Allegra

by Shelley Hrdlitschka

  I think he just wanted to be sure there’d be enough students for the class to run, but I don’t tell him that. “See you tomorrow.” I escape quickly, not wanting to prolong the conversation. There’s something about him that makes me anxious.

  I hear raised voices before I even enter the house. Letting myself in quietly, I stand in the hallway and listen.

  “You can’t just drop in here any old time you please and tell me how to run my life!” My mother’s voice.

  “I’m not doing that.” Dad. He sounds a little more reasonable. “I’m just concerned about her.”

  Her? They must be talking about me!

  “Oh yeah? You want me to stay home more, but what about you? Maybe it’s my turn to have a life finally.”

  “I just think she shouldn’t be alone so much. It’s not right.”

  “It’s a little late to worry about that, don’t you think? Ten more months, and she could be living on her own. I have to have something in place for myself, and I’m not going to get an opportunity like this again.”

  I step into the kitchen. Mom is standing at the stove, wooden spoon poised in the air like a conductor’s baton. Dad is across the room from her, holding a mug. Their backs are to the door.

  “What’s going on?” I ask.

  They swing around to look at me, embarrassed. They glance at each other. “It’s nothing,” Mom says, turning back to the pot on the stove.

  “Sounds like something to me.”

  “How was school?” Dad asks.

  “Were you talking about me?” I ask.

  Dad sighs. “Yes, we were.”

  I see my mom glance sharply at him.

  “What were you saying?”

  “I was saying I’m a little concerned that you’re alone so much now that your mom’s working nights.” He looks back at her, but I can’t read his expression.

  “I’m seventeen, Dad, not seven. And I’m fine. Better than fine.”

  “I don’t see you hanging out with any friends.”

  “I made two new friends today, as a matter of fact.”

  He smiles, but it’s forced. “That’s good.”

  “Do you want me to hang out at the mall or, even better, at the park, drinking and doing drugs?”

  “No, of course not, but you need to have some fun.”

  “I’m having fun. Dance is fun. I don’t have time for hanging out.”

  He nods. “Okay, Legs.” But I know he doesn’t buy it. He thinks I’m a geek who can’t make friends. The truth is, I haven’t had time for them. Between music and dance and school, it’s all I can do to keep up. Athough I do hang out with Angela between dance classes.

  “I’m going to my room to study.”

  “How ’bout we go to a movie tonight?” he asks.

  “Can’t. Dance class.”

  “Tomorrow night?”

  “Dad, I dance every night except Saturday, Sunday and Monday.”

  “And now you’re dancing at school too?”

  I nod.

  “Then maybe you could skip the odd evening class when I’m at home.”

  I realize he’s telling me that he wants to spend more time with me. Or maybe he’s just feeling sorry for me. For some reason, tears spring to my eyes. “I’ll think about it.”

  I leave the kitchen, but I don’t go to my room. Instead I go down the stairs to the music studio. Hearing them argue like that—about me—is too weird. It’s the second time this week I’ve walked in on something. There’s so much tension between them.

  Mom’s harp stands majestically in one corner of the studio. I sit down at the piano and stare at the keys. My right hand rests on them, and I pick out a simple tune. I haven’t practiced in six months, maybe more. I completed the academy exams and then quit, cold turkey. The last argument around here was back when Mom wanted me to continue studying. I told her I’d completed my part of the bargain. I was done with studying music.

  My left hand automatically joins my right on the keys, and I find myself playing Grieg’s “Morning Mood.” It comes back to me as if I’d played it just yesterday. I lean into the piano and pound the keys, enjoying the full range of emotion the music triggers. It comes so effortlessly, and for a few minutes I enjoy the sensation, completely losing myself just as I do when I dance.

  But then the piece is over. My hands drop to my lap after the last trill.

  “That was beautiful, Legs.”

  Dad has come down the stairs and is sitting on the bottom step. “Can I join you?”

  “What do you want to do?”

