Consent (4 page)

Now comes the second movement, which is like Beethoven on steroids. My fingers leap and dive to manage the multiple octaves and dotted rhythm. I hum along with the dominant line while trying to bring out the different voices. There are so
many things going on at once that I'm dizzy and heady with adrenaline.

My eyes snap open when I sense that someone is standing next to me.

Mr. Rossi.

“Oh!” I jump up from the bench and practically knock it down. “I'm sorry, I know I shouldn't be here. But I couldn't find a practice room, and the door was open, and—”

“You . . . play the piano,” he says.

I stare at him.

“Yes, of course you play the piano. Sorry, I . . . Who is your teacher?”

“Mrs. Lugansky,” I reply automatically. “My friend Plum calls her ‘Scary Russian Lady.' ”

His lips curl up in a hint of a smile. He has nice lips. And then I remember my dream from last night, and I have to force myself to think sad, serious thoughts—
dead puppies, starving orphans, global warming
—so he can't tell.

“She
used
to be my teacher,” I add quickly. I really do have to stop propagating the Mrs. Lugansky lie. What if he asks me for her contact info so he can arrange piano lessons for his kids? Does he
have
kids? Is he married? He's not wearing a wedding ring.

“Used to be?” he prompts me.

“I'm, um, taking a break from lessons,” I lie some more.

“I see.”

He stands there, his expression inscrutable as he studies my face, then my hands, then the place on the keyboard where I left off. Am I in trouble? I'm not sure what I'm supposed to do, so I sit back down on the bench and reach for the quilted cover. I remember that I have his handkerchief in my pocket; will he notice that it's missing?

“You're incredible,” he says finally. He looks away, flustered. “What I meant was, you're very gifted. But I suppose you've heard that many times.”

Actually, no.
“Thanks. Thank you. So, um . . . I guess you play the piano too?”

“Yes. I got my bachelor's degree in piano performance. Have you thought about mixing up the tempo more in the first movement?”

“Mix up the tempo? Why?”

“May I?”

Without waiting for my answer, Mr. Rossi sits down next to me and pushes the quilted cover aside. As he does, his tweed jacket grazes my bare arm. My skin tingles from the contact, and I want him to do that again: accidentally-on-purpose touch me. Although it was likely just an accident, and I really need to cut this out already.

He raises and lowers his elbows, then closes his eyes. He smells like his handkerchief, except warmer, sultrier. He launches into the first movement—initially at tempo, then more slowly, then with a series of fits and starts in the form of ritardandos and accelerandos. His interpretation is decidedly more measured and melancholy than mine, and more passionate, too.

He stops just before the shift to the second movement and turns to face me.

“So . . . what do you think?” he asks me.

Our legs are almost touching. Should I inch away? Or stay where I am?

“Beatrice?”

He knows my name. After just the one class. I should correct him and tell him that everyone calls me “Bea.” But I love the way he says “Beatrice”—like a poem, and with that dreamy accent.

Oh, right, I need to respond.
“Yes! Sorry! That was wonderful! Really deep and intense and tormented.”

“Schumann was in a great deal of torment when he wrote this part.”

“What was the matter with poor old Schumann?”

“Poor
young
Schumann. He was twenty-something at the time. He was in love with his piano teacher's daughter, Clara Wieck. But Mr. Wieck wouldn't let them be together.
Schumann wrote a song for Clara called ‘Ruines' because he felt that his life was in ruins without her. That song became the beginning of the Fantasy.”

Oh my
God,
how romantic. But I probably shouldn't say that to a teacher. “That's insanely interesting. How do you know this?” I ask instead.

“Conservatory. You'll see for yourself, next year.”

Conservatory.
I drop my gaze and study my nails.

“At Juilliard or Curtis or wherever you decide to go, you'll learn everything there is to know about the lives of the composers. Who was in love with whom, who died of syphilis at age thirty-one, who had a morbid fear of the number thirteen . . .” Mr. Rossi hesitates, apparently noticing that I've checked out on this conversation. “You
are
a senior, right? That's what it said on my class roster: ‘Beatrice Kim, senior.' ”

I nod.

