Zack blinks at me, and I realize how out of character the admission was for me.
“I mean, I love Lindsay,” I backtrack. “But I feel . . . abandoned sometimes.” Even during her pregnancy scare, she was allowed to have a crisis, but I wasn’t.
“Same. Last weekend Troy bailed on me at the last minute.”
“That must have been the same time Lindsay bailed on me last minute. And sometimes,” I continue, really getting going now that I finally have someone to talk to about this, “I think it’s going to be just us, and then Troy shows up. Or y—” I break off, realize I’m about to insult him.
“Or me?” he fills in.
“Not that I mind,” I say quickly. “Things change, I guess.”
“Well, then,” he says, his smile sad but hopeful, “it’s a good thing we started hanging out.”
Outside the restaurant, Zack grabs my elbow. “We need to make one more stop,” he says, steering me in the opposite direction of the theater.
He leads me into a convenience store, which is empty except for a few kids pumping fake cheese onto nachos. I assume he’ll buy some candy for the movie, but instead he grabs a box of plastic spoons.
“You’ll see,” he says when I quirk an eyebrow at him.
We hurry down the block toward the cinema, marquee lettering spelling out CULT HIT “THE ROOM”—ONE NIGHT ONLY!
“Haven’t heard of it,” I say.
“The thing I need to tell you about it,” Zack says, looking sheepish, “actually, the thing I probably should have told you before is that it’s regarded as one of the worst films of all time.”
“Then the thing I need to tell you is that I love shitty movies,” I say, and he laughs.
“Seeing The Room for the first time is a special experience. You’re gonna love it, I swear.”
And I do. The dialogue is forced and awkward. Plot points completely disappear. The acting is on par with my third-grade class’s production of Cats. Then there are the spoons.
“Do you see all the framed pictures of spoons in the apartment?” Zack says into my ear. “They’re those pictures that come in the frame when you buy it. The ones you’re supposed to take out.”
Whenever one of the framed spoon pictures comes into view, we hurl plastic spoons at the screen along with the rest of the audience. It’s the most fun I’ve had in weeks. Months.
“Oh—sorry,” I whisper when I reach into the box to grab a spoon at the same time Zack does. Our fingers tangle, but I don’t pull back. Neither does he.
My heart jumps into my throat. His thumb rubs against mine, back and forth and back and forth until the movie blurs because this tiny movement is dizzying. Tentatively, I run my index finger along the knobs of his knuckles, dipping into the valleys in between. Learning his skin. When I peer up at his face, he’s smiling in the dark.
We don’t stop holding hands until the credits roll.
“Was that not the best cinematic experience of your life?” Zack asks as we file out into the night with the rest of the audience.
It was, for a number of reasons.
“It was incredible. The acting! The writing! The cinematography!” The feel of your hand in mine. I want to grab his hand now, but before I can become brave enough, he kneels and plucks a damp scrap of white paper from the sidewalk.
“Something for your mundane mixed-media project?”
He nods and shows me the faded supermarket receipt.
Ginger ale
Cold care tea
Cough drops
Beer
“Sometimes you get gems like these.” He tucks it into his pocket. “I love this guy. He was sick as hell, but he still wanted to get drunk.”
“I can’t wait to see what you do with it.” I zip up my hoodie as Zack loops a scarf around his neck. “Do you want a ride home?”
Zack doesn’t drive; he confessed earlier when I saw him get off the bus that he’s failed his test three times, and his moms won’t let him take it again until he logs fifteen more practice hours.
“I don’t mind taking the bus.”
“I want to drive you.”
He grins. “Excellent. I kind of want you to drive me,” he says, and we spend the drive quoting the movie and brainstorming sequels.
“Why haven’t we done this before?” he asks when I put the car in park in his driveway. His house has an herb garden in the front yard and a chicken coop in the back.
“Hung out? We have.”
“Not alone. We obviously get along, but I think you avoid me.”
“I don’t avoid you,” I insist.