  “We’ll jam. You play whatever you like, and I’ll join in.”

  I have a flashback to a time when I was much younger and had to practice the piano every evening. I didn’t like coming down to the studio alone, so Mom always sat close by, reading on the old couch. Once I’d mastered a piece, she’d accompany me on the harp. If Dad was home, he’d pick up an instrument too, and we’d all play together.

  I nod at my dad and let my hands decide what to play next. They choose a dreamy Satie piece, “Gymnopédie No. 1.” I don’t think I’ve played it in years. A moment later, the soulful sound of a wooden flute has joined in, filling in the blanks, and the music floats around the room, so much richer with the addition of another instrument. I finish the song, and a flute note lingers after the final piano chord. I love the mood we’ve created together. He puts his hand on my shoulder and smiles down at me. “We make beautiful music together.”

  I laugh, and the melancholy spell is broken. Mom calls down the stairs that dinner is ready.

  Both of them try to keep the conversation light while we eat, and then Mom rushes away to get ready for her evening performance. I clear the table and leave Dad with the dishes so that I can get ready for dance. The tension from earlier is almost gone.

  “Will you be home later?” I ask him as I head out the door.

  “I will,” he says. “Maybe we can jam some more.”

  “Maybe,” I reply, and I smile to myself. We’re finally finding a way to connect.

  I break the speed limit on my way home, looking forward to hanging out with my dad and playing music. The drone of the TV is loud when I step into the house. I slip out of my jacket and wonder if I should shower before we get started. I decide against it; I’m too excited about getting back down to the studio.

  I find Dad lying on the couch, fast asleep. He’s snoring softly, more like purring. His face looks older when he’s asleep, the creases deeper. I consider waking him but don’t. I have homework to do anyway. I gently lay a light blanket over him and head down the hall.

  Five

  When the last bell of the day rings, I shove my dance shoes into my pack and pull shorts and a T-shirt over my dance leotard. I head back out to the music portable. The afternoon is hot, and I worked up a serious sweat in my modern-dance class. Ms. Dekker is just as particular about modern as she is about ballet. I swear we repeated the same routine across the floor twenty-five times, and I still couldn’t please her. “Hit it harder, Allegra! Sharper lines! Tuck your bum under.” I hope Mr. Rocchelli doesn’t get too close to me. I feel like a furnace, and I’m not sure how well my deodorant is holding up in this heat. I take another long swallow of water before I enter the portable.

  He smiles when he sees me. “Been dancing, Allegra?”

  “How can you tell?” I wipe away a drop of sweat that is prickling at my hairline.

  “How many hours of dance do you do a week?”

  I think about it, calculating the hours in my head. Before I can come up with the answer, he says, “Never mind. If you can’t figure it out, it must be a lot. I look forward to seeing you perform in the spring gala.”

  The Deer Lake Spring Gala. In the past few days I’ve discovered that it’s the annual event every class works toward for the entire year. It’s a charity fundraiser; all the dance, music and theater classes perform, and students’ art is sold at a silent auction. I gather the hype is huge in the weeks leading up
to it.

  “So, come and have a seat,” he says, pulling a chair up beside his desk.

  I take it and watch while he pulls a folder out of the file cabinet. I can see now that the tattoo on his arm is a name with two dates separated by a dash written beneath it: the span of someone’s life. I wonder whose. It’s written in beautiful script. From the look of his arms, Mr. Rocchelli spends some time at the gym. Or maybe they just get like that from all the conducting he does.

  He places the folder on his desk and lays his hand on top of it. “Your exam is in here.”

  “And?” I ask, fighting back a smile.

  He sits in his chair and studies me for a second. “You really do know your music theory,” he says. He opens the folder and hands the paper to me. Written across the top is 110 %.

  Now I do smile. “What’s the extra ten percent for?”

  “For giving me such detailed answers, far beyond what I would expect from a student completing my class.”

  I lean back, relaxed. “So? Will you sign my release now?”

