by Compai
She can’t even clap right, Melissa realized, fluttering her eyes shut. Woman looked like an underfed porpoise with a double-fractured flipper.
“Ah . . .” She stopped clapping and returned to her seat, tucking a white Juicy Couture pompom boot under her A&G pink denim miniskirt-clad butt. “Wasn’t that just so pretty?” she proposed, landing her left hand on Seedy’s knee.
Ms. Beauchamp, the latest in Vivien’s long string of applicants, turned on the round white leather piano seat, her hard coral fingernails pressed firmly to her plump, burgundy slacks–-covered thighs, and attempted a smile. Blobby pearl earrings gleamed in her saggy, soft ears, and a ruffled gray silk blouse spilled over her enormous breasts. She looked like the kind of woman who kept a bird, covered her couches in plastic, and refused to “forgive Charles for what he did to Diana” — and she was.
Vivien discovered Ms. Beauchamp in the Nordstrom’s shoe department, where she played piano every Saturday from two until five p.m., limiting herself to a repertoire of upbeat jazz renditions of such classics as “Strangers in the Night” and “People.” On occasion, someone asked her where the bathroom was, or a small child materialized at the corner of her keyboard to watch her hands with wonder; but for the most part, she passed her Saturday afternoons at Nordstrom ignored. Imagine her surprise when Vivien Ho swooped in, dropped her shopping bags, and proceeded to gush like a teenaged fan. “You have to audition for my engagement party,” she’d insisted, and Ms. Beauchamp had been too stunned to decline.
“What’s that one called again?” Vivien asked, still squeezing Seedy’s knee.
“Pachelbel’s Canon,” Ms. Beauchamp reminded her with a strained smile, careful to avoid the menacing gaze of the positively criminal-looking man next to her, not to mention his wild-eyed creature of a daughter. Vivien seemed like a nice enough girl (of course, she might do with covering herself up a bit more); what was she doing mixed up with such dreadful people?
“Was that the one you were playing at Nordstrom?” Vivien inquired.
“Why, yes,” Ms. Beauchamp nodded her assent. In truth, she’d been playing “The Lady in Red,” but that song was far too personal to play here. “Pachelbel’s Canon is very popular for weddings.”
“Oh,” Vivien fretted, glancing between her and Seedy. “This is an engagement party.”
“It serves its purpose just as well,” Ms. Beauchamp assured her, raising a hand. “Very appropriate.”
“I just love classical music,” Vivien fluttered, returning her fawning attention to Ms. Beauchamp. “It’s just so . . .” She hesitated, in search of the perfect word, and broke into a smile. “Classy.”
“Sure is.” Seedy nodded, and cleared his throat. “Melissa,” he exhaled, checking in with his daughter while Vivien sighed in frustration, rolling her eyes. “What’d you think?”
“It was nice.” She looked up and quickly tucked her iPhone under Emilio’s snoozing belly. “But, you know. Not really my thing. No offense,” she told Ms. Beauchamp with a contrite glance.
“None taken,” the pianist assured her with another strained smile. “We all have different tastes.”
“What are you even asking her for?” Vivien addressed Seedy in a burst of exasperation. “You know she hates everything I like no matter what it is.”
“Daddy!” Melissa gripped the arm of her armchair, defiant. “That is not true.”
“Oh really?” Vivien challenged her. “Name one thing you like that I like.”
“Rag & Bone.” Melissa bobbed her eyebrows. “I still like Rag & Bone even though you like Rag & Bone.”
“Please,” Vivien scoffed. “Everyone likes Rag & Bone.”
“Ms. B.” Melissa cocked an unconvinced eyebrow at the pianist. “Do you like Rag & Bone?”
“I’m afraid . . . I’m afraid I don’t . . .” Ms. Beauchamp drew a sharp breath to quell her nerves. Rag & Bone: wasn’t that the name of a notorious, bloodthirsty street gang? Yes. She was almost sure of it! Oh dear, oh dear . . . was she really supposed to say that she “liked” a gang? How terrible! Unless . . . wait. Perhaps this was all some sort of elaborate setup. Perhaps they were trying to trick her into confessing loyalty to a rival gang. Oh, but why would they care about her allegiances?
What in God’s name did they want with her?
“Ms. Beauchamp.” Seedy noted the pianist’s increased discomfort with concern. “You okay?”
