Allegra

by Shelley Hrdlitschka

  “Are you sure you’re not just denying these allegations to protect Mr. Rocchelli, Allegra?” Ms. Jennings’s voice is low.

  “No, I am not.” Tears spring to my eyes.

  “That looked like a pretty intimate hug to me.”

  “It was a friendly hug, nothing more.”

  “What was the news that you shared with him?”

  “It’s none of your business.”

  “I think it is. This is a very serious situation, and we need to gather all relevant information.”

  I stare at her, wondering again why such an insensitive woman is working at a school where the students are supposed to dig deep to create their art. She has no idea about passion.

  “Allegra?” Mr. Carter says. “It’s important that you tell us everything.”

  I look first at him, then her. “My parents have separated.”

  A momentary look of concern crosses her face before she goes back to looking cranky. “We’ll be calling your parents, Allegra. They will be asked to verify this information.”

  “You don’t believe me about that either?”

  “That’s not what I’m saying.”

  “That’s exactly what you’re saying.”

  “Allegra,” Mr. Carter says, breaking in like a referee. “I’m sorry. This is clearly very difficult for everyone. But here are the facts. A student came to us with some information about you and Mr. Rocchelli. Another student confirmed that information with evidence that supposedly came directly from you. Ms. Jennings saw the two of you hugging when there was no one else in the room. I have no choice but to launch an investigation into this matter. If there is enough evidence, then charges will be laid against Mr. Rocchelli. I would hope that we will have your total cooperation.”

  Charges will be laid. The words repeat themselves over and over in my head as the enormity of the situation begins to sink in.

  “In the meantime, Mr. Rocchelli has been suspended until the investigation is complete.”

  My heart slams. I breathe deeply, trying to fight the nausea and dizziness, but it’s too late. Black spots appear in the air around me.

  “Allegra?”

  I hear Mr. Carter’s voice, but I can no longer see him across the desk. The last thing I remember is noticing how cool the floor is as my cheek makes contact with it.

  Mom picks me up from school and we drive home in silence. My cheek is bruised, but the only other injury from my fainting was to my dignity. Ms. Jennings had helped me to the medical room, where I lay on the cot until Mom arrived. I have no idea what they told her.

  At home, I head straight to my room and bury myself under my blankets. A short time later, I hear my mom enter my room, and I can smell the tea she places on my desk.

  “We need to talk, Allegra,” she says from the foot of my bed.

  “I didn’t do anything wrong!” I say, my voice muffled by the blankets that are pulled over my head.

  I feel her tug at the blankets. “Okay, then that’s what we’ll talk about.”

  I don’t respond; instead, I begin to think of ways I could end this agony. Running away, maybe joining Dad on tour, seems like the only option.

  Mom sits down on the end of my bed. “Did Mr. Rocchelli behave inappropriately with you?”

  “No!” I sit up with a lurch and smack the bed with my fist.

  “Okay, okay,” she says. “I believe you.” She places a hand on my knee. “So why, then, does the school think something happened?” she asks gently.

  That whole misunderstanding with Talia and the hug that Ms. Jennings witnessed…it all feels way too complicated to explain. “I don’t know!” It comes out in a kind of wail.

  “You must have an idea, Allegra. These kinds of allegations don’t come out of nowhere.”

  We sit in silence for a long moment. Then she says, “They asked me if your dad and I had separated. What does that have to do with this situation?”

  “What did you tell them?” I freeze, knowing her answer is crucial to my credibility.

  She sighs. “I told them yes, for now we are living separately, but that we are trying to sort things out.”

  A trace of relief runs through me. At least they’ll know I wasn’t lying about that.

  After a few more minutes, I’m finally ready to explain; I know I’m going to have to get this over with sometime. Taking a deep breath, I let it out. “Noel and I were composing a piece of music together. We often worked alone in the music portable, but nothing inappropriate ever happened.” There.

  Feeling slightly better, I pick up the mug of tea she’s brought, thinking of the chamomile tea that I drank with Noel.

