Blue Notes (13 page)

“Are you seeing him?” Her eyes are sharp; she
is
as perceptive as Jude. I would’ve been surprised had it been otherwise. “Never mind. Of course you will.” She grins. “But as for my brother and me, it goes like this. I’m eighteen years old. He’s eight years older. I know him as well as anyone, and I know that he’s got his eyes set on you. No offense. I’m sure you’re great. But my brother has some serious authority issues—as in, he can’t get enough. It’s only gotten worse since I started here and I’m not tied in bubble wrap at a boarding school. One drink and one chat with the wrong guy, and suddenly I’m on his shit list. Again.”

“Maybe if that guy wasn’t one of our profs . . . ?”

“Never mind. I’m not going to let Jude run my life. I’ll fight that battle some other time. I’ve been dying to pick your brain for days.”

Maybe it’s that deception radar I’ve honed, but I know that’s not entirely the truth. She may have given me a passing thought or two. “Dying” for anything to do with me—I don’t think so. I wonder if she’s even given a thought to music in the days since her last performance. She expresses herself creatively with every gesture, word, her whole appearance.

“Then let’s talk shop,” I say.

“Or not.” She leans in, her hands lying flat atop each other on the table. “When did you find out who we are?”

“Does that matter?”

“Sure. The sad, tragic, rich as fuck Villars kids. There’s a reason I registered using my mom’s maiden name. I want to know where I rate on your pity to envy scale.”

There’s a defensive hostility in her eyes that I hadn’t expected. It’s really out of nowhere. I decide to counter it the only way I know—other than setting off a fire alarm and running out of the building. I’ve already done that with one Villars. So honesty it is.

“I was mostly pissed at your brother,” I say. “He messed with me all night, and I don’t like being tricked, even by omission.” I take a sip of my chocolate malt. “But that’s not you. I got the formal introduction letter from the department. I just didn’t catch on. Mostly I felt bad for you, because I didn’t think I had much to offer when it comes to mentoring.”

“And now?”

“Now what?”

“You said you
didn’t
think you had much to offer. After seeing me perform, have you changed your mind?”

“Yes,” I say carefully. “But quid pro quo will probably come into it.”

“The Franz Liszt thing?”

“Yeah,” I say. “I don’t like performing in front of people. Sometimes I get scared that I’ll hole up in a studio and compose, and no one will ever see me play, and I’ll learn to be fine with that. But that night at Yamatam’s took me by surprise.”

“You liked it.”

I smile. “And now I really want to do well at the Fall Finish, even if it means puking before and after. I wish I could grab a few strands of your extroverted DNA and make that a fun night, not one I spend months dreading.”

“Then why did you? Perform, that is,” Adelaide says.

“Jude goaded me into it.” My voice is rough. All pretense of keeping a nice, even, unreadable tone is toasted. I’m an open book and I know it.

“I’m sure he had some power trip reasons, but that’s the best thing he’s done in a long time,” she says with a smile. “You were amazing.”

“You’re being generous. I can’t get a job with an ensemble if I keep going into trances when I perform.”

She shook her head. “I love that you compose on the spot, that you let the music take over and just go with it.”

“It’s unpredictable. I’m sure employers don’t want unpredictable. They want someone to blend in. When I try to do that, I sound like a ten-year-old at her first recital. But you play—”

“Okay, stop there. Either you’ll lie outright, which will damage us beyond repair. Or you’ll hesitate as you come up with some middle ground near truth. That’s what our more astute profs do, just before they ask how many hours a week I practice.”

“Or?”

“Hm?”

I swipe a droplet of melted ice cream off my glass and rub it between my thumb and forefinger, then lick it off. “There sounded like a third option there. Outright lies, platitudes, or . . . ?”

“Or blind fawning.”

“Lemme guess,” I say, smiling more easily now. “That’s Jude.”

“Most guys. But yeah, Jude.”

“Then here’s the real deal. You have perfect technique. You probably master everything in a day, then do other stuff, whatever floats your boat. Rinse. Repeat.” I’m warming to the topic, because instead of scrunching up her face, all offended, Adelaide’s smiling too. She’s aggressive and megawatt bright, but she’s cheeky too. “Everyone’s so floored that you learn so fast that they don’t look deeper. So . . .” I take a deep breath. I’m grinning too. This has become less about music. That’s gotta be good for both of us. “Fans fawn, as fans do. The profs default to thinking you must not practice enough. They can’t see the real problem.”

She’s laughing now, a wind chime, Tinker Bell sound. Her eyes take on that half moon shape Jude shows off when he laughs. “You’re a prodigy. Takes one to know one. Only another prodigy can see past the magic trick. So tell me, Piano Whisperer, what is my real problem?”

I shrug. “Simple. You don’t give a shit unless you have an audience.”

“My, oh my, Keeley Chambers.” She takes my hand and gives it a squeeze. “I hope Jude doesn’t break your heart, because I do like you.”

 Eighteen 

T
here’s a lot about people I don’t like. If I give myself enough time to dwell, that list can get pretty long. People can be cruel, deadly, heartless, selfish, disrespectful. They can be vice-ridden and lack any basic empathy toward their fellow man.

