By the time I get home, Mom has already left for the theater. There’s a note on the fridge: Sorry I missed you. Dinner is in the fridge. You can take the car to class. I slump into a kitchen chair. The house feels incredibly empty. It’s amazing how fast I’ve grown accustomed to having Dad home in the evenings. I really want to see him tonight.
I look up Steve’s phone number. I’ll tell Dad I’m calling to see if he can bring over the autographed head-shots. Then, when he’s here, I’ll ask him to listen to the music I wrote this afternoon. For some reason, I need to know that he approves, that he thinks it’s good.
The phone rings and rings. No one answers. The voice mail clicks on. I hang up without leaving a message.
I think about eating dinner and getting ready for dance class, but I can’t motivate myself to get out of the kitchen chair. For the first time ever, I don’t feel like going.
I pick up my bag and jog down the stairs to the studio. Plugging my flash drive into the computer, I listen to what I’ve written so far. I cringe. How did I miss those mistakes? I grab my notebook and write down what needs to be corrected. Then I begin jotting down new ideas. I move to the piano and try a few variations. When I hear what I like, I jot the notes down. I flip through my notebook and read through the sketches I’ve made for the third and fourth parts of the piece. As the outside light fades, I turn on the overhead lights and continue working.
The door to the upstairs swings open, startling me.
“Allegra? Is that you?”
“Mom! What are you doing home?” I struggle to drag myself back to the real world, feeling much the way I do when I’m suddenly awoken from a deep sleep.
Mom descends the stairs. “Honey, it’s almost midnight. What are you still doing up?”
Almost midnight? Where did the evening go? I look at the music staff paper scattered across the floor, and I’m hesitant to quit. I really do feel like I’m on a roll.
“Did you eat anything tonight?” she asks.
My stomach answers with a loud growl.
She sighs. “Come upstairs. We’ll have a snack and then you need to get to bed.”
I consider arguing with her but then close my book, shut down the computer and put my things away. I walk past her down the hallway and into the kitchen.
It’s still very early. I emerge from sleep tangled in a sweaty heap of blankets and sheets. It’s like there’s been a dog fight, or several of them, on my bed. My room is still pitch-black. The glowing red numbers on my alarm clock read 5:00. I should unravel myself, roll over and sleep for at least another hour, but my mind is alive with the vivid images of my dreams. Crazy, mixed-up dreams.
I tug my leg free from a sheet that’s twisted around it and flop over on my side, pulling up on the blankets. The furnace rumbles to life downstairs. The house creaks, familiar noises I’ve known all my life. I settle back into a foggy, sleepy state, but the images from my dreams return.
I’m on a stage, in complete darkness. The stage lights burst on, the music begins, and I’m supposed to start dancing, but my mind is blank. I don’t remember a single step. My heart pounds and my mouth dries up. I’m dizzy. I want to run offstage, but I can’t make my feet move…and then I’m in the music studio downstairs. Spencer’s kissing me and pulling me toward the couch. When I look up, Mr. Rocchelli is standing on the stairs, watching. He winks. I push Spencer away, embarrassed, but that only makes him cling tighter. Mr. Rocchelli goes to the piano and starts pounding away, old jazz standards. Spencer keeps kissing me, against my will. I look to Mr. Rocchelli for help, but he has morphed into my dad, who is now singing a sappy love song. I feel like I’m suffocating…I want to scream for help, but Spencer keeps pressing his mouth to mine so I can’t make a sound…
I sit up with a start, breathing hard. My heart really is banging. If I go back to sleep, I’m sure the dreams will resume where they left off. Climbing out of bed, I cross my room and head down the hallway, running my hand along the wall in the dark. When I reach the door to the basement, I open it, flick on the lights and peer down the stairs, half expecting to find Spencer and Mr. Rocchelli there, but the room is empty.
