Porcelain Keys (3 page)

“Choose your seat wisely,” Mr. Becket said, twisting the corners of his overgrown mustache, “because I’m starting around the seating chart.”

Feeling uneasy about sitting so close to Thomas, I scanned the room for another open seat. There were only two. One was right in front of Thomas, and the other was across the room, behind Dirk Page and Trisha Rosenblatt. I briefly wondered if they were back together, and which would be more tolerable—sitting so close to Thomas or watching Trisha give suggestive looks to Dirk all year.

Realizing I couldn’t avoid Thomas forever, I decided to stay where I was. But I dreaded looking into his eyes again. I dreaded the sympathy I would see there, the questions he might ask, and the things he might say. I wondered if he’d keep what he’d seen to himself, or if, within days, the entire school would be casting pitiful looks at me. My pride and reputation were at his mercy. I felt like a small helpless bird enfolded in his hands—he could either crush me or set me free.

Mr. Becket was pacing with hands clasped behind his back in front of the room, giving a travelogue of all the countries he’d visited over the summer and claiming he’d learned to speak at least one phrase in every language. “Name a language,” he challenged, “and I will say something in it.” A couple kids called out German and Chinese, and he demonstrated each with nonchalance. “Come on,” he urged, “give me a challenge.”

Bulgarian and Yiddish were requested. He spewed out a phrase in each.

“Dutch,” someone called out.

“
Nog een prettige dag toegewest
,” said Mr. Becket.

“You mean
toegewenst
?” Thomas chimed in with a half-raised hand.

“Ah!” Mr. Becket’s face brightened. “Do you know Dutch?”

Thomas lifted a shoulder in a casual shrug. “Enough to get by.”

Mr. Becket stammered through another phrase, and Thomas replied with a long and fluent-sounding string of Dutch. The class reacted with yawns and eye rolls. But I was suddenly intrigued, wondering how on earth Thomas knew how to speak Dutch.

Trisha raised her hand, waving it in the air like a beauty queen.

“Miss Rosenblatt,” Mr. Becket said, “do you have another language request?”

“Actually,” Trisha replied, twirling a tendril of long golden hair around her finger, “I was wondering if I could change my seat.”

“We already filled out the seating chart,” Mr. Becket said.

“But I can’t see very good back here, and it’s giving me a headache.” She pressed her fingers to her forehead, and Dirk turned around to shoot her a skeptical look.

Mr. Becket considered a moment, scanning the front of the class for an empty seat before gesturing to the desk in front of Thomas. “Come sit in front of Mr. Ashby.”

Ashby
. There was something lyrical about his name, like I could string the letters together on a staff to form a melodic phrase.
Thomas Ashby.

Trisha happily popped out of her chair and perched herself in front of Thomas, flashing him a sultry smile before facing the front of the room. It was too easy to see how this would turn out. They would go to homecoming, hold hands in the hallway, and get married right out of high school. She angled her body sideways and crossed her bare legs, no doubt so Thomas could get a better view. But he didn’t seem to notice. He kept his head down and his
pencil moving across his notebook as Mr. Becket transitioned into a lecture on the Middle Ages.

As though fearing Thomas would forget she was there, Trisha made a point to move every minute or so. She gathered her hair to one shoulder, then the other. She uncrossed her legs and crossed them again. She trailed her pencil along her jaw, then tied her hair into a loose bun. A moment later as she pulled out the elastic band, she “accidentally” flung it into the aisle behind Thomas.

He reached back and picked it up, catching my eye as he did so. There it was—that look of commiseration that made me feel as small as the lead tip on my pencil. He paused and acknowledged me with a little smile before turning back and handing the elastic band to Trisha.

The fire spread from my cheeks to my ears, and I eyed the door, once again feeling like that little trapped bird.
Set me free
, I thought.
Don’t look at me again. Don’t talk to me. Just forget about me and what you saw.

For the remainder of class, Thomas sat unnaturally still. He didn’t take any more notes, and he didn’t seem interested in Mr. Becket’s lecture. He appeared distracted, and the unfocused glances he cast at the window made me wonder if he was watching me from the corner of his eye. I sensed he wanted to talk to me, but it was a conversation I didn’t want to have.

