A Thousand Perfect Notes

by C. G. Drews

  Stop it. Stop it.

  ‘This August is … sweet.’ The Maestro probably chokes on the word. ‘But you are her project for happiness, not something real. You are a puppy to cuddle. So stop. Be done with this. You are like me and relationships are not for us.’

  He’s not like the Maestro. He’s not. He’s –

  not?

  Except …

  The times he punched the wall so his knuckles bled, the macabre fantasies of chopping off his hands, the way he loses hours in the music he claims to hate, the way he wanted to kill that bully …

  ‘And you are going to Germany.’ The Maestro gets out an egg, flour, butter for the potato pancakes. ‘Here is advice you need to learn, Junge. If you do not say hello, you do not need to say goodbye.’

  He hates her in that moment, utterly hates her. When she doesn’t say anything else, he walks away, fighting fear that she’s right. She can’t be right. August isn’t – but she is. A rescuer. A fixer. A saviour. And that’s why he likes her, isn’t it?

  ‘The Kartoffelpuffer will be ready for those who practise hard,’ the Maestro calls out.

  As if he’s hungry.

  Beck wants to punch a hole through his chest and rip out his own stupid heart. Why did he think he could get away with being near August? He doesn’t deserve her, anyway – not the happiness, the kindness, not the way her smile rubs off on him, or the flippant promise of a kiss.

  He is like the Maestro. Why would he want to inflict himself on August?

  Beck shuts his door – quietly – and slides on to the piano stool. The keys stare at him, blank, cold, unforgiving.

  He just wanted a friend. A real friend.

  One

  single

  friend.

  His fingers crash against the keys so hard the room shakes around him. He hammers the Chopin with hate, hate, hate. Every single note of agony and fury and suffocating despair.

  And when his door cracks open, and he’s ready to scream at the intruder, the Maestro appears. She nods at him, just once. ‘Gut gemacht,’ she says. Good job. ‘Now come for dinner.’

  He could cry.

  He’s waited for the words good job for so long. But now that they’re finally given, he can only hold them in tired, hollow hands and hate himself for craving them so desperately.

  But he doesn’t cry. He unchains himself from his eighty-eight keys and eats dinner and does the dishes, and speaks politely, and understands that the Maestro plays a mind game with him. But maybe she won’t win this time?

  When he closes his eyes that night, he composes August’s song.

  There’s a wall of ice between Beck and August, ice with doubt taped over the cracks. Every time Beck snatches a glance at her, he’s not sure what he sees any more. The August of trees and coconut and bare feet is blurred with the August who’s only interested in rescuing broken things. Either way, he’ll have to say goodbye to her one day. Maybe it should be now.

  It’s easier than he thought. He suddenly has nothing to say.

  At first, August doesn’t notice the ice, the silence. Although, on the second day, she stops pummelling jabs and quips at him and just walks in silence. It’s a heavy silence. Her walk lacks its usual bounce, she keeps stealing swift glances at him, and she doesn’t hum any Twice Burgundy melodies under her breath.

  Beck should be relieved.

  Pretty soon she’ll wander back to her real friends. Or she’ll adopt another battered kid in the class and feed them sesame crackers and do their homework. She’ll move on.

  With Joey still suspended on the third day, Beck nearly walks home alone.

  Well, he tries.

  August is also a fast runner.

  She catches up with him, satchel rattling with her ever-present collection of Sharpies. She falls into step beside him. ‘Hey there, Beck.’

  They haven’t spoken today. Why break it now? Beck shrugs and keeps walking. There’s a knife in his throat.

  ‘You’re angry,’ she says.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Ah, of course. This is how you treat all your friends.’

  Beck gestures to the empty footpath around them. ‘Ja. This is why I have so many friends.’

  It’s bitter, sharp enough that they fall into silence again. August’s shoes make a flapping-slap sound, like her soles need gluing. Since he recreationally stares at the ground, he focuses on her broken shoes, not her face, and notices she’s doodled over her legs today. Compasses and lists of cities. Paris. Rio. Kuala Lumpur.

  Maybe she would visit him in Germany …

  Stop.

  Don’t think like that. It’s not worth it.

  ‘This is about what I said the other day.’ August’s voice is unusually quiet, but not timid.

