Her left eye spasms. “Um.” She glances behind her, at the door of the piano parlor.
“Or I can wait out here?” I say.
She releases a breath. “Okay.”
After she closes the door, I flop down on the porch swing. My history notebook peeks out from my bag, which I take as a sign. I grab it, along with my notebook, and read about the Vietnam War, jotting down important facts, but soon wisps of the piano lesson inside distract me. Like drifts of pollen, the voice trickles through the drywall and coils in front of me.
I sit up straighter, as though adjusting my posture will somehow make the voice clearer. It doesn’t. I need to get closer. I find myself creeping around the house, toward the window of the piano parlor.
Like the rumble of thunder, the voice grows louder, deeper, strengthening until it overpowers the birds chirping in the magnolia tree. I stand with my back against the wall, my fingers tapping the rhythm against the rough surface. When Lynn plays the treble clef, hitting higher notes, the voice splinters, and the music stops.
My fingers still. I hold my breath, afraid Lynn and her student will hear me breathing.
Lynn starts up again, this time on the bass clef, and the voice takes on a roundness, a depth, a raspiness that pitches me into a velvet chasm of sound. I hope the singer doesn’t smoke, because it would damage her throat. Vocal folds like hers shouldn’t be exposed to nicotine. Theyshould be sealed off from any pollutant. I close my eyes, hanging on every note. The voice morphs into a tangible, fluid thing that undulates and bends and bursts with deep colors. Scarlet, violet, navy.
Lynn reaches the next low octave, and still the voice throbs and sways, braiding with the instrument until they fuse and become indistinguishable. A part of me is jealous, but another part is awestruck.
Lynn once told me to treat singing like a sport: to become good at it requires building muscle; to stay good at it requires practice. Yes, some people have musicality and can match pitch, but most lack power and texture. Those two elements separate thegreatsfrom thegoods. The voice I’m hearing right now is definitely a great.
I finally peek through the window. The haunting, eddying tune halts so suddenly my body feels as though it’s been spit out of a vortex. I stare at the girl—who’s really only a child—and she stares back. Her mouth rounds, and then she tilts her head down, and her face vanishes behind the bill of a pink baseball cap.
Lynn leaps off the piano bench and marches toward the window, livid. I jump backward, half expecting her to fling the window open and throttle me. Instead, she pulls the heavy drapes closed.
I dash back to the front porch. All I did was look, so why do I feel like I’ve just murdered someone? My fingers scrabble over my history notebook just as Lynn bursts through the front door.
“What were you thinking?” she hisses.
“I’m… I’m sorry.”
Loose sheets of paper flutter like feathers on the gray floorboards. I bend over to retrieve them and try to line them up, crumpling the sides. They don’t line up. I sandwich them into my history book and stuff everything in my bag.
“What are you doing?” she asks.
“Leaving.” I crouch, and after several attempts, manage to get my U-lock open. My fingers tremble as I toss my bag into the basket.
“I’m sorry I yelled, Angie.” Her voice has lost some of its sternness.
Without turning, I jerk my head in a nod.
“She’s just shy,” Lynn adds.
“I understand,” I say, even though I don’t. I don’t understand much of anything right now. I don’t understand why I’m fleeing, or why Lynn hissed at me, or why I feel so wicked.
How could someone with such an extraordinary voice be shy?
“She has an incredible voice, doesn’t she?” Lynn calls out as I begin pedaling away.
Something edges her voice.Sadness?Why would she feel sad about her student being gifted? Does she think I’m jealous?
I turn a corner and almost ram into a big black car. The car honks, brakes screeching. I swerve to miss it and end up on the wrong side of the road. I pedal quickly back to the right side, wheels grazing the raised curb, then I brake. My pulse is all over the place. Pressing one hand against my heart, I wait for it to even out.
Once the punching in my rib cage lessens, I look over my shoulder, itching to go back, but I don’t want to seem like some psycho stalker, so I make my way back home.
11
Long, Boring Conversations
Soft rain pelts the windows of the classroom while the steel-gray light of the rain clouds turns the manicured quad silver. The weather matches my mood to perfection. Ever since Monday, I’ve been feeling down, and nothing and no one has been able to bring me back up. I should’ve just phoned Lynn and nipped whatever happened back at her house in the bud, but pride kept my lips sealed shut.