In the studio, Dad’s headphones hang from the wall. Plugging the cord into the keyboard, I place the headset over my ears and press my fingers into the keys. I start by playing phrases from my composition, but that feels like work, so I let go and play anything that comes to mind. My hands run up and down the keyboard, and with the headphones on, I know I won’t wake my mom. Unlike when I had to practice for exams and be completely precise, I can now let the music pour out of me, unchecked. And it does. Chopin. Handel. Beethoven. The unsettled feelings from the dreams start to evaporate as I give myself up to the music. Finally, when daylight begins to appear though the slats of the blinds, I turn the keyboard off and remove the headphones. I slump lower on the bench, feeling like I’ve been through a mini-exorcism, banishing the demons that haunted me in the night.
I arrive at school early, hoping to find the music portable unlocked. It is.
“Allegra!” Mr. Rocchelli looks up from the papers he’s marking at his desk. “What are you doing here so early?”
“I’d hoped to work on my piece.”
“But what if I hadn’t been here? The door would have been locked.”
“Then I guess I would have done homework in the study hall.”
He considers that. “Well, this is your lucky day. I’m trying to get caught up myself.” With a flourish he gestures toward the sound room. “She’s all yours.”
“Thanks.”
I feel him watch me cross the room.
“Allegra, are you sure you’re not going overboard with this assignment?”
When I turn back to him, the image from my dream returns. I expect him to wink, but of course he doesn’t. “Like I said, I’m on a roll and I don’t want to lose my momentum.”
He smiles. “Spoken like a true artist. Get to it then. I’m not going to be the one to stand in the way of a composer on a roll.”
As I close the sound-room door behind me, I have to smile. A composer. It sounds so nice coming from him.
“Sleepover at my house tonight,” Talia says as I take my usual spot on the steps at lunchtime. “Are you in, Allegra?”
“What’s the occasion?” I ask, feigning intense interest in the list of ingredients in my yogurt.
“Just a girls’ night. Pizza, pedicures, gossip, movies. You know, the usual.”
No, I don’t know, but for some reason this doesn’t sound too bad. My house is suddenly way too empty in the evenings, and for the first time I can remember, I’m not freaking out when I’m with other kids.
“I guess that means I’m not invited,” Spencer says, putting on a pouty face.
“That’s right. So sorry,” Talia says.
“I give good foot massages.”
“Foot massages?” Molly asks. She turns to Talia. “Maybe we should reconsider the girls-only part of the party.”
“Nope, sorry,” Talia says.
“Can I take a rain check on the foot massage?” Molly asks Spencer.
“Sure,” he says and grins.
Molly smiles, but she blushes too. Something in my stomach twists. I wasn’t ready to kiss Spencer, but I don’t like to see someone else flirting with him either, even if it is just Molly and even if I know it’s only in fun.
“What time should I come over?” I ask Talia.
“Anytime after six.” She pulls out her phone and texts me her address.
I take out my own phone and look at the message, but I don’t recognize the street. I decide to Google it later instead of asking for directions. I know I should ask what to bring—sleeping bag, pillow?—but then it might be clear that I’m new at this. I just tuck my phone back into my backpack. “I didn’t feel like taking dance class tonight anyway.”
Talia just smiles.
The subject changes, my stomach relaxes, and I listen to the easy conversation of my friends.
Ten
“Wow!” Mom says.
Wow is right, I think, gawking out the window of the car. The houses in Talia’s neighborhood are enormous. Ten houses the size of mine would fit on each of these properties. I’ve never been in a mansion before. A deep uneasiness settles over me.
Mom’s agreed to drop me off at Talia’s for the sleepover on her way to work. Part of me wants to ask why Marcus isn’t driving her tonight, but part of me simply wants to keep my head buried in the sand and not even think about the two of them.
“Here it is,” she says, gazing up at a house that’s the size of a small hotel.
I glance down at the number on my phone and then up at the house. Yup. Same number.
