about the music program, you'd make time.”
”I'm here, aren't I?” I temper myself, remembering that Dax told me to be nice. ”I need your help.” Daphne picks up the guitar and brushes past me through the doorway. I follow her to a large living room. She sits on the couch and looks up at me. ”You coming?” I sit on the opposite end of the couch. I set my schoolbag between us.
”How much do you know about playing?” she asks.
”Not a thing.”
She sighs. ”We'll start with the basics, then. Let's go over finger placement, and then we'll talk about the different chords.”
”Actually, will you do that song for me again? The one you were just playing in your room? I want to learn that one.”
”You're not ready for that one.”
”Please?” I ask. ”I want to hear it again.”
She locks eyes with me for a moment and then shakes her head in a resigned sort of way. ”Okay.” She places the guitar in her lap, and I study the way she positions her fingers on the strings, memorizing each tiny movement as she begins to play the song. After a few notes, her voice joins in with the guitar and I almost forget to keep watching her hands. Her voice is soft, tentative at first, as if singing in front of me embarra.s.ses her, but as the song builds, her voice flows out of her with a force that makes me almost quiver. Her words mingle and dance with the sounds her hands make as she plucks and strums the guitar.
I can feel a familiar ache in my own hands as my brain records the movements of Daphne's fingers and imprints them in my muscles. I feel as though I am in a trance. When the song ends, I don't snap back out of it until she says my name.
I hold my hands out for the guitar. ”Can I?” I want to give it a try while the memorized movements are still vivid in my mind.
”Knock yourself out.” She gives me the guitar. ”But don't be upset if you don't get more than the first couple of notes.” There's an edge of challenge in her voice.
I place my hands on the guitar, perfectly mimicking her placement when she'd started the song.
She nods. ”So far, so good.”
I think hard, replaying the song in my mind for a few moments, and then pick out the first few notes.
She raises an eyebrow. A slight smile plays on her lips.
I almost smile myself, liking that surprised look on her face. The stiff strings of the guitar bite my fingers but it's a welcome sensation as my power of mimicry takes over my hands. I launch into the next few measures of the song, playing with a precision that should make me proud-except even though the movements of my hands are perfect and the notes I play are correct, something about the song doesn't sound right to me. That same warm feeling doesn't fill me the way it did when Daphne played the song and sang. I don't dare join my voice in with the music, but I concentrate harder on the guitar, launching into the more difficult part of the song.
I look up at Daphne, expecting to see a full smile on her face, but instead her lips have twisted into a frown.
”Stop.” She s.n.a.t.c.hes the guitar from me, sending my last note screeching. ”Get out,” she says. Her words are quiet but they rumble with anger. She points toward the hallway leading to the stairs.
”What? Did I do it wrong?” Why couldn't I make the music sound the same as she had?
”Very funny, jerk. Pretending you don't know how to play. 'I don't know a thing about music. I need your help. Did I do it wrong?'” she says, mimicking my voice in a not-so-flattering way. ”Are you just trying to make me feel stupid?”
”No, I swear. I have never played before. I'm just a really fast learner. I'd never even heard music before I heard you sing in the grove the other day-” I swallow hard, realizing I've probably said too much.
She gives me a look that makes me want to wither. ”How is that even possible? Music is everywhere.
You can't even go to the grocery store without hearing it.”
”Maybe I've never been to a grocery store.”
”What?
I look down at my shoes.
”What is your deal?”
”My deal?”
”Let me guess: some spoiled rich kid who's never had to lift a finger in his life? Do you have servants who do all your shopping for you?”
”My family, they're . . . different. My home is a very controlled environment. Music isn't allowed.”
”Seriously?”
”I am serious. There's no music, no television, no movies, no parties, no girls.” I glance at her and then train my eyes on the clock over the fireplace. Maybe she'll realize that's why I keep saying all the wrong things.
”Sheesh, and I thought my mom was strict. Your parents sure sent you to a funny school, if they hate the media. Do they know you've joined the music program?” I shake my head. ”My father wouldn't approve.”
”Then why did they send you here?”
I hold my breath, trying to come up with a plausible explanation that doesn't involve my telling her that I'm supposed to bring her back to the underworld with me. I flip through the compartments of information stored in my brain until an idea clicks. ”Have you ever heard of a rumspringa?”
”Isn't that an Amish thing? Where they send their teenage kids out into the world to see everything they've missed out on before deciding for sure if they want be Amish for the rest of their lives . . .