Allegra

by Shelley Hrdlitschka

  Mr. Rocchelli hands out sheets of music. The students are to transpose them into the key indicated at the top of the page. Each student receives a different sheet. They spread out around the room, most of them using music stands to write on.

  I walk around, feeling totally self-conscious about my role as teacher-helper. Why did I agree to do this? It won’t happen again. I try to avoid Spencer—I feel especially awkward about helping him—but eventually I find myself near the table he is working at. I pull up a chair and look at his work. He’s finished, and his transposition is flawless.

  “Looks like you know what you’re doing,” I whisper.

  “I do,” he admits.

  “Maybe you could challenge the course too,” I suggest. “You could help me with my project. A team effort.”

  “I’d like that,” he whispers. “But I’m afraid there’s still a lot of stuff I don’t know.”

  “I’ll tutor you,” I say.

  He just smiles and looks away. Then a funny expression crosses his face. I follow his gaze to see what he’s looking at. It’s Julia, and she is clearly unhappy to see us talking together. I won’t be a bit surprised if she accuses me of doing Spencer’s work for him. I get up and wander around the room some more, being especially careful to avoid Julia.

  Eventually Mr. Rocchelli collects the assignments, and then he sits at the piano. “Call out the name of the scale I’m playing,” he says.

  For the last fifteen minutes of class, I watch as he challenges the students to name harder and harder scales and chords. He makes it fun. I find my gaze constantly returning to Spencer, but I quickly look away if he glances at me.

  As agreed, I meet Mr. Rocchelli back in the portable at lunchtime. I follow him into the sound room, and once again I’m aware of how tiny it is and how close we have to be to work together.

  “I’ll leave the door open,” I tell him. “It gets so warm in here.” Nodding absently, he sits down and plugs my flash drive into the computer. I sit in the other chair to listen to what I’ve done.

  “It’s just a bunch of ideas right now,” I tell him when the piece ends.

  “I realize that,” he says, looking up at me. “But I’m impressed anyway. I can barely recognize my own simple tune. What program did you record this on?”

  “Logic Pro. That’s what my dad uses. He helped me record this.”

  “Great! That’s what we have here too, so you’ll be able to work at home as well as at school. How much do you already know about Logic Pro?”

  “Hardly anything.”

  “Okay, well, I’ll start at the beginning and you stop me if you already know what I’m teaching you.”

  He turns back to the computer screen and shows me how my music scrolls across it. It almost looks like a hospital heart monitor. Each additional instrument and rhythm that I add will show up on the screen as a new track, either beneath or above the ones already recorded. I can even assign each one a different color to distinguish it from the others. I can record multiple tracks and adjust each one individually without affecting the others. I can raise the volume of the flute or soften the beat of a drum.

  “What do you think?” he asks.

  “It’s pretty cool. I didn’t know you could do all that.”

  “Now you know.”

  “It looks complicated.”

  “Just play with it for a while. You’ll get the hang of it.”

  I shrug, not convinced.

  “You’ve got a whole year to finish the project, you know.”

  “How often can I use the sound room?” I ask.

  “It’s all yours during music-theory classes. And there”— he points at the wall—“is a sign-up sheet for other hours. I’ve blocked off the times that the composition class meets, and we have some eager recording-studio-engineer types in this school, but you’ll have plenty of time to get the project done.”

  “I don’t know about that.”

  He tilts his head to regard me.

  “You said you wanted a masterpiece. How long did it take Beethoven to write the Fifth Symphony?”

  He smiles but doesn’t laugh. He’s studying me a little too closely, and I feel the urge to move back, get some space, but there’s no room.

  “That was a joke,” I tell him.

  “I know.” He gets up, and his hand squeezes my arm as he directs me into the chair he’s just vacated. “Have a seat,” he says. “Let’s try adding a trumpet track to your composition.”