“Sorry . . . I simply assumed . . . So you're
not
applying to conservatory, then?”

“Nope.”

“It's just that I don't run across people your age who can play the Schumann Fantasy like that. Or at all. You have ‘piano performance major' written all over you.”

“Thanks. Actually, I was thinking more along the lines of . . . um . . .”
Quick, make something up.
“Pre-law.”

“Pre-law?”

My phone buzzes. I glance at the screen. It's a text from Plum:
I'm done. Where are you? Meet me out front.

“I have to go,” I say, rising to my feet.

Mr. Rossi glances at his watch. “Actually, so do I. I'm due at a meeting that starts—started—five minutes ago. It's probably not good to keep Principal Oberdorfer waiting.”

“See you in class, then.”

“Yes. See you in class,” he replies. “Beatrice?”

“Yes?”

“The rest of the Schumann. Could I hear you play it sometime?” He sounds shy and hesitant, like he's asking me out. My heart feels hot and fluttery.

“I'm still working on it,” I murmur.

“Good. I can offer you more unwanted advice, then.” He smiles, and I have no idea if he's joking or not.

I'd better start working extra hard on that last movement.

“Have you ever been friends with a teacher?” I ask Plum.

We are sitting on her bed getting ready to take the verbal section of a practice SAT test. A bowl of grapes, a plate of warm shortbread cookies, and two mugs of Earl Grey tea are on a tray between us. Plum's phone is set to timer mode, and she has sharpened about a hundred pencils.

“A teacher? Not really,” Plum replies as she reaches for her tea. “No, that's not true! I was bored at my old school—Dad called it ‘underchallenged'—so he and Mom arranged for this college TA guy, Marcus, to tutor me privately. Marcus was supposed to make me read
Finnegan's Wake
and stuff like that. But most of the time we'd just get Starbucks and talk about our favorite TV shows.”

“Sounds fun.”

“It was! Why are you asking? Wait, is this about Kit Harington?”

I attempt a casual shrug. “I kind of hung out with him today, after school. Well, not hung out, exactly, but had a conversation with.”

“I
knew
it!”

“Knew what?”

“You like him,” Plum says with a sly smile.

“Seriously,
no.
He may be cute, but he's also old. And a teacher. He's super smart about music, that's all.”

“If you say so.” Plum picks up two identical pencils, compares them, and sets one down. “He's technically a sub, right? He's here because Mrs. Singh had her twins this summer.”

Mrs. Singh. I have a vague memory of the old music history teacher who was also in charge of the student orchestra and several chamber groups. I can picture her at the spring concert, the curve of her ginormous belly barely camouflaged under a maternity outfit. “When is Mrs. Singh coming back?”

“I'm not sure. I heard a rumor that she might not come back at all. So maybe your Mr. Rossi is going to be permanent?”

“He is not my Mr.—”

“Hey, I just had
the
best idea! You should ask him for a letter of recommendation. I bet he'd write you a really fantastic
one, since you're a musical genius.
Plus,
he's your new best friend.”

“He is not my new—”

“You'd still need another rec letter, though. Let's see, what about Mr. O'Donnell? Or Ms. Nargi? I think she went to Harvard, so her name may mean something there.”

“Fine, whatever. I'll get right on it.”

She gives me a funny look but doesn't say anything more. We turn our attention to our practice tests. I can feel Mr. Rossi's handkerchief bunched up in my pocket, pressing against my hip bone. For some reason, it makes me really happy; it's like a shiny secret that makes the rest of the world seem less dull. Still, I wonder if I should try to put it back where I found it.

As Plum starts her phone timer, I grab a cookie and read the first question:

Serena had never been to Paris, but she could experience the City of Lights _________________ through her friend Paul's lively anecdotes.

