“Why would you?” I muttered, and when he kept looking at me, as though intrigued, I cleared my throat. “Um. Yeah. My dad taught me.”
“What do you play?”
Why were we talking about this? I breathed in the orange-and-spice steam from my tea. “I don’t know. Never mind. I don’t play anymore.”
“What were your favorites when you did?”
My favorites. God. Had I had favorites before piano became too much work, one more activity in a long line of things grinding me into dust? Vivaldi and Debussy and Schumann, those had been who Iplayed, butfavorites—
“You know, I really likedCats.”
He let out a startled laugh. “Seriously?”
“Yeah, I loved it. ‘Memory’ did me in.”
“Wow. Who would have thought?”
“I was six, okay?”
“Young.” He raised his hand, fingers spread apart. “But pianists are just known for long fingers, not large hands.”
I raised my hand so he could see it. “It’s a perfectly normal-sized hand!”
He placed his against mine, palm to palm. A jolt of energy went through me at his touch. His hand was, in fact, much larger than mine, and warm. He curved the tops of his fingers around mine. “See?”
“Hmm.” Heat flushed my whole body. “Anyway, it doesn’t matter—”
He intertwined his fingers with mine.
I lost all capacity for speech. He smiled. His thumb stroked my palm.
And I yanked my hand out of his. “You’re an asshole.”
“Come on, Shir, you basically dared me. You said I had no personality.”
“It’s Shira. And that wasn’tpersonality,it was... being smooth.” I sipped my tea, picturing Isaac to calm myself down. Isaac would never play games like this; every time we’d talked, he’d nodded seriously. Of course, our conversations never lasted long and were usually about school or the weather, but he wasn’t the kind of guy who would mock me. “Being charming doesn’t count as a character trait.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t know. Because it’s not real. It’s a surface thing.”
“What’s real, then?”
“I don’t know.” I was, in fact, not entirely sureIhad a personality, as opposed to just conforming to all the expectations of the people around me. “Your aspirations, I guess? Your passions.”
“Okay.” He leaned forward, resting his forearms on the countertop. I was hard-pressed not to notice the golden dusting of hair on his skin. “What are yours?”
Oh no. My least favorite question, and I’d walked right intoit. “Maybe I’ll save the sea turtles,” I said lightly. “They’re having a time of it.”
“The sea turtles,” he repeated.
“Yep.” I liked turtles; they were like cute old men with flippers. I’d learned if I mentioned sea turtles, people often laughed and moved on. Which was, in fact, my end goal. Because I didn’t like to talk about my future or what I wanted out of life.
I used to think I knew my dreams and aspirations. I knew I wanted to begreat. Only it turned out I wasn’t.
Not at piano, not at skating, despite the years and practice I’d sunk into both. Now these things, which I’d once thought might be my life’s passions, hurt too much to get close to. I used to sting with jealousy when I watched professionals, hungering for their talent, their medals, but I could bear the envy because it egged me on, it made me want to be better. I could study and learn from them, and eventually, I would emerge from my own chrysalis, transformed.
Only I never had, and now skating and piano just made me sad.