“You do,” he says, but he doesn’t sound offended. “When you texted me a few weeks ago, I don’t know if it was because you were drunk with Lindsay or what, but I’m glad you did.”
“I—I am too,” I manage, my tongue feeling three sizes too large for my mouth.
“Your blood vessels are dilating again.” He grins, showing off that space between his front teeth. “Laila tov, Tov,” he says, wishing me good night in Hebrew before getting out of the car and tapping the hood a couple times. I’m beginning to love my name.
I let out a deep breath, collecting myself before putting the car in reverse. Zack’s presence is big and overwhelming, and I can’t get enough of it. But I have only a few moments before guilt sours my joy.
Every good thing that happens to me from now until the end of my life will be tainted by Adina. It’s a selfish thought, but that doesn’t make it any less true. For years I thought I’d never get to experience any of what I felt tonight, but the reality is that I have so many chances to date. So many possibilities.
Maybe that’s what I should be feeling guilty about.
Seventeen
Adina
I SHOULD FEEL GUILTY ABOUT eavesdropping at showcase rehearsal, but I don’t. In fact, I wish everyone would whisper so I wouldn’t have to hear their conversations.
“You’re totally getting into Juilliard,” says one girl to another as she tunes her violin. “Is it okay if I hate you a little?”
“Shut up. I doubt I’ll even get an audition.”
“You will. I’ll be lucky if I get into Cornish.”
Hattie Woo plays violin in the youth symphony, and Meena Liebeskind plays viola. We traded hellos when I came in, but we are not tied together by the strings we decided long ago to devote our lives to. Conservatory spots are limited, and we must fight for them.
“Have you gotten any auditions yet, Adina?” Meena asks me.
They are so conceited, I decide to lie. “Yes.”
Hattie shakes her head, her long black braid whipping back and forth. “She’s lying. None of the schools have started auditions yet.”
I get to my feet, unintentionally aiming my bow at her. “Are you sure about that?” I challenge, and Hattie shrinks back, questioning whether she believes me.
The greenroom is nothing special, a few couches and chairs, a long mirror smudged with makeup, a wall of photos of past conductors and principal musicians. It’s not at all like the grand symphony itself, with its chandeliers and deep red seats and balconies stacked toward the sky.
Later tonight, Arjun is cooking me dinner, which makes what is happening between us feel more real. Arjun and rehearsal are the only things keeping my mind from straying back to where it wandered a few nights ago. Because of Ima, I have been forced to think about death more than most people my age, but I’d never considered ending my life as a solution to anything. I’ve tried to dismiss the terrifying spark of an idea: I was tired. I was distraught after talking to Ima. I was depressed after watching those videos. I’ve shut it in a drawer and locked it away between folds of my brain, but it’s still there. I cannot unthink it.
“Adina Siegel?” a small man dressed all in black calls from the greenroom entrance. Boris Bialik, whom I auditioned for to earn this spot. I give him a weak smile and wave, the evil-eye bracelet winking at him from my wrist. “Pleasure to see you again.”
From hi
s clipped tone, it sounds as though seeing me again is more of a hassle than a pleasure. He is sour because I skipped rehearsal after my test results.
“Thank you,” I say, getting to my feet and making sure my posture is straight. “I’ve been looking forward to this show.”
“We invite luminaries from conservatories across the country to this showcase,” Boris Bialik says. “You could very well be playing for your future professors. Commitment is crucial.”
I feel my face flush, like I am being challenged to prove myself. “I certainly hope so. I have never been more committed to anything than viola.”
He peeks at his watch, which is studded with diamonds. “Laurel is waiting for you.”
Thanking him, I head toward the stage, my muscles wound tighter than the tuning pegs on my viola. I’ve had strict teachers and conductors and music directors, but his words have put me on edge.
Laurel’s handshake is a tight, quick squeeze. Everyone in the showcase is under twenty-five, and she looks to be around exactly that age. It is my first time rehearsing with a pianist.
“Boris gives all the newbies a rough time,” she says. “Don’t worry. You’ll be fine.”
I let out a breath, allow myself to relax a little. “Good to know. Thanks.”
