Blue Notes (7 page)

 Ten 

J
anissa and I make time to have breakfast together the next morning—breakfast being Pop-Tarts in bed while we read textbooks and aimlessly watch
Lost
on Netflix. She’s in her pajamas, per usual. They’re cute little shorts and a T-shirt that reads “Frankie Says Relax.” Her older stepbrother got it for her. There’s twelve years between them, so it’s a way of finding common ground with a sibling so much older—the cornier the better. She has yet to wear her set of matching
Magnum, P.I.
sweats, but I know she owns them.

I’m still in my bathrobe with a towel wrapped around my head, because a night at the club meant needing another shower pronto when I dragged myself up from the dead this morning. Between Yamatam’s and that nightmare, I feel prickly and unmoored.

Of course Janissa had a host of questions after I recounted the triumphs and tragedies of my night. I don’t leave anything out.

“And he just
talked
to you like that? All possessive?” I nod at her. “What an ass!”

“That’s the thing,” I say. “I really can’t tell you why I’m defending him, because he doesn’t deserve it, but it didn’t feel . . . hostile. It felt like I’d been invited to play a game, but I didn’t know the rules.”

“I wouldn’t defend that.”

I close my eyes briefly, then towel dry my wet hair to disguise my wandering thoughts—thoughts that have to do with Jude’s buttery rich accent and his lean, capable body. I stand in front of the mirror and spray on some leave-in conditioner. Compared to Janissa’s Scottish heroine red and Adelaide’s Hollywood blonde, I’m feeling pretty plain this morning.

Maybe I’m just tired, but I suddenly miss Clair and John. Things were easier with them. They knew how to reassure me in ways that weren’t patronizing, in ways that made me think they were one miracle short of being eligible for sainthood. Who took on a kid like me and found the patience to turn me into a halfway stable college girl? Clair and John Chambers, quiet heroes.

Before my brain invents new schlocky Hallmark odes, I flip my hair over my shoulders and decide to pop the second pastry in the toaster.

“Brandon would say this is a fire hazard, you know,” Janissa says. “I only learned a couple days ago. We’re not supposed to have toasters in our rooms.”

“Do you think he’ll bust us?”

“That could be fun.” She giggles. “Maybe we should open the doors and let the smell waft down the hallway.”

I start to laugh. “Don’t lie. You’d set off the emergency sprinklers. Then he wouldn’t have to bust you until after he rescues you.”

“Me? Sounds like you have a better chance at getting rescued first.” She pillows her chin on her folded hands, lying there on her stomach. “First comes that mystery guy, Jude, and now Brandon? Since when did my quiet musician roomie get boy crazy?”

“Juju in the water, or whatever. Last night. I swear it.
So
weird.”

“Are you planning on leaving anyone in New Orleans for me? Pick one and lemme have the other.”

“You’re being ridiculous.” I sit cross-legged on the bed, still wearing my fuzzy pink robe, with a plate of Pop-Tarts on my lap to ensure modesty. “But you should come out with me Thursday. Adelaide already texted this morning that she’ll be playing there again. You could come see the circus.”

“Are you going to invite Brandon?”

I shake my head. Yamatam’s and Brandon? That idea just doesn’t work. “No.”

“Is Jude going to be there?”

“How should I know? Besides, there’s no way. You should’ve seen him with Adelaide. It’s like they spoke a special code language of snark and subtext. They’re totally an item. If not now, then in that way exes can be when they’re not done with each other.”

After a slight cringe, Janissa sits up and goes about cleaning her glasses. “Yeah, I know. There was this guy last year, Kier, who was like that for me. It took him doing a semester someplace in New York for me to get free. When he came back I realized, wow, I didn’t want to be postbreakup friends with him. We were never friend material.”

I realize there’s a lot about Janissa I don’t know. “Get free” is a really powerful phrase. I want to ask more, but she already has that closed off, artificial brightness in her eyes, like she never brought up anything at all.

“Just sex, then,” I say, nodding sagely, and privately agreeing to drop the subject.

She tosses a pillow at me. My second round of breakfast hits the floor. “I’d dignify that with a response if I didn’t think you’re a virgin,” she says. “Wait, you are a virgin, yeah?”

“Yeah. So?”

