She shrugged. “It was just the polonaise.” Lifting the CD player, she added, “This was a recording Gregoire made of me so I could listen to it at night and visualize.” She shook her head. “Putrid polonaise. I had it down perfect by Friday.” Her shoulders sagged.
“You’re still not playing, are you?”
Jazz dropped the CD player into her pocket. “Tell me more about the abominable Abeytas.” She propped her elbows on the table. Her eyes gleamed.
“They’re not abominable. They’re really nice. Michael and Chuckie love it there. I think Chuckie even stopped wetting the bed.”
“What about you?”
“I quit right after I spent the night with you.”
She whapped me. “I mean—”
“I know what you mean.” I sighed heavily. “It’s all right.” I stopped. “No, it’s not. It feels weird, living there with them. Like we’re this make-believe family, in a make-believe house. Just … making believe.”
“Like Pleasantville,” Jazz said.
I frowned at her.
“The movie. Never mind.” She waved it off. “So, you feel like an outsider? Like you can’t be yourself?”
“Exactly!” I said. “I’m afraid to do anything there. It’s not like home, where you can throw your underwear on the floor and no one cares.”
Jazz gasped. “You throw your underwear on the floor? My God. Wait till this gets out.”
I sneered at her.
She smirked and held up two fingers.
“I know,” I said. As an afterthought, I added, “Not that home was all that great. Even before Dad—” I stopped short.
Jazz held my eyes. “Go on,” she said.
I shook my head. “Never mind.”
“Come on, Tone. Tell me about him. When did he die?”
I swallowed hard.
She added quickly, “You don’t have to talk about it. Not if it still hurts. But maybe if you did …” She let it dangle.
I bit my lower lip. “He … isn’t dead.”
“What?” She sat bolt upright. “I thought you told me—”
“I never told you that. I said he was gone.”
Her eyes darkened. “You knew what I thought.”
I opened my mouth to argue, then shut it. She was right. I felt like a worm. “I’m sorry, Jazz. I didn’t mean to lie to you. It’s just that …” I paused. “You know how sometimes a lie gets started and keeps going and going until you start to believe it yourself?” Oh, lame excuse, Antonia.
“Or wish it were true?” Jazz looked at me.
“No!” I frowned at her. “I don’t wish my dad was dead. Geez.”
Jazz blinked and dropped her head. “I know what you mean about lies,” she said. “Sometimes they’re even more believable than the truth.”
What did she mean by that? Before I could ask, she added, “So what happened with your dad? Why’d he leave?”
“Jazz, I really don’t want to talk about him. I don’t even want to think about him. You know how you figured out Gregoire’s a jerk? I figured out my dad’s a jerk and a half.”
“Are your parents divorced then?”
“Yes. But don’t mention it to my mother. She still thinks he’s just working late.” My eyes welled with tears. I couldn’t do this. I had to get out. It was all crashing down. Before I made it to the door, Jazz was there with her arms wrapped around me.
“Don’t.” I pushed her off.
“I want to help,” she said.
“You can’t,” I almost screeched. “You couldn’t possibly understand. Your parents are perfect.”
She started to sneer, then stopped. “Tone—”
“I have to clean out my locker,” I mumbled, wrenching open the door and hurrying out.
I didn’t want to see Jazz on Friday. I wanted to stay home sick. Except I couldn’t, since I didn’t have a home.
Just as I feared, the session started out the same way as Wednesday’s. Jazz was already in the conference room, earplugs in place, fingers flying. This time, though, it was as if she were waiting for me. When I walked through the door, she ripped off the earplugs. But she forgot to turn off the CD player.
I could hear the music. A succession of lilting chords; it sounded like a folk dance.
“The polonaise?” I pointed.
She clicked off the player. “A Bach minuet,” she said. “I was going to play it at the recital in May.” She smiled, but it seemed forced. She looked different today. Her lipstick had faded to gray. In fact, her whole face looked gray. The same way I felt.
“Jazz,” I said, “why don’t you just tell your parents you made a mistake. That you were kidding.”
