Summer of the Geek (12 page)

“Tiff ’s and Brit’s mom is a therapist. I wonder if she does marriage therapy,” Hannah mused.

“I don’t think you should get involved,” I cautioned. “It’s really none of our business.”

“None of our business? We have to live with them fighting all the time. It’s very stressful,” Hannah said.

“That’s true,” I agreed.

“And everyone knows that stress is terrible for your skin. And if I’m going to model, I can’t risk getting zits,” Hannah said.

I had to stop myself from rolling my eyes. Hannah really was pathologically narcissistic.

Hannah’s cell phone began ringing. She glanced at the caller ID. “Oh, good, it’s Tiff. I’ll ask her if her mom counsels married couples. If so, I’ll make an appointment for my mom and Richard.”

“I really don’t think you should,” I began, but Hannah already had the phone pressed to her ear.

“Hey, you,” she said into the phone. “What sort of therapy does your mom do? Only kids? Really? So she doesn’t do, like, couples counseling?” There was a pause, and then Hannah laughed. “No, not for me and Emmett. My mom and stepdad.” Another pause. Hannah suddenly brightened. “Yeah, definitely ask her for a referral.”

Hannah gave me a thumbs-up.

“Don’t you think—” I began again.

But before I could convince her to mind her own business, Hannah turned and walked into her room, still talking on her phone. “New York was amazing. Wait until you see my new portfolio. It’s amazing! You’re going to freak out.”

Hannah closed the door behind her with a click.

“H
ello, Miranda,” Mrs. Fisher said when she opened the door. Today, she was wearing a pink button-down shirt, black capri pants, and black flats with shiny white patent toes.

It was Monday morning, and I was hopeful that my second week taking care of Amelia would go smoother than the first. It seemed like she’d started to thaw out a bit by the end of our bowling excursion. Either that, or I was finally wearing her down with my charm offensive.

“Hi, Mrs. Fisher,” I said, stepping into the house. Something seemed a bit off. Then I realized what it was: It was too quiet. For the first time, Amelia wasn’t at her piano when I arrived.

“Where’s Amelia?” I asked.

“I asked her to wait upstairs for a few minutes so I could have a chance to talk to you alone,” Mrs. Fisher said. Her expression was pleasant, but I suddenly had the feeling that I was in trouble.

“Did I do something wrong?” I asked nervously.

“No, no, of course not. Why don’t we sit down for a moment?” Mrs. Fisher said, gesturing toward the cluttered living room. I perched uncomfortably on the seat of a wing chair.

Mrs. Fisher sat on the sofa, and smiled at me. “You don’t have to look so worried, Miranda. You’re not in trouble. I just wanted to talk to you about how you and Amelia are spending your days. She told me you took her bowling on Friday.”

“She wasn’t really big on the idea at first, but once we played a few games, I think she had fun,” I said.

“Amelia said that you were at the bowling alley for such a long time that she had to cut her afternoon practice short,” Mrs. Fisher continued.

“Maybe a little,” I said. “We were at the bowling alley for a few hours.”

“And that’s just it,” Mrs. Fisher said, raising one finger. “Amelia really can’t afford to take that much time off from practicing.”

I was so startled, I just saw there blinking at Mrs. Fisher.

“I know it sounds strict, but the thing is, Amelia is a profoundly gifted child. It’s my job—” Mrs. Fisher stopped, and smiled at me. “
Our
job to make sure that her talent is nurtured and not wasted.”

“But Amelia’s only ten,” I said.

Mrs. Fisher nodded solemnly. “I know. And she didn’t start seriously practicing until she was eight. She has a lot of lost time to make up for. Many children who are musical prodigies are well versed in their instrument by the time they’re four.”

I tried again. “I thought you wanted me to encourage her to take a break from practicing,” I said, now thoroughly confused. “I thought you wanted her to have some fun.”

“I do,” Mrs. Fisher said. “Absolutely. It’s just that the fun can’t cut into her practice time.”

