by Amy Faye
She hadn't forgotten, but she wasn't about to sit there guilt-tripping Brett, either. He wasn't interested in hearing her sad sob stories, he wasn't even interested in her at all.
"I just figured I was going to get to sleep early, is all."
"And I totally get that."
A laugh bubbled out of his lips, at what Amy couldn't guess. He didn't make any signs that he was going to tell her, either. "Come on, let's get a soda or something."
He made his way across hall. There was a little room, off to the side, that she hadn't noticed before. She'd never had reason to be in this hall in the first place, though, so it wasn't that surprising. There was a big counter in the front, and a couple of students behind it that she didn't recognize. They looked older, though, so she had to guess they were seniors.
"Hey, Brett," one said.
"Hey. You want to get me a couple Cokes?"
Amy didn't correct him—he hadn't asked, but she liked Coke as much as the next option. One of them turned to a large refrigerator and pulled out two cans of soda, setting them down on the table. "Two dollars," said the other.
Brett pulled a wallet out of his front trouser pocket, and dropped a pair of green dollar bills on the counter. The one handling the money opened a cash box and dropped them in, while the other pushed the cans across the counter.
"So you decided to come after all, huh? With Amy?"
Amy cut in. "I'm his step-sister. It's not, like—"
Brett shrugged.
The two behind the counter looked at each other, and shrugged as well. The only one who didn't shrug, at any point, was Amy. Had she just said that? Why? She didn't even know these two. But she'd been so intent on telling them the details of a date that she'd wanted desperately to be on.
Now that she had it, it was just a fugazi, and she wasn't going to let anyone think she was having a good time. Not even when he settled into one of the seats around the round tables in the back of the room.
"Did you want to dance?"
Amy shrugged. The music here was crap, anyways. It wasn't like she was missing out on dancing to her favorite songs. Maybe she'd over-estimated the whole dance thing. "I don't care."
Brett's face got an odd expression. She'd have called it sad, if he had any reason to be sad, but it made no sense for him to be sad about anything.
"Come on, sit down and have a drink, then. We can at least talk a little."
What were they supposed to talk about? She'd been avoiding him. He'd been avoiding her. They were avoiding each other.
"I don't want to talk about our parents," she said right away. His frown softened into something that was almost like a smile, a soft up-turning at his cheeks.
"Good. No, I wanted to know what you had going on lately. Any good music?"
"No," she lied. There was always good music. There was an incredible amount of it, and every time that she thought she pretty much had it figured out, she discovered that she'd been missing something big.
"Shame. I always figured you were the type who knew a lot about music. I know I like it, but you know? I don't know how to find more. Just the stuff they play on the radio."
"Oh, that's normal. You just have to look."
"I know, I guess. I could go on over to the Media Play and just fuck with the, uh, what's it—the preview machines."
"Sure," she admitted. "That'd be a good way."
Some part of her was enjoying this conversation, which was bullshit. Total bullshit. He was right, of course. Music was about all she thought about. All she had thought about before she'd started thinking about him, anyways. But she wasn't going to talk about it.
She wasn't going to talk about it because she was far, far too busy right now, doing nothing, saying nothing, and being nothing. This dance was a mistake, and she was going to make sure it stayed that way.
"Your hair looks good," someone said. She was surprised to turn and see that it was someone speaking to her. A girl from science. Her dark hair was done up in a tall, elaborate something, and her dress looked amazing. It took a minute before Amy realized that she ought to have said something back.
"Thanks. Your dress is beautiful."
The girl smiled politely and turned to the counter. Amy closed her eyes a moment and when she opened them again, she'd stopped fighting it.
"What kind of music were you looking for, anyways?"
12
Brett
Present Day
Brett stopped by the house before he went to the office. He expected to find the house empty, for some reason, as if she was going to find her way to the office herself and meet him. But she didn't have the address.
So he nestled his car in next to hers and pulled out of the side, stepping out into the cool night air and letting the cold burn his lungs. Where could they even go, at this time of night? It was almost nine already, and places were going to start closing by the time he could change out of the clothes he'd worn for work.
There were 24-hour joints, sure, but was he really in the mood for that? Was she? No reason to start assuming. The thing that he needed to learn at some point was that he didn't know the first thing about her, not any more. It had been ten years.
In the three years he knew her, she was a great many things, and she was still. She had a mean-streak in her a mile wide, a temper like a chainsaw, and she liked her music loud enough that people next door would call it 'too loud.'
Now she was carrying around a huge classical instrument, and wearing her hair in a braid and there was definitely a lot to like about the Amy that he was getting to know, and just enough of the old Amy to keep him intrigued.
Thinking that they were the same woman, though–that was a mistake. She wasn't remotely the same girl, not as far as he'd been able to find any sign so far.
Well, that was, at least, until he opened the front door. The music hit him then–it wasn't so loud that he could hear it outside, but with the door open, it seemed to fill the house to bursting. A woman shrieked, aggressive guitar feeding back on itself, and the drum forcing them along at a truly optimistic pace.