“No way.” The fire in her eyes reignited. “Then I’d be giving in. I want them to suffer.”
“Suffer?” I widened my eyes at her. “Who’s suffering?”
“They are,” she said. “They’re the ones who spent thousands of dollars on my lessons. They bought the baby grand. Without their little piano prodigy, they have absolutely nothing to brag about to their country club phonies.”
“Oh, brother.” I rolled my eyes. “You think that’s all they care about?”
“I know it is.”
We locked eyes. Then at the same time we both looked away.
“Parents,” Jazz muttered.
“Yeah,” I concurred.
A tentative truce passed between us. “I’m sorry about what I said the other day,” I began.
“Don’t apologize,” Jazz said. “I’m sure my parents do seem perfect to you.”
“Yeah, well, I don’t have to live with them.”
“You got that right.” She grinned at me. Looking more serious, she added, “I didn’t mean to imply that I could ever know how you feel, Tone. I just want you to know, I’m here if you need to talk.”
A lump lodged in my throat. I managed a weak nod.
“God.” Jazz raked her chipped fingernails through her ratty hair. “This has been the worst week of my life. I am so tense.”
“Tell me about it,” I said.
She climbed up onto the table and wound into her lotus position. Her index finger beckoned me to follow.
Why not? I thought. It’d be better than baring my soul.
A few minutes into droning our mantras, I felt surprisingly relaxed. With each “ohmmm” a wave of worry washed away from me. Like waves on sand. I felt as if I were floating. Like that day in the pool when Jazz held me up.
Beside me she said softly, “When did your dad leave?”
The tension returned. But not all of it. I willed myself back to calm. “Three years ago,” I answered. “A couple of months after Chuckie was born.”
Jazz let out a long “ohmmm.” She twisted around to face me.
“Does he call you?”
“No,” I said. “Never.”
“Do you know where he is?”
I shook my head. “Karen does, I guess. But he’s not coming back for us, so who cares?” I closed my eyes and said a silent “ohmmm.”
“God,” Jazz said. “Did he even say good-bye when he left?”
“Oh, sure.” I opened my eyes and turned to face her. “His exact words were, “I’m leaving, Tone. Promise me you’ll look after the boys. Your mother can’t. She can’t even look after herself.’”
Jazz looked at me. Her eyes were sad. I smiled. “To tell you the truth, I don’t miss him. I hardly remember him.”
“At all?” Her eyes widened.
“Well, one thing.” Closing my eyes and turning away, I said, “He’s the only one who ever called me Tone.”
Chapter 23
I offered to help Tillie do the laundry Saturday morning, but she told me it was under control. In fact, as I searched around for something to do, I noticed everything was under control. It was weird, having so much time on my hands. I actually felt … bored.
Karen dropped by later that afternoon to give us a progress report on Mom. “She has good days and bad days,” she told us
. We were all gathered around the picnic table out back. Luis played catch with Chuckie while Michael squirmed at my side, itching to go play with them.
“As soon as there are a whole lot more good days than bad, shell be coming home.” Karen smiled at Michael. His eyes darted back to Luis and Chuckie. In a lowered voice, Karen said to Tillie and me, “The doctors are still working on finding the right antidepressant for her. She’s experiencing some severe side effects and …”
I tuned out. The sight of Luis lobbing the ball to Chuckie made me smile. He was so patient with him. Not the way Dad had been with Michael. He used to yell at him if he even dropped the ball. Said he threw like a girl. Suddenly I noticed the silence.
Karen was staring at me. “She’d love for you to call,” she said.
“Can I go now?” Michael asked. “I finished my Kool-Aid.”
Tillie said, “Go ahead.”
Karen said, “Antonia?”
“I will.” I pretended exasperation. “I’m just really busy right now, okay?”
She studied my face. Standing to leave, she said, “Whenever you’re ready.”
At our session on Monday, which had now become a regular meeting time for us, Jazz looked lifeless. She lay slumped over the table, her hair a mass of tangles. Even more than usual. Something else caught my eye. “What’s that on your scalp?” I leaned over, squinting for a better look.
