Allegra

by Shelley Hrdlitschka

  Mom rolls her eyes but, to her credit, doesn’t comment.

  “So, this music-theory assignment,” Dad prompts.

  “How did this come about?”

  “Oh, yeah. Well, I challenged the course already and aced the exam.”

  Mom and Dad finally exchange a glance, and I notice a softening in their faces. Good. Maybe this dinner can be saved after all.

  “So he’s asked me to develop a piece of music using all the theory I know.”

  They’re both looking at me again, waiting for more. This is a subject that interests them.

  “He gave me a melody, and I have to expand it, write the score for the full orchestra.”

  “Wow!” Mom’s eyes are wide. I just have to mention the word orchestra and she’s sold on the project. “This sounds like a very wise teacher,” she adds.

  “I don’t know about that. He’s pretty young, and a bit too intense, but he’s okay.” I think back on the afternoon and how he gave me a ride to the bus exchange after our meeting. He drives an old Toyota, but it was immaculate inside and out. He talked the whole way— about the project—so the ride wasn’t as awkward as I’d imagined it would be.

  “Maybe I could help you with this one,” Dad offers.

  I’m swallowing a mouthful of food, about to tell him how much I’d like that, when Mom butts in. “What do you know about orchestration?” she asks.

  He studies her. “You’re right, Cindy. Not much.” He gets up and takes his plate to the dishwasher. I frown at Mom, ticked that she’s shut him down that way.

  “You don’t want another wrap, Dad? I’ll make it for you.”

  Dad pats his stomach. “Watchin’ my weight,” he says. “Too many French fries on the last trip.”

  I help Dad load the dishwasher and put the remaining food in the fridge. When Mom leaves the room to get dressed, I turn to Dad again. “I’d really like your help with my music-theory project,” I tell him.

  He smiles sadly. “Your mom’s right, honey. I know nothing about orchestration.”

  “But you know a lot about music, Dad, and songwriting. You’d be a big help.”

  “We’ll see,” he says. “Your mom will probably be a bigger help to you.”

  “I didn’t hear her offering,” I point out.

  “It goes without saying,” he says. “She’s your mom.”

  I don’t answer. I like the idea of working with Dad more. Mom would try to make it her own project instead of just helping.

  “Can I come and watch your dance classes tonight?” he asks.

  “Sure.”

  He smiles and nods, and in that moment I forgive him for falling asleep on me last night. I also decide to find a way to include him in my project. It will be a collaboration. I just know Mr. Rocchelli would approve.

  Six

  It’s been one of those mornings. I woke up late and had to skip breakfast in order to get to school on time. My stomach competed with the driving rain all morning to see which could make the most noise, and now, for the first time, I have to face the school cafeteria, because I also didn’t have time to make myself a lunch. The lineup for food snakes along the side wall. I join the end of it and glance around the overflowing room. Not a single familiar face. I try not to think about where I’ll sit when I get my food. Maybe a table will come free by then. I look at the long line ahead of me. Maybe not.

  I sense someone stepping up behind me in line and then a finger pokes me in the back. I spin around and come face-to-face with Spencer from music-theory class. I melt with relief. A familiar face.

  “How’s it going?” he asks.

  “Not bad. How ’bout you?”

  “Pretty good. But I sure missed you in music theory. Julia is so annoying.”

  I laugh. He makes it sound like we’ve been in theory class together for months, not just a few days. “I figured she was going to be a pain.”

  He scans my face. “So what’s the project you get to work on?”

  “I’m writing some music.” I decide to leave it at that. I don’t want to sound like I’m bragging.

  “Why don’t you just take a different class?”

  “Mr. Rocchelli, Rocky”—I roll my eyes—“wouldn’t sign my release form.”

  “Really? What a jerk!”

  “That’s what I thought.”

  The line creeps forward, and I move with it. Spencer moves up to stand beside me. I wonder if he has friends to sit with, but I don’t ask.

  He clears his throat. “Is it true that your dad is Jerry from the Loose Ends?”