“Yes, of course,” she rasped weakly, the color draining from her face. By the time she rose to her feet, clutching her purse to her soft bulge of stomach, she’d achieved the sickly pallor of a withering grape. “Please excuse me,” she apologized. “I have an appointment.”
“Please,” Vivien offered. “I’ll walk you out.”
“Oh no,” Ms. Beauchamp assured her, turning quickly for the door. “I can find my way.”
Despite her mild protests, Vivien caught up with Ms. Beauchamp at the foot of the white marble stairs and escorted her to the exit. As their contrasting figures disappeared into the hall, Seedy sighed, returning his attention to his daughter.
“Rag & Bone,” he repeated with a bemused arc of his eyebrow. “What the heck is that — some kind of chew toy?”
“Daddy, what?” Melissa laughed, rousing Emilio from his slumber. “No! It’s a designer.”
“Baby, don’t you remember?” Vivien sailed into the Meet-and-Greet room, a fresh Diet Coke in hand. “You bought me a pair of their jeans last week.”
“Yeah,” Melissa muttered under her breath. “Right after I bought the exact same pair.”
“Seedy?” Vivien pouted, ignoring Melissa’s comment, and sucked in her long and toned torso, centering the gold buckle of her new Gucci belt. “You’ll never guess what Ms. Beauchamp told me just now,” she sighed, turning to check her adjusted reflection in their gilded floor-to-ceiling mirror.
Seedy settled into the settee, pushing some air from between his lips. “She isn’t available to play the engagement party?”
“How did you know that?” Vivien gasped in an accusing tone, as though knowledge had made him responsible
“Just a guess,” he replied as Vivien folded her arms across her chest.
“Why would she come all this way to audition, and then say she wasn’t available?”
“Let me put it this way.” Seedy cleared his throat. “Woman likes her white keys on one side of the board, black keys on the other.”
Vivien knit her eyebrows together. “Excuse me?”
“Vee.” Seedy closed his eyes. Did he really have to spell this out? “Woman was a racist.”
“She was?” Melissa widened her eyes and craned around in her seat, half-expecting Ms. Beauchamp to materialize in a burst of flames.
“Seedy, oh my God.” Vivien dissolved into a fit of cackles. “You are so paranoid!”
“I am not paranoid!” Seedy defended himself. “Did you not see the look on her face when I came in and introduced myself? She looked at my hand like I was holding a loaded glock!”
“She probably looked at your hand like it has a big ol’ tattoo of Melissa on it.” Vivien rolled her eyes. “Which it does.”
“I can’t believe you’re arguing me on this.” He sat back in his seat in disbelief. Melissa bit the insides of her cheeks, restraining a smile. Finally, it had happened. They were arguing. Which was almost the same as in a fight. Which was practically the same as calling off the engagement.
Okay, maybe that last bit was a stretch.
“You know what?” Vivien planted her hands on her hips and frowned. “This whole argument is just an excuse.”
“Excuse for what?” Seedy’s face crumpled in confusion.
“You don’t want a pianist at our engagement party.” She whimpered, and Seedy sighed, bowing his head into his hands. “Even though I’ve always wanted a pianist at my engagement party. Ever since I was a little girl!”
“Alright.” Seedy gripped his knees and tried to get his bearings. “I admit, I am confused as to wh
y it’s so important for you to have classical music at our engagement party. It’s like rap, hip-hop — that’s all good for the everyday. But when it comes to a special occasion? Ho no. We got to sit back and subject ourselves to some ‘Taco Bell Canon,’ written by some three-hundred-year-old white dude.”
“We are getting married.” Vivien’s voice dropped to a restrained tremble. “Rap music isn’t appropria —”
“Okay, would you listen to yourself?!” he erupted, bounding to his feet, and all but ejecting Emilio Poochie from his daughter’s lap. The little dog landed in a heap, scrambled to his feet, and skittered wildly down the marble hall. “Rap music isn’t ‘appropriate,’” he continued. “Rap music isn’t ‘classy.’ Vivien, do you even know how pathetic and self-hating this sounds?”
Vivien gasped, and even Melissa had to admit, she was equally shocked. If anyone in this world loved herself, it was Vivien.
“I cannot believe you just said that,” she intoned.