  “Noel? You call him by his first name?”

  “He asked me to call him that because we were more like collaborators than student and teacher when we were writing.”

  Her eyes widen. “Are you serious?”

  “Yes! What’s wrong with that?” Anger surges through me again.

  “This is the music-theory assignment we talked about.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  She thinks about it. “Okay. I believe you, of course. But why don’t the others?”

  I’m not sure that she really does believe me, but I explain about the night I twisted my ankle, about how Talia accused me of having sex with Noel and how I was too pissed off at her to even deny it. I told her about the hug in the portable and how innocent it was. What I don’t tell her about are my feelings for Noel and how I think maybe he feels the same for me. I don’t need to, because the thing is, we didn’t do anything wrong.

  We didn’t, I suddenly think, lying back on my pillow. But I did. I didn’t deny Talia’s accusations. If I’d only told her the truth from the start, this would never have happened, Noel would still be teaching, and the two of us would still be writing music together.

  Dad arrives on Wednesday afternoon and knocks on the door to my room, which I haven’t left since Monday afternoon except to use the bathroom. After getting the call from the school, Mom had contacted him, and he immediately arranged to come home for a few days. “Hey, Legs,” he says as he steps inside, a sad smile on his face. “I hear there’s been some trouble.”

  Obviously Mom has filled him in. Despite my best intentions, I feel yet another onslaught of tears threatening to overcome me.

  “Oh, honey,” he says, picking up one of my hands. “We’ll sort this all out.”

  I don’t know what to say, so I simply melt into his shoulder. “It’s all my fault,” I sob. “I should have told Talia the truth, and none of this would have happened.”

  After some time, Dad sighs and clears his throat. I pull myself away. “It’s funny,” he says, wiping a tear off my cheek. “I feel like it’s all my fault. If I’d been here to work on the composition with you, maybe none of this would have happened. And your mom feels like it’s all her fault, that she should have been paying closer attention to what was going on in your life.”

  “And Noel probably feels like it’s all his fault, for being so enthusiastic about our music,” I add.

  Dad lifts my chin and looks into my eyes. “Maybe we are all a little bit to blame, or maybe none of us are.” He shrugs. “But whatever,” he adds. “Like I said, we’re going to sort it all out.”

  The weeks pass slowly. I don’t return to school, and no one seems to expect me to. I can’t bring myself to dance or play the piano. Dad has left the tour and moved back in; he sleeps on the couch in the music studio. I hear him and Mom talking late at night. Mom continues to work, and Dad stays home with me. He tries to give me space by spending a lot of time in the studio, but I know he’s also keeping a close eye on me.

  I spend my days reading, stretching and watching mindless TV. I did chat online with Angela, but when she told me that the situation between me and Noel was all over Facebook, I decided to stay completely away from the computer, too.

  A police officer came to question me one night, but I haven’t heard anything else about the investigation. Mom and Dad
have hired a lawyer, just in case I need one, who spent an evening asking me questions, but he didn’t give us any indication of what will happen next. I could tell by his questions that he thought it was inappropriate for Noel to be spending time alone with me.

  Mom only made one more attempt to talk to me about it. We were alone, making dinner together. Out of the blue, she said, “It never occurred to you, honey, that it might have been wrong for Mr. Rocchelli to work alone with you, especially at night?”

  I just narrowed my eyes and replied, “You never thought it might have been wrong for Marcus to be here, alone with you, in the middle of the night?”

  That shut her up.

  Living in limbo, not knowing what’s going to happen next, is killing me, and not an hour goes by that I don’t think of Noel and wonder how he is doing. Does he hate me for what has happened?

  Christmas comes. Dad, Mom and I end up staying home. Mom makes a turkey dinner; they both give me some gifts, but the day is anything but festive. I sleep a lot. When I’m not sleeping, I’m thinking about Noel.

  These are the darkest, shortest days of the year. It’s harder and harder to get out of bed. I’ve never felt so helpless.