  I nod and shuffle forward again. He’s been doing some research. I consider telling him that my mom is the harpist with the Deer Lake Symphony Orchestra, but I don’t.

  “I’m a huge fan of the Loose Ends.”

  I glance at him. His face is open, eyes shining. He looks sincere. “Then you should come over and meet him sometime,” I say.

  “Really?”

  I nod. Something about this conversation depresses me. I’d thought maybe Spencer and I had made a legit connection. Now I wonder if it’s just my dad he’s interested in. It wouldn’t be the first time.

  “So what’s good to eat here?” I ask, looking up at the menu that hangs above the food counter. There’s a picture of each selection. At least the menu’s a little more creative than at my last school, which specialized in burgers and pizza. My eyes rest on the picture of a spinach salad.

  “I always get the mac and cheese,” he tells me. “But I hear the soups are good.”

  I check the soup-of-the-day sign. Broccoli and cheese. Perfect.

  We’ve reached the counter, and I place my order. I push my tray along to the cashier and pay. Spencer is still right behind me. I take my tray and look around the room.

  “Follow me,” he says, pushing past me.

  Relieved, I follow him across the cafeteria and toward a bank of doors leading outside to the courtyard. I’m surprised when he shoves one open with his shoulder and waits for me to catch up.

  “It’s raining,” I tell him, as if he hasn’t noticed. Actually, it’s not just raining, it’s like a monsoon has hit. The heavy raindrops are bouncing off the courtyard tables like thousands of Ping-Pong balls.

  “Follow me,” he repeats.

  He stays pressed along the outside wall, under an awning. It’s not cold out here, just incredibly wet. I feel my shoes soaking up water.

  When we reach the far end of the courtyard, Spencer balances his tray on one hand and pulls open another door, this one leading back into the school. He glances over his shoulder to check that I’m following. We enter a part of the school I haven’t been in before. It’s a large room, with wide steps leading down to a kind of pit. “This is the multipurpose area,” he tells me. “It’s not as noisy as the cafeteria.”

  There are students sitting in clusters on the steps or at round tables on the top level. Right away I spot Talia. “Allegra!” she calls, motioning me over.

  I smile and walk over to where she’s sitting, and Spencer follows me.

  “Hey, Talia,” he says, plunking himself down on the step she’s sprawled on.

  “You two know each other?” I ask.

  “Yeah,” Spencer says. He places his tray on the floor. “We’re both in photography.”

  I lower myself to the floor too, between them but one step higher. Talia introduces me to two girls sitting on a lower step. “Molly and Sophie.” Molly is small and round, with a freckled, friendly face. A mass of curls is pushed off her face with a hair band. Sophie is the opposite: long, lean and slightly more aloof. I notice her French manicure and the diamond stud in her nose.

  “Hey,” I say.

  They both nod and smile.

  “Did you get your photo story turned in?” Talia has turned to Spencer. He’s picked up his bowl of mac and cheese and is shoveling it into his mouth. I begin to eat my soup but find the melted cheese keeps stretching into long strings. I have to really concentrate on each mouthful in order
to keep from wearing the gooey stuff, but I’m aware of the interactions between the others. I can tell by their glances that Molly and Sophie are sizing me up.

  They don’t think I notice, but I do. Be cool, I tell myself.

  After a few minutes, Molly climbs up a step and settles herself next to me. “Are you in photography too?” she asks.

  “No, I met Spencer in music theory, and Talia in ballet and English.”

  She nods. “What do you think of Ms. Dekker?”

  It’s the same question Talia first asked me. “She’s tough. I can’t do anything right.”

  Molly smiles. “She’ll grow on you. She gets results from her dancers. The ones who take the exams always ace them.”

  “Do you dance too?” I ask.

  “I did last year, but it wasn’t a good fit. Look at me.”

  She lifts an arm and pinches the soft flesh of her upper arm, jiggling it. “This is not a dancer’s body. But I have her for musical theater.”

