by Kristy Marie
“I’m sorry. Oliver wanted to make sure you had something to eat.” I hold up the lunch bags, and his eyes jump from me to the little boy running toward him and then to the bags. “We didn’t mean to interrupt.” We kind of did, but we didn’t know he would be in here doing something so… extraordinary. I mean, I was thinking he may be lighting up a cigarette out back. I invoke that type of response sometimes. Pe says he hopes I hold onto my looks long enough to get a husband because my crazy can be a bit much. I know that’s a shitty thing for your bestie to say, but honestly, Abuelita essentially said the same thing before I left Costa Rica. “Búscate un buen marido mija, pero eso sí, uno que le gusten las locas.” Basically she told me to, “Find myself a good husband, but one who likes crazy.”
“Did you really feel the music?” the little ball of innocence asks.
Tim’s gaze settles on the bouncy little boy now at his feet. He waits for a moment and then looks at me, a pleading look in his eyes. He doesn’t have to ask me what he needs. I sign Oliver’s question.
“Uh….” He clears his throat, rubbing the back of his neck, clearly buying himself some time. “Yeah, I did.”
Why does that make me freaking smile? Why did I think he would keep that secret and not let Ms. Peak, or me for that matter, know that she was right and he didn’t need to hear to enjoy the music? He could still feel it.
“Can I try?”
Tim looks at me like he isn’t sure what to say. I shrug. I don’t see why he can’t try. Poor Ms. Peak isn’t getting her lunch hour back; may as well make another little boy happy today.
“Sure.” He doesn’t sound sure. He sounds like he would like to sprint from this room and take up knitting. “Ms. Peak?”
Ms. Peak, who made it back to her desk, grins behind her bag of pretzels. “You can play it for him.”
Ah. She’s good. Real good.
Tim doesn’t agree because he shoots her a glare that, if given to me, would have me running to the bench and banging out a few notes, even if I don’t know how to play. The man can be scary.
“Are you going to deny him the experience?” she continues when Tim just stares at her, never making a move to sit and play for Oliver. Even I’m sweating from the heat of his stare, and I’m not in the line of fire.
“You better hurry. I have a class coming in thirty minutes,” she goads. I’ve never appreciated Ms. Peak until now. Who knew a music teacher had the balls of a Marine? I sure as hell didn’t, and I’m guessing by the tick of Tim’s jaw, he didn’t either.
But he sits his ass down at the bench.
Ms. Peak stops crunching on her pretzels.
I ease down into the nearest chair. I have a feeling I am going to need to sit down for this.
“Take your shoes off,” he grumbles out to Oliver who already has one slung off to the side and is working on the knot in the other one.
“Put your hand on the piano and close your eyes.”
I know I’m a spectator and I’m not barefoot nor do I have my hand on the piano, but I freaking want to experience this too, so I close my eyes and wait.
I wait for him to shatter my freaking soul.
And he does so… flawlessly.
Tim plays angelically. Soft and caressing, a feather touch, tickling the inner most nerves. I freaking tingle. Is that a normal reaction? Tingling? I’ve heard of chills and crying but not tingling. Yet, here I sit, my whole body tingling and humming, craving his every keystroke. The man is fucking me up with his massive hands spanning over the keys as if he’s their commander, wordlessly directing them with the sheer power radiating off him.
Have mercy. I’m going to need a shower when I get home—a long one.
I pull myself together long enough to look at the little boy who has abandoned Tim’s instructions and has chosen to squeeze in next to him on the bench, his little hand placed over Tim’s larger one. Oliver is playing. He’s feeling the music through Tim’s hands—am I freaking crying? What is this sorcery? I swipe away a tear, eyeing the magician in the room—Ms. Peak. She’s smiling, smugly, I might add. Did she know Tim could play so well? Did he tell her or did she guess?
I think she guessed. Tim isn’t a talker. I highly doubt he ripped open his soul on the second day of class when he barely makes eye contact with anyone. My gaze narrows on the older woman nodding in appreciation before she stands and strides over to the boys to place a metronome on the piano.