  At the start of January, we receive a letter asking us to appear at an information-gathering meeting at the police station on January 10. Suddenly I go from constantly sleeping to not sleeping at all. I toss and turn at night, wondering what will happen at this meeting. I try to mentally prepare myself. It’s imperative that I remain calm. For Noel’s sake, I have to convince the authorities that nothing inappropriate ever happened.

  Eighteen

  Finally the day arrives. We gather around a table in a small room at the police station: my parents, my lawyer, Mr. Carter, Noel, his lawyer and Officer O’Neil.

  “So.” Officer O’Neil takes a moment to look at each of us. “This was to be an information-gathering meeting only,” he says, “but I now understand that Mr. Noel Rocchelli has a statement to make that may change how we proceed. Mr. Rocchelli, what is it you wish to say?”

  Everyone’s focus turns to Noel. His gaze is on the table. I notice how pale he is, and how there are now dark circles under his eyes. He takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly. “As you all know, Allegra and I were writing a piece of music together. It started out as an assignment for her, but I very quickly discovered the talent she had for composing, and despite myself, I found I couldn’t resist working on it with her.”

  Breathe, Allegra, breathe…

  “Because I became so caught up in the composition,” he continues, “and even had hopes of getting it published and performed, I admit I lost my objectivity regarding my relationship with a student.”

  He pauses here, and I feel everyone lean forward, myself included, anxious to hear where he is going with this. Is he going to admit his feelings for me in front of these people?

  “As both of us have said, there was no inappropriate behavior between us, except for one hug, the kind of hug you give a friend when you can see the friend needs one. However, upon reflection, I now understand that I should have remained in my role as teacher, not friend, with Allegra. It was a grave error in my own judgment.”

  A grave error? How could he help his feelings for me? I slump back in my chair.

  Noel glances at me before he continues. “The reason I am a music teacher,” he says, “is because of my great passion for music, and for composing music in particular. Allegra has a rare talent for composition. When we worked together, I would forget she was a seventeen-year-old high-school student. In some ways, working with her was like working with a colleague, a fellow musician. That is probably why I lost perspective in my relationship with her.”

  I feel everyone’s gaze turn to me. I just stare at the table.

  At this point Mr. Rocchelli leans back in his chair and takes a deep breath. The room is completely still. It is clear that he has not finished what he wants to say. I hold my breath.

  He continues, and his voice becomes wobbly. “I have cherished my work as teacher at Deer Lake High, but as you all know, the outpouring of rumors, speculation and outright lies that has been humming on the social network sites since mid-November has been overwhelming.” He pauses to rub his face with his hands. “Even if I am cleared of any wrongdoing,” he continues, “it would be very hard, if not impossible, to resume teaching under that cloud.”

  The truth of what he is saying hits me like a punch to the stomach.

  “Allegra,” he says, “you have done nothing to cause this situation. You need to know that. I was the one who should have been more professional. I do not in any way hold you responsible for what I have to do.”

  I look up and meet his eyes. There is only sorrow there. I brush away tears.

  “Even though it may look like an admission of guilt,” he continues, “I have submitted my notice of resignation from the Lakeview School District, effective immediately.”

  The room remains completely still. Shock has paralyzed me. He is dead wrong. This is completely my fault. All I had to do was tell Talia that she was wrong, that nothing had happened between us, and we wouldn’t be here.

  Officer O’Neil taps his pencil on his pad of paper. He turns to Mr. Carter. “Well,” he says, sighing. “Here’s what I recommend then. Given that Mr. Rocchelli has resigned from teaching, and given that there isn’t any conclusive evidence that anything truly inappropriate happened between Allegra and Mr. Rocchelli, I am going to recommend that we not proceed with the investigation.”

  Mr. Carter nods solemnly. “I’m terribly sorry that things ever got this far and that Deer Lake High is losing a fine teacher, but I have to agree with Mr. Rocchelli: it would be impossible for him to return to his teaching duties. As far as any charges are concerned, I agree that they should be dropped.”