“There’s no
so
about it. Just glad to know I’m not the only one.” Her grin widens. “But don’t think we have anything in common. I am not a wannabe slut in the making. You
long
to be corrupted.”

I lie back on the bed, laughing. “Is that what I should’ve said to Jude? Corrupt me! Corrupt me!”

“Or Brandon. Does it matter to a hussy like you?”

“Did you call me a hussy?” I ask, breathless. “Are you from the eighteen hundreds or something?”

“Doesn’t matter.” She affects a perfectly prim pose. “I shouldn’t be anywhere near you Thursday.”

“No, you need to save me from my wicked, base impulses. I have these . . . urges. Like . . .” I snatch one of the Pop-Tarts off the industrial carpeting. “Like flagrantly breaking the five-second rule.”

Janissa makes a face as I take a big bite out of the frosted strawberry pastry. Strawberry is a fruit. That’s healthy enough, right?

“Okay,” she says. “Now that’s crossing a line. Ew.”

We burst into laughter and I smile appreciatively at Janissa. She’s lovely and even tempered, and a slight oddball like me. But I knew that on day one.

Now I’m realizing that she’s the best sort of roommate a random computer pairing could’ve found for me. There’s no judgment in anything she does or says, which is a huge plus. Hell, it’d be a huge plus for anybody, but I’ve come to think of our dorm as a safe haven. I’ve had so few safe havens that they stand out like bright beacons.

Janissa is ninety percent of what makes it safe. The rest is just white painted cinderblock walls, industrial carpeting, and an illegal toaster. But it’s starting to feel more like home.

“So, this Jude guy,” she says. “No joke, he’s the one you need to stay away from. I mean, he sounds
really
intriguing and all sexy mystery man, but you’ve got too much on your plate for that drama. Music fellowship, remember?”

I nod. “Is this where you turn on the sensibility faucet and I get a faceful of it?”

“Seriously, you have classes and rehearsals, plus, what’s your big campus debut at the end of the semester?”

“The Fall Finish. Part final exam featuring an original composition, part audition for the local music ensembles—including the New Orleans Symphony. I want to compose for a living, but getting established can take years. In the meantime, I’d love to earn my way by playing piano, rather than holding down two jobs that involve serving fries. The university tries to place all of its fellows before we graduate. Now I just need to . . .”

I wiggle into a pair of khaki shorts under my robe, then turn my back to put on my bra and a loose, maroon cotton shirt that I knot at my stomach. “Now I just need to learn how to perform for people in a way that doesn’t make me seem possessed. Or feel like I’m about to have a panic attack—all those eyes on me. I need what Adelaide had last night. She was
aware
. Of everything she did and how it would affect all of us.”

“You being her mentor doesn’t mean the information has to go one way.”

“You’re so practical. That’s a really good thing . . . normally.” I pull the ends of my hair out from my shirt and give the damp locks another toss. “But that also means you’re right about no mystery man, doesn’t it?”

I don’t want her to be right.

Janissa uses her fingers to tick off a list. “He has a young, cute girlfriend. You have classes, rehearsals, composition, public performances, and clearly a deep need for avoiding drama.”

I pause in putting on a swish of lip gloss. A fist of icy fear wraps around my heart. I’ve never told Janissa about my past. “What do you mean?”

“You just seem high strung. No offense. I am too. But . . .” She inhales. “You have bad dreams, don’t you?”

“I . . .”

“You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to. Just that sometimes you sound like you’re crying or asking someone to stop.” Her embarrassment is obvious, and I want her to stop talking, but I’m glad when she doesn’t. Because she finds a way for us to get out of the dark by sharing a laugh. “Whereas I thank my lucky stars every night that you don’t snore.”

“You do.”

“Do not!” But she smiles around a blush. “So, yeah, from my perspective, ditching the drama means finding a guy who offers up less bullshit and more straight-up answers. I learned my lesson. Gimme a nice guy who doesn’t go in for head fucks.”

“Classy.”

“But true.”

“Okay, then tell me what happens when I wake up with his voice in my head?
If I want you, sugar, I’ll come find you
.”

Janissa’s auburn brows shoot upward. “He
said
that? With a straight face?”

“Completely straight face.”