(A) secretly

(B) insufficiently

(C) vicariously

(D) gradually

(E) mysteriously

I choose option C. In the margin I copy the word “vicariously” in frilly cursive. Next to it I draw a picture of a grand piano covered with a tangled morass of rose vines. I add a pair of sexy lips. Under the piano I write:
secretly, insufficiently, gradually, mysteriously.

Plum catches sight of my doodles.

“What are you doing?” she whispers.

“Plum, you don't need to whisper.”

“What are you doing?”
she repeats, more loudly. “We have to pretend we're really taking the SATs, so no doodling! And get busy!”

“Yes, Dictator Mom.”

The next question has to do with the Battle of Hastings. As I fill in the answer, it occurs to me that I'm strangely relieved that Mrs. Singh might not return to school and that Mr. Rossi might become permanent. Not that I care about what happens after I graduate, but still. At least for the near future, I'll have something to look forward to: playing the Schumann Fantasy for him, talking about music. Seeing that gorgeous face.

Am I crazy, or does he act like a guy around me instead of a guy/teacher?

I'm crazy.

By the time Plum's phone timer beeps at us with its chirpy cricket ringtone, I have completed this section of the test and covered the blank pages with more rose vines.

“Yes! Finished!” Plum announces happily. “I think I got them all right. What about you?”

“Maybe. Okay, now
Buffy.
”

“Let's add up our scores first.”

“You really are a Dictator Mom.”

“I know. One of us has to be!”

We check our answers against the key in silence. The smell of Swedish food wafts up from the kitchen: meatballs, beets, and Jansson's Temptation, which was named after a monk who broke his fast. I mean, who wouldn't give in to sliced potatoes baked in a gallon of cream? Mr. Sorenson is cooking tonight, as he always does on Tuesdays when he isn't busy designing museums or rich people's houses.

It turns out that I got all the answers right except for one, about Vladimir Nabokov. I never liked his novels, anyway. Plum said we have to score 2200 or better when we take the real test in October. I guess this is what we need if we want the Ivies to even consider our applications.

I glance down at my SAT practice test and trace the rose vine doodles with my finger. Where will I be a year from now? College? Still in Eden Grove? Or is there some unknown destiny that will secretly, gradually, and mysteriously reveal itself to me?

And then the beginning of the Schumann Fantasy flits through my mind.

I wonder whatever happened to Robert Schumann and his piano teacher's daughter?

I start a new list in my head:
Things to Talk About with Mr. Rossi.

On Wednesday, Mr. Rossi catches my eye as I'm leaving his class.

“Beatrice, do you have a second?” he calls out.

“Sure!” I push my backpack up my arm as I wait for him to continue. He gives me That Smile, and I swear, he seems really happy to see me. Like he was waiting all of eighth period for this. I know that
I
was, listening to him lecture about Bach and not being able to think about anything except how his sexy stubble would feel against my face.

I really need to rein this in.

Several students bump into me as they hurry into the hallway. Mr. Rossi touches my elbow lightly and eases me away from the door.

His hand is still on my elbow when the room clears. I should probably move away, but I don't. Neither does he.

I choreograph the conversation we are about to have:

Mr. Rossi (caressing my cheek): I've been thinking about you.

Me (smiling seductively): Really? I've been thinking about you too. . . .

“You have something in your hair.” Mr. Rossi reaches over and plucks a candy wrapper. “Tootsie Roll. You don't see these much in Britain.”

A Tootsie Roll wrapper?
God,
how embarrassing. How did it even get there? And then I remember Plum offering me a piece before history class.

He smooths back a lock of my hair. “There. Sorry, I didn't mean to mess up your . . . Anyway, I wanted to ask you: How do you feel about Rachmaninoff?”

He touched my hair.
“Rachmaninoff?” I squeak.

“Yes. The Russian composer.”

“I know who Rachmaninoff is.”

“Yes, of course you do. I didn't mean—”

“No, it's . . . um . . . I love his music. In fact, I'm working on his ‘Little Red Riding Hood' étude now. You know, the repeated-notes-and-jumping-chords étude. Plus, I've always wanted to learn his second sonata.”