I nodded, as though I understood, even though I had no idea what she was talking about. I thought that I’d been hired to entertain Amelia. I thought I was supposed to get her to ride her bike, and run through the sprinkler, and eat ice cream like any other kid would in the summer.

It started to dawn on me that maybe Amelia’s obsession with the piano wasn’t entirely self-driven. Maybe her mother was also applying pressure to her.

“So you don’t want me to take Amelia bowling again?”

“Well, I suppose you could,” Mrs. Fisher said doubtfully. “If you could do it in a way that wouldn’t take quite so much time.”

“Okay,” I said.

“This is a very important time in Amelia’s career. She can’t afford to let up right now. There will be plenty of time for things like bowling and fun when she’s older and her career is established,” Mrs. Fisher explained.

Up until just that moment I’d thought Amelia was a spoiled brat. Talented, yes, maybe even brilliant. But still a brat. Now I was starting to wonder if maybe I’d been unfair.

I looked up, and saw that Amelia was lingering at the doorway, listening to her mother. Her eyes were large and dark, and she looked very, very young.

“There you are, Amelia,” Mrs. Fisher said. “I was just talking to Miranda about how you need more time to practice. We’ve worked it all out.” Mrs. Fisher glanced at her watch. “I have to run. You two have a nice day,” she said, standing. As she passed by Amelia, she laid a light hand on her daughter’s cheek. “You’d better start your morning practice, honey. It’s getting late.”

“So, what did you do then?” Charlie asked.

We’d met at Grounded, a coffee shop located near Geek High. At the end of the school year, Charlie had declared the coffee shop off-limits, because Mitch—Charlie’s ex-boyfriend—used to work there as a barista. Luckily, Mitch had gotten a job as a counselor at a summer camp and quit his job at the coffee shop, so we were now allowed back. I was glad. I was addicted to their frozen lattes.

“What do you mean?” I asked, bending forward to slurp my latte through a straw.

“Did you and Amelia do something non-piano-related today?”

I shrugged. “We played Boggle for twenty minutes. Does that count?”

“No, Boggle doesn’t count!”

“Why are you yelling at me?” I asked, blinking at her in confusion.

“Because it’s your responsibility to help that girl,” Charlie said. “And now that we know she has a pushy stage mother, she obviously needs your help more than ever.”

“What are you talking about?” I asked. I shook my plastic cup and slurped up the last of the frozen coffee slush.

“Miranda! Amelia’s only ten years old, and she’s basically being handcuffed to her piano! Forced to practice for hours and hours, while her whole childhood passes her by,” Charlie said. She was talking really fast, and was gesturing a lot with her hands. I wondered if she was entering one of her manic periods. Or maybe she’d just had too much coffee.

“I think ‘handcuffed’ is a bit strong,” I said mildly. “Her parents may be putting some pressure on her, but Amelia seems pretty dedicated. Maybe she wants to be a famous pianist just as much as they want her to be.”

“No ten-year-old is that dedicated to anything,” Charlie said. “And I should know. I was painting seriously at that age. But I took breaks from it, joined in other activities. I played soccer, and swam, and took dance classes.”

“You danced?” I asked. I hadn’t known Charlie when we were ten; we’d met in the seventh grade when I first transferred to Geek Middle. “For some reason, I can’t see you as a ballerina. Did you wear a pink tutu and wear your hair up in a bun?”

Charlie gave me a withering look. “I didn’t take ballet,” she said. “I took tap and jazz.”

“No kidding! Stand up and show me something,” I said. “Can you do that shuffle-ball-change thing?”

“Can we please stay on topic?” Charlie asked, making a karate chop gesture with one hand to signal that she was cutting off the dance segment of our conversation. “Seriously, Miranda, you have to help Amelia.”

“What am I supposed to do? Stage a coup against her parents? Kidnap her and bring her to live at the beach house? I’m sure the Demon would love that,” I said. “She hates having Willow and me there as it is. I can’t imagine what she would say if I smuggled a bratty ten-year-old in, too.”

