Allegra (21 page)

“What?” I mouth, keeping half an eye on Mr. Clement.

She just smiles and shakes her head. “Nothing,” she mouths back.

I open up my notebook and try to concentrate on what Mr. Clement is saying, but my mind keeps floating back to Ms. Dekker's comment.
You're dancing like you're in love
. Why would she say that? And who does she think I'm in love with?

The truth settles over me like a soft blanket. Mr. Rocchelli. Noel. He's all I ever think about. I've never been in love before, so I didn't recognize what was going on with me. My whole body goes numb as it sinks in. I glance over at Talia again. She's still watching me, a soft smile on her face. I turn away, pretending to be completely focused on the lesson, but butterfly wings flutter in my stomach. Can Talia possibly know what is going on with me?

Talia hangs back after class, waiting. I take my time, collecting my things slowly and hoping she'll leave without me. She hovers by my desk. There's something about the way she's been watching me that's unnerving, like she knew what was going on with me even before I did.

“I think I'm going to skip lunch and take a shower instead,” I tell her. “Jazz class was tough. I can't stand the smell of myself.”

“You smell fine to me,” she says, leaning over and inhaling deeply.

“Just wait another hour.”

“Are you sure you don't want to go somewhere and talk?” she asks.

“No.” I feign puzzlement. “Is everything okay?” I ask, trying to bounce the conversation into her court.

“You look like a lovesick puppy,” she says.

I give her my best what-are-you-talking-about expression.

“And I know it's not Spencer,” she says. “So that leaves only one person that I can think of.”

I grab my things, stand and push past her toward the door. “I don't know what you're talking about.”

“From what I can tell,” she says to my back, “you're spending an awful lot of time in Mr. Rocchelli's portable.”

I swing around. “You know perfectly well that I'm composing a piece for my project in music theory.”

She just stares at me, a smug little smile on her face. “He's hot, Allegra. Every girl in the school thinks so. And he's not that old.”

The room is empty. I can hear students in the hall, lockers banging shut, everyone heading to their lunch-hour haunts, but we are totally alone in this room, facing one another. I feel a fury building up inside me. I am not like every other girl. Mr. Rocchelli and I have something special going on, but she would never understand that.

“Did you ever think that I might have friends outside of this school, maybe even a boyfriend?” I ask, the lie coming easily to my lips.

I see a moment of doubt cross her face, but the smugness returns almost immediately. “I'm sure you do. But I don't know when you'd find time to see him, with your dance and school schedule. And especially with all the time you spend in the music portable.”

“I don't know why we're having this conversation,” I say and step toward the door.

She steps in front of me, blocking the doorway. “Because I like you, Allegra. And I've been watching you. You've changed a lot since September. Spencer is crazy about you, and I think you should give him another chance.”

“I'm not sure when my business became your business.”

“That's what friends do. We take care of each other.”

I meet her gaze, startled by her words. I've never thought of friendship quite that way before, and yet…is that really what is happening here? “This feels more like some kind of weird accusation.”

She shrugs. “I'm sorry it feels that way.” She hesitates, and in that moment the smugness leaves her face. “I thought maybe you could use a friend who looks out for you.”

I am surprised to see the kindness in her eyes. “I don't need you to look out for me,” I tell her. “But I do need to take a shower.” I shove past her and through the door.

“Make it a cold one, Allegra,” she says to my back.

I'm ultrasensitive to Noel's presence as I walk across the portable toward the sound room. Without even glancing at him, I know he's watching me.

Clamping the headphones over my ears, I fire up the computer and attempt to look like I'm working, but really I just want to be left alone. Alone to think. Alone to make sense of this strange new understanding.

I close my eyes and breathe deeply. When I open them again, I sneak a glance at him. He is standing beside a girl, showing her something on a keyboard. He plays a chord, looks at her to see if she's grasped the concept and plays another one. He moves aside, allowing her to step in front of the keys. She places her hands down, and I watch as he reaches over and rests his hands lightly over hers, then slides her hands slightly to the left. She plays the chord and together their hands slide to the right and play another one. Her face lights up. He takes his hands off hers and they smile at each other. A pang of jealousy rips through me. Is it true? Does every girl here really think Noel is hot? I look down at my own keyboard, willing myself to get back to work, but I'm staggered by the weight of this newfound realization. I'd always thought love would feel light, free, liberating. Why, then, do I feel so paralyzed?

I tinker with the composition for a while but quickly realize that when the two of us are working together, the music feels like it's writing itself. We go into another zone, as though the musical ideas are being channeled through us from some greater force. Noel will play a musical phrase that gives me an idea, and my idea appears to infuse him with increased creativity. We heap musical ideas on top of musical ideas, and they come faster and faster once we're warmed up. The process works so well that it's impossible to go back to writing alone.

The bell sounds, indicating the end of the lunch hour. Pulling off the headphones, I sign out of the program, grab my bag and turn to leave the room, but Noel is leaning on the doorjamb, gazing down at me. I can't believe I didn't sense him standing there. My heart skips a beat. I can't look at him.