“You’re a little off,” she says sternly. “Start again.”
Yeah, she knew he played. I don’t know how she knew, but she did. That only makes me a little jealous for some odd reason.
Radio host: Timaeus is in Georgia, correct? Still in college?
Penelope: He is. A double major: Music and foreign language.
Radio host: I can see the pride on your face.
Penelope: Ah, Brian, I am more than proud of Timaeus. From the moment Timaeus was born, he has surpassed every expectation we’ve had of him. He’s a brilliant flame that will never be smothered.
Radio host: That sounds like a new song idea!
Penelope: Ha. Maybe after everything is over.
Ms. Peak is worse than Anniston, and that’s hard to fucking do. But for some reason, I seek her out. Her music room feels like home, even if I abandoned the family long ago. Music and instruments haven’t been a part of my life for a very long time. Then when I completely lost my hearing, I was happy to finish vanquishing them out of my life forever. I hadn’t seen a piano in years. I loathed everything it represented. Her. A past. And a future I would never fulfill for her. And yet, the minute I walked into the room, it was almost as if I was drawn to its beauty—its power that has always called to me.
And then she asked me to play, and it snapped the spell. I remembered my vow to never play again. I wouldn’t miss the sound. I wouldn’t miss the way it made me feel. Music. Sounds. They would never be a part of my life again. I made sure of it. Nothing is left in my room—apart from the TV I keep only for Aspen and me. And the tape recorder that I play on those nights when I just can’t let go. On the nights where my mind wanders back to a time when I was happy. A time when she was dying inside and I missed it.
A small hand tugs on mine. I look around and realize I’m still at the piano bench, my hands shaking from playing Un Sospiro. I can’t believe I remembered it. I can’t believe I played it.
The little hardhead next to me squeezes my hand again. “Are you cold? Do you want a jacket? I have one in my book bag.”
I didn’t read him wrong. I don’t have to look at Milah to know. This selfless soul just offered me his jacket. A jacket that I probably couldn’t even get a hand through. A knot forms for the hundredth time in my throat. “That’s okay; I have one back in the classroom. Thank you, though.”
I don’t tell him that I’m not cold. These shivers, or tremors as Anniston and Dr. Parker would tell me, are an emotional reaction. I would argue and say it’s from the stress of being goaded into playing. But let’s be honest, the lightness and warmth swirling around me like a warm shot of whiskey is not from stress. I felt the music. I felt it. I can’t tell you where it started or why I allowed Ms. Peak, Anniston 2.0, to talk me into trying.
Maybe I am looking for hope. Maybe I just wanted to prove that Dr. Parker was wrong. At my appointment next week, I can report that I played again. I am moving the fuck on. But I won’t. Because what I just did… feeling the vibrations start in the soles of my feet, moving up through my legs… my palms absorbing the shock of the key hammers… I could hear it. I could follow the melody. I could remember the sound, and it was magnificent. The only way I can even begin to explain it is when you hear someone sing and it brings tears to your eyes and goose bumps down your arms. You don’t know why the song is moving you, but it does. That’s what it felt like standing there, vulnerable, in front of Ms. Peak.
The small hand squeezes mine again. “I’m hungry. Ms. Iglesias says we don’t have much longer to eat our lunch.”
&nbs
p; I’m really not in the mood to eat, but I can’t let the little kid starve. I nod. “I guess we should eat then, huh?”
I’m slipping. I already feel myself slipping. Kids have always been a chink in my armor. I think it is because I was an only child and I wanted so badly for my mother to give me a sibling. Her career was her other child, and so it never happened. And then the diagnosis came, and I realized, not only would I never be someone’s big brother, but I would also never be someone’s dad. This gene has to stop. I’m the end of the line. I won’t let it continue running through my family’s name. I guess that’s one of the reasons I love Aspen so much. It’s like she’s my little niece. Someone so perfect, so untainted by my bad genes, and loves me more than her limited vocabulary allows her to express aloud.
Oliver slips his shoes back on and leads us back to the desks, where Milah awaits, each of our lunches pulled out and waiting neatly.