  He chuckles and leans back too. He runs his hands through his hair and then clasps them behind his head. “Do you really want out that badly?”

  I shrug. “I really want to dance—as much as possible.”

  “But you just told me that you already take so many classes you’ve lost count of the hours.”

  “That’s the only way to get good.”

  He nods. “But you don’t want to do anything to excess. We talked about how it’s important to find balance in our lives.”

  “You talked about that.”

  He nods and smiles. “I guess you’re right.” He pauses. “The thing is, Allegra, you’ve shown me, without a doubt, that you know your theory. What I want to know now is whether you can actually apply that theory to a composition.”

  “I have to compose something?”

  “No, not exactly. You see, I’ve written a simple melody. What I want you to do is expand it and write the conductor’s score, including every instrument in the orchestra.”

  I just stare at him.

  “My melody is like a black-and-white sketch. I want you to turn it into a full-color painting. You’ll need to learn the range of each instrument and write notes that the instrument is capable of. You’ll need to know the key of each instrument and its clefs. The final music score should also be written without a thousand ledger lines, with each instrument written vertically on the page.”

  “But I don’t play all the instruments.”

  He points to the sound room. “All the equipment you’ll need is in there. I’ll teach you how to use it. You won’t actually need to know how to play the instruments. The computer program will do that for you.”

  I try to process what all this entails.

  “For bonus marks, you can prepare the sheet music for each instrument and its various parts—for example, first clarinet, second clarinet, etcetera. And then, for extra bonus marks, we’ll give it to the senior orchestra and you’ll rehearse it with them and then perform it at the spring gala.”

  “Anything else?” I ask. I hope he realizes I’m being sarcastic.

  “Yeah, if you really want to impress me, you can choreograph a dance to go with it too. I’m sure Ms. Dekker would help you gather a group to perform it.”

  I just stare at him.

  “You could even add an eight-part choral arrangement. I’ll provide the chamber choir.” He smiles. “What do you think?”

  “I think you’re out of your mind.”

  He throws back his head and laughs. “Miss Allegra doesn’t sound so confident anymore.”

  “What’s in it for me?”

  “An A-plus.”

  “Hey! I should already get an A-plus! I aced the exam.”

  “Oh c’mon, Allegra. You’re not at this school for the grades. You’re here to learn, to grow. I want you to dig deep. I don’t want this to be a superficial exercise. I’m looking for a masterpiece here.”

  A masterpiece? I study his face, trying to determine how serious he is.

  “Okay, maybe not a masterpiece.” His smile is apologetic. I decide Talia is right: he is kind of cute. “But I do want you to really stretch yourself, show me what you are capable of.”

  I suddenly feel overwhelmed.

  Mr. Rocchelli must read my reaction. “Come and listen to the tune,” he says, getting up. “That will help you decide whether you’re up to the task.”

  He motions for me to follow him. I do, but when I see him heading to the sound room, I hold back. I’ve just finished two hours of dance. I’m still sweating. I can only imagine how I smell. I can’t go in there with him.

  “Allegra?” He looks over his shoulder. “Are you coming?”

  “I just remembered that I have to catch my bus,” I say, looking up at the wall clock.

  He looks disappointed. “That’s a shame, because I’m not sure when we’ll get time to meet again.” He thinks about it. “Perhaps I could just drop you off at the bus exchange. Do you switch buses there?”

  I do, but I don’t want him to know that. I pause, trying to come up with a response, but I’m too slow.

  “Good, that’s settled then. C’mon.”

  I feel the tingle of a fresh onslaught of sweat breaking out in my armpits. It’s stifling in the portable. I can only imagine what it will be like in that tiny sound room. I consider telling him I have to use the washroom, but that would mean going back to the main building. I follow him inside, but I stand as close to the door as I can. I keep my arms pressed firmly against my sides. My underarm sweat rings are probably creeping down to my waist by now.

