Consent (8 page)

Plum bolts straight up, scattering pillows to the floor. “Wait a second. You're applying to Juilliard for college?” she demands in a hurt voice.

I shake my head. “No! That's my point. It would be a big, huge waste of my time.”

“Okay, whew. Because I thought you liked our master plan.”

“I
do
like our master plan.”

“Besides, Juilliard isn't a real college, is it?”

Of course it's a real college.
“Honestly, I don't know very much about it.”

Plum frowns suspiciously at me. “What aren't you telling me?”

“Nothing. There's nothing I'm not telling you. Come on, let's get those Common App essays over with.”

“Fine, all right. You do know that best friends tell each other everything, right? It's in the best-friend manual.”

“Of course I know that. I'm not keeping any secrets from you.”
Just a couple you wouldn't be interested in, anyway.

I get my laptop from my backpack, turn it on, and fuss unnecessarily with the volume control. Even though I have good reasons to lie to Plum, I still feel a twinge of guilt. Will I ever be able to open up to her?

Maybe after a few decades of therapy.

Plum and I begin typing side by side, in silence. As I try to come up with a response to the prompt—
Discuss an accomplishment or event, formal or informal, that marked your transition from childhood to adulthood within your culture, community, or family
—my thoughts turn to Dane and his parents and sister. Why didn't he follow in their footsteps and become a big-deal musician? It's like he started to and then gave up.

Although I guess I would know something about that.

When I get home on Sunday afternoon, Dad isn't there. I grab an iced tea from the refrigerator, head upstairs to my room, and boot up my computer.

Cream Puff follows me and jumps on my lap. She smells like fabric softener, which makes me wonder if she has been napping in the laundry basket again. Hannah will not be pleased.

My screen flickers to life, and for a few minutes I mindlessly shop for new sheet music and watch a couple of YouTube music tutorials. But what I really want to do is check my e-mail to see if Dane has written. I checked on and off all night at Plum's, but . . . nothing.

I finally give in. I have half a dozen e-mails: an invitation to my cousin Jin's twenty-first birthday party, a reminder from the College Board about my upcoming SAT date, random ads. But nothing from Dane.

“Hello?”

Someone is calling up the stairs—not Dad, and not Hannah, either. I rush into the hallway to see who it is.

Peering over the banister, I stifle my surprise. It's Theo. He peels off his leather jacket, glances around for somewhere to hang it, and tosses it to the floor.

“We do have a closet,” I call down to him.

He looks up with a wide grin. “Yo, Bumblebee. What's up?”

“Not much. What are you doing here?”

“Dunno. In the neighborhood. Thought I'd raid the fridge.”

“Freeloader.”

“Nice to see you too. Is El Padre home?”

“Nope, it's just me.”

“Awesome. Come on, let's microwave some stuff. The Giants are playing.”

I trot down the stairs, suddenly happy that my brother is here. He moved away to go to State when I was six. Since then, he returns to the house only sporadically, even though he lives just a few towns over.

We head into the kitchen together, and as we do, I notice the burnt-oregano smell of pot wafting from his clothes. He opens the refrigerator door and surveys the contents. “Hmm. Cheese, a can of pinto beans, salsa . . . we might be able to engineer some nachos here. How old is that pizza?”

“Um . . . Friday?”

“Outstanding. Why don't you nuke it while I look for tortilla chips? Second quarter's about to start.” Theo grabs two bottles of beer, twists off the caps, and hands one to me.

“I don't like beer.”

“It's time you learned. Come on, drink up.”

“Jerk.” I raise the bottle to my lips and take a sip.
Ugh,
it tastes like pond water.

A short while later we are sitting in the living room watching the Giants and the Broncos. Pizza, nachos, a loaf of bread, and a jar of peanut butter cover the coffee table. Also, three bottles of beer—Theo has finished his first one and is well into his second. I've managed to get through half of mine, and my head is feeling a little spinny.