“Did you measure how far apart the milk was to the sandwich?” I tease her. Teasing her is better than feeling so naked and exposed in front of her. That’s three times she’s seen me at my worst since I’ve met her. That’s three times too many. But yet, here she is, playing the dutiful boss and good person. She could have told Principal Moorehouse about my outbursts and failure to be present in the classroom. She could have ratted me out yesterday, but she hasn’t yet, which tells me she is a good soul. Even if I do make her plot my death.
“Just for that comment, I do not feel bad for eating the cherry tart in your lunch bag.”
I pause for a second, absorbing the words. “You ate my lunch?”
Not that I care, but I find it rather hilarious that Miss Selfless was rooting around in my lunch bag and then decided to eat my dessert.
One dainty little shoulder shrugs. “When I get emotional, I need sugar. Oliver and I didn’t have any in our bags. You did.” Another shrug as if she’s suggesting that her being emotional is somehow my fault. “Who brings cherry tarts in their lunch anyway? Are you too good for a sandwich and a Butterfinger?”
I grin. “Who says I don’t have a sandwich?”
She throws her arms back and points to the frosted container of food which, in fact, is not a sandwich but a kabob of lean meats and veggies that one, Brecklyn Jameson, worked hard on this morning.
“Refined carbs are bad for you” is all I respond with, nodding to her sandwich.
She rolls her eyes. “Whatever. I’ll take refined carbs over river fish any day.”
Slipping into the seat, I mouth “river fish” and chuckle, sliding a bite of salmon, not river fish, off the skewer with my teeth.
Milah swallows roughly and chokes.
“Are you okay?” I ask, getting up to pat her on the back or something.
“I’m fine.” She waves me away with her eyes wide and her hair looking a little mussed. “I told you, Oliver, we should have let him starve.”
What?
“Are you saying I made you choke?” Is that what she means?
Her eyes narrow. “Don’t flatter yourself.”
I laugh at her annoyed expression, which makes her look even more flustered. “Okaaaay.”
Her chest rises a few times, and then she sweeps her hair up, securing it with a hair tie, as if she needs the heat off her neck. “Oliver, do you have a ride to the festival tonight? I can come pick you up if your foster parents can’t do it.”
Foster parents? Festival? How long have I been in the music room?
“What festival?” I leave out the question about Oliver’s home situation. I will ask about that later, in private.
“It’s the Fall Festival—ahh! That’s the bell.” She gathers her and Oliver’s food, and I toss mine back into the bag Aspen decorated for me. “We need to go. But the Fall Festival is tonight. They always follow it up with an outdoor movie. All teachers are supposed to attend to support the school or help out with events.”
Her face goes a little funny. “I’m not sure if they need any more help, but—”
“I’ll be there.”
I don’t do being different. I’m either a teacher or not. If we have to be there, then I will be there—even if I would rather saw off my foot with a butter knife.
Anniston is bent over her desk when I knock softly. She looks tired but, otherwise, like the focused leader I’ve grown accustomed to seeing. At the sight of me, she smiles and waves me into her office.
“What’s up?” she asks verbally, signing only the word up. Anniston always makes sure she is looking at me and enunciates her words clearly so reading her lips is easier. I think she knows that I would prefer to read lips rather than sign. It’s harder, but I feel less like of an outsider when my family and friends can carry on as usual and not sign when it’s faster for them to speak. Or maybe Anniston has just always been so focused and caring when any of us need to see her that I just didn’t appreciate it until now.
I sigh and rake a fidgeting hand through my hair, flopping down in the wingback chair facing her desk. “There’s a fall festival tonight at the school,” I mumble.
“Oh fun,” she says and then tucks a lock of hair behind her ear, distracting me from her amused smile. “Are you going?”
“No.”
Her eyes widen. I’ve shocked her with my answer, and for a moment, I feel a grin tug at my lips. But then the heaviness settles back in my chest and the amusement slips away just as fast as it came. “I mean, yes,” I say, making a pained noise at the end.
“So you are going?”
