I tell Charlie about my discovery today, with Len.
“Well, it sort of makes sense,” she says. “Why she has it out for you.”
“I guess. I still can’t understand really why she would hate me like that. And I just can’t believe my dad would hurt his brother for no reason, you know? It’s so out of character.”
Charlie shrugs. “Maybe Rob’s dad really was the better candidate. I mean, your parents were always close with Rob’s parents. Maybe it was just politics, not personal.”
Charlie pulls into my driveway, and Rob’s mom’s car is parked next to my mom’s. Usually she just walks over, but I guess she was coming from somewhere. She has the SAN BELLARO SOCIAL CHAIR bumper sticker on the back window that Rob and I had made for her birthday two years ago.
I heave my book bag out of the car.
“Good luck with . . .” Charlie waves her hand around in the air like she’s looking for a word.
“Len,” I say.
“Right, bio.” She flips her sunglasses down and dots the air with a kiss. “Call me tomorrow. I think we may have to stalk Jake this weekend.”
“I completely forgot it was Friday.”
“Yeah. Sorta makes this study session seem like a date, huh?” She winks at me and swings out of the driveway, calling, “Ciao, bella,” on her way out.
I wave and head into the house. Rob’s mom and mine are in the kitchen at the counter, talking. It reminds me of the millions of times I’ve come home and seen the same thing. Of baking Christmas cookies together in our kitchen. Of summer dinners on the patio. Of the one time Rob’s mom and mine let us share a glass of wine with them at the counter. It makes me miss Rob like crazy.
“Hey,” I say, making my way into the kitchen. “Secret convention?”
Rob’s mom smiles. She’s got the same liquid chocolate eyes as Rob, and for a second I have to stifle something kind of hot in my throat. She motions me over with her hand. “Hey, cutie,” she says. “How are you?”
“Good,” I say.
“School going well?”
I nod. “Bio is killing me.” The urge to ask her about Rob is suddenly overwhelming. The impulse is so strong, I have to bite down on my tongue to keep from talking.
I don’t need to, though, because in the next breath my mom says, “Jackie was just telling me about Rob. You know he got suspended today?”
“Yeah,” I mumble. “I mean, I didn’t know he got suspended, but I figured something was up.”
Rob’s mom shakes her head. “It’s that girl. Juliet. I’m sorry,” she says, looking at my mom, “but he’s not the same person since she’s been around. All of a sudden he’s getting in fights and applying to USC. His father thinks we should forbid him from seeing her, but . . .”
“He didn’t apply early to Stanford?” My voice cracks, and my mom and Rob’s exchange a glance.
“I’m sorry, honey,” Rob’s mom says, but it’s quiet. “I don’t know what happened.”
We all know what happened. USC is the perfect school for Juliet. She’ll return to LA and major in drama and get to pursue acting at the same time. Rob wants to be with her, so he’s agreed to follow her there. He’s taking on her dream now. Stanford is already outdated.
“I have a friend coming over to study,” I say. “I’m going to head upstairs.”
“The girls?” Rob’s mom asks. She loves referring to Charlie and Olivia as “the girls.” When we were younger, she once took Charlie and me down to LA for the day on a “girls’ shopping trip.” Thinking about that and standing here with her, I realize how much I miss them all. Rob’s family, I mean.
“No, this guy Len,” I say.
“Len Stephens?” my mom asks. She perks her head up from her coffee cup.
“Isn’t that the guy who Rob—?” Rob’s mom taps the table.
“Yeah.” I swallow. “It was no one’s fault, really. Things just got out of hand.”
“Rob punched Len Stephens?” my mom says, her eyes wide. “He was such a sweet kid. He used to have lessons right before you at Famke’s, remember? He was so talented.”
“He still is,” I say. I don’t even know if that’s true, but I feel like I need to say something in his defense. And it’s easier to stand up for his talent than his sweetness.