With five minutes of class left, I gathered up my things. Thomas glanced back at me with an anxious expression, then gathered up his things as well. I watched the clock and eyed the door. He watched the clock too. I gauged the distance from each of our desks to the door. His was closer, so I would have to move fast. It would be a race for
the door, and if I lost, I would have to face him to hear whatever he had to say.

The instant the bell rang, I dashed for the door. Glancing back, I saw Trisha stand and intercept Thomas. It was the first time in my life I felt gratitude toward Trisha.

When I got home, I found Dad clean shaven at the kitchen table, drinking coffee and eating dry toast. He was probably sobering up because he had to work the next day.

“Hey, Dad,” I said as though he hadn’t been missing for two days, as though he hadn’t left a mark on me the last time I’d seen him.

He lifted his eyes from the
Field and Stream
magazine on the table. “Aria.” He nodded, a look of contrition on his face.

I dropped my backpack on a chair and walked to the fridge, opening the door.

“How was school?” he asked.

I wanted to tell him it was awful, that I felt sick all day thinking about what happened over the weekend, and that I ate lunch alone because I didn’t want people to see I was upset. But having an honest conversation with Dad was about as appetizing as the raw pheasant that had been sitting in the fridge for the last three days. “Fine,” I said. “I like my teachers.”

“Will you come sit down for a minute?”

Here it comes,
I thought. I shut the fridge and joined him at the table in the chair farthest from him. One of the buttons on his flannel shirt cuff was undone, and he buttoned it. Then he unbuttoned it. Then buttoned it again.

“I’m sorry about the other night.” He hung his head and ground his knuckles against his mouth. “I just . . .”

“It’s okay,” I said, knowing that guilt would only give him more momentum for the next ride.

When he lifted his face again, his eyes were misty and his mouth contorted in pain. “No—it’s not okay.” His eyes swept over me. “Did I hurt you?”

I shook my head. “I’m fine.”

“Why are you wearing long sleeves? It’s ninety degrees outside.”

I glanced at my shirt and shrugged. “It was cool this morning.”

“Did I leave a mark?”

“No.” The sooner he moved past what had happened, the sooner he’d get back on the path to sobriety.

A strained silence filled the space between us, and I watched his face slowly turn from remorse to frustration. “I don’t understand why you go in there,” he said, referring to the parlor, “when you know what it does to me.”

“It won’t happen again.” But what I meant was,
I won
’
t get caught again.

He studied me for a moment as though trying to measure my sincerity, then from his wallet pulled out five twenties and pushed them across the table. “I know it’s not much, but you could probably use some new school clothes.”

I stared at the money and nodded. “Thanks, Dad.”

He stood and hooked his thumbs through his belt loops. “Well, I need to give one of my customers a call.”

“Cody stopped by on Sunday for his marmot,” I said, assuming that was the customer he needed to call. “I took him out to the barn and he found it. He said he’d already paid, so I let him take it.”

He nodded, shame returning to his expression. “Thanks, Aria. I’ll give him a call to make sure he’s happy with it.”

Dad went to the phone, and I folded the twenties and slid them in my back pocket, already knowing the money would go in my savings account and not toward my wardrobe. I didn’t own a car, a cell phone, or new clothes. But I had freedom money waiting for me. I’d accumulated a meager savings bussing tables over the summer, and the moment I graduated high school—in less than nine months—Woodland Park, Colorado, would have one fewer resident. I didn’t know where I would go yet, but it didn’t really matter. Anywhere I could get a full-time job, a cheap apartment, and a thrift-store piano.

Dad started dialing a number, and I grabbed my backpack and went upstairs to my room, not wanting to hear him lie to his customer about where he’d been all weekend.

I sat on my bed and unzipped my backpack, then pulled out the Rachmaninoff book I’d picked up on my way home from school. I slid it inside my binder to use as a cover, then leaned against the wall and browsed the pieces. I found the most difficult one, with abundant sharps and flats, tightly stacked notes, and an array of dynamics. Determined to learn it, I took a pencil and began making fingering notations, all the while planning how I would avoid Thomas Ashby the next day.