I pop up and stand, stashing my hands in my pockets. I don’t want to sign this next part. “Teachers are supposed to make an appearance.” And without thinking, I said I would come. What the hell is wrong with me? “Family is welcome to come,” I add as if it were an afterthought and not the real reason I came in here.
Anniston nods, digesting my words with a slight tilt of her head. “It’s tonight?”
I nod. “It starts at six.”
With a droll of her fingers, Anniston stands and flashes me a grin. “I’ll check with the guys and see what they have planned, but Aspen and I will go.”
I want to hug her. Crowds are not my thing. The impending darkness of the setting sun is not my thing. I don’t want to go to a festival where I will encounter new people whose lips I won’t be able to read due to the evening fog. My stomach was in knots the rest of the afternoon after Milah broke the news. Sure, Milah can interpret for me, but I don’t want that. I don’t want to feel the stares or the missed hellos. I don’t want to feel alone. And that says something about me. Dr. Parker would be proud. A few years ago, all I wanted was to be alone. Now, faced with a less-than-ideal situation, what’s the first thing I do? I gather my army.
The saying makes me swallow harshly as I remember her question to me so many years ago. “And what if I can’t fight it alone?” She hadn’t had an army. Just me and King, her security. And we let her down.
A hand to my shoulder startles me. “Let’s go ask the guys,” Anniston signs, her fingers soft and lacking the proper form for sign language. She knew my head was a long way away from this office.
“Thank you.”
“Since when are the line leaders mandated to come to recess?”
Unbuckling Aspen, I flip Theo off behind her back. I knew a comment was coming; I’m actually surprised he waited this long. After I left Anniston’s office, I went upstairs to my room to shower and change. When I came back down, everyone except for Vic was waiting to leave.
I understand why Vic didn’t want to come. A school full of children for him would be like me going to a concert. It would be excruciating. But the rest of them? I figured it would be me, Aspen, Anniston, and maybe Theo. It’s not often his two girls leave without him. Since having Aspen, he’s become more protective. I get it. So when I asked the group if they were sure, I was met with eye rolls, a “fuck you,” and “we want to see your hot boss.” I knew when walking out of the house, this night would get me a lot of shit from the guys. They came to suppor
t me, sure, but they also came to stockpile ammunition so they can rag on me later.
“It’s not recess, Theo. It’s a fall festival. Don’t give him a hard time.” Theo covers Breck’s mouth before she can say more.
“B, your husband asked if he got to move his behavior clip up yesterday. Maybe you should save some of that scolding for him.” Theo looks all smug when Breck’s eyes widen and she whips around to face Cade who only grins. He did ask me that yesterday, and I laughed. There’s a chart in the room with three colors: red, yellow, and green. Every kid has a clothespin or a clip as we call it, with their name on it. They start their day out on the color green and then as the day progresses and their behavior worsens, their clip moves up the chart. If they get to red, they visit the principal. Which, now that I think about it, it’s pretty crazy Cade knew about the process.
But regardless, Cade teasing me was all in good fun. I certainly took my turn teasing him when he pined after Breck. Giving each other shit is the norm around our house. If the guys weren’t teasing me, I would feel like they were babying me about this whole thing.
“Cade! I can’t believe you,” Breck says, her cheeks flushing.
Theo rolls his eyes and signs along with his words. “B, I don’t know why you act all shocked when Jameson does something less than noble. He’s been fooling y’all for years.”
Breck narrows her eyes. “You’re rubbing off on him,” she observes.
Theo blanches, and Cade’s smile couldn’t get any bigger when he wraps his arms around Breck and whispers something in her ear that I obviously don’t hear. Theo makes a gagging motion, and I scoop his daughter out of the seat, her feet kicking in excitement.
“Play,” she signs, her thumb and pinky poking out of her little fists, twisting and turning as she tells me she wants to go play. I hold her tight so she doesn’t wiggle free, turning around to see the towering, blow-up slides and bouncy house. No wonder she can’t wait to get down. It’s a wonderland out here. Rows and rows of tables line the back pasture that house the playgrounds with games and food carts. It’s a nightmare for parents who are going to have to take these sugared-up kids home tonight.