The familiar apprehension returns. I had no idea Talia was from a wealthy family. Our house is dumpy in comparison. If I’d known she lived here, I’d never have invited her over. I want to turn around, to go home. This is so out of my league. Mom has pulled over, and her smile is encouraging as she waits for me to get out of the car. When I first told her about the sleepover she acted pleased for me, but I could tell she was also concerned; she knows how hard these things are for me. But right now, she seems totally confident. Maybe she thinks I’m finally becoming normal, whatever that is. Glancing at her, I know I can’t back out now. I don’t want to let her down.
I close my eyes and take a couple of deep breaths. Then I push open the car door and grab my bag from the backseat.
“Have fun!” Mom calls, pretending that all this is typical, that I go to sleepovers every weekend. Her smile is warm. I wave back, but I’m not feeling one bit comfortable. I watch miserably as she drives away.
Walking up the driveway, I remind myself that it’s just Talia, Sophie and Molly. My friends. It’s no big deal. We hang out every day at school. I can do this.
The front door is ajar and I knock, then push it open a little more and peer into the front hallway. I knock a little harder and call, “Hello.” I hear voices upstairs, but no one responds.
Stepping into the tiled front hall, I glance around, hoping not to run into any of Talia’s family members before I see Talia herself. The front foyer has vaulted ceilings and a spiral staircase leading to the second floor. A chandelier cascades down the center of the foyer, and the stairway carpeting is the plushest I’ve ever seen. I take another step into the house and peer down the hall, which opens into a massive kitchen. Straight ahead is a sunken living room, and through the windows I can see a kidney-shaped swimming pool surrounded by a deck and, beyond that, a lawn that looks like a golf course.
The doorbell chimes and I swing around to see a pizza-delivery guy standing in the doorway. He’s weighted down by a stack of cardboard boxes.
“You order pizza?” he asks.
“Not me, I don’t live here, but I’ll see if I can find someone…”
“Don’t worry about it,” he says, thrusting the boxes toward me. “I’ll just put the order on their account.”
Their account? I put down my bag and take the boxes. “But…”
“No worries.” He waves me off and is down the stairs and jogging to his car before I can say anything else.
Whoever heard of having an account with a takeout pizza company?
I look around, wondering where to place the stack of boxes. And who’s going to eat six large pizzas anyway? How many people are in Talia’s family? With a sigh, I realize I should have asked these things before agreeing to come over.
A figure emerges from a doorway at the top of the staircase. It’s Talia. She starts to turn right to go down the hall but catches a glimpse of me and does a double take. She grins. “Allegra! What are you doing down there?”
“What does it look like?” I say, deeply relieved that she’s the first person I’ve encountered. “Delivering pizza, obviously.”
She laughs and calls to whoever else is in the room she’s just left. “Pizza’s here! Come and get it!”
My relief disappears in a flash as a stream of girls follows her out of the room and down the stairs. Strangers, all of them. My heart sinks completely. I’d thought it was just going to be the four of us tonight. That’s the only reason I agreed to come.
Talia grabs the boxes from me and leads the way to the sprawling kitchen. “C’mon,” she calls over her shoulder. “I’ll introduce you to everyone in a sec.”
I’m swept up in the noisy mob as the girls pass through the foyer and head down the hall. In the kitchen, there’s a wide granite island with bar stools along one side. Talia places the pizza boxes in the center of the island, then reaches into a cupboard and pulls out a stack of plates, which she places beside the pizza.
Looking around, I see that the girls have carried bottles of vodka coolers, wine and an assortment of other drinks that I don’t recognize down to the kitchen with them. Drinks are poured, slices of pizza are taken, and the fifteen or so girls perch on the bar stools and at the long kitchen table. The chatter is loud, and everyone appears to be talking at once. A wave of nausea overcomes me.
“Hey, Allegra!” Molly says, appearing for the first time. She rushes over and gives me a hug. Sophie also shows up, carrying a glass of wine. Her eyes have an odd shine to them.
“Hey,” I answer back. I motion to the rest of the girls. “I didn’t realize there was going to be so many of us.”
“Yeah,” Molly answers. “Par-tay!”
