Allegra

by Shelley Hrdlitschka

  “What is it?”

  “I’m wondering if you would allow me to work with you a bit on this composition.”

  His suggestion startles me, and my reaction must show on my face.

  “I know, I know,” he says. “You’ve worked hard on it, and it’s not really right for me to suddenly want to add my two bits, but I’m just so impressed with what you’re doing, and a creative project is often enhanced with additional minds working on it.”

  He looks at me. I’m too shocked to say anything.

  “Never mind,” he says, shaking his head. “I’m totally out of line here. Forget I said anything.”

  “No, no.” Now I shake my head. “It was your piece of music to start with. I wouldn’t have come this far without the melody you gave me. I’m totally fine with it. In fact, I’d really like some help.”

  His face breaks into a wide grin. “That’s great!” He nods. “On Monday maybe we can draw up a schedule of times we can work together.”

  “Yeah, okay.” This sudden turn of events has caught me totally off guard. We’re still standing, facing one another, and he’s still grinning widely. Suddenly, the easiness of our conversation evaporates. I swear I can feel his body heat radiating toward me. I wrack my brain, trying to find a way to return to the easy banter of just a moment ago, but my mind has gone blank.

  He must feel the sudden awkwardness too. “Is there anything else I can help you with right now, Allegra?”

  I shake my head and look down at the cds he’s handed me. I’m aware of my own body heat now, and I recognize the familiar physical symptoms of anxiety. I shuffle my feet and mumble something about listening to the cds, but his presence is filling the room, and now I’m beginning to feel dizzy. I slump into a chair.

  “You’re sure you’re okay?’ he asks gently. His hand touches my shoulder.

  “Yeah.” Deep breaths.

  “Okay…” I can hear the uncertainty in his voice. “If you don’t need anything else, then…”

  I just shake my head, still staring at the cds in my hands.

  “Then I think I’ll call it a day.” He glances at his watch. “And I do have a date. Shall I leave you the keys to lock up, or are you heading home too?”

  I don’t trust my wobbly legs to carry me out of the room right now. “I’d like to stay a bit longer, if that’s okay.”

  “Sure,” he says. “I know I can trust you to lock up when you leave.” He unhooks a key from the set in his hand and tosses it to me. “Just return it on Monday. I have another one.”

  I nod.

  “Have a good weekend. And Allegra, I’m really looking forward to working on this together.” With a last look at me, he grabs his jacket off the back of his desk chair and leaves the room.

  I’m left wondering what just happened.

  Thirteen

  I’m already in the sound room when Mr. Rocchelli arrives on Monday morning.

  “Did you even go home this weekend?” he asks, smiling. He’s standing in the doorway, looking in at me.

  I just nod and pretend to be busy playing a pattern of notes on the keyboard. I watch as he walks over to his desk and shuffles papers around. He looks up and catches me staring at him. I quickly return to my work, but I sense him walking back toward the sound room. My heart flip-flops.

  “Seriously, I hope you took some time off this weekend, Allegra,” he says, standing in the doorway again.

  “Of course I did.” I roll my eyes, relieved that he’ll never know how much time I actually spent pacing around the house, fretting over the plan to collaborate on the piece. “I just wanted to make sure you weren’t locked out this morning,” I say, pulling the key out of my pocket. “Here.”

  He takes the key and smiles. “Thanks. You must have me figured out already. I can be a bit scattered, and it wouldn’t have been the first time I’d forgotten my spare set.” I go back to the keyboard, but he stays where he is. The familiar scent of his aftershave wafts through the tiny space. “So,” he says, “shall we map out some blocks of time when we can work together?”

  “Sure.” I pull my phone out of my pack. Stay calm.

  “You still okay with that?” he asks, his voice full of doubt.

  “Oh yeah, totally,” I assure him. “I can really use some help.” I look up, feeling a sudden surge of panic that he might change his mind. I’ve been thinking of nothing but working with him all weekend.

  “Good,” he says, nodding.