She'd found the sound system, then. Though he thought she had moved on from metal. Then again, maybe it was like listening to golden oldies, or something, for her. If only it were as gentle as golden oldies, he thought, laughing out loud.
He let her have her fun while he went up to the bedroom, changing quickly into something a little more comfortable–jeans and a tee-shirt, though he threw on a jacket over it just in case someone wanted to give him a hassle over his dress at the office.
Then he went to find his audio system, which he kept in the home office. He made a mental note to think about locking it once Amy left, if indeed she did. There was no reason she shouldn't be able to get in, but someone else could get in just as easily, and not all of them should be allowed to.
She was sitting in the seat with her eyes closed and an angry look on her face that he took a minute to appreciate. Maybe he was wrong. This was Amy alright. His Amy, from all those years ago. He'd seen that expression a thousand times before.
She'd worn it every time she came into the room, and by the time it started changing into being happy to see him, he didn't know if maybe he didn't miss it.
"I see you found the sound system," he said. The words were swallowed by the wall of sound, so drowned out that he couldn't even hear them himself. So instead he knocked on his desk.
The rapping of his knuckles against the wood was loud enough that she noticed. Amy kicked forward and her eyes shot open, and she turned on a dime and her body moved faster than must have been comfortable to reach for the 'stop' button. The music tapered off gently over a half-second before stopping entirely.
"I didn't think you'd be home so early," she said.
"It's eight forty-five," he answered. He sounded defensive to his own ears, but he really hadn't intended to be.
"Yeah, I'm sorry."
She seemed like she was sorry, but at the same time he could see that she
was inches away from a switch flipping to something else entirely.
"You don't have to be sorry. If I'm not here, I can't use my setup. Might as well have someone else using it."
"You're sure?"
"Sure I am. Unless you're using the music to play some kind of black mass, and gonna be dancing around naked in the woods, and then–"
"Get my own stereo?"
"Or at least call me first."
"You'd like to see that?"
He smiled. "You think?"
"I have a sneaking suspicion, maybe…"
"Come on, let's get something to eat."
"Yeah."
She let him guide her out, and slipped into the passenger side. "So you still listen to that stuff?"
"I shouldn't," she admitted. "Gonna wreck my ear, they say. But sometimes…"
"You just have to, right? It's a mood."
"I didn't turn back to playing professionally because I was a music snob. I like music and I'm going to listen to it."
"I take it not everyone feels that way?"
"That would be putting it mildly."
"So you said the other day–'There's always talk?'"
"I guess I did."
"What's the talk, then?"
"What do you mean?"
"What's the talk about us leaving?"
"Just that. People who don't know what they're talking about taking while guesses. They weren't there, and they don't matter one bit."
She frowned. "They matter to me, though."
"Well, then what do you want to know?"
"I want to know what you all told them." There was too much edge in her voice, and part of him wanted to leave it where it was, but he wasn't going to get out that easily. She'd just get angrier.
"I didn't tell them anything. Hell, I barely know what happened myself. Jeez, Amy–I ain't here to fight with you, you know."
"Then just tell me what I want to know. It isn't that much to ask, is it?"
"He left, is what most people were saying. It followed a trend for my mother, men leaving, and people just put that in the list. To most folks, he was just another in a long line of guys."
"But he didn't," she spurred.
"I mean, he did," he said, regretting it even as he said it. "We stayed, you left. I don't think it was your fault, nor your dad's. But–"
"Fuck you," she growled. He recognized the flare-up of anger for what it was–temporary. "We were chased off."
He wanted to correct her, but there was a time and place for it. He took a deep breath. It was time to change the subject.
"So, who was that you were listening to anyways?"
He glanced away from the road for a moment, and he could see right away that she knew he was changing the subject on her intentionally.
Oh well, he thought. It was better than another fight.
2003
Brett couldn't help relaxing. The music must have been loud in the gym, but sitting there in the concession room, it was soft enough that they could talk easily.
Across the room, on the other hand, was the problem–a trio who'd decided that they were going to do the same as he and Amy were doing, and sitting around talking in clothes far too nice for high school kids to be wearing.
It was illegal to drink, at their age, but he couldn't help thinking that they were probably a little drunk anyways, the way that they were a little too loud and a little too free with their laughter.
"I'm sorry, I didn't get that," he said, leaning forward. Amy leaned forward and repeated herself.
"I said, 'Eric Bibb is doing some good stuff.'"
Brett nodded. He was surprised, he had to admit. Amy looked like she could tell him anything he would want to know about hard rock and metal, but he knew enough to know he didn't much care for it. Then she'd proven that she knew plenty about everything else, too–blues, rap, country. An endless music encyclopedia.
"Oh yeah?"
"I mean, I guess. He's only really been doing a lot of work the last couple years."
"Oh," he said. It was tempting to sit there and listen to her talk about anything at all.
"Yeah. But I mean, whatever, right?"