The tough part is when you have empathy and still wind up behaving like a jerk.

That’s me. Tonight. It’s Saturday, and I just hit Send on a text to Brandon.
Practicing with Adelaide. Rain check?

“I’m such a liar,” I mutter.

Janissa looks up from where she’s set up a sort of indoor picnic. She has this thick, doubled over piece of flannel she uses as a picnic blanket, with her dinner of Eggo waffles and a wedge of cantaloupe arranged on foam plates. There’s no chemistry book around. Instead she’s holding
Dubliners
by James Joyce. Just like me, just like everyone, we have electives to get through. Maybe someone held a gun to her head when she chose twentieth-century world literature.

Not everything can be tearing down jazz clubs or exploding chem labs.

She nods to my phone. “What’d you do?”

“Blew off Brandon.”

“Gotcha.”

“I feel like crap.” I slump onto my bed and sigh. “But I’m just not up to it.”

Janissa looks at me with lifted eyebrows, so damn cute and completely not buying my BS. “Uh huh. You’re exhausted, totally spent, ridiculously tired. You’re swamped! Just look at all those books,” she says, nodding toward the desk I’ve spent an hour pointlessly rearranging. “I can’t believe you’re conscious enough to text, you poor thing.”

“I didn’t know you could talk in one hundred percent sarcasm.”

She shrugs. “Gifts are gifts. But, seriously, Keeley. What’s wrong with Brandon? And really, what’s been up with you lately?”

I don’t answer. I only toy with the On/Off button on my phone, watching the screen flash black and then back to a wallpaper of abstract blues and greens.

“It’s him, isn’t it? Jude?”

No denying that, not even with a mock glare. “Yeah, it’s him.”

“Look, he might be a great guy. If I wanna give him the benefit of the doubt, I’ll even say it. He’s a great guy. He and his family did wonders for this city, Tulane in particular, after Katrina. And it sucks about his parents.” She grabs a bookmark and sets
Dubliners
aside. “But he’s, what, four or five years older than us? That’s a thirty-five year age difference in dog years. Take a lesson from the cute little puppies and forget him.”

“Forget a gorgeous, melty, mysterious grown-up guy who’s decided I’m . . .” I don’t know how to finish that. What
does
he think I am? Does it matter? It doesn’t now, but it sure as hell will. “That I’m ‘intriguing.’ That’s the word he used.”

“Intriguing,” Janissa echoes. “You’re taking that as a compliment, I’m assuming. I’d have preferred sexy or clever or irresistible.”

“How much has he seen of the world? ‘Intriguing’ is a good thing.”

“Or a good way to get into your pants.” I must’ve given something away. An expression? A shift on my bed? Her big, dark eyes widen. “Has he gotten into your pants already?”

“No! Besides, what if he had? I could do a lot worse. Most of female-kind could do a lot worse.”

“Okay, it’s like this.” Janissa stands from her half-assed picnic and sits beside me. “I don’t care what you do with your pants. Your choices. Your business. But a lot of the appeal has to be that he is older, and that’s super mysterious. It’s hot.”

“I hear a big ‘but’ coming on.”

“Oh yeah. It’s not like he’s one of us. We’re students. We do boring shit like classes and hideous group project meetings, clubs, Friday night basketball games. Well, maybe not us. My point is, you have no idea what he does when he’s not with you. You never will. His real life is like some other planet. Right now you could pop down to Brandon’s room and say hi. I bet he even has his door open.”

Dorm rooms can feel like hamster cages, so most people do. We make it clear that some company would be welcome. It’s more like a cry for help.
We’re studying! Come save us!
It’s also how we find new music, share Netflix subscriptions, and borrow printers when something’s gone wonky. The more open the door, the more open the person—or pair of roommates.

It’s funny. In the last couple days, Janissa and I have been leaving ours open more often.

So yeah, I can probably stroll downstairs to where I know Brandon shares room 109 with a short psych major named Gerry, short for Gerard I think. Poor guy.

The problem is, I don’t want to.

“Keeley, Jude’s out of your league—and I don’t mean that as a girl and guy thing. It’s a girl and
man
thing.”

“Quit.”

“Nope. We’re in the minors and he’s in the major league. The two shouldn’t mix. Weren’t you saying that about his sister and that professor?”

“Sure,” I say, flopping sideways onto my pillow. “Because he’s our teacher, and a married expectant father to boot. That’s just gross. Jude is not gross. He’s . . . I can’t stop thinking about him.”

“That’s probably his intention. Hook, line, and sinker. Oh, and totally in your pants.” She kinda frowns. “Not to get too personal, and obviously you don’t have to answer, but what happened the other night? I mean, you haven’t said a thing. Are you okay?”

“I’m okay.” But that’s reflex. I shake my head. “No, I’m not. It’s . . . Aw, crap. It’s complicated.”

“I mean, you left the club to go make out with him in his town car. As an aside, who drives a town car? Does that need a chauffeur?”

“It was a really big Mercedes.”

