Finding Yvonne

by Brandy Colbert

  Warren pretends to consider this, tilting his head to the side and squinting at the musicians. “You’re better,” he finally whispers back.

  I’m not, but I like hearing it, so I keep my mouth closed. Besides, I don’t want to miss any more of them. I thought I would recognize the song by now, but it’s a tune on the tip of my tongue, a melody I still can’t place. I’m jealous that they get to play contemporary—it’s classical or bust with Ms. Ortiz in the school orchestra. Denis felt the same way.

  They finish to a smattering of applause. Some people drop money into a hat placed in front of them. Others sort of stare for a while before wandering off, on to the next person or thing that will hold their attention for a few moments. Soon it’s just me standing a few feet in front of them, and I’m trying to get up the nerve to say something, but I don’t know what.

  “What’s wrong?”

  Warren. I’d forgotten he was still here, right next to me.

  “Nothing,” I say, though my heart still isn’t beating normally.

  “You look out of it.”

  I shake my head, then turn back to the musicians. The guy picks up the hat and hands it to the girl, who quickly counts the money and drops it into a small canvas bag at her feet. They exchange a few words, and whoever they are to each other, it looks easy between them. I can’t tell if they’re brother and sister or if they’re together, but I keep staring, trying to figure it out. I don’t realize how long I’ve been looking at them without the barrier of people between us until the guy turns back to replace the hat and stares right at me.

  “Can I help you out with something?” His voice is softer than I imagined.

  “Oh—I—just, um, you—you’re very good.” I reach for my purse until I remember I left it in the car. My pockets are empty. I nudge Warren.

  He sighs, but digs into his jeans pocket and hands me a couple of bills. I walk forward and drop them into the hat. I’m embarrassed, acting like the type of tourist they must see every day, but I don’t know what else to say. Do I admit that their playing enchanted me? That it’s been a long time since music, especially strings, has made me feel this way?

  The guy is cute, which doesn’t help my inability to form another sentence. He has tawny skin and broad shoulders with a head of thick brown dreadlocks that fall past them. I like looking at him, but it’s not just that. There’s an electric feeling I can’t ignore, a charge pulsing through the air as I stand close to him. As if a part of me I didn’t know was sleeping has suddenly awakened.

  “Thanks, sis,” he says, then nods at Warren. He smiles at me before he turns around to talk to the girl, who has a mass of tightly curled hair pulled up into an Afro puff. She’s busy wiping the chin rest of her viola with a rag.

  “We should find Sinclair.” Warren briefly puts his hand on my elbow, snapping me out of my daze. “Maybe head over to the restaurant?”

  “Yeah, sure.” I turn to go with him, but look back over my shoulder.

  Warren tugs at my arm. “Yvonne, seriously, is everything okay?”

  When I glance over, he’s looking back and forth between them and me, trying to figure out what just happened. Warren and I don’t spend a lot of time with other people when we’re together, and it occurs to me that it’s been a while since he’s seen me with another guy. I don’t know if he’s ever seen me with one who intrigues me like this. There’s a bit of jealousy mixed with the bewilderment in his eyes.

  “I’m fine.” My voice comes out thin and unsure. Not very convincing.

  Warren is still watching me. I smile to ease his worry and let him pull me away, back into the pulsing throng of beachgoers.

  We took two cars down to the beach, so after dinner Warren and I go off on our own. He drives us back to his neighborhood.

  “There’s a full moon tonight,” he says, pointing out the window when we pull up to a stoplight. “Want to take a look?”

  We wind along Silver Lake Boulevard, parking on a side street near the reservoir. The sky darkened on our way back from Venice, but people are still walking along the path. A few are running around in the dusty dog park, tossing balls to their pets.

  “What was all that stuff earlier about living in Venice?” I ask as we begin our walk. There aren’t many people on this section of the pathway.

  “I don’t know.” Warren shrugs. “Sometimes I think about the future. Don’t you?”

  “Of course.” Except it scares me to think about it too much because I’m not sure I know what I want. “But I don’t think about where I’ll be living. More like what I’ll be doing.”

  Warren is quiet for a moment. Then: “I think about us. Where we’ll be. Is that weird?”

  “No.” I pause. “I think about us, too.”

  “Oh yeah?” I can hear the smile in his voice. “About us being together?”