Theo drapes his arm across the back of the couch, puts his feet up on the coffee table, and gives me a dazzling smile. He is really cute, and he knows it. He is also way better dressed than he should be. His leather jacket seems brand new, and his jeans and hoodie are designer. How does he afford all this on a CVS salary?

He picks up the remote and points it at the TV. “So where's the old man?”

I shrug. “I'm not sure. Maybe at the office? I just got back from a sleepover with Plum.”

“What in the hell kind of name is Plum?”

“It's her nickname. She used to call herself that when she was a baby. She's my best friend, remember? Pernilla Sorenson? You met her, like . . .” I calculate. “Three Christmases ago. She came over with cookies and fruitcake.”

Theo considers this. “Braces? Kind of fat?”

“She
wasn't
fat. And she's thinner now. Plus, she doesn't wear braces anymore.”

“Whatever you say.”

“You are such a jerk.”

“Yeah, I think we already covered that.” He dangles a bottle from his fingertips and takes a long swig.

We fall into an edgy silence. Theo and I always descend into this, and quickly. For the first few minutes of seeing each other, we manage to pull off a semblance of lighthearted brother-sister banter. And then our bad history takes over.

“So . . . how's life? How's Rachel?” I ask him, trying to get back to lighthearted.

“Who?”

“Rachel. The last time you were here, you said you were meeting up with your girlfriend, Rachel something.”

“Oh, yeah, her. We broke up. I'm with Melissa now. She's an artist.”

“That's cool. What kind of artist?”

“Dunno, paintings?”

As I reach for a nacho and nibble on an edge, I wonder if Theo has ever had a relationship that lasted longer than a few weeks. The nacho is borderline inedible. “So, um . . . how's your band? Are you guys playing gigs and stuff?”

“Not really. Our drummer just moved to New Mexico. We're looking for a replacement.”

“Do you have any candidates?”

“Nope.”

“Um, so, are you still working the night shift at CVS?”

“What is this, Twenty Questions? The Giants are about to score.”

Obediently, I turn to face the TV. The Giants make a touchdown, and the crowd roars. Theo finishes off the rest of his beer, sets it down on the table with a loud
thunk,
and gets up. He saunters toward the front door.

“Wait! Aren't we going to watch the rest of the game?” I call out.

“I've gotta head back. Thanks for the snackage.”

“Do you want to stay for dinner? I can text Dad and tell him you're here.”

For a second Theo hesitates, and I feel a sliver of hope.

“Nah, don't bother. Wouldn't want to tear him away from saving criminals.”

He gives me a little salute, scoops up his leather jacket, and takes off.

The sliver of hope vanishes.

The halftime show blares on the TV: a row of smiling, spray-tanned cheerleaders and a marching band lined up like toy soldiers. I stare at the carnage of beer bottles, pizza crusts, and wilting nachos on the coffee table.

I feel tired all of a sudden. Tired and sad.

The rest of the afternoon looms like a black cloud. Maybe I should check my e-mail again. Maybe I should walk over to Café Tintoretto and see if Dane is doing more lesson planning. Maybe I should go back to Plum's house.

Whatever. I can't just sit around and wallow in how much the men in my family hate me.

Especially since they have a good reason to.

Dane is avoiding me.

Monday in music history, I sit in the back and doodle in my notebook per usual. Today it's Batman battling the Joker on the roof of Café Tintoretto. Outside, the pale September sky swirls with storm clouds. The day is already depressing, so why not rain?

I keep sneaking Dane looks, wondering. But he is angling his face in the other direction, toward the burnouts and football players and senior sluts, as though my side of the room doesn't even exist.

“Counterpoint is the interaction of multiple voices to create harmony,” he lectures at them as he flips through a pile of index cards. “But we're not talking about notes that match or mirror each other. We're talking about notes that feel as though they are in opposition, out of sync. In fact, the term ‘counterpoint'
comes from the Latin phrase
pontus contra punctum,
which means ‘point against point.' ”

“
Habeamus coitus.
That's Latin for ‘Let's hook up,' ” Nelson whispers to me.