Rob’s mom squints and runs her pointer finger back and forth across her forehead. “Rob admitted it was his fault, you know,” she says, her eyes closed. “He didn’t even try to argue.”
“He’s a good kid,” my mom says gently, putting a hand on her shoulder.
“I think he misses you,” she says, looking at me. “And that Juliet . . .” Her voice trails off, and she brushes her eyes and straightens up. “I’m sorry,” she says. “I know this isn’t easy on you. You all used to be so close.”
The doorbell rings, and I use it as an exit strategy. “It was good to see you,” I say. “Mom, we’ll just work in my room.”
“Do you guys want some apples?”
“It’s not a playdate.”
“I know,” she says, standing up and coming over to me. “Just let me take care of you while I still can.”
I roll my eyes and glance at the door. “Try to restrain yourself,” I say, giving her a quick hug. “We’ll be upstairs.”
Len is standing at the door, his hand against the side panel. He’s got a deep purple bruise all around his right eye.
“Jeez,” I say. “You look like a mess.”
“Thanks,” he says. “You’re not so bad yourself.”
“Do you want some ice?”
“I’ll be fine.”
“I know, but that thing looks pretty bad.”
“Could I just come in?”
“Sure,” I say, stepping to the side. “Sorry. My room’s upstairs.”
“You run a tight ship,” he says. “No guided tour?”
“Later,” I say. “Right now we have to work.”
He’s holding a bag of Twizzlers in his hand, and his backpack is missing.
“Where is your study stuff?”
He holds up the bag.
“That’s candy.”
“Your favorite kind, no less.”
I stop. “How do you know that?”
“Chop, chop,” he says, pushing past me and starting up the stairs. “Don’t make me eat these all by myself.”
“But we have to study,” I say, trudging up behind him.
“Let’s just chill for a second,” he says. “The doctor said I really should be resting.”
He halts at the top of the stairs and places a hand daintily on his cheek.
“You’re lying,” I say. “But fine.”
“Which is yours?” he says, stretching a hand out in either direction.
“On the left.”
We settle on my bedroom floor, the Twizzlers between us. He opens the bag and offers me one. I take it.
“So what happened?” I ask.
Len sighs and rolls a Twizzler between his palms. “Nothing, really. Rob took the blame. They let me go, but I heard he got suspended.” He looks to see my reaction.
“Mhm, me too. You must be relieved.”
Len shrugs.
“Oh, right. I forgot. Suspension is like a paid vacation for those uninterested in school.”
He squints and looks at me, leaning his elbows casually on his knees. “Is that what you think?”
“Yeah,” I say. My voice gets quiet. All of a sudden he’s making me nervous. “I mean, you never do homework and you’re always giving teachers a hard time. Are you even applying to college?”
I pull another Twizzler out of the bag and busy myself with tearing it down like string cheese.
“Didn’t know you paid so much attention to me, Rosaline.” He tilts his head to the side and gives me a lopsided smile.
I open my mouth to talk, but he holds up his finger.
“For the record, I do the homework. I’m here, aren’t I? And I don’t give all teachers a hard time, just the ones that cou
ld use it. And as for college?” He raises his eyebrows. “I already got in.”
“But early admission decisions don’t come until next month, at the earliest.”
“I got in last year,” he says. He flops his knees down to the ground and grabs the candy bag.
“We were juniors.”
“Mhm,” he says, chewing. “Good point.”
“You can’t even apply to college junior year.”
“Yep,” he says. “All true.”
“What is it, then? Continuing education courses? Having to repeat high school doesn’t count as college.”
“Thanks for your concern,” he says. “But actually, no. Juilliard.”
My jaw drops so far, I think I might have to manually pick it up off the floor. When I finally start speaking, it comes out like word vomit: “What? Are you kidding me? Why?”
Len laughs. “The surprise I can take, but ‘why’ feels a little harsh.”
“I’m sorry, but are you being serious?”
“You want to see the acceptance letter?”