  ‘What?’ Beck knows exactly what.

  ‘About kissing you.’ She looks up, unabashed, unashamed. ‘I meant it, but I can also get over it if girls aren’t your thing.’

  His face burns.

  ‘No.’ His tongue is in nineteen knots. ‘It’s not – that’s not it. It’s – I mean. I like girls but not—’

  ‘Don’t say “but not you”,’ August says. ‘You’ll break my heart.’

  ‘I wasn’t going to say that.’ Yes he was! Why is he still talking? Shut up, you idiot! ‘Doesn’t matter. Forget it.’ He walks faster.

  ‘I won’t.’ August keeps up easily. ‘We’ve got to get this sorted before my birthday.’

  ‘Your birthday? But it’s only July.’

  ‘Yes, you genius. My birthday is in July.’

  ‘But isn’t your birthday in, um, August?’

  August groans to the heavens. ‘No! My parents aren’t that bad.’

  ‘So who are you named after? Augustus Caesar Salad?’

  ‘Firstly,’ August says, holding up a finger to tick off her points, ‘Augustus Caesar is not a salad, and secondly, I’m not named after anyone, my mum liked the name, and thirdly—’

  ‘Please let there only be three points.’

  ‘There are nine points, but you’re so deplorable I’ll stop after three.’ She sniffs, put out. ‘Thirdly. “August” means majestic, and my parents want me to sit on a throne eventually.’ She elbows him in the ribs. ‘Why are you called “Beck”? Your mum wanted a Rebecca?’

  Beck doesn’t talk about his full name. No one does. It’s the most off-limits conversation in the entire universe. But knowing August? She’s not going to leave this alone. In fact, while his silence stretches, she rips up a piece of long grass as they walk and tickles him behind the ear.

  He snatches it off her.

  ‘Beck is my nickname.’ That’s all he’s giving.

  ‘Short for Beckett? Or Beckham? Becker?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Don’t make me threaten you,’ August warns. ‘Because I have so much blackmail material and I can also kick really hard and – oh! Remember when I gave you cake? You owe me.’

  Beck’s voice folds into a whisper. ‘Beethoven.’

  ‘Sorry? What was that?’ August cups a hand to her ear. ‘I could’ve sworn you said—’

  ‘BEETHOVEN BLOODY KEVERICH.’ He yells it straight in her ear so she winces and nearly falls into the gutter. He gets a small amount of satisfaction from that.

  August stops, her mouth drops, and she just stares at him. He hesitates, fingering his backpack straps. She wouldn’t – no, because August is nice, she’s not going to—

  She doubles up and cracks up laughing.

  Beck takes everything back. She is not nice.

  ‘Are you serious?’ she squawks. ‘Beethoven? Your name is literally Beethoven? And you’re a pianist? Did your parents hate you or plan this or—’

  ‘Shut up.’ He takes off, walking fast.

  She’s laughing too hard to even walk straight, so she stumbles along behind him, wiping her eyes. Finally, the snorts subsiding, she dances to his side.

  ‘Well, Beethoven –’ she pauses to giggle, so he shoves her, harder this time, and she
ducks away ‘– you’ve gotten me so off track. I was talking about my birthday before that beautiful reveal.’

  ‘If you call me Beethoven ever again,’ he growls, ‘I’ll throttle you.’

  ‘You do have large hands,’ she agrees. ‘But no friends to help you bury a body.’ She fakes a pout. ‘So sad, little Beethoven. You’re destined to put up with me.’

  This sends her into another howl of laughter, and it’s nearly a minute before she’s composed enough to whip an envelope out of her satchel and smack it in his face.

  ‘This is for you,’ she says. ‘You have to come, by the way, because I’m turning sixteen and that’s a huge deal.’

  Isn’t sixteen for kissing boys and driving cars and deciding on your future of possibilities? It would be for August. For him? The only possibility is a lifetime of diminished sevenths. His birthday isn’t until October, which is far enough away to make him feel miserably young next to August.

  ‘Is this a party invitation?’ Beck says warily.

  ‘Yes.’ August smiles dreamily. ‘Only a small crowd, very small, since everyone is terrified of my dogs. Or my parents. Who knows.’ She pauses to roll her eyes. ‘And my mum’s making a vegan cake—’

  ‘Ugh.’