  “That sounds like fun.”

  She laughs, a sweet, high-pitched giggle. “You’d think, wouldn’t you? But she even manages to make musical theater feel like work.”

  I scrape up a last spoonful of soup and look around the room. The walls are painted with colorful murals, most likely done by students, and there are display cases filled with various pieces of art. The floor of the pit area would work as a small stage.

  “So, tell me more about your music-theory project,” Spencer says.

  I feel everyone turn to look at me. Deep breaths, I remind myself. Remain calm. I shrug. “Mr. Rocchelli’s given me a simple tune and wants me to expand it, write a full orchestrated version.”

  I look at Spencer. He tilts his head, encouraging me to continue, so I babble on.

  “It’ll be interesting. I’ve never done anything like it before. The trouble is, I don’t know how to get started.” That came out of the blue. I haven’t even thought about starting it yet.

  “Maybe your dad could help you,” Spencer suggests. He turns to the others. “He’s the bass player for the Loose Ends.”

  Everyone turns to stare at me again. “He could, I guess, but it’s my mom who is the classically trained musician. She’s the harpist in the Deer Lake Symphony Orchestra.”

  No one responds. Have I said too much? Does it sound like I’m bragging about my family? I didn’t mean to.

  “So when can I meet your dad?” Spencer asks, changing the subject.

  “The sooner the better,” I tell him. “I haven’t heard when he’s going back on the road, but it’s probably soon. I’ve heard them rehearsing some new material.”

  Spencer pulls a phone out of his pocket. “Call him,” he says.

  I laugh. “Persistent, aren’t you?” I take my own phone out of my purse and press the first number on my contact list. “I’d like to meet him too,” Talia says.

  “Me too,” Sophie and Molly say in unison and then laugh.

  “Hi, Dad,” I say when he picks up. “No, no, everything’s okay. It’s lunch hour. I’m sitting here with”—I hesitate; do I dare call them friends?—“with some kids from school who are Loose Ends fans. They’d like to meet you.”

  Dad, gracious as ever, suggests they come over on Monday evening, my night off from dance, and sit in on a Loose Ends rehearsal. He puts the phone down to consult with Mom. “Monday night?” I ask the group. “To watch the band rehearse?”

  Spencer’s face lights up. He high-fives me. The girls smile and nod. Then Dad comes back on the phone. “Your mom will put on a pot of chili so we can all visit beforehand, your friends and the band.”

  “They’re in,” I tell him. “Thanks.”

  Before the lunch break is over, we’ve all exchanged phone numbers. I’ve remained calm. I’ve also pushed away the niggling worry that this is really all about my dad, and not about me making friends, but then, maybe that’s why I was able to invite them over. The focus is not on me.

  First thing Saturday morning, I take Mr. Rocchelli’s flash drive downstairs to the music studio. I plug it into the computer and play it over and over, picking out the tune on the piano and jotting the notes on music staff paper. Once I have the melody down, I begin tinkering with it. I try to imagine where other instruments will blend in, but nothing seems right. I sit and stare at the music. It’s true. I really don’t have any idea where to start with this. I remember having some thoughts when I first heard it, but they’ve vanished.

  The door to the upstairs creaks open and my dad’s slippered feet appear on the stairs, followed by the rest of him. He’s carrying a mug of steaming coffee. I take in the sleep-tousled hair and dark shadow of whiskers.

  “What’s up, Legs?” he asks.

  “Just working on my music-theory project,” I tell him. “Do you need the studio?”

  He shakes his head. “No, I heard the piano and was wondering what you were working on.”

  “Listen to this, Dad.” I turn my back to him and play the simple tune on the piano. When I’m done, I turn to look at him again. He has settled himself into the couch that squats in a corner beside Mom’s harp. He nods. “Did you write that?”

  “No, that’s what the teacher gave me. My job is to rewrite it for an orchestra.”

  He takes a sip of coffee. “It’s a great project.”

  “But I have no idea where to start!” I throw the sheet of music into the air, and we both watch as it floats to the floor.