“Vee,” he pleaded with her. “It’d be one thing if ever, in my life, I heard you listen to classical music. You know — if I thought it meant something, like, deep for you. But you and I both know that’s not what this is about.”
“Oh really.” She breathed in deep, protruding two fake breasts as rock-hard as her will. “What is this about?”
Seedy sighed, massaging his aching eyelids. He and Vee had been rock solid for eleven months, but ever since they got engaged, something had changed. More and more the question nagged his mind: were they right for each other? Of course, he chastised himself. Of course they were, but . . . why this sudden hating on rap? Where did that even come from? When they first got together she’d been all about it. Had it all been some kind of act? And if that was an act, then how far did it go?
“It’s just I have this feeling,” he beseeched her, lowering his hand to his side. “Like sometime in the last couple of weeks we just stopped being real. Do you ever get that? Like our real selves are someplace else, and you and I are just . . .”
Melissa bit the tip of her Paparazzi-pink thumbnail. “POSEURS?”
The doorbell chimed like a game show sound effect: that answer is correct! Melissa glanced between her father and Vivien, waiting for either of them to react, but neither of them moved. She cleared her throat.
“I’ll get it!”
Squaring her bare, body-glittered shoulders, she padded brightly down the white marble hallway. Her father’s awards, plaques, photographs, and platinum records decorated the walls, gleaming impressively behind thick panes of glass. Melissa admired the many tiny reflections of herself — darting schools of tadpole-sized Melissa Moons — on the array of polished surfaces, before trotting up another short flight of stairs and sailing into the foyer. A woman in a too-tight eggplant tweed blazer stood facing their lush antique tapestry of Cheonjiyeon, a famous waterfall in South Korea, a royal blue velvet scrunchie secured to the mousy ponytail at the nape of her neck. At the sight of that scrunchie, Melissa winced, and quickly stared at the cute black bows on her new Juicy Couture sandals. Bad fashion is a lot like a stiff shot of tequila: you have to ease the effects with some kind of chaser.
“Melissa?”
Melissa looked up from her sandal in surprise. “Miss Paletsky!”
“Ch’ello!” Miss Paletsky greeted her in a shaky, if cheerful, voice, hugging a sheaf of paper to her chest. “Ch’ow are you?”
“I’m okay,” Melissa replied after a moment’s hesitation. She wasn’t in trouble, was she? “How are you . . . ,” she asked slowly, growing queasy.
“I’m good. I mean well.” She smiled, revealing her overlapping eyetooth. “Although a little nervous,” she confessed in a confidential tone, cringing behind her LensCrafters. “Is your father home?”
“Miss Paletsky.” Melissa flushed, sputtering a nervous laugh. “Is this about asking Venice to color-code my dog’s dog kibble? Because I can totally explain that.”
“Lena!” Seedy boomed, mounting the final stair to the foyer. He grinned, landing a hand on his daughter’s shoulder and extending the other. “So glad you could make it.”
“Yes.” Lena shook his hand and blushed. “I’m sorry for being so late!”
“No, you’re right on time,” Seedy assured her, giving Melissa’s shoulder a final squeeze before gesturing down the hall. “The piano’s just down this way, so . . .”
“She’s auditioning?” Melissa realized out loud, soliciting a mutual burst of quiet adult laughter.
“What’d you think?” Seedy teased, ushering the ever-blushing Miss Paletsky across the foyer. “You were in trouble?”
“No,” Melissa scoffed. “I just . . .” She pattered downstairs and addressed her pretty young teacher directly. “I didn’t know you played piano, Miss Paletsky.”
“Oh.” Miss Paletsky glanced over her left shoulder as the three of them continued down the hall and into the Meet-and-Greet room. “I don’t really —”
“Hello,” Vivien sang in an everything-is-fine tone, interrupting Miss Paletsky midsentence. She planted her Diet Coke on the glass coffee table and extended her left hand, forcing Miss Paletsky to clumsily shift her sheaf of music from the crook of her left arm to her right. “I’m Seedy’s fiancée,” she said, shaking her hand. Noticing the cool flicker of judgment behind Vivien’s violet contact lenses, Melissa bristled, instantly protective. So what if Miss Paletsky wore opaque L’Eggs Suntan pantyhose with dove gray peep-toe pumps and reeked of Suave hairspray?