“Gotcha. Rich speak for
I paid a ton for this thing
.”

I smile a little. I know she’s trying to look out for me, and part of me really wants to confide in her—in anyone. But . . . God, it’s so personal. I need to, though. What happened, and this thing I want to have happen between Jude and me, is too big to keep trapped inside me.

“We got sort of hot and heavy.”

“Sort of?”

“Not like you’d think. It was . . . Sometimes I wish I could say things with words as well as I can with music.” I shake my head. “Anyway, it was sexy. Teasing? Some kissing, touching, and toward the end I was so . . . Ugh. He stopped. He asked if I would still be a virgin if he hadn’t.”

“I’m guessing not.”

My face feels like it’s four inches from the sun. “Yup. So we made this . . . I think you could call it a plan. About how to make my first time really good.”

“A plan? Keeley, that just sounds weird.”

“No, hear me out. That guy you were with last year. Kier. It’s my turn to guess. He put a lot of pressure on you to give it up.”

Janissa looks away, the first time she’s backed down during this grilling. I don’t like hurting her.

“Yeah,” she says softly. “He did. It’s why we broke up. He left me for an ex-girlfriend slut. He made it clear that things would’ve been different had I loosened up.”

“And then there’s the rest of the baggage. That it’ll hurt or only the guy will like it or that it’s over in less than thirty seconds. Jude. Damn.” I run my hands over my scrubbed-clean face, but I’m still suffering under the fiercest blush of all time. “He wants to take it slow. A seduction. Like, we know it’ll happen, but not by accident in the backseat of his Mercedes. Not on a dorm bunk with the TV on. Not with a guy who doesn’t know his dick from his elbow.”

“Keeley Chambers, I think that’s the first time I’ve heard you use a cuss word any stronger than ‘crap’. ”

I grin. “Fuck off.”

She laughs and leans over to grab her tumbler of ice water. Her expression is contemplative while she sips. “So . . . you talked about it? You know it’ll happen, but . . . ?”

“I won’t be in the minor leagues. When it comes to sex, that’s gotta be a good thing. I’d rather train under a pro.”

Janissa snorts. “Under. On top of. You don’t care.”

“Quit!” I glance to the door where two passing girls stop short at my shout. “Sorry, nothing to see here,” I say with a shooing motion.

“Not true,” Janissa says, smiling broadly. “Secretly, the mysterious Keeley Chambers of room 310 is a slut in the making. She’s got a mentor and everything.”

“Give him my number when class is dismissed,” replies a short Korean-American creative writing major named Opal. “I could do with a guy who doesn’t think a six pack, nachos, four buddies, and a Saints game means he’s gonna get laid.”

“See?” I playfully smack Janissa on the arm.

“At least you get beer.” That from Opal’s roommate, whose name I can never remember, only that she has superhipster horn rimmed glasses and a surprisingly cool bouffant thing going on with her hair. “But please tell me he brushes his teeth after the nachos.”

Opal buffs her nails on her shirt, all mock pride. “Damn straight. What kind of girl do you take me for?” She breaks character and laughs. “Mostly he does. God, I need to break up with him.”

“Who is he?” Janissa asks. “This needs to be public knowledge to ward us all off.”

Opal grins. “What, you think he isn’t my forever guy? Besides, he’s just Brandon from the front desk.”

Janissa flinches. I go completely frozen. I’m glad she’s a little more skilled at people stuff than I am. And I’m really glad my face is already half hidden by my pillow.

“Wow,” Janissa says plainly. “He’s a Saints fan? I thought he was from Florida. Aren’t there panthers or gators down there to cheer for?”

Opal shrugs. “I don’t know what the deal is. He’s a foster kid, so maybe he’s been all over.”

“Are you two heading out tonight?” Janissa is sly. I’ll give her that.

“Yeah,” Opal says. “He was able to get out of the desk duty he had tonight. So ta-da, beer and nachos.”

“With me as the third wheel,” adds her roommate.

Janissa’s laugh sounds forced. “I hate that. Happened to me the other night.” Although I cringe at the memory, Janissa surprises me. “But it was for the best. Have a good night, ladies.”

As soon as Opal and hipster girl are gone, Janissa shoots up from the bed and shuts the door. She leans her back against it. Neither of us speaks for a long time. My heart’s beating like crazy, and Janissa is a little pale.

Magic fairies control my life now, apparently, because my phone chimes with two texts, one right after the other.

“You’re going to be a good roommate and tell me what those say, right?”

I nod. “The first is from Brandon.
Sorry 2 hear. Will find a way to fill my time. Lunch Tues?
”

“What a shit! You know I’m gonna have to have an intervention with Opal.”

“Don’t worry about that,” I say with surprising calmness. I’ve felt it before, that calm when faced with a nasty chore and knowing I can handle it. “I’ll have lunch with him and take care of things.”

“And the other?”

“From Jude.
I don’t want to wait until Monday. I’ll pick you up at ten.
He spells out all his words. Who does that?”

Janissa pushes away from the door. “Guy’s in the major leagues. So . . . what are you going to wear?”