  I scroll through the weeks on my calendar. “What afternoons are good for you?”

  “Actually,” he says, frowning, “I have rehearsals every afternoon this week.”

  “Oh.” I try not to sound too disappointed.

  “I often have students come back to school in the evening for small group rehearsals. Would evenings work for you?”

  I glance at him, surprised. “Hmm. I dance most evenings. Tuesday through Friday anyway.”

  “Oh. Then how about mornings, before school?”

  “Yeah, I guess that would work.”

  “And you’re free tonight? Shall we start then?”

  I nod.

  “Good. We’ll work tonight and carry on tomorrow morning. Then we’ll decide when to meet again.”

  I shut off my phone. He turns to leave, then steps back into the room. “Will your parents be okay with this?” He looks a little embarrassed.

  “Yeah, of course. They know all about squeezing in rehearsals between other things.”

  “All right!” He grins. “Let’s meet about seven.”

  I spend the rest of the morning trying not to think about working with him that evening, but it’s all I can think of.

  Before lunch I’m back in the sound room for music-theory class. There’s a tap on the glass, and I look up. Spencer is standing there, his head cocked. I nod toward the door, inviting him in.

  “Hey,” he says.

  “Hey.”

  “How have you been?”

  “Okay.” I don’t understand the sudden friendliness. “How ’bout you?”

  “I’m fine.” He looks at his feet. “But I miss hanging out with you. I can hardly remember what happened or what went wrong.”

  I do, but I don’t want to remind him. Looking at him now, I’m wondering what I ever even saw in him. He looks so…young. And awkward.

  “Mr. Rocchelli sent me to ask you if you’d help some of us with our four-part-harmony work. A lot of us are having trouble with it.”

  I look out through the glass and see a class full of heads bowed over sheets of paper. Mr. Rocchelli is at one table, working out a problem for the group seated there. “Sure.” So this wasn’t just a social call after all. I get up from my chair, but Spencer blocks the doorway.

  “Maybe we could hang out one of these days.”

  “Yeah, okay,” my mouth says. My head says that will never happen.

  “Why don’t you join us for lunch tomorrow?” he asks.

  I study his face, wondering if this is some kind of trick. “How would the girls feel about that?”

  “They’d be fine.” He shrugs. “We all overreacted. It’s no big deal.”

  I feel my heart swell at the peace offering. “Okay. Usual place?”

  He grins. “Yeah.”

  As I follow him through the door, he turns and says very quietly, “Thanks.”

  “Thanks?”

  “For making that so easy.”

  As I look at him, I remember how I felt that day the two of us were in this room alone and he kissed me. I feel my face burn. I give him a little push, steering him into the classroom. “Whatever,” is all I can think of to say.

  I tell my mom that I need the car so I can go to the library to work on a group project. If she’s surprised, she doesn’t say anything, and she doesn’t object.

  At exactly 7:00 pm, I pull into the school driveway. Somehow, I’ve managed to keep myself calm. It’s almost dark, but there are enough exterior lights on around the school to find my way to th
e music portable. I can see the lights on inside.

  Feeling shy, I tap lightly on the door before stepping into the classroom. He looks up from his desk, where he’s marking papers.

  “Hi, Allegra,” he says. His smile is warm.

  “Hey.” I glance about, surprised to see that there is no one else here.

  He reads my thoughts. “The jazz combo that often meets on Monday nights cancelled. Apparently, there’s a big Geography 10 exam tomorrow.”

  “Oh.”

  “Ready to get to work?” He stands and watches as I cross the room.

  “Yeah.”

  He flicks off the classroom lights as he follows me into the brighly lit sound room. “Might as well conserve energy,” he says.

  I sit down and push the flash drive into the computer. It’s just me, him and the music in our bright little bubble. “Where shall we start?” I ask.

  He sits in the other chair. “How about at the beginning?”

  I nod and start the music. We listen in silence. I glance at him once and see that his eyes are closed. When we get to the end of the piece—or as far as I’ve written—I wait for his comments. His eyes open slowly.