“Did you make any changes I should know about?” he asks. His voice is light, teasing. It tugs me out of my mood.

“Actually, I deleted the whole thing. It was garbage.”

“You better not have!” He laughs, and I feel myself relax. “Or you'll be back taking my class again next year!”

Another realization hits me, hard: when we're working together, he just has to laugh or tease me, and I tease back, and the anxiety evaporates.

“I'm looking forward to tonight,” he tells me as I pass him in the doorway. “We're almost done.”

I nod, then feel my mood dip again.
Almost done
. I don't ever want to finish, because then our time together will be over too.

I spend the afternoon, pretending to concentrate in class but thinking only of Noel, wondering how he feels about me. I pull out a blank page in my notebook and make a list of things I know for sure.

1
. He likes the music I write.

2
. He knows that the music we write together is so much better than what either of us could write alone.

3
. He understands why I can't relate to people my own age.

4
. When he looks at me, he really sees me.

5
. He shares personal stories with me.

I study the list, then add one more entry.

6.
Is he in love with me too?

I crumple up the page and shove it into my backpack.

I have to skip my dance class tonight to meet with Noel, but I don't care. Dance has become second to my interest in the composition. If I had my way, we'd spend every evening on the piece, smoothing out the rough patches, slowly, steadily working on the crescendo, reaching for that final, stirring cadence.

My windshield wipers slap at high speed as I pull up to the school. I fish around in the backseat, looking for an umbrella. Nothing. It won't matter how fast I run. I'll be soaked before I reach the portable. I peer out into the night, wondering if the rain will let up if I wait a few minutes.

Headlights flash in my rearview mirror, and a car pulls into the stall beside mine. Immediately I recognize it as Noel's. I get my bag and pull my hood up over my head, but before I can even open the car door, I see him standing there, holding an umbrella. He opens my door for me and peers in.

“Wanna share my umbrella?” he asks, grinning.

“Sure,” I say, sliding out of the driver's seat and moving in close to him.

He pushes my door shut with his free hand and effortlessly pulls my left arm around his right one, the one that's holding the umbrella. The rain is bouncing off the pavement. “C'mon,” he says. “Let's get inside.”

Linked at the arms, we jog around the school toward the music portable. The wind is blowing the rain straight at us, threatening to suck the umbrella inside out. Mr. Rocchelli struggles to hang on to it. Our shoulders bang into each other as we run. I laugh at the craziness of it. In the pitch-dark I can't see the ground beneath my feet, but I do feel how water-soaked my shoes have become.

Suddenly my ankle rolls, and my foot slides into a water-filled hole with a
splosh
. “Ow!”

Mr. Rocchelli tightens his grip on my arm to keep me upright. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah.” I put my weight on my soggy foot, but a searing pain shoots up my leg. “Oh no.” I begin to limp. Our strides are no longer in unison.

“Allegra?” Mr. Rocchelli is frowning down at me.

“I just twisted my ankle a bit. Let's keep going.”

Like a dancer leading his partner into a graceful transition, Mr. Rocchelli switches the umbrella to his other hand and manages to wrap his right arm around my waist, allowing my left arm to go across his shoulder for support. We hobble over to the portable. Despite the pain shooting up my leg, I relish the moment, feeling his hand squeezing my waist. Disappointment washes over me as he releases his grip to fish the key out of his pocket and unlock the door. Pushing it open with his shoulder, he deftly puts down the umbrella and helps me into the room. I fall into the nearest chair while he flicks on some lights.

He rushes back to me and squats down, gently lifting my foot. I pull it away, embarrassed. “I'll be fine in a minute. It happens all the time in dance class.”

We both stare at my waterlogged shoe. My jeans are soaked all the way to my knees.

I reach down and carefully unlace my shoe. Tugging at the heel makes me flinch again. I let it go with a sigh. Mr. Rocchelli, settled in a chair facing mine, leans toward me, obviously anxious about my ankle. I look up, and our eyes meet. His brow is knit with concern, and I try to smile to reassure him. Despite the ache in my ankle, I don't want this little crisis to ruin our evening. A drip of water slides from a lock of his hair and lands on the bridge of his nose. Without a thought, I reach out and blot it with my thumb before it can run down the entire length of his nose.

I pause there, my face only inches from his, my ankle forgotten. Our eyes hold for a split second and then he abruptly sits back.

“I'm sorry, I just…” I can't finish the sentence, too mortified that I've crossed some invisible line.

“That's okay.” He smiles, but his face flushes and his gaze returns to my foot. He uses his hand to slick back his wet hair. “I guess we're going to have to call tonight off. You need to get your foot checked out. Shall we call one of your parents to come and get you? You shouldn't be driving.”

The businesslike tone of his voice disturbs me. All the usual warmth is gone. I feel panicky, not wanting to lose the close bond we've established. “I'll be fine, really.” I rotate my ankle, ignoring the stabs of pain. I lean over and massage it a little, then gently remove my shoe and massage it some more. I ignore the swelling I feel around my anklebone. A chill runs though me, and I feel myself shake involuntarily.