“No shit. Because that’s
so
unfair. It’s USDA grade A crap, but it’s also toe curling. Ugh. It’s caveman romance. All that stuff we’re not supposed to think is dreamy.” She shrugs and starts getting dressed too. “But that goes back to the head fuck thing. A guy who has a girlfriend should’ve never said that to you, then kissed her
in front
of you. Drama city. Take a big detour around it and try out Brandon. He’s tall and hot. What else do you need?”

A lot more.

I sigh and stack up a bundle of blank music paper. I haven’t had a chance to write down what I improvised at Yamatam’s, before notating and plugging it into my Mac. But I have one more question before Janissa retreats to her corner of academia.

“Hey, actually, Brandon said something last night. He asked Adelaide’s name and got this strange look on his face. I couldn’t make anything of it. Sorta . . . amused? Stunned? But I know he lied when he said it was nothing. Does that mean anything to you?”

“Oh.” Janissa practically jumps off her bed and slides into her desk chair, laptop open in a flash. “Oh, no way.”

“No way what?”

“Jude and Adelaide. It only clicked now, saying their names close together. His was, what, Jude Villars?”

“How did you know that? I haven’t mentioned it.”

I feel shaky but why, I don’t have a clue. This feels big, because Janissa doesn’t normally overreact. She’s calm and steady. You can learn that early about a person and trust it. She wouldn’t have this gleam in her eye, this on the cusp vibe, if it wasn’t really important.

“There,” she says, a little triumphant, a little breathless, as she points to the result of her Google search. It’s a picture of Jude in a magnificent tuxedo, with Adelaide on his arm in what must be a one of a kind ’20s-inspired gold sequin gown. “Jude and Adelaide Deschamps-Villars, the rich as hell heirs to Villars International, this huge paper manufacturing company. Their family practically saved Tulane after Katrina. They were orphaned two years ago when their parents’ private jet crashed. Ages sixteen and twenty-four.”

“Orphaned by a plane crash? Oh God, that’s terrible.”

“Yes, but Keeley,” Janissa says with a crooked smile, “that means they’re brother and sister.”

 Eleven 

O
rphans.

Brother and sister.

I’m all manner of idiot. Or the luckiest girl on the planet. Or . . .

There are so many new ways to think about Friday night that I literally
can’t
think.

I check in with Clair and John, who’s actually the one to pick up this time. “Clair’s on rotation today. Sucks,” he says, sounding more frustrated than tired. “It’s a nice day out. We wanted to go for a bike ride.”

“Too bad I’m not there. I’d go with you. Instead I’m in the common room dungeon trying to make sense of a piece I wrote the other night.”

I do my best to explain what happened at Yamatam’s, even mentioning Jude.

Yes,
the
Jude Villars.

No, I don’t mind if you tell Clair, but thanks for asking first.

And finally,
Yes,
I’ll be careful.

John’s concerns sound a lot like Janissa’s, which doesn’t surprise me. Clair has always been my go get ’em influence, with John tempering us both and offering quiet caution. He’s our rock. They raised me by tag team, which is probably why they’ve been able to do it so well.

After signing off, I try to get comfy on the floor, with my notebook of music paper open across my knees. The dedicated Saturday afternoon lazies are watching
SpongeBob
. Some of that has to be the brownies someone brought from off campus. I don’t want to eavesdrop or watch pineapples under the sea or nibble a little hash with my chocolate. I just like the company of being around genial people, even if I’m the oddball sitting on a beanbag chair against the wall, with my headphones in.

No one notices me. I have that skill—except, apparently, when it comes to Jude Villars. He noticed me. Pursued me. Saw through me.

I duck back to my work. I don’t listen to music while I’m composing. Instead, the sounds of distant thunderstorms fill my ears—the Midwest in late spring, when the air is suddenly thick with heat, rain, and the possibility of the static magic that lifts the hairs on my arms and neck. Tornado skies. The whip of fresh, unearthly winds. I live in that world, so to speak, as the music from the night before takes physical form, as scratches and the occasional eraser smudge on stave after stave.

Brother and sister.

I scribble faster, trying to outpace hot and cold flashes of confusion. The worst, though, is anticipation.

Thursday night. Of course Adelaide planned to play again. Would I?