“I’m not suggesting you kidnap Amelia.
Obviously
,” Charlie said. “But I think you have to do whatever you can to help her break out and start thinking for herself.”

“Ah. You want me to undermine her parents’ authority,” I said.

“Exactly,” Charlie said, pointing at me.

“No,” I said.

“What?”

“No,” I said again. “I’m not going to undermine Amelia’s mother.”

“Why not?”

“Because, she’s her mom. I’m just the babysitter.”

“I thought you were an au pair?” Charlie interrupted.

“Whatever. Either way, I’m not the one who gets to decide whether or not Amelia’s going to be a concert pianist. That’s up to her and her parents. And anyway, I think it’s what Amelia wants, so what right do I have to interfere with her dreams?” I said.

“I’m not saying she shouldn’t follow her dreams. But if she doesn’t learn how to take a break from practicing every once in a while, she’s going to burn out. So think of it this way—if you teach her how to relax and do normal kid stuff, you’ll actually be helping her fulfill her dreams,” Charlie said.

“If I keep her from practicing, I’ll be out of a job,” I pointed out.

“That just means you have to be extra sneaky about it,” Charlie said.

“I don’t like the sound of that,” I said. I glanced at my watch. “And speaking of extra sneaky, where’s Finn? I thought he was meeting us here at four.”

“He said he was,” Charlie said.

“He’s late. It’s four thirty,” I said. “What’s he been up to lately? He’s been oddly absent. Normally, I’m tripping over him every time I turn around.”

“He’s probably with that Phoebe McLeod chick again,” Charlie said. There was a definite edge to her voice.

“Are they an item now?” I asked interestedly. I hadn’t heard from Finn all weekend, and had wondered how his date with Phoebe had gone.

Charlie shrugged. “No idea,” she said moodily. She picked up her cup of coffee and drained it. “I’m going to get another. Want another one?”

“No, thanks,” I said. I thought Charlie would be better off getting a decaf, but I knew she’d be irritated if I mentioned it. She probably wouldn’t listen to me anyway.

I watched Charlie head to the counter to order her latte, and wondered if she was right about Amelia. Should I make more of an effort to encourage her to be a regular kid? Even if that meant going against Mrs. Fisher’s wishes?

Charlie returned to the table, paper cup in hand. She popped off the top and took a sip.

“What you need to do is find something that Amelia will like just as much as playing the piano,” Charlie said, returning to her pet subject of the day.

“That’s just it. She doesn’t like doing anything else,” I said. “She’ll suffer through a board game if I make her, but she doesn’t even pretend to enjoy it.”

“How about computer games? You could give her one of Finn’s games to play.”

“I don’t know. His games are pretty violent. I don’t think Mrs. Fisher would approve,” I said. “Besides, I think Amelia was developing a little bit of a crush on Finn. I don’t want to encourage it.”

Charlie snorted. “She has a crush on Finn? I thought you said this girl was bright. So video games are out. What else? Does she like animals?”

“I don’t know. The Fishers don’t have pets.”

“Art? Dance? Music?” Charlie asked. “Other than the piano, I mean.”

I shook my head. “Not that she’s admitted to. I was thinking about taking her to the pool. She’s never learned how to swim, so Dex said he’d give her some lessons.” I scanned the blackboard menu over the counter. “I’m hungry. I wonder if the blueberry coffee cake here is good. Have you ever tried it?”

“That’s a great idea! You should definitely get her swimming,” Charlie exclaimed, ignoring my question about the coffee cake. “It’s the perfect solution. Her mom can’t possibly object to her learning. And what kid doesn’t like to swim? When I was her age, going to the pool or the beach was the coolest thing ever.”

“Maybe she has a water phobia. When I was a kid, I used to freak myself out pretending that the pool was full of barracudas,” I said.

“Invisible barracudas?” Charlie asked, one eyebrow raised.

“Hey, don’t mock my phobias,” I said. “You’re the one who breaks out in hives if you see a clown.”