I don't even bother with a scathing reply. This is why I don't date boys my age. Now that I know Dane's background, it makes sense why he teaches this class like it's a college-level course. Most of this material is way over the heads of the A-Jax kids. He's obviously used to hanging out with the music geniuses at Juilliard, not to mention the music geniuses in his family.

“Aside from Bach, which composers are known for their use of counterpoint?” Dane asks. “Anyone?”

I raise my hand in the air. Dane does not even twitch my way. After a moment Aziza raises her hand also.

Dane turns ever so slightly, managing to include Aziza in the periphery of his visual field while leaving me, just one desk behind and one desk over, out.

“Bach!” Aziza says, looking pleased with herself.

“Aside from Bach.”

“Um . . .”

Laughter ripples through the room. I raise my hand again, but Dane doesn't call on me. Instead, he turns to the blackboard and starts writing:

Beethoven (late pieces)

Schumann

Franck

Shostakovich

Stravinsky (neoclassical pieces)

Hindemith

Bartók

“In his later years Beethoven was obsessed with the fugue, which is a kind of contrapuntal, or counterpoint-based, piece that introduces and develops a specific phrase throughout in a complex, interwoven way. Schumann used heavy counterpoint in everything. . . .”

I slide down in my chair and draw a big
X
through Batman and the Joker. And Café Tintoretto. Stupid Beethoven, stupid Schumann, stupid all of them. I don't know what's going on. Or maybe I do, as in, Dane feels weird about Saturday and wants to just forget about it already.

Fine, then. I will forget about it too. I can do forgetting like nobody's business.

Maybe I should see if Braden wants to start hanging out again.

When the bell rings, I gather my stuff and make a beeline for the doorway. Dane is busy erasing his composers from
the blackboard, so I doubt he even notices. I don't notice him either, or the beautiful deep blue of his shirt, or the fact that his stubble looks longer than usual. So we're even.

I pause in the hallway, not sure of where to go next. Plum has a dentist's appointment, so I have to while away an hour or so before heading over to her house for
doro wat.
I don't feel like practicing at school, because
he
might be around. I don't feel like going home first, either.

I decide to head over to Braden's locker. I find him there leafing through a calculus textbook.

“What's up, Hunt?” I call out.

He turns, and his face lights up. He closes the textbook and stuffs it into his backpack. “Hey, Bea. What are you doing in this neck of the woods? Isn't your locker in C wing?”

“No, D wing. I'm between Joshua Kidman and Kyle King, who need to work on their personal hygiene and also lose the almost-porn taped to their locker doors. Don't you have orchestra now?”

“They made orchestra an official class. Third period. Mr. R has us working on the New World Symphony, which is not fun.”

“Hmm.” I picture Dane leading fifty or so not-very-talented students in Dvořák. With the exception of Braden, Lianna, and a few others, the music kids at A-Jax aren't too
musical, despite the whole “Campus for Baccalaureate and Performing Arts” business.

“Bea?”

“Hmm?”

“I said, what do you think of our trio?”

“Um, yeah, it's fine. It's great! I haven't decided if I'm staying with it or not, though.”

“You
have
to stay.”

“I don't know. I'm pretty busy.”

“You're an amazing pianist. Amazing, understatement. How long have you been studying?”

“Since forever.”

“Yeah, well, obviously. Who's your teacher?”

I start to say
Mrs. Lugansky,
then stop myself. “I'm kind of between teachers right now.”

“Are you applying to conservatories for next year? Maybe we could compare notes. Did you know that the New England Conservatory has double-degree programs with both Tufts and Harvard? That's cool, right?” Braden peers over my shoulder. “Oh, hey, Mr. R, we were just talking about you.”

I whirl around. Dane is standing there.

“Good afternoon, Braden,” he says, but he is looking at me. “Beatrice, are you free? Could I speak to you?”

Oh.
So I guess he's not avoiding me anymore. “Actually, I'm on my way out. I was just heading over to my locker,” I fib.