  I sit down, still aware of where his hand was on my arm. It felt nice. Gentle but firm. Just enough pressure to guide me, the way a perfect dance partner can guide you around the dance floor without being aggressive.

  “Okay, now find the trumpet under the Options menu,” he instructs.

  I scroll through the list of instruments, distracted by his presence as he stands close behind me, bent over and peering at the computer screen.

  We spend the next half hour playing with the composition program. Occasionally his arm brushes against mine as he reaches to point at something on the screen. I can feel his body heat through his shirt, and his breath is warm where it hits the back of my neck. The scent of his spicy aftershave wafts past me. I have trouble concentrating on his instructions.

  Eventually he stretches and steps toward the door. “I need to eat something before the next block,” he says. “But you go ahead; keep playing with the program. We can schedule another lesson once you’ve had a chance to experiment a little.”

  I should be relieved that he’s no longer right behind me, but I’m not, and I’m bothered by the fact that I actually enjoyed having him so close.

  My stomach growls. I slap my hand to it, embarrassed.

  He smiles. “There’s only one rule,” he says. “No eating or drinking in here. You can’t damage anything by clicking on the wrong icon, but a spilled drink…” He leaves the sound room, and through the glass I see him walking toward his desk. I save the work we’ve done and put my flash drive in my pack. I give him a little wave as I walk across the classroom toward the door. “Thanks!”

  “Allegra,” he calls.

  I spin around. “Yes?”

  “You’re not a perfectionist, are you?”

  I’m not sure what he’s getting at. “Of course I am.” I smile.

  “I’m serious,” he says. “When I said I wanted a masterpiece, I should have added, ‘Within reason.’ I don’t want you getting bent out of shape over this.”

  Now I get it. It was my Beethoven remark. I laugh. “No worries. I’ll just write an average masterpiece.”

  He smiles at my joke. “It’s just that, well, I know how seriously you take your dancing. I don’t want you getting an ulcer or anything.”

  I roll my eyes. “No ulcers, I promise.”

  I sense him watching me as I leave the room, and I like it, but I know that’s stupid. What is going on with me?

  I find Spencer and the girls lounging on the steps in the multipurpose room.

  “Are you hot? Your cheeks are flushed,” Talia comments.

  I put my hand to my face. My skin is warm.

  “Where have you been?” Spencer asks, moving over to make room for me beside him. He’s sitting a level higher than the girls.

  “In the sound room, with Mr. Rocchelli,” I tell him. “It does get warm in there.”

  “Reeeally,” Talia says, dragging out the word. She studies my face. “Do you still think he’s a goof ?”

  I feel my cheeks burn even more, recalling my comment a week or so ago. “No, not really,” I admit. “He’s pretty cool.”

  “And hot,” Talia adds. “Don’t you think?”

  “Very funny,” I say, but I’m remembering how I felt when his hand squeezed my arm. I pull my sandwich out of my pack and change the subject. “Have you studied for the history quiz?” I ask her.

  She doesn’t answer and keeps smiling, a sly smile as if she knows something, which she doesn’t. She gives Spencer’s leg a little punch. “I think
you’ve got competition, buddy,” she says.

  Sophie laughs and Molly says, “Woo hoo!”

  “Shut up, Talia,” I say, a little more harshly than I intended. I take a swig of water. I can’t look at Spencer, but I can feel him watching me.

  “Hey, I’m just kidding, Allegra,” Talia says more softly.

  I nod and keep eating.

  “Seriously,” she says, putting her hand on my leg. “I’m always goofing around. Nobody takes me seriously.”

  “Nobody,” Molly agrees, and Sophie nods.

  I shrug, and the bell rings. We all collect our things.

  “Are we okay?” Talia asks quietly.

  “Yeah, of course.” But I can’t meet her eyes.

  She hesitates before joining Sophie and Molly, who have walked on ahead.

  I know I’m overreacting, but I can’t seem to help it. I also know that her comment wouldn’t have bugged me so much if Spencer hadn’t been sitting there, and…well, if there wasn’t some truth to it. I feel my cheeks start to burn again.