Laurel positions herself on the cushion behind the baby grand and opens her sheet music. “This piece is one of my favorites of Debussy’s. Should we see how it goes?”
I tuck my viola under my chin and stretch out the fingers on my left hand one by one. They are a little stiff, but I’m sure they’ll warm up. The first time I performed on this stage with the youth symphony, I couldn’t believe how much larger it was compared to the middle and high school auditoriums I’d played on in the past. This is my first time standing on it—the way Arjun has me do during lessons. When I’m onstage with an orchestra, I’m seated in front, other musicians surrounding me. I am not the star. In a couple weeks these empty seats will be filled with people watching me, expecting me to create something brilliant.
Laurel is skilled, but not too showy. She knows exactly how to highlight the viola, because that is exactly what this piece is about. Soft, sweet notes pour from my instrument, and the beauty of it lifts my spirit. Très calme et doucement expressif. I can do this. I pull the song tight around me, shutting out everything wrong and bad.
But then my finger slips.
I have the piece memorized, but suddenly I have to think hard about what comes next, as though the notes are not imprinted in my muscles, trapped in my fingerprints. No. I can’t let the song get away from me—but it’s already drifting, my memory fuzzing, my fingers lost. I stumble over an entire measure, then skip two more, and Laurel trips over her keys to catch up to me.
The piano stops, and that’s when I realize my chest is tight and my throat is dry and I’m sucking in deep lungfuls of air.
“Adina?” Laurel says. “Adina, are you all right?”
I put a hand to my chest, my heart banging against my palm. “Yes. I got a little light-headed, I guess.”
Maureen’s words come back to me. We’ll be keeping a close eye on you. There’s no way I’m exhibiting symptoms this early. I’m just anxious. That has to be it.
“Do you need the music?” Laurel asks.
“This never happens. I swear I know the song.” I don’t have the time to be anything less than perfect.
“Being up here does things to people sometimes. It’s no problem at all. Why don’t you get some water, and then we’ll pick it back up whenever you’re ready?”
“Water would be good,” I mumble. In the wings of the stage, Boris Bialik has his arms folded across his chest.
Hattie and Meena are waiting in the greenroom as I hold a paper cup beneath a water cooler. “Stage fright?” Hattie asks.
“That’s a shame,” Meena says.
I simply nod, hoping with my whole heart that’s all it is.
Arjun refills our wineglasses with garnet-colored liquid and joins me back at his dining table. Rachmaninoff streams from his top-of-the-line speaker system, and I’m woozy from the wine, the kitchen blurred around the edges. The speakers are, undoubtedly, the most expensive thing in this room. It’s an old apartment. Later, I’ll tell him he should ask his manager about getting the stove fixed so more than one of the burners work.
When Arjun asked how I played, I lied that it went well and hoped he wouldn’t notice the heat on my cheeks. Lately I have been dreaming in Debussy; I cannot believe I needed the sheet music to finish the piece. That can’t happen on New Year’s Eve.
“That was incredible.” I gesture to my empty plate. He made an eggplant curry so spicy it made my eyes water. “Thank you.”
“I don’t cook for people much,” he says. “Don’t usually have the time. Or the space to have a lot of people over. I’m glad you enjoyed it.”
“Do you always cook vegetarian? I don’t mind at all. I’m just curious.”
“Sometimes. I grew up vegetarian, but I cheat now that I’m in the States. You keep kosher, right?”
“My family does, but I don’t. I stopped when my mom—you know. It didn’t seem important anymore.”
He nods, and when he turns his upper body to me, I close the space between our chairs and rest my head on his chest, listening to his heartbeat. Tonight he is wearing fitted jeans, a gray long-sleeved thermal, and plain white socks, so much more casual than when we meet for lessons. I prefer him the other way, with his starched collars and wool sweaters and argyle socks. But if this is what he wears when no one else is around, I wonder what it means that he’s dressed this way for me.