I eye him closely. It’s impossible, but I also don’t know why he’d lie about it. It seems like the sort of thing he’d like to keep quiet, actually. But Juilliard?
“Isn’t that the school for prodigies?”
“Prodigy,” he says, tapping his chest. “Right here.”
“In what?”
“Okay.” He folds his arms across his chest. “Piano.”
It makes perfect sense now. Why he’s so smart but doesn’t care about school. “You kept playing,” I say.
I stand and extend my hand to him. He gives me a curious look but lets me help him up. I march him, in much the same way Mr. Davis did Rob this afternoon, down the stairs and into the den. My mom and Rob’s mom have disappeared from the kitchen, probably outside. When he sees the piano, he starts laughing.
“You kept it,” he says.
“Yeah, my parents always thought maybe I’d come back to it.” I sit down on the bench and face him. “Will you play something for me?”
He interlaces his fingers and spins his thumbs, like he’s considering it. “Yes,” he says, “but only if you’ll play something for me first.”
“I’m not the one who just got into Juilliard.”
“Actually,” he says, “I got in last year. So it’s been a while.”
“Funny.”
“Come on,” he says. “I think you’ll find you remember more than you think.”
I take a deep breath and lift up the fallboard. Then I place my hands on the keys. I try to remember a piece I used to love, Fleur de Lis. The first few notes and measures sound rusty—like the spokes on an ungreased wheel. But as I go, I start to loosen up a bit. It’s harder than I remember, and I get out of breath in just a few seconds, but it also feels wonderful. Like finally moving my legs after a really long airplane ride.
I stop after about a minute, and I realize I’m nearly panting.
“Not bad,” Len says. “You need to start playing again.”
I do. I’d forgotten how alive piano used to make me feel. The music sends my cells spinning, like the adrenaline high you get after a long run.
Len slides in next to me and runs his hands over the keys, and I notice it again—that birthmark on his thumb. It’s red, a deep burgundy, and when I follow it, I see it runs up the length of his arm, or at least up to where he has his shirt sleeves rolled up. It looks like a map, the way it spans and dips and runs like continents and countries and rivers across his skin. It’s actually beautiful, not gross at all, and now that I see it, I can’t believe I missed it all these years.
Len’s breathing slows next to me and his eyes slip closed, and I realize I’m holding my breath too, that the whole room is. It feels like the moment before a rainstorm, the sky heavy and dense, the moisture so thick you can already feel it. And then the first droplets fall, cool and precise and quiet. They build slowly until the moment when the heavens open up and it pours.
I recognize the tune immediately. It’s by Frédéric Chopin and it’s called, if you’d believe it, Raindrops. Famke used to play it for me. Sometimes if I was being stubborn or tired or just off, she would sit me down at the edge of the bench and let me listen to her for a change. If it’s possible, Len plays it even better than she did. His fingers glide over the keys like the wind dancing on the beach. Pulling up the sand, twirling it, asking it to play. I tear my eyes away from his hands and look up at his face. His eyes are no longer closed, but they’re still, calm, focused. Like the counterpart to the motion of his fingers: steadfast and unmoving.
He stops, and the room falls silent. But the silence is pulled tight, stretched, as if the room itself—the sofa and chairs and even the curtains on the windows—is restraining itself from breaking into applause.
Len lifts his fingers off the keys, slowly, and returns them to his lap. Then he looks at me, and it’s kind of like I’ve never seen him before. Because this person next to me isn’t the guy from school who gives teachers lip. He’s not sarcastic, but funny; and he’s not rude, but witty; and his hair isn’t messy, it’s, well, kind of sexy.
He runs a hand through it and smiles down at the keys. Then he reaches to close the fallboard and so do I, and for a moment our fingers touch, midair. Immediately something shocks me, and I pull back.
“Static electricity,” Len says, pointing to his T-shirt.
I shake my head to say no big deal, but there’s something besides the electric shock lingering in my fingertips. And it makes me look away, because I’m pretty sure my cheeks are starting to speak for me.
