I nod, and she trails me out into the living room and takes a seat on our cream-colored couch. I roll my head, and my neck cracks, and then I stretch my fingers and place them on the keys, which are still warm. I don’t peek at Mom while I perform my song, scared of what I might see on her face.
I don’t look her way once I’m done either.
At least not for a long moment.
When her silence becomes too oppressive, I rub my clammy hands on my leggings and spin around. “What did you think?”
“I thought it was”—she runs a finger over one of the decorative patches on her army-green blouse—“good.” She offers me a smile that doesn’t reach her eyes.
I feel like she’s trying to be polite, which is weird, because she’s my mom. She doesn’t need to be polite; she needs to be honest.
I look up at the cove lighting, which is buzzing. Or maybe the buzzing’s inside my head.
“I—I need to go check on the pasta,” she says. If she’s trying to destroy my drive, she’s doing an awesome job.
I turn back toward the piano. “Do you mind if I keep practicing? I need to work on the chorus.”
“Sure. Take your time.”
I punch a couple of keys as the floorboards creak beneath her retreating footfalls.
I play my song again, and the notes color my bleak mood.
What does my mother know about music anyway?Nothing.My father was the one who understood harmonies. He might not have gushed about my musical prowess, but at least he would’ve offered constructive advice, unlike Mom’s total disinterest.
As I run through my song again, I create a note on my phone and dictate the lyrics. When I finish, the silence sounds louder than my song. I stop playing and scroll through what I wrote, change a word here and there, and then I take it from the top and match the new lyrics to the chorus’s melody. I make a few adjustments, then play the entire song again, singing the lyrics softly.
Like my fingers, my heart holds incredibly still, because this time everything fits. I close my eyes briefly, relishing this tiny, perfect moment. I wish I weren’t savoring it alone, but it beats sharing it with someone who detests music.
On legs that feel like fragments of clouds, I drift back into the kitchen, sit on the barstool, and sip my soda water that’s no longer chilled or bubbly.
Mom’s stabbing at our freezer with a metal pick. A huge slab of ice cracks off and thuds at her feet. She wipes her flushed brow on her forearm, then crouches, scoops up the ice, and chucks it into the sink. “Dinner’ll be ready in thirty minutes.”
For once, I’m not hungry, but I don’t tell her that. I simply watch her hack at our poor freezer again.
Guilt swarms me, because I think my music did that. Made her stressed and angry. “Do I sound like Dad? Is that why you hate it?”
She flinches. Even her arm that’s suspended in midair shudders. “Can you set the table?”
She can’t even answer me. Heaving a sigh, I do as I’m told.
She rinses the icepick, then sets it on the drying rack and wipes her hands on her jeans. Although she didn’t use it on me, my heart hurts as though it’s been de-iced too.
We eat in silence. At some point, she tucks a lock of hair that’s escaped from my ponytail behind my ear. I think it’s her way of apologizing for not being more supportive. And I forgive her because I love her.
That’s how love works. If you can’t forgive someone, then you don’t love them enough.
10
The Voice
On Monday, I don’t say hi to Ten during calc. I don’t even glance his way. Or at least I try not to. But as he jots something down in his notebook, the sun bounces off his bracelet and blinds me. When he rests his forearms on the desk, I catch the inscription on his bracelet:I ROCK.
Seriously,I rock?
He’s obviously not referring to music considering his distaste for it. How big is this guy’s ego?
Class drags by. The only thing remotely interesting about it is Mrs. Dabbs’s outfit—she wears all green today, which lends her a startling resemblance to a tulip. Where does she get her style cues from?House & Garden?