  ‘You’ll love it.’ She punches his arm. ‘And you’ll love my parents and also my nine dogs.’

  ‘Wait. Nine?’

  ‘I told you we run a shelter.’ August shrugs. ‘We don’t put down animals, we rescue them. And if they don’t find homes, I home them. I work weekends to pay for their food, but saving animals is the most incredible gift I can give this universe.’

  Beck wishes he could work weekends and give Joey the chocolates and sparkly hairclips she craves. He taps the envelope against his thigh and envisions the Maestro laughing as she tears it up.

  ‘There will be epic music,’ August says, ‘and star gazing. You don’t even have to stay long. Like, just an hour. Or even just thirty minutes. I’ll make you up a little doggy bag of cake.’

  An hour without the Maestro knowing where he is? Never going to happen.

  They’re at his house now, and he’s not sure if he wants to run inside and bolt the door, or procrastinate as long as possible. Everything to do with August is complicated.

  ‘I’ll try,’ Beck says. He won’t.

  ‘Great!’ August spins around him. ‘And we’re good now, right? No more of this awkward silence?’

  Are they OK? Does it matter what she thinks of him? Does it matter that she isn’t bashful about mentioning a kiss? Does it matter if August does exactly the opposite of everything he thinks she’ll do?

  Her impossible eyes are on him now, waiting, wanting to understand something she never can.

  She dances in a world of possibilities, and he drowns in music.

  ‘I d-do like, um, girls. I like you.’ It’s coming out so completely mashed; he’s mortified. Why is he even talking? Shut up and go inside. ‘Um, but – not – I just mean. I like you but normally. Friends. Yeah, like friends. Not … more.’ Verdammt, he’s so embarrassed.

  August puts a hand on her hip. ‘Hmm. I see how it is. I’ll need to work on this.’ She turns to leave and then, her eyes blazing with inspiration, she dashes back to him, rises on tiptoes and whispers in his ear, ‘I like you too, Beethoven.’ Then she runs down the road and he swears he hears her laugh again.

  She enjoys this, doesn’t she?

  He tells himself he does not enjoy it. And, by the way, Beck, there is no way you’re going to a party after the Maestro’s recent analysis of August.

  Still, he breaks open the envelope as he enters his house, and skims the details. Celebrate August Frey’s 16th. Starts at 6 p.m. Don’t bring anything except your happy self. He clearly shouldn’t be invited.

  Still reading, he kicks the front door shut and walks smack into the Maestro.

  She plucks the letter from his hand. Beck winces. Being stuck in the house all day with Joey is not improving her temperament. ‘What is this?’

  ‘It’s just a party,’ Beck says, feebly. ‘I-I don’t have to go.’ But I want to.

  ‘August.’ The Maestro rolls her eyes and slaps the invitation back in his hand. ‘Didn’t we talk about this, Schwachkopf? Throw it out and go practise. No dinner until the Chopin is acceptable.’

  Beck doesn’t answer. He crumples the invitation in his fist and reminds himself she didn’t say no. And that’s a positive, right?

  The piano glares at him. He tosses his school bag, changes clothes, and begins scales.

  He’s ready to play for his uncle. He’s ready. But still he goes over and over and over the études, trying to focus and ignore his own music in his head begging to be played. He only considers stopping to stretch his fingers for the briefest second when—

  He hears Joey shriek.

  Beck breaks off the piece abruptly, frowning. Is it just a tantrum about the TV or Joey unleashing her energy after being home with her mother for three days? It’s dark outside, past when they should’ve eaten dinner – obviously he’s not playing ‘acceptably’ yet – so maybe Joey’s having a hungry meltdown.

  Still.

  He hates to hear his sister cry.

  Beck nudges his bedroom door open and creeps into the hall. He can smell bratwurst sausage and garlic and caraway. So clearly dinner is happening, just not for him.

  ‘I DON’T WANT TO,’ Joey hollers.

  Beck strolls into the kitchen, trying to look nonchalant. He gets a glass from the cupboard and pours himself water.

  ‘Mind your tone with me, Göre,’ the Maestro snaps.

  Brat? What happened to darling and sweetie, her usual terms of endearment for her favourite child? This scares Beck.