She straightened slowly. “It’s head art. Ram drew it on in permanent marker. Like it?” She slumped again.
It was the profile of a bald eagle. Fitting, I thought. “Yeah, it’s cool,” I said. “I bet your parents cronked.”
“They didn’t care,” she mumbled.
Not only did she look like death, she acted it. “You’re still holding out, aren’t you?”
Her shoulders shrugged.
“Jazz.” I touched her arm. “I think they’ve suffered enough. Don’t you?”
She raised her head slowly, as if it were weighed down by lead, and sat up in her seat. Her mascara was smeared. It was obvious she’d been crying.
“Are you okay?” I said.
“Yeah,” she replied. “It’s just …” She shook her head. “My mom and I had a big fight.” She rolled her eyes. “So what else is new? She said if I’m not going to play, they’re going to sell the piano. My piano.” Her voice rose. “They have no right.” Tears welled in her eyes.
“Jazz, can’t you just—”
Her glare cut me short.
“Can’t you play when they’re not home?”
“That’s the problem.” She swiped her nose with the back of her hand. “They’re always home. At least, she is. Couldn’t she get a job or something? Check into a psych ward—” Jazz blanched. “Oh, God.” She clapped a hand over her mouth. “I’m sorry, Antonia.”
“That’s okay.” I smiled. At least Jazz was back to joking around.
“Have you seen your mom again?” she asked suddenly.
“No.” I shook my head. “I can’t. I—” Couldn’t even say it.
“Can’t handle it?” Jazz offered.
I looked at her.
“I know I couldn’t. All that stuff you told me about the psych—I mean, the hospital. It’s giving me bad dreams.”
“Me too,” I said.
“If it were me,” she went on, “I’d be scared shitless to go back there.”
“I am! Not just the place—what if she’s worse? What if she never gets better? What if we have to live in foster homes the rest of our lives?”
“You won’t.” Jazz reached out and touched me. “I promise. Everything will work out fine.”
“Where have I heard that before?” I muttered.
“My mother?”
We both snorted. For some reason, I felt a hundred percent better. “I wish I could help you with your mother.”
“Could you dig up some evidence that I was switched at birth?” she said.
I laughed.
She sighed. “You wouldn’t happen to have a piano on you.”
“Let me check.” I searched in my backpack. “Sorry, no.”
“Then there isn’t anything you can do. There isn’t anything anyone can do.”
“Maybe I could talk to your mom—”
“No!” Jazz barked. “God, no. This is between me and her. It’s my life. I have to be able to do what I want.”
“But you’re not,” I said.
She just looked at me, and slumped over again.
That night as I lay in bed, I couldn’t get Jazz out of my mind. The rift between her and her mother had only grown since I’d been counseling her. If that’s what I was supposed to help Jazz with, I was a complete and utter failure.
But that didn’t bother me as much as how unhappy Jazz was. She’d given up the one thing she loved most in the world. Her music.
Expression meant everything to Jazz. All you had to do was look at her to know that was true. And Jazz’s music was the way she expressed the person she was inside — a passionate, strong, joyful person. Whenever I was with her, she made me feel that way. Which, I suddenly realized, was why I liked being around her.
Jazz was also the most stubborn person I’d ever met. Or proudest. She’d never give in to her mother now. She couldn’t.
Lying on Yolanda’s bed, staring at a greased-up guy on a poster, I wished there were some way I could get Jazz playing again. Some way to bring her music back to her.
You wouldn’t happen to have a piano on you. Jazz’s plea repeated in my mind.
I shot bolt upright in bed. That was it!
Chapter 24
“Mrs. Thornberg said we could use the piano in here during fifth period,” I told Jazz. “There aren’t any orchestra or play rehearsals right now.” Pulling open the double doors to the school auditorium, I kicked down the doorstop and shoved Jazz in.
She shrank back against the far wall. “I told you I gave up the piano.”