He shrugged. It was a difficult conversation for him to add anything to, even though he could tell that she was starting to feel uncomfortable with being the only one talking. Everything he knew about music was just a tiny portion of what she did.
"You know a lot about this stuff," he said, finally.
She shrugged. "I just listen to a lot of music."
"And you prefer the loud stuff?"
She laughed. "I prefer all of it, Brett."
He smiled. There was something about the way she answered, a quiet confidence that he found as irresistible as anything about her. "I guess you would have to, to know all that."
"That part's easy. I hear it, and I just kind of… remember."
"Yeah? Any trick to it? I could really use 'just remember' skills in History."
"Yeah, the trick is 'don't forget.'" She had an impish smile that he wanted nothing more than to plant his lips on. He held himself back. This was nowhere near the time nor the place for him to do that, particularly after Amy had been so damned careful to inform everyone that she was, basically, his sister.
He tried to think of her that way–he had better start doing it soon, he thought. He wasn't sure how he was planning on dealing with it when they started living together, if all he could think about was how to get into her bedroom.
"Yeah," he added finally. "I guess that would be it, wouldn't it? I should have thought of it myself. It's so simple!"
The crowd at the other table roared in laughter at some joke he hadn't heard, but he missed Amy's response. He decided against asking her to repeat herself–the way that she looked, self-satisfied, told him that whatever it was, it probably didn't need a response.
"So have you been in Detroit long?"
She shrugged. "Not really, no. Just a year or two."
"How do you like it?"
A little wind came out of her sails. "I don't know. It's cold."
"Like–right now, or…?"
"In general. Right now, it's a little warm. I can only imagine if we were in the gym, all those people dancing and working up a sweat. Probably real warm, then. Too warm for such a heavy dress."
He heard an implication in the comment, but she didn't give him a flirtatious look so he decided not to take it that way in spite of himself.
A small crowd of guys came through and Brett's teeth set themselves on edge. They'd turn, and they'd see him sitting there, and then whatever tonight was supposed to be would be over. He didn't like it, but that was how it was going to be. Without making it seem like he was more interested in her than she apparently wanted him to be, at least.
And, sure enough, one of the guys–the tight end, a big dark-skinned guy named Marcus–turned and leaned backwards against the bar, and his eyes settled right on Brett. His face split into a grin, and a hand came up to cuff the guy next to him on the shoulder. A moment later, as Brian turned to look at Marcus, the big guy pointed and said, "It's Brett."
Brett took in a deep breath and prepared for what was going to come a second later. Sure enough, it did–almost a dozen guys, any one of them able to press Amy over their head with one hand, decided it was time to come say hi.
Brian spoke first, a big son of a bitch who laughed a lot, and when he wasn't laughing he was smiling. "Brett! Who's this? You ain't gon' introduce us?"
Brett put on a smile. "Hey, this is, uh, Amy Harmon. She's in my art class–"
"I know her," Marcus blurted. Great, that was going to go well. "She's a wild-cat. Could kick your ass, Brian."
She blushed. "I ain't lookin' to find out, I sure know that."
"She's going to be my step-sister."
"Oh, shit, son. You better get to it quick, then!" a chorus of laughter rippled out from the center, and Amy's blush deepened. Brett stood up.
"Did you need something, dude?"
She shook her head. "No."
"We'll bring him back in one piece, I promise. Just some team stuff." Brian deepened his smile, as if to try to reassure her once more. "Enjoy your dance, don't do drugs, and–"
"Brian, leave her be," Brett growled. She seemed relieved when he stood up, and he felt bad. But there was no way he was going to throw her to these wolves, either.
He put a hand on her bare shoulder, the feeling of touching her skin leaving him with an unexpected shock of arousal as he left. Who the hell knew what kind of shenanigans they were going to come up with–but he found himself thinking about a very different kind of trouble he could get himself up to.
13
Amy
Present Day
Maybe she was just being weird about everything. It would be the first time. Then again, maybe she wasn't just being weird. But he hadn't been the one humiliated by some 'family' she didn't even know.
That was her, and she had to deal with it all alone, regardless of what she might want. So maybe that factored into her anger a little, and maybe Brett needed to suffer a little to make up for it.
Though, she had to admit, it was good of him to let her use the office space, even if it was a little cramped for three, and even if it was strange as hell to be using space in a high-rise as 'practice space.'
She looked down to check her phone, worried that one of them was going to cancel at the last minute. They didn't, thankfully.
If this went well, it could be done in five minutes–play through, and everyone jives well, and then maybe play through a second time. Easy.
She was supposed to be a professional, of course, so she had spent hours making sure that she knew the piece backwards and forwards. All that practice wouldn't count for a god damn lick if her reading was wrong, or if she and the other two didn't have similar ideas about how it was supposed to be played.
If they were playing fair, then it would be a little cold and mechanical on their part. After all, they were auditioning cellists–not showing off how well the flutist can embellish a piece.