  Dad slides his arm around my shoulders and pulls me toward him. I don’t look up, but I hear the legs on Mr. Rocchelli’s chair scrape the floor as he rises. A moment later I sense him standing behind us.

  “Mr. and Mrs. Whitford,” he says, his voice thick with emotion. I don’t move, but my parents turn to look up at him. “I apologize for any pain I have caused you and Allegra.”

  Neither of them responds.

  “You have an extraordinarily talented daughter. I wish her well in the future.”

  Our eyes meet for a brief moment, but there’s a universe of unspoken words in that moment.

  Mr. Rocchelli turns and leaves the room.

  An impossible heaviness floods through my body as the truth of what just happened sinks in. I have single-handedly destroyed the man’s career. The man I love.

  I wish I were dead.

  Without Noel, without the music, there is no reason to get out of bed. Dancing is pointless; it’s hard enough to get up to go to the bathroom, which I don’t have to do often because swallowing food or water has become almost impossible.

  I’m aware of my parents tiptoeing into my room, bringing herbal tea and my favorite foods, but I can’t bring myself to eat. I’m also aware of them sitting on my bed, stroking my hair, talking gently, but I don’t hear what they say. I just want them to go away so I can fall back to sleep, that blissful place where I don’t have to feel anything.

  Days pass, possibly weeks; I have no idea.

  “Enough’s enough already, Allegra.”

  I’m jolted from the fog by a flash of sunlight. Mom is pulling open my blinds and pushing open the window. A blast of cold air swooshes through the room. I note, numbly, that it must be morning, given the direction of the sun. How many mornings have passed since that awful day at the police station? As another wave of remorse washes over me, I pull my covers back over my head, blocking out the sunlight. Instantly they’re yanked off.

  “You’ve got to get out of bed and have a shower,” Mom says firmly. “We’ve given you your space, but now it’s time to get on with life.”

  Get on with life? Right. How do I do that when I’ve ruined Noel’s? For the hundredt
h time, I wonder what he is doing. Is he missing me the way I’m missing him?

  Dad is standing in the doorway. He looks sad. “Your mom’s right, Legs,” he says quietly. “It is time to get going again.”

  A surge of annoyance rises up in me, but I decide it would require more effort to fight with them than to get up. Slowly, stiffly, I pull myself out of bed and walk across the hall to the bathroom. Glancing in the mirror, I note the long coils of greasy hair that fall over my shoulders. My skin, usually clear, is covered in angry-looking pimples. I shrug, and my housecoat falls to the floor, revealing a much skinnier version of the old me. Stepping into the shower, I let the water pummel my head, hoping to clear the fog, but nothing changes. I go through the motions of washing my hair and my body, but the effort of it exhausts me, and when I’m done it’s all I can do to get back into my robe, stumble across the hall and climb back under the covers. Dad is the first to appear at the door. I open my eyes long enough to see him standing there, but sleep quickly returns to spare me from any conversation.

  More days and nights pass. Once a day Mom airs out my room and bullies me into the shower, but that’s as far as she can get me to go. A family friend, a doctor, pays me a visit, and I answer her questions to the best of my ability, but all I want is for her, too, to leave me alone. She mumbles something about the hospital, but I don’t understand what she is saying. I notice that Mom is putting some pills on my tongue and waiting to see that I swallow them before she leaves me with my meals, which I barely touch. Each time I drift off, I hope to stay asleep, forever.

  I awake slowly, vaguely aware of piano music floating up from the studio below. I waft between sleep and wakefulness until I notice that the fog feels like it has lifted somewhat. I lounge under the quilt, surprised at the tingling sensation in my limbs, wondering at the sudden urge to climb out of bed, to stretch.

  With a jolt I sit up, fully awake, as I realize what the music is. The sudden change in position brings a wave of dizziness, but as soon as it passes I pull on my housecoat and stumble down the hall. I pull open the door to the basement studio. Dad is at the keyboard, and he turns sharply when he hears me there.