That’s a thought to make a girl’s skin go numb. Maybe I’m supposed to get charged up about it, but that’s not me. I only did it on Friday night because I was dared to within an inch of my sanity.

Will Jude be there?

Janissa is right. I don’t need head fuck drama. He played with me so hard that I just about kissed him. Thing is, I only would’ve proven him right, because no way have I ever wanted to kiss anyone that much.

The music I created on the fly in front of a crowd of bar patrons starts to change, taking on a new motif. As I transcribe the notes in my mind, I’m propelled by the rhythm of those four-four-time words.

Will Jude be there?

I don’t like that he’s invading so much of my brain space, especially my composition, the only thing I’m usually one hundred percent certain of. A gift by the genetics of my shit for luck parents, like a consolation prize for having been born to those two.

To have Jude influencing my music, after only two encounters and a few hours, is disturbing. My lone consolation is that with every note, I’m remembering even more of how I performed. The music is what does it. If I stop and
try
to remember, it’s like trying too hard to remember a dream. Not that I try to remember dreams. Janissa was right about my nightmares.

Each flash of graphite on paper, however, takes me back to Yamatam’s. One chord at a time. One note at a time. I can almost see myself at the piano, totally out of body.

I can almost see myself as
he
would’ve seen me.

Maybe I wasn’t as manic as I feared. I was energetic, engrossed, compelled by an unstoppable force. Maybe Adelaide was right about Liszt.

Not that it matters. The music department won’t want to see that. They want soul and refinement from their composition students. No hurricanes allowed. I got my fellowship by playing by the rules. I’d play by the rules again when it comes time for the Fall Finish.

I jump out of my skin when someone nudges my shoe. I look
way
up to find Brandon standing there. But for a moment, in my confused mind, he isn’t Brandon. He’s my father, looming over me.

I used to make blanket forts a lot. I also hid under beds. One time, I found refuge behind a washer and dryer. Dad always found me. Depending on how much he’d drunk, popped, or snorted, his attitude could be anything. Sometimes he was so high and out of it that he almost seemed kind. Even happy. That made the other ninety-nine percent of his moods even harder to take.

So when
he
found me . . . I never knew
who
found me.

I snap free of the memory when Brandon smiles. His mouth moves. I pop out my earbuds and slap my notebook closed a little too quickly.

He stays quiet for a heartbeat, looking at the notebook, then shrugs. “Hey.”

“Hey.”

“You got dinner plans?”

I about choke on the cough I hold back. “Uh.”

Fabulous.
I might as well replace my tongue with a row of black and white keys. Sure, I’d pound out a lot of weird music every time I open my mouth, but at least it’d sound better than my oh so eloquent response.

“I don’t know,” I finally conjure, and it’s the truth. “Probably pizza and a stack of textbooks.”

He shifts from one foot to the other. It looks a little boyish, but sorta bashful on a guy as built as Brandon. He must’ve played sports back home in Pensacola. Maybe he still does. Maybe we’d actually have a good time, with plenty to talk about.

But why do I doubt that so much?

“Sounds about as bad as desk duty,” he says.

“Nothing sounds as bad as desk duty.”

“I’ll give you that.” He sits on the floor beside me and props his back against the wall, long legs outstretched, ankles crossed. He’s wearing loose jeans, Carhartt work boots, and a Black Sabbath T-shirt. Even if his only authentic knowledge of Ozzy Osbourne is from the TV show about their messed-up family, the effect is great. The T-shirt is fitted and just worn enough. Sitting side by side like this, I let myself sink into the idea that he’s as nice and cool as he’s supposed to be.

“What else are you taking?” he asks.

I really want to get back to my work before I lose my out-of-body feeling. And I still have to feed my notations into the music program on my Mac. But Brandon’s too nice to blow off. I’m making too much out of the few little things about him that bug me.

“The sociology of subcultures, the history of early Latin America, and basic biology round out my required classes,” I say. “So . . . reading. Research. I have a paper about piercings and tattoos due a week from Tuesday, which has to include firsthand interviews. I haven’t even started.”

“That shouldn’t be too hard.”

I want to say,
I bet the people I interview for my paper won’t resemble the guys in prison with my dad.
But I don’t. I never will.