Sophie rolls her eyes but smiles too.
“Tally’s parents are away for the weekend,” Molly continues, “at her brother’s soccer tournament, so she figured, why not? C’mon,” she says. “I’m starving.”
Sophie smiles like we’re coconspirators or something and follows Molly to the counter. Loud laughter breaks out across the room. I’m feeling dizzy, and just like in my dream last night, my feet are stuck fast. I’m that ten-year-old girl at the birthday party again, and I simply can’t do this.
For what seems an eternity, I stand frozen to the spot, just watching, and then my feet are released and I turn and scurry back to the front hallway. I grab my bag and slip outside, unnoticed.
I have to transfer buses three times to get back to my neighborhood. It takes most of that time for my heart to return to a regular beat and my breathing to go back to normal. Walking the last stretch, I look around at the familiar houses, noticing for the first time how tired-looking some of them are. All the yards are pathetically puny, and there are no swimming pools or expansive lawns. The gardens, even the ones that have been lovingly tended, would take up only a fraction of the space in the gardens in Talia’s neighborhood.
It’s too late to go to dance class. I consider doing homework or working on my music composition, but I’m just not in the mood. I flop down on the couch and stare out the window at the darkening evening. What is the matter with me? Why can’t I just relax and enjoy parties like everyone else? I really like Talia, Sophie and Molly, and now I’ve blown it. How hard would it have been to stay, to pretend to have fun?
I sigh and sink deeper into the couch. It would have been impossible. The familiar symptoms would have gone from bad to worse. Excessive sweating would have been next, then shortness of breath. I might even have felt faint. It’s impossible to hide these things and pretend to have fun, no matter how many slow, deep breaths I take.
I grab a cushion and chuck it, hard. It hits the wall and falls softly to the carpet. I throw a second one, a third. A growing rage fuels me. Jumping to my feet, I turn and kick the couch, over and over. “Stupid, stupid, stupid!”
One last kick, and my second toe connects with the wood base of the couch and bends back at an awkward angle. I flop back down in agony, massaging my aching toe.
The ringing of my cell phone snaps me back to the present. I check the caller ID. Molly. I just stare at it. After a moment the phone beeps to tell me there is a voice message.
“Allegra? Are you there? We’re worried about you.” Molly’s voice is soft. “You ju
st up and disappeared. If you get this message, call us, okay?” Reaching for the TV remote, I click it on and begin channel surfing. I stare at the screen, but nothing really registers.
My phone rings again. Molly leaves another message, shorter this time. “Allegra, call Tally’s house.”
I flick through some more stations.
The house has grown completely dark. I wander through it, turning on the odd light. It’s eleven o’clock. Mom will be home soon. What will I tell her?
I sigh, realizing I won’t have to tell her anything. She’ll know exactly what happened. I can already see the look of disappointment on her face.
The next time the phone rings, the caller doesn’t leave a message.
Hands shake my shoulders. “Allegra, wake up.”
My eyes blink open and I look up. Mom’s leaning over me. She’s still wearing her performance gown.
“I didn’t know you were home,” she says. “Spencer’s at the door. He says no one could find you. That’s why I checked your bedroom, and—”
“What time is it?”
“One o’clock.”
“Why would Spencer be here? Is something wrong?”
“I’m assuming. Why else would he be here in the middle of the night?”
I pull on tights and a sweatshirt and run my fingers through my hair. In the hall, I pass the living room and notice candlelight. I jump, startled to see someone sitting in the semidarkness. Marcus. Two half-empty glasses of wine stand on the coffee table.
I glance back at Mom, who is following me down the hall.
“We’re having a nightcap,” she says quietly.
The truth of it hits me hard. She thought I was out for the entire night…that she had the house to herself. With lover boy.
Anger once again bubbles up, but I ignore it and continue to the back door, where Spencer is waiting.
“You are home,” he says accusingly.
I hear my mom retreat to the living room and speak to Marcus in a soft voice.
Allegra Page 9