Here at his kitchen table, on a night I don’t have a lesson, I feel like his girlfriend. And I realize . . . I want to be his girlfriend. I want to hold hands on the city bus and try new restaurants. I want to go to a coffee shop and drink lattes and kiss the foam off each other’s lips. I want to walk around his apartment in nothing but my underwear and one of his collared shirts.
I want. Two simple words that contain every note of every song I’ve played for him, every second I’ve lain awake at night imagining us together. I want, I want, I want. Why shouldn’t I be allowed to have?
“Do you want to go out somewhere?” I ask. “We could go to a jazz club, or a movie, or go for a walk around Capitol Hill. . . .”
“You know we can’t.” Gently, he pushes my head off his chest so he can start clearing the table.
“What, every single one of your students is hanging out at the jazz club on a school night?” I wince as I say it. Arjun turns toward the kitchen sink, doesn’t look at me. “I’m sorry.” I scramble to smooth things out between us. “Hey, could you teach me something in Hindi? You speak it, right?”
“Yes, but not everyone in India does. The official language of Gujarat, where I grew up, is Gujarati. That’s what I speak with my family.”
“Teach me something in Gujarati.”
He thinks for a moment and at last turns to face me, a smile on his lips. “Tu sundar che,” he says. “You are beautiful.”
My shoulders relax. We are okay again. “Do you want to learn some Hebrew?”
“I think I know a little. Shalom, kvetch, schlep . . .”
Those words in his voice make me laugh so hard I nearly choke on my wine. “ ‘Kvetch’ and ‘schlep’ are Yiddish. ‘Shalom’ is Hebrew. It means ‘hello,’ or ‘peace.’ You can say, ‘hi, how are you’—shalom, ma shlomech?” He repeats it. “Tov,” I say. My sister’s sometimes-nickname. “Good.”
He returns to the dishes, and again I feel the need to drag him back to me. Sometimes it’s as though he’s playing a mental tug-of-war, weighing whether he wants me here or not.
Maybe he feels sorry for you, taunts a small and horrible voice in the back of my mind.
I shove it away as I get to my feet and explore his kitchen a bit, since I’ve never really been in here. A flyer for the New Year’s Eve showcase is stuck to his fridge with a magnet with a dentist’s sparkling fac
e and phone number on it. Probably free. Curious, I open the refrigerator, not quite sure what I am expecting to find but surprised by what greets me. Leftover ingredients from tonight’s dinner, but not much else: some butter, a third of a tomato, a jar of something called achar.
“Whoa, your milk is seriously expired,” I say with a laugh.
“I guess I eat a lot of takeout,” he says sheepishly, and it makes me jealous. I suppose when you live alone, you can fill your fridge with whatever you want.
“Do you want to toss this out?”
“I’ll get it later.”
I close the fridge and lean against the counter next to him. “What was it like, growing up in India? In Gujarat?”
A few moments of quiet pass before he speaks. “I was born in Ahmedabad. That’s the largest city in Gujarat. Have I told you about all the stray dogs there?” When I shake my head, he dries his hands on a towel and continues: “There are so many. They’re so, so skinny, and some of them, you can see their ribs jutting out. Every morning on my walk to school, I’d buy a mango off a street vendor, slice it up with a pocketknife, and feed it to the dogs. One dog used to follow me all the way to school most days, and he’d be there when I got out. Like he was waiting for me. My parents wouldn’t let us have a dog, so I pretended he was mine.”
I picture a young Arjun feeding a dog a mango. “That sounds adorable.” I hook my fingers through the belt loops on his jeans. When I kiss him, I bite down lightly on his bottom lip. It makes him groan deep in his throat. Hopefully he has forgotten my suggestion to venture out into the world. I don’t need that. He is right here.
“Sometimes I forget you’re in high school,” he says. “You don’t seem eighteen at all.”
“Maybe you’re stunted,” I suggest.
“That must be it. I’m stunted, or you’re wise beyond your years.” Then a strange expression comes over his face. “You’re eighteen,” he repeats.
“I believe we’ve established this a number of times.”
“Are you . . . ? I mean, have you . . . ?”
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