  She sits at her table before a plate of sausage, mashed potato and sauerkraut, her arms folded. At first Beck thinks she must be whingeing about the food. But then the Maestro points towards Beck’s open bedroom door and the corner of the shiny Steinway piano.

  ‘It is a privilege to play the piano,’ the Maestro says.

  Beck clutches his glass and forgets to drink.

  ‘And to be a Keverich is to play,’ she says. ‘To play music is to learn discipline and have direction and purpose. You are no kleines Kind any more.’

  Joey’s face is as red as the Maestro’s. ‘No!’ she shouts. ‘I hate it. I don’t wanna play all day, I want to be a chef and a mermaid and—’

  ‘Nein. You will learn.’ The Maestro stabs at her sausage. She sees Beck and her furious eyes land on him. ‘Have you finished your practice?’ Her tone is sharper than the sauerkraut.

  ‘No,’ Beck says. ‘I just – I’m hungry …’ I want to rescue Joey from you.

  ‘Food is for those who play well.’ The Maestro throws her cutlery down and rises. ‘That goes for you too, Johanna. If you refuse the piano, you refuse dinner.’

  Joey drops her own pink plastic fork. ‘I hate the piano. It’s noisy and mean. And I hate how Beck plays when I wanna sleep.’ She hiccups. ‘I won’t play the mean piano. No, no, NO.’

  She slides off her chair, ready to run, but the Maestro grabs her elbow.

  The Maestro scowls venom at Beck. ‘This is all your fault, Schwachkopf. You’ve poisoned her to me.’

  Beck doesn’t think. He just speaks. ‘Joey’s too young, Mutter. She shouldn’t have to—’

  ‘She should do what I say!’ roars the Maestro. ‘As should you.’

  Joey squirms in her grip. ‘No, no, no. Ich hasse dich. I hate you!’

  The Maestro slaps her.

  She’s never struck Joey – usually it’s not-so-subtle hints of what might happen if Beck doesn’t fold to the Maestro’s will. But she never actually hits her. Joey is the thing he cares most about in this upside-down world. But the Maestro lashing out at a kid while Beck stays quiet? He can’t slink away and let her rage.

  So Beck, who does nothing, does something.

  He moves like a wraith, grabbing Joey as she goes boneless against the Maestro, and pu
shes her behind him. He throbs with rage, disgust, that she’d let loose on a five-year-old.

  ‘She’s just a little kid.’ Beck’s teeth are clenched.

  Purple veins bulge in the Maestro’s neck. ‘You started when you were younger than—’

  And you want her to end up like me? Beck tries to keep his voice level. ‘There’s only one piano anyway and Joey can’t even sit still and she probably can’t—’

  The Maestro hits him.

  The blow sends him stumbling away from Joey and he just hopes the Maestro didn’t use that kind of force on her. Joey’s on the floor now, quiet, wide-eyed. Trembling.

  Joey is made for glitter crowns and robots constructed with yogurt boxes and muddy puddles and untamed hair. She is not made for the piano.

  ‘You are a disappointment.’ The Maestro’s teeth are gritted. ‘You fail me on purpose, I know it, du nutzloser Junge. Mayhap my daughter will try harder to carry my legacy.’

  ‘I do try,’ Beck says. He should shut up, but – this time? This time is so, so different. ‘I swear, I do. I’m just not good enough.’

  ‘No,’ she says coldly. ‘You’re not. You are a disgrace to my name. You play for hours a day and what do I hear? Rubbish! I’m sickened by the very sound of your mistakes. And yet you cannot do better – nein. You do not try to do better.’

  Beck tells himself he doesn’t care. He doesn’t, doesn’t – doesn’t—

  ‘I wanted a prodigy. And what did I get? You. You worthless disappointment.’ The Maestro snatches her plate of half-eaten sausage and potatoes and flings it against the wall. Food makes a wet splatter. Crockery shatters.

  Joey scoots forward and hugs Beck’s leg. ‘Don’t hurt him,’ she whimpers.

  The Maestro grabs the vase of pebbles and fake flowers from the bench top. She slams that against the wall too, but doesn’t let go, so glass bites her flesh. Blood flows. Beck backs away as shards rain across his arms. She’s lost it. She’s – this can’t – no.

  ‘Go to your room, Jo,’ he whispers, prying her off his leg.