  “Well?” I ask.

  He sits quietly for a moment, then says, “Have you had that experience where you hear a piece of music… and it…it resonates with you—somewhere deep?”

  I can hardly breathe as I realize where he is going with this. I simply nod.

  “This piece…it does that for me.”

  “Oh.” I nod some more. “I’m glad.” What else can I say? What else is there to say?

  He sits still for another long moment, as if savoring what he has just heard. Finally he shakes his head, pulling himself back into the present. “If it’s okay with you,” he says, “I don’t want to change anything you have here, just add another layer.”

  “Another layer?” I’m intrigued, and I feel myself relax a little.

  “Yeah, I think we could overlay another whole voice on what is here.” Using his heels, he wheels his chair a little closer. I wheel mine away from the computer, allowing him to take the mouse. “How about this?”

  He starts the piece from the beginning, pointing the cursor to an icon that adds a track of stringed instruments to the mix. He listens. “No, that’s not right.” He goes back to the beginning, this time choosing woodwinds. He continues this way for a while, adding one new instrument sound after another and listening to the mix. He quickly loses himself in the work. I think he’s even forgotten that I’m there. I roll my chair even farther away and simply watch him. Without looking up, he rolls his chair a little closer to the computer and continues experimenting.

  “Hey, that’s it!” I say, sitting up taller. Finally I get what he’s trying to do.

  “You think?” he says, looking over at me. He looks a little dazed, like he’s forgotten where he is.

  “Yeah. Play that again, with the flute.”

  He does, and we watch each other while the section plays through with the flute track blending in.

  I find myself smiling, excited. The piece now has a whole new resonance. “I like it,” I say, nodding.

  “Are you sure?” he asks. “I don’t want to impose.”

  “No, seriously, that’s exactly what was missing.”

  “Good.” He fiddles with the score for a few more minutes, making tiny changes. Eventually, he sits back.

  “Well, that was fun,” he says. He looks at me and laughs. “It wasn’t exactly teamwork, though, was it? Sorry about that. I just kind of took over.”

  “Works for me,” I tell him.

  He laughs again.

  “Besides, I’ve done all the work so far. If this is going to be a collaboration, you have some catching up to do.”

  He smiles, then scans my face, as if seeing something there for the first time. It makes me uncomfortable. “Shall we keep working?” I ask, turning to the screen. Our bright little bubble suddenly feels claustrophobic.

  He stretches and runs his fingers through his hair. “All that concentrating…I’m exhausted!” He laughs at himself. It’s a nice laugh, warm and contagious. “How about a tea break?” he asks. “Can I make you a cup?”

  I nod. “Sure,” I say, but truthfully I’m sorry to stop working on the music. I’m in my comfort zone with that. I’m not comfortable with drinking tea together.

  He leaves the sound room, flicks on the classroom lights and returns to his desk, plugging in the kettle that sits on a counter behind it.

  I get up, stretch and follow him toward his desk. He’s pulling various kinds of tea out of a cupboard. “Peppermint?” he asks. “Green? Black currant?”

  “Whatever you’re having.”

  He scans the boxes. “Chamomile,” he says. “Does that work for you?”

  “Sure.” I have no idea what chamomile is. I watch as he pulls a couple of mugs out of the cupboard and drops a tea bag into each of them. He pours boiling water into the mugs, then pushes at the tea bags with a spoon. He seems lost in thought as he swirls the tea bags around. When he decides the tea is ready, he holds a mug out to me. I watch as he brings his cup up to his face and inhales. His eyes close briefly.

  “Chamomile always reminds me of my mom,” he says. “It was her favorite.”

  I inhale too. The fragrance doesn’t remind me of anything.

  “I miss her,” he says, taking a sip.

  “Where is she?”

  “She passed away a year ago.” A sad expression crosses his face. “Almost to the day.” He pulls up the sleeve of his T-shirt so I can see his entire tattoo. I can’t help but notice the long muscles. “These are the dates of her life.”