  “Starting is hard,” he says. “But at least you’re not starting from scratch. You’ve got a skeleton here. Adding the flesh is the fun part.”

  “Easy for you to say. You’ve written tons of songs.”

  “There was a first one for me too.”

  “So how do you get started?”

  He swirls the coffee in his cup, looking into it as if he’ll find the answer to my question there. He looks up and studies me for a moment. “First of all, Legs, I think you need to forget that this is a school assignment. You’ll be far more creative and have more fun if you tackle it with a spirit of playfulness, rather than just seeing it as a project you need to complete.”

  I stare at him. A spirit of playfulness?

  “And you have to work from your heart and not your head.” He places his hand on his chest. “Finding the emotional core of the music is what will make it appealing to an audience.”

  I can only sigh.

  “You dance from your emotional core, Legs. I’ve watched you. Go to that same place when you’re working on this piece.”

  Now he’s beginning to make some sense. “I’m still hoping you’ll help me with this, Dad.”

  “I will, honey, as much as I can, but I’ve just confirmed the dates for our next tour. We’re leaving again at the end of the month.”

  “You are?”

  He nods. “We’re touring in Europe.”

  I hear myself sigh. That won’t be a short one.

  He nods and places his mug on a table. “But it may be my last tour for a while.”

  That’s news. “How come?”

  He hesitates before he answers. “Because…” He stumbles, looking for the right words. “Because I’m finally beginning to understand the impact touring’s had on my family.” He looks back into his mug.

  “What are you talking about? We’re fine.”

  Now he heaves a sigh.“I need a break from the traveling. I’ll concentrate on writing for a while too. And I’ll take local gigs.”

  “Have you told the rest of the band?”

  “Not yet. I haven’t told your mom yet either. I’m waiting for the right time.”

  Dad’s looking so sad that I go sit next to him on the couch. “I don’t want you to quit touring because of us,” I tell him gently. “But it will be nice to have you around more.”

  He looks at me, a little smile tugging at his lips. “Really?”

  “Yeah, really.”

  “It’s good to hear you say that. I know I’ve been a lousy father.”

  “N
o, you haven’t! And at least your work is something you enjoy. If you were doing something you didn’t like just to stay home, well, then you’d be a grouch, and none of us would be happy.” I smile at him.

  He studies my face and then picks up my hand and squeezes my fingers. “How did you get to be so wise? You grew up so fast. I don’t know when it happened. I guess I thought you’d be my little girl forever.”

  “I’ll always be your daughter, Dad.”

  “I know that, honey.” He lets go of my hand and we sit quietly for a few moments. Then he turns to face me. “Has your mom seemed okay these past few months?”

  I think about it and realize that yes, she was happy— until Dad came home. That’s when she got all prickly. I don’t tell him that. “Yeah, she really loves her work.”

  He nods. “One more road trip,” he says quietly. “And that’s it.”

  Seven

  Dad and I spend all of Saturday morning working on my project. Together, we decide to divide the piece into four distinct sections, each with a different mood. Each part will be about two minutes long, so it feels almost like writing four different pieces of music.

  “I think I’ll call it Etude in B minor,” I tell him after a while.

  He rolls his eyes. “What a cop-out,” he says.

  I just laugh and play the intro again. Dad picks up his flute and plays along. When I stop, he continues, and I like what I hear.

  “Hey, can you do that again?” I ask, reaching for a pencil and the music score.

  He plays something, but it’s not the same.

  “No, exactly like you did it the first time.”

  He tries again, but still it’s not right.

  “Dad!”

  “I’m trying, I’m trying.”

  Eventually he gets it, or something close to it, and I’m satisfied. I play it on the piano after I’ve recorded it on the page. Dad gives me a few pointers on how to use his computer program, Logic Pro, for music composition. I try to imagine which instrument in the orchestra would have the best “voice” for this part. Possibly the oboe. “Let’s work on the second section next,” I suggest. “This leads nicely into it.”