  Mr. Rocchelli plugs a flash drive into the computer and then sits in the chair that I sat in yesterday to write my exam. There’s another one beside it, and he pushes it with his foot, rolling it toward me, and indicates that I should sit in it. I do, but I roll myself as far from him as is possible in this small space. I do it slowly, hoping he won’t notice. Then I keep as still as I can. Maybe if I don’t move, my bo won’t waft toward him.

  Piano notes begin to fill the room. The melodic line is simple, lyrical. I find myself relaxing. Then the melody is repeated, but the phrase lengths have changed and it’s higher in pitch. I see Mr. Rocchelli glance at my foot. I look down and discover that it’s tapping. I stop. Mr. Rocchelli smiles. His eyebrows arch. I ignore him and go back to staring at the computer. The tune is really catchy. It moves into a bridge and then drifts back to the same quiet melody but with a slight variation, an echo of its former self.

  The room goes still again. I realize my mood has changed. I feel lighter.

  “Well?” Mr. Rocchelli asks. “What do you think?”

  I glance at him. What do I think? “I like it.” I know my words are trite, not giving any clue as to what I really think. “Can you play it again?”

  His eyes widen momentarily, but then he clicks the mouse and the small room is once again filled with the sound of piano notes delicately picking out the gentle tune. I close my eyes and hear what it could be with the addition of other instruments. I would extend the middle section, repeating the melody but building on it, evoking more passion. I would draw out the crescendo as well as the resolution. The song makes me think of longing, but not painful longing. More like the ache you feel when you experience a beautiful sunset, or when you watch a litter of kittens romping and you so badly want to scoop one up and snuggle it to your face.

  The piece ends. I open my eyes and find myself smiling at Mr. Rocchelli. He smiles back and tilts his head. “So?” he asks, breaking into my thoughts. “Do you think you can convert my little melody into real music?”

  I don’t know exactly what happens in that moment. Maybe the endorphins created from dancing are still active, or maybe the music actually moves me, but whatever it is, I find myself feeling somewhat excited at the challenge.

  “I think”—I hesitate, but only briefly—“I think I’d like to try.”

  His face breaks into a wi
der smile, and he clicks the mouse again. He pulls out the flash drive and hands it to me. “She’s all yours.”

  When Dad’s on the road with his band, Mom and I are totally casual about our meals. Mom cooks things and puts them in the fridge, and we eat whenever we’re hungry, sometimes together but usually alone, depending on our schedules. It works for us, but when Dad comes home, Mom makes an early dinner so we can eat together before she goes to the theater and I go to the dance studio. We used to treasure these times, but tonight Mom and Dad sit poker straight in their chairs, assembling wraps from food that is laid out in the center of the table. They don’t say a word to each other. I glance at them, concerned, but I don’t dare ask what’s going on. Eventually, they turn their attention to me, neutral ground.

  “How’s school?” Mom asks.

  “It’s pretty good.” I think about it. “But the dance teacher, Ms. Dekker, thinks I’ve developed bad habits at Turning Pointe.”

  “Do you agree?” Mom asks.

  “I don’t know. Maybe. But now I have to dance one way at school and another way at the studio.”

  “Different teachers focus on different things,” Dad says. “It’s good to have variety.”

  Mom changes the subject, not acknowledging Dad’s comment. “What happened with the music-theory class?”

  “That’s actually turned out okay.”

  They both stop their wrap-making to look at me.

  “The teacher, Mr. Rocchelli, has given me a different assignment than the rest of the class. He wants to challenge me.” I shrug. “It will be a challenge.”

  “What’s the assignment?” Dad asks, returning to the task of rolling his wrap into a tidy package, without much success.

  I smile at him as he takes a bite and all the stuff inside the wrap falls back to the plate. “I’ve told you, Dad, you put in too much food. I’ll make your next one.”

  “Thanks,” he says. “I never did like these things. Too sloppy. I like to eat with a knife and fork.” He picks up the bits of food with his fingers and pops them into his mouth.