  I catch up to Spencer, who is pushing through the door that leads into the courtyard. He holds it open for me. We walk across the courtyard together and through the doors on the other side. I can’t think of a thing to say.

  “Can I call you tonight?” he asks, stopping at the door to the art room.

  “Sure,” I say, feeling my heart speed up a little. “I’ll be home from dance class by nine thirty.”

  He smiles and squeezes my arm before slipping into the art room. That’s two arm squeezes in one lunch hour, and I can’t help but notice that I don’t have the same response to this one as I did to Mr. Rocchelli’s.

  Eight

  I find Dad in the music studio when I get home from dance class. He’s wearing headphones and strumming his guitar, keeping time to whatever it is he’s listening to. He doesn’t hear me come down the stairs. His brow is creased, and he’s either concentrating deeply on the music or angry about something.

  He looks up and smiles when I plunk myself on the couch. He pulls off the headphones. “Hey,” he says. “How’s it going?”

  “It’s going good,” I tell him. “What are you working on?”

  “Not much,” he says. “Just chilling, really.”

  He looks back down at his guitar and plays a couple of chords. The frown has returned to his forehead.

  “Have you told anyone about your plans?” I ask. “To give up touring?”

  He sighs deeply. “Yeah.” He plucks a guitar string, and we watch it vibrate. “I told your mom.”

  “And?”

  “And”—he plays an intricate little riff—“I thought she might be happy about it.”

  I stare at him, trying to make sense of what he’s saying. “She wasn’t?”

  He shakes his head and keeps picking out notes.

  “What did she say?”

  “She didn’t say much. But she clearly wasn’t happy to hear it.”

  He plays for another minute while I sit in shocked silence.

  “That kind of changes everything,” he says finally.

  “What do you mean?” I think I know, but I need to hear him say it.

  He sighs again and stares at his guitar. “I might as well be honest with you, honey.” There’s a long pause while he decides what to say. “Your mom and I are going to have to figure out where we go from here.” He puts his guitar down and looks directly at me. “We’ll make a decision when I get back from the tour.”

  “What do you mean…a decision?” I hear the tremble in my voice, but I don’t care.

  He looks away. “About our marriage, Legs.”

  I feel like I’ve been knocked in the head, hard, and have just woken up to a new reality, one that doesn’t make sense. I stare at him as the meaning of his words sinks in.

  Dad comes over to the couch and sits beside me. He puts his arm around my shoulder, but I pull away. His arm drops back to his side. “Legs,” he says, “it’s not what I want either. Your mom and I are going to get some counseling right away and…consider our options.”

  “What about me?” I feel icy cold all over.

  “Nothing much will change for you, Legs. You’re already used to me being away a lot.”

  Suddenly I get what this is all about. “It’s that Marcus guy, isn’t it? ” I stand and walk over to the harp. I pull hard on a string, and then another one. Their combined sounds made a jarring, unpleasant sound. “I should have known!”

  Dad leans back and sighs again. He folds his hands in his lap. “That’s something you’ll have to ask your mom,” he says.

  I’m still too shocked to move. I’m breathing hard and my feet feel glued to the floor. I can hear my cell phone ringing upstairs, but I ignore it.

  Dad moves back to his chair and his guitar, but before he can play anything, the home phone rings. When I don’t move to get it, he leans over to pick up the studio extension.

  “I’m not home,” I whisper.

  He looks at me, frowning, then picks up the receiver and says hello.

  “Hey, Spencer,” he says a moment later. “I’m afraid she can’t come to the phone right now. Yes. I’ll give her your message.”

  He hangs up and turns back to me. “He says he’ll see you at school tomorrow.”

  I just nod.

  “It’s going to be okay, honey,” he says quietly.

  I don’t answer, but I can move my feet again so I climb the stairs, shut myself in my room and curl into a small ball under my blankets.