T
he air was
muggy the next morning as I pedaled away from the house, and a wing of ashen clouds was sweeping in, turning the mountains a gloomy lavender. Foreseeing rain, I pulled up the hood of my sweatshirt and tucked my hair down my back. By the time I got to the highway, it was drizzling.

My bike tires cut through puddles on the roadside, forming little walls of water and splashing my sneakers. The smell of wet foliage and earth saturated the air, invigorating my senses.

A distant rumble echoed through the trees, but it wasn’t thunder. It was an engine, loud enough to recognize from a mile away. Maybe Dad still felt bad about this weekend and was coming to offer me a ride to school. The roaring vehicle grew louder as it came up the highway behind me, and the engine’s pitch lowered as it decelerated.

As I whipped around to see if it was Dad, my front wheel slipped off the wet pavement and into a rut. The next thing I knew, I was flying off my bike and crashing into the
muddy gravel, my palms scraping across the sharp rocks. I cried out in pain and glanced back to see an old red Bronco pulling over. It wasn’t Dad. And it only took an instant to recognize the driver.

Thomas Ashby.

He jumped out and rushed over with an alarmed expression and an extended hand. “Are you okay?”

As if I needed another way to humiliate myself in front of him. I stood up without taking his hand and tried to swipe the muddy gravel from my jeans, but my palms were so raw I gave up. “I’m fine.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you.”

“You didn’t,” I said flatly. “I just slipped off the wet road.” I picked up my bike and climbed back on.

“Hold on.” His brows pulled together like he was calculating what to say next. “I . . . I need to talk to you.”

No—you don’t
. I sheltered my face from the rain with my hand. “Can it wait until we’re not being poured on?”

“It’s dry in my truck. Can I give you a ride?”

“I like the rain,” I lied. I put my foot on the pedal to leave, but his hand came over mine on the handlebar. It was warm, and his large fingers encased mine like an electric blanket.

“Wait—just let me—” He sighed, and a cloud of his breath hung in the crisp morning air. “You’re cold. Your lips are trembling.”

I bit down on my lip to make it stop.

He raised a hand to shield his face from the rain. “Let me give you a ride.” His face was pleading, and for the first time, I noticed the striking color of his eyes. Brilliant azure, like the wings of the blue jay I’d seen the other morning. Something about them calmed me, and for a split second,
every ounce of fear inside me was dispelled. I was cold, and the cab of his Bronco looked inviting. It had to be toasty to keep his hands so warm.

“What about my bike?”

He pointed his thumb at the back of his Bronco. “I’ll put it on the rack.”

I got off my bike and handed it over, then climbed into his Bronco and sat on the brittle, cracked leather seat. The heavy door squeaked loudly as I slammed it shut.

He climbed in and we got back on the road. The moisture in the cab clung to the windows, and he reached over and flipped on the defrost. When I clutched my wet backpack against my chest and shivered, he switched it to heat. Warm air blew loudly through the broken slats on the vents.

“So, about the other morning,” he started.

I held my breath, bracing myself for the dreaded confrontation.

“I’m sorry if I made you feel uncomfortable,” he said. “I should have just left you alone and gone back to the house.”

“It’s okay. You didn’t know I was there.”

“Actually . . .” He pressed his lips together. “I did.”

“What?” At first I wasn’t sure I’d heard him right. But then he gave me a guilty-looking sidelong glance.

“I came up there earlier and saw you sleeping. I was going to just leave you alone, and I started walking back to the house. But then I started wondering . . . what if I never saw you again?”

“Would that have been such a bad thing?” I didn’t know whether to feel flattered or more embarrassed.

“Yeah—I mean, I’d be left wondering for the rest of my life who that mysterious girl in my grandpa’s tree house was.” He glanced at me, his full lips curving into a smile,
but his eyes were still troubled. “Anyway, it wasn’t my intention to embarrass you or anything, so I’m sorry if I did. And I want you to know that even though we’re living there now, you’re welcome to use the tree house whenever you want.”

So this was his indirect way of bringing it up, by letting me know that I still had a refuge. “It’s okay,” I said, shaking my head. “I’m getting too old to hang out in a tree house anyway.” The windshield wipers were on high-speed, but they barely kept up with the raindrops pelting the glass. I gazed into the storm through the blurred window, hoping he would just drop the topic.