At least she was nice.
“So.” Miss Paletsky set her papers on the piano, and smiled. “Let me begin by saying I am so pleased to meet someone who appreciates classical mewsic.” Vivien smiled, avoiding Seedy’s gaze, but Miss Paletsky continued, far too nervous to register the tension. “Can I ask, please: is there a period you like more than another? Baroque period? Romantic period? Modern?”
“Um.” Vivien flipped her spiraling jet-black extensions with her left hand, shifting her weight from one long leg to the other. “Yes.”
“Oh.” Miss Paletsky nodded, meeting Seedy’s eyes. She flushed, quickly looked away. “I was thinking a piece from the Impressionistic style. Mewsic from this period sounds very much like . . . how do I put this. What it sounds like to be underwater.”
“I don’t know if Seedy told you,” Vivien laughed. “But this is an engagement party. Not a pool party.”
“Forgive me . . . I miscommunicate.” Miss Paletsky smiled, reaching to squeeze Melissa’s arm. “Sometimes, when I play for my stewdents, I try to give them images to keep in their head. In case it gets too boring.”
“That’s nice,” Vivien replied with a tight smile. “But you realize today isn’t about your students.”
“Vee . . . ,” Seedy intruded.
“It’s about me,” she pushed on, ignoring him. “So . . .” She glanced at her white gold Rolex, raising her penciled-in eyebrows. “Should we get this show on the boulevard?”
“Of course.” Miss Paletsky nodded politely, sweet as always. But Melissa noticed it — a brief but glittering heat behind her eyes — proof that she wasn’t the only one in the room who found Vivien to be a truly horrible human being. At last! Melissa smiled as her trustworthy teacher plunked down on the white leather stool, arranging her sheet music into a crisp overlapping row. She wasn’t alone!
Miss Paletsky lifted her small hands, her fingertips caressing the polished ivory board, took a breath, and began to play. She exhaled, and her hands exhaled with her, sinking into the keys, dancing in place like elegant, long-legged spiders. From the depths of the grand piano, notes spiraled into the air, arranging themselves into startling patterns, floating high above their heads — a complicated canopy of sound that shifted, and shifted again. Miss Paletsky stopped playing and the canopy shattered, the notes drifting down, and landing at their feet. It was quiet.
“Oh.” Vivien pressed her hand to her heart, looking at Seedy for the first time since their tiff. “That was . . .”
“Beautiful,” he agreed, dropping his arm across her shoulders.
“Yeah,” Melissa begrudgingly admitted. As much as she enjoyed the piece, it was hard take pleasure in what had just resulted in Vivien and her father making up. She gazed at the ceiling, wincing at the swampy sound of their kisses.
Having peeled his lower lip from Vivien’s temple, Seedy returned his attention to Miss Paletsky, shaking his head. “You know what’s crazy?” He laughed. “I never listen to classical music, and I swear I heard that before.”
Melissa hugged Emilio to her chest. “I thought that, too.”
“Here we go.” Vivien rolled her eyes, resting her head on Seedy’s waiting shoulder. “Now she’s an expert.”
“I never said I was an expert,” Melissa seethed. “It’s just . . .”
“I’m just glad you liked it, baby,” Vivien purred to Seedy, changing the subject. She poked his cheek with her ring finger. “Didn’t I tell you?”
“Yeah, you did . . .” Seedy grinned, planting another kiss on her temple. “You were right.”
“I’m always right.” She fake-pouted.
“Lena.” He slapped his hands to his knees and got to his feet. “Please tell us you’ll play at our engagement party.”
“Of course.” She smiled, gathering her sheet music into a pile. “It would be my pleasure.”
Later, as Seedy and Melissa walked her to the door, he remembered to ask: “That piece you played . . .” He scratched the back of his neck. “Who wrote it, again?”
“Well . . .” She gazed at the polished marble floor. “Remember the day you came into my office, you told me you wanted one type of music, but your fiancée wanted something else? Well, I thought, why choose? Why not combine the two types of music into something completely new?”
“Okay, combine rap and classical piano?” Seedy began to laugh at the notion, but the laughter died on his lips. “Wait . . .”
“Omigod,” Melissa gasped. She turned to Miss Paletsky in awe. “It was ‘Bi Bim Bitches,’ right?”