  A long time passes before I hear a soft knock on my door. It opens and someone crosses the dark room and carefully sits on my bed. A hand touches my shoulder.

  “Allegra?” Mom says.

  I don’t answer. I have nothing to say.

  “I heard you had a…a conversation with Dad tonight.”

  A conversation. That’s an interesting way to put it.

  “I’m sorry, honey. I wanted to be there when we talked to you about…about things. I didn’t think it would come up so soon. We haven’t made any firm plans yet.”

  I shrug; I still have nothing to say.

  “Everything’s going to be okay, honey.”

  “Whatever.” Once again, it’s the best I can do.

  She rubs my back, then suddenly pulls back my blanket. “Allegra. You’re still in your dance leotard.”

  I don’t respond.

  I hear her sigh and feel the blanket return to my shoulder. The mattress springs up as she gets to her feet. “We’ll talk more tomorrow,” she says, and I hear my door close.

  I flip over and pull my knees up into my chest. The icy-cold sensation continues, radiating from my core out, and my breathing becomes ragged. Tears spill down my cheeks, followed by sobs, and I just let go, not holding anything back. I cry until I feel empty, mercifully pain-free. Warmth returns to my body, and finally, finally, I fall into a deep sleep.

  I don’t bother to get up in the morning except to use the bathroom. Mom comes into my room with a mug of tea. “Not going to school today?” she asks.

  I sit up and accept the mug, but I don’t look at her. “Maybe later.”

  “Do you want to talk?” she asks, sitting on the end of my bed again.

  “Not really.” I do, but I’m afraid of what I might say. I’d like to tell her there wouldn’t be a problem if it weren’t for her.

  And Marcus, the guy with the sports car. I bet he’s a bassoon player. I never did like the bassoon.

  “Dad’s going to move in with Steve, for the time being,” she adds.

  Now I do look at her. “How come?”

  “It’s just easier that way,” she says.

  Easier for who? I think, but I don’t dare say it. Certainly not easier for me. And not for him either. His studio is here.

  “He’ll still be around,” she says. “To rehearse and to see you, of course.”

  “Of course,” I say, more sharply than I intend. I feel Mom’s gaze.

  “Are you sure there’
s nothing you want to talk about?” she says again.

  I shrug. How do you go about asking your mother if she’s having an affair?

  I don’t bother going to school after all. Late in the morning I hear my parents leave. They return a few hours later. I’m still in bed. Another knock on my door. This time it’s Dad’s face that appears.

  “Can I come in?” he asks.

  I nod.

  He sits on the end of my bed, not looking at me. He pulls a pillow into his lap, and his fingers twirl the decorative fringe. We sit in silence for a moment.

  “I’ve never been very good with words,” he says quietly. “I tend to express myself in music.”

  “You write great lyrics,” I remind him.

  “That’s different. I can fiddle around with those words until I get them just right.” He hesitates. “But talking with my daughter…well, I’m still struggling with that, though I feel we’ve been connecting better since I’ve been home this time.”

  I nod. I think so too. Silence fills the room. He goes back to twirling the pillow fringe.

  “Will you write out your dance schedule for the next couple of weeks so I can watch your classes?” he asks.

  I nod. “I was hoping you’d keep on helping me with my music composition.”

  “I will when I can,” he says. “But that’s a year-long project. There’s not much I can do when I’m on the road.”

  “You’ll be back, and besides, there’s still a couple of weeks.”

  “We’ll set up dates,” he suggests.

  “I still don’t see why you can’t stay here. There’s a sofa bed in the studio. You could sleep there if you don’t want…” The sentence is too awkward to finish.

  It’s his turn to shrug. “I’m trying to do everything the way your mom wants things done. This is her idea.”

  “You’re going to be gone soon enough.”

  “It’s complicated, Legs. Relationships are always complicated. That’s why there is so much music written about love and heartbreak.” He smiles sadly.