Janissa can’t help hearing when I have nightmares, which makes me want to apologize all over the place. That doesn’t mean I’m ready to open up and explain where they come from. I was given a fresh start when Clair and John drove me out of California. That clean slate means no one here gets to know what I’ve lived through.

I clear my throat. “So, what’s your major?”

The question is genuine—the perfect escape route—and he sounds excited about his major. But I’m struck with the idea that I’m using up potential dinner conversation fodder. Again I wonder why talking to him over milkshakes or whatever would be so hard.

No, not
hard
. Just . . . ordinary.

“I’m studying journalism,” he says. “Part of my Big Assignment this year is editing a campus news blog, and shadowing a local news crew. So, see? If you need any help on that paper, I’m your guy.”

I accept his hand to stand up. His palm is warm but in that pleasant way. Life force. No hint of sticky New Orleans sweat. Thank the heavens above for air conditioning at full blast. I tuck the notebook in front of me like a shield. Against what? Having a life?

“So . . . about dinner?”

I look everywhere but at him, until I call myself a coward and force my chin to lift. “Can I take a rain check until I get a better handle on my schedule? Maybe next week? I know it’s asking a lot.”

He grins. “Nah, asking was asking a lot. I know everybody’s busy.” He glances around the room, where co-eds look like they’ve been hooked up to anesthetic drips. “Well, everybody worth asking out.”

“Am I doomed to ramen if I say yes?”

“I save it for the really special girls.”

I fake a sigh. “Ninety-nine cents of paradise.”

“I buy them in bulk. Ninety-nine cents would be highway robbery.”

Slugging him on the shoulder seems perfectly appropriate. He doesn’t budge. Smacking him, even playfully, is like trying to make a dent in granite. Suddenly I wonder what it would be like to grab this guy and know he wouldn’t let go. To know that kissing him would be solid and safe.

I have to keep wondering, because I can’t picture it. At all. Imagining something so domestic with a steady guy like Brandon should be easy. Instead I feel that same agitation.

My imagination is out of control this weekend, which is why I don’t trust myself about much of anything—only that Janissa makes me laugh, and that what I’m writing is saving my sanity. Grounding me. It’s not the first time I’ve retreated into deep sonic worlds—places buffeted by echoes of remembered thunderstorms—in order to avoid the real one.

Back in the real world, I’m standing in front of Brandon. His active brown eyes are full of expectation, even though I’ve already put him off. I like his chin. It’s strong without being arrogant. I like his lower lip, just full enough to beg for exploration.

I don’t like that I’m imagining someone else.

He smiles again. That particular tilt of his lower lip makes me remember the night before, when he asked Adelaide’s name.

He knew.

“So . . .” I shift my weight, as if I’m mimicking the way he’d first approached me. “About last night . . .”

“That already makes it sound like we did more than talk with a five-foot table between us.” Maybe my expression stops his jokes, because he blinks and drops to my level of sobriety.

“You knew who I was talking about when I mentioned Adelaide Deschamps. How she and Jude Villars are brother and sister.”

He glances toward the ’luded-out television crew, then turns back. The palest pink flush tips his ears, which are revealed by the fall of his black hair. “Yeah. Sorry about that.”

I clutch my notebook tighter. “Why not just tell me?”

“You came back looking so supercharged. I liked that you stopped by to say hi.” He looks away again. It’s making me want to fidget. “Then, to bring up how you’d spent the night with two New Orleans celebs? I guess I didn’t want to be overshadowed so fast, you know?”

I take his explanation and roll it around in my head. “Sure.”

“Besides.” He looks uncomfortable, as if me shooting him down is finally sinking in. But what he has to say, with that bitterness back again, is a surprise. “She has a reputation. Wild girl. Lots of sex and drugs.”

“Way to keep the rumor mill in check,” I say without hesitation. “Think about what she’s been through, then try to think of her behaving like a normal person—if anyone’s really normal. I bet it’s impossible to muddle past that, even with a truckload of therapy.”

“Therapy.” The word is clipped and sharp as a blade. “Right. That works wonders.”

“Really, I’ve got work to do.” I glance down toward my notebook. Without realizing, I guess I’ve been edging toward the door, because I’m halfway out of the common room when I say, “I have to finish this sonata before I lose it completely.”