“Yeah, I know what you told me.” I held up two fingers right in front of her face. “Come on.”
I led her down the center aisle to the stage. On the side wall was a panel of light switches, and I flicked them all on. In a blinding flash, the stage illuminated. The whole auditorium lit up.
An old upright piano stood silhouetted against a black backdrop. Jazz wandered over to it. “You think I’m going to play this crappy thing?” She folded her arms in disgust.
“I asked Mrs. Thornberg to order a baby grand for you. It’s on the truck.”
Jazz sneered.
“Give me a hand,” I said. “Let’s move it out.” I positioned myself behind the monster and pushed. It didn’t budge. “Help me!” I ordered her.
She snapped to attention. “Geez, have a hemorrhage.” Heaving and grunting, we rolled the beast to center stage. I went back for the piano bench. Shoving it under her rear, I said, “Okay, play.”
“I told you—”
I clapped hands over my ears. “I can’t hear you.”
She met my eyes and held them. I lowered my hands. “You said you had the polonaise down perfect. I don’t believe you.”
“What?” Her eyes narrowed.
“Prove it,” I said.
She frowned at me. But she turned and eyed the keyboard. Lightly she ran her fingers over the keys. A shaky breath escaped her lips.
“Go ahead,” I said softly over her shoulder.
She stretched her fingers. Without warning, her hands attacked the keyboard. An explosion of sound erupted from the piano. The music reverberated in the empty auditorium, echoing off the walls, the ceiling, the seats. Slowly I backed away, down the stairs and off the stage. I slid into a seat in the front row.
Jazz was transformed as she rocked and swayed to the rhythm of her music. Her eyes closed and stayed closed as her fingers pounded up and down the keyboard. Suddenly the music stopped. “Shit,” Jazz muttered. “I did it again.”
With a determined look on her face, she hit the keys. She played the same passage, then stopped. He
r hands fell to her lap and her head lolled backward.
“You’re out of practice,” I called up to her. “It’ll come back.”
“It’s not that,” she said in a small voice. Her head fell forward. She squeezed her eyes shut, as if holding back tears. “I never want to play that polonaise again.”
I understood. Even though it was beautiful music, it was painful for her. Associated with bad memories. Sort of like the smell of bacon for me. “Then play the piece you were listening to before. The minuet.”
Jazz turned slowly and smiled at me. “The Bach.” She raised her fingers over the keys. All at once her hands were dancing, filling the void with music. It was so joyful, so uplifting. A lump lodged in my throat.
What I wouldn’t give to have a talent like that. Even a passion. For something. Anything. Like the way I used to feel about gymnastics. Or math. Maybe I had a hidden talent, somewhere down deep. Something I hadn’t discovered yet, or let discover me.
The music ended and Jazz sagged forward on the bench. I jumped to my feet, clapping. Behind me, applause echoed down the aisle. Jazz and I both whipped around. Standing in the double doorway were a few people from the front office. Behind them, clapping and whistling, were two of Jazz’s punky pals.
Jazz screeched back the bench and shot out of there. “Jazz, wait!” I cried. But she was gone.
I didn’t see Jazz the next day and she never showed for our regular Friday peer counseling session. I sat there for twenty-five minutes, then got mad and left. So she hated me for exposing her to her friends. I could understand that. Even though it wasn’t my fault. Is that what she thought? That I’d arranged for those guys to be there? That I’d tricked her into performing?
It bothered me all afternoon that Jazz might think I’d set her up. I couldn’t even finish my lasagna at dinner. “Are you all right, Antonia?” Luis asked. “Last time Tillie made lasagna, you ate like a horse.”
“I guess I’m just not hungry. It’s delicious, though.” I didn’t want to hurt Tillie’s feelings. “Maybe you could save it for me. May I please be excused?”
Tillie said, “Sure. I’ll put your dinner in the fridge, in case you want a midnight snack.” She smiled.
I forced a smile back. At the door I twisted around. “Would it be all right if I used your phone again? I won’t talk long.”
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