She twists her lips to the side. “I see.” She snaps her fingers. “I’ve got it! You can make your own piano.”
“I…what?”
She shrugs, like it’s a reasonable suggestion. “Make your own. You know, take some sheets of paper and draw out the keys. You can bang on them like you would at home.”
“Oh. But that wouldn’t make any sound.”
She purses her lips together. “Don’t you have a recording of yourself playing?”
The bracelet stills in my hand. “Yes. I do.”
“Then play the music over the speaker and pretend you’re playing on the piano. It’s the perfect solution.”
I consider that possibility—that’s how desperate I am for music. The piano feels like an extension of my body. I’ve been playing ever since I was a little girl, when my hair would touch the seat behind me and we had to set up a stepstool under my feet for proper positioning. My mother would sit beside me on the bench, humming along to the music I played. She always loved when I played something called The Robot Song and sang along with me.
Agatha leans down and kisses the top of my head. “I’ll be back in a few hours.”
I smile at her, watching her leave, and then turn back to my bracelet.
Alone again.
After another twenty minutes, I slide the bracelet on mywrist and switch to my homework. Statistics isn’t nearly as bad as business calculus was last year. I had to retake that course because everything with Tristan happened in the middle of the fall semester, and I had to withdraw from all of my classes while recovering from the fallout. But my brother Henry tutored me again in the spring, and I was able to pass with flying colors. Now that I’m in statistics, I can manage it mostly on my own.
Then I pull up my assignment for English. It’s a creative writing course, one I took for fun. This week, the assigned essay has this prompt:Write about a time when you were surprised. Paint the scene, describe your emotions. Remember to make us feel it.
That could be fun. I’m not good at coming up with scenarios on the fly, though, so I’ll need to sit on this one. The assignment isn’t due for a few more days, so I have a window to figure out my scenario. Our instructor has even told us it doesn’t have to be a real story, as long as itfeelsreal.
I look around my room for something to do while brainstorming. I don’t feel like making another bracelet, baking doesn’t sound appealing, and neither does sewing. If I’m being completely honest, all I want to do is play the piano.
A roll of white paper leaning in the corner catches my eye. I originally bought it when I was going through my calligraphy phase, planning on making a banner for my room. I could use it to create a makeshift paper piano. Tossing my enormous braid over my shoulder, I head over to the corner of my room and grab the paper, unrolling it on the floor. After finding a black marker, I sketch out the keys of the piano—all eighty-eight of them.
Oddly enough, just the sight of the piano keys settles something in my stomach. It’s a weird idea, no doubt, but maybe it’s worth a try.
What’s the worst that could happen?
CHAPTER 3
Ryder
FRÉDÉRIC CHOPIN — ÉTUDE IN E MAJOR (OP. 10, NO. 3)
“You know you’re only staying here for a couple of weeks, right?” My cousin Gwen’s voice sounds behind me as I roll my two gigantic suitcases into her apartment.
“Excuse me for having some important personal belongings,” I reply. “I don’t travel light.”
Gwen snorts. “Right. Because you have so many combinations of black shirts and pants.”
“Don’t forget the leather jacket.”
She palms her forehead. “How could I forget?” She pokes my waist, the one ticklish spot I have, and laughs when I twist away from her. Her curly blonde hair bounces around her shoulders, and her bright blue eyes are full of mirth. Her light features are a stark contrast to my dark hair and gray eyes, but we still have some similarities as cousins—the perfect nose, high cheekbones…you get the picture. “You might be a cool stunt guy these days, but don’t forget who can take you down with just one finger.”
“I could never.” And she’s right. Even though I know how to fall out of a burning building, she’s been beating me up sincewe were kids. After all, she’s three years older than me and takes on the “big sister” role. When we became teenagers and I was finally strong enough to pin her down, she still knocked me down with my ticklish spot. It’s something I’d never admit to my costars.
I look around her apartment, bright and cheerful with maps of faraway places decorating the walls. “I can’t believe you finally moved out on your own.”
“Yeah, well, living with my parents at the age of twenty-seven was a little ridiculous.”
“I don’t blame you. I remember what it was like living with them.” I smirk. “And it was getting hard to hide your side job, huh?”