Instead I focus on that mark on his thumb.
“It’s called a port-wine stain,” he says. He’s not looking at his hand, but at me.
“Oh,” I say. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to stare.”
“It’s not a big deal,” he says, holding up his arm. “I’ve had it since I was born.” He pushes up his sleeves farther, and I see that the birthmark runs all the way up to his shoulder, even farther than I thought before. Instinctively I reach out and touch it, tracing the outline, and when I do, he smiles. His skin is warm and soft.
“It’s beautiful,” I say before I even realize I’m speaking. “I’ve never noticed how cool it is before.”
“It’s always been there; you just weren’t looking,” he says, letting me turn over his arm.
“Is that why you always wear long-sleeved shirts?”
He laughs, and I internally kick myself. “I’m sorry. That’s none of my business.”
“It’s okay,” he says. “I don’t mind.” He takes his arm away and pulls down his sleeve. “In the beginning, when I was a kid, I guess, yeah, I was a little self-conscious about it. But not anymore. Now I kind of like it. It’s different.” He shrugs. “I guess that’s the thing about getting older. You realize your differences can be good things. Not just bad ones. But the long sleeves kind of stuck around.”
The room is still humming in the wake of his music.
“So if you got into Juilliard last year, why didn’t you go already?” I ask.
I look up at him, and he’s staring at me with a mixture of calm and confusion. Like he’s trying to figure out what to say but is not too concerned about how long it’s going to take him to get there.
“I guess I just wasn’t finished here yet,” he says.
“With San Bellaro?”
He keeps looking at me. It feels like it did in the wings of the auditorium. Like he can see right through me.
“High school isn’t as bad as you think,” he says.
“I guess, but it doesn’t really seem like your scene. Plus, it’s Juilliard.” I let my fingers wander to the keys. They’re cool, light, so soft. When I press one down, it barely makes a sound.
“Juilliard will be there next year,” he says. “Some things are worth waiting for.” I can feel his gaze on me, and it’s hot, somehow, strong, like the microscope lens that can light a piece of paper on fire just by focusing on it.
Len picks up the next photo. It’s Rob’s and my prom picture from last year. It’s the only one I haven’t been able to bring myself to take down, mostly because my parents would realize it was missing. In it he’s dipping me like we’re dancing, and I have one leg extended up toward the ceiling. I’m gazing up at him with this look of adoration. The same way my mom is looking at me in all those pictures of me as a baby. He’s looking at the camera with this goofy grin on his face.
I reach up and grab the picture. “That shouldn’t even be out,” I say.
Len nods. “Sometimes old habits are hard to break.” He gestures toward his T-shirt.
He takes the photo out of my hands and sets it down. His fingertips brush mine, and even without the static electricity I still feel a charge between us. He’s looking at me, and that little curl has fallen down onto his forehead. I want to touch it, brush it away. Not pull it, just sweep it to the side.
“Tell me something,” he says softly. He’s leaning so close to me, I can smell his cologne. It’s intoxicating. The electricity isn’t just in my fingertips now but in my entire body. It zips up from my toes through my spine and into my head, where it lingers, making me dizzy.
“Okay,” I say, trying to keep my voice steady. “What do you want to know?”
“Would you ever want to hang out without the excuse of a study session?” He looks at me, point-blank, and my stomach turns over so fast, I swear I hear it thud. My hands feel numb and my heart is racing. He’s making me totally nervous. And he’s still so close, our foreheads are almost touching.
“Like a date?” I whisper.
“Something like that,” he says, pulling back just a bit.
He’s looking at me again with that same intense expression that makes me feel terrified but alive all at the same time. Like he’s seeing something in me that maybe wasn’t there before. And all at once I want to say yes. The prospect of spending an entire night alone with Len is intriguing. I want to be close to him, for him to keep leaning toward me in the same way he is now, and for him to brush my fingertips and maybe even—
When You Were Mine Page 16