  “Oh. I’m sorry.”

  “Thanks.” He lets the sleeve drop. “She really supported my ambition to be a musician. Unlike my father.”

  “What did he think you should do?”

  “Anything that provides a steady paycheck.”

  I think about my parents. They’ve encouraged me to be a musician even though they know the income isn’t always steady.

  “So is that why you became a music teacher?”

  He nods. “It really wasn’t a compromise though. I belong to a small jazz ensemble and we perform a couple of times a month, and landing a job at a fine-arts school, well, it all worked out.” He smiles at me and takes a big gulp of tea.

  “How about you?” he asks. “Do your parents support your ambition to be a dancer?”

  I think about that and then smile. “Not really,” I say. “Ironically, they want me to be a musician, like them.”

  He smiles at that too.

  “They worry that I won’t be able to support myself with dance.”

  “I guess all parents are the same that way.”

  “Except your mom,” I remind him.

  “Yeah.” He nods, staring into his mug. “She was special.”

  The room is still as Mr. Rocchelli regards his tea. Finally he gives his head a little shake and looks up. “Sorry,” he says. “I didn’t mean to go there. It was the tea…”

  “No worries.”

  He smiles. “Tell me a little about yourself, Allegra,” he says, leaning back against the counter.

  I sit on the edge of a table. “There’s not much to tell,” I say. “I dance, go to school…” My mind goes completely blank. “And that’s about it.”

  “You have interesting parents.”

  “Maybe to you.” I smile.

  He smiles back. “Good point. How about your friends?”

  I don’t want to tell him that I don’t “do” friends very well. “I have a friend at my dance school. Angela. She’s great.”

  He nods, waiting for me to go on.

  “But that’s about it.”

  He cocks his head. “I was under the impression that you were friends with Spencer.”

  “Was.”

  “Oh?” His eyebrows arch: a question.

  I take a long sip of my tea, then sigh. “I blew it with him.” />
  I can’t believe I’ve just admitted that. It must be because he shared with me about his mother. “But he invited me to have lunch with him and his friends tomorrow,” I add.

  Mr. Rocchelli is still studying me. “That sounds positive.”

  I shrug. “Who knows? I’ve never been very good at keeping friends.”

  “I’m surprised to hear that,” he says gently.

  “I never really got kids my age,” I tell him. “All the drama and the things they talked about…well, none of it interested me. So I removed myself, I guess, and then it got so I didn’t even know how to act with them.”

  Mr. Rocchelli doesn’t respond and I don’t look at him, but I know he’s listening intently.

  “So I figure it’s best just to stick to myself. Less difficult that way.”

  “Maybe you had the advantage of releasing all that adolescent drama and angst in your music and dance.”

  “Maybe.”

  “Will you have lunch with Spencer and the others tomorrow?”

  Now it’s my turn to gaze into my mug. “Yeah, I guess.”

  “You know, Allegra,”—Mr. Rocchelli’s voice is very soft and kind—“you’ll find that once you’re finished school and are out in the world, dancing professionally, you’ll connect with people more like yourself, people who are passionate about what they’re doing, and you’ll suddenly find that you fit in.”

  “I thought that was what I was going to find at this school; it’s why I transferred.”

  “You are different from most girls your age,” he adds.

  Our eyes meet and hold a moment too long. I nod and look away. There’s a current running between us, something so strong it feels almost tangible.

  “In a good way,” he adds, breaking the serious mood with a laugh. I feel the current snap. I don’t know whether I’m relieved or disappointed.

  “There’s nothing wrong with the other girls!” he adds quickly. He rotates his mug, watching the tea slosh around the bottom. “They’re just more...more social than you. And this is still a high school, no matter what they call it.”

  I have nothing to say to that, so I gulp down the remainder of my tea. He does too. “Let’s get back to work shall we?” he suggests.

  As I follow him back to the sound room, I know something in our relationship has shifted. Something important.