  “Maybe,” I tease, smiling, too.

  His fingers dangle near my hand, then slowly thread their way through mine. “There was a full moon the first time we hung out.”

  “The night we had dinner with Lou and my dad?”

  “Yvonne. You don’t remember the first time we were alone together?”

  I do, vaguely. It’s just that Warren and I have spent so much time together in the last two years and it’s so easy to be around him that it all sort of runs together. Like, being with him is just one big happy block in the schedule of my life.

  “Was it that terrible party at Eugene’s house?”

  “Yeah, the night after your dad let him go. I don’t think I’ve ever seen someone so drunk.”

  “You put him to bed! I remember thinking you were the nicest guy I’d ever been around.”

  He laughs. “Yeah, I’m a real saint.”

  “It was sweet.” I squeeze his fingers. “All the guys I know would’ve let him keep drinking until he puked, just so they could laugh at him. Or drawn dicks on his face after he passed out.”

  Warren shrugs. “I was just doing what I would’ve wanted someone to do for me. He was a horrible server, but I felt bad that he lost his job.”

  We move off the path and lean against the fence that circles the reservoir. The moon is luminous, spider-webbed by tree branches that stretch to the sky.

  “I can’t believe we’ve known each other for two years,” I say, looking away from the bright white disk.

  “Feels like I’ve known you forever, Yvonne.” His voice is soft, and then his hand is on my arm. I face him and when I look up, his smile is soft, too. “We may not know where we’ll be in a year, but let’s make it a good one until then, okay?”

  I nod and then I put my arms around his neck and we kiss. He is hesitant at first, as if he’s afraid my father is going to suddenly appear. I lean my body into Warren and he relaxes, his soft lips assured as they press against mine. As he remembers that it’s just us right now, our only witness the moon.

  3.

  I meet Sabina at the set of concrete benches on the far side of the quad during lunch on Monday.

  She’s managed to snag our favorite seat, the bench under the giant eucalyptus. It’s the coolest place to be out here on the unseasonably but predictably hot early-September days, and it’s close enough to the tree that the thick, wide trunk can serve as a backrest. She scoots over to make room for me.

  “So,” Sabina says before I even sit down. “Damon has to have his party on Friday. His parents are going up to Tahoe for the weekend but sometimes they surprise him and come home early, so he doesn’t want to risk having a bunch of people over on Saturday.”

  “Okay, but you know I have plans with Warren that night?” Friday is my birthday. I don’t look at her as I slide onto the bench and drop my bag to the grass.

  “Yeah, I know. I was just thinking you two could stop by if you get bored or whatever.”

  I pull out my lunch sack. “I’m pretty sure we’re not going to get bored that night, Sabs.”

  I unwrap my peanut butter and banana sandwich, and, like every day, I’m glad Sa
bina is the only one around to watch me eat lunch. People think I get fancy lunches made and lovingly packed by my father the night before when the reality is that the more successful he becomes, the less time he has to cook for either of us. Lunches are out of the question.

  “Is Warren too good to hang out with people still in high school or something?” Sabina always gets a bit defensive when she talks about Warren. She likes him well enough, but I think the idea of me dating someone older makes her feel left behind. Warren and I haven’t slept together—yet—but I already crossed the great divide of best friendship when I had sex for the first time last year.

  “He hangs out with me.”

  She rolls her eyes.

  “Warren isn’t big on parties.” I take a bite and chew, watching Sabina pop open the plastic container she filled at the cafeteria’s salad bar. “He barely goes out with the people he works with. He’d rather hang out one-on-one.”

  “I bet he would,” she smirks, carefully drizzling lemon vinaigrette over her mixed greens.

  Sabina Thompson is one of the only other black students at our private all-girls school in West Hollywood. We couldn’t look more different. She has a gorgeous deep brown complexion, a tall figure with curves that I’d kill for, and natural hair that she usually wears in two French braids that trail down her back. I barely crest five feet and my skin is a honey brown and I keep my hair plaited in box braids thanks to the hair salon, because no one has ever taught me how to do anything else with it. Still, we didn’t make it past the first day of sixth grade before one of the teachers confused us. I think both of us knew it wouldn’t be the last time, and we became fast friends by the end of our first week at Courtland Academy.

  I take a drink from my bottle of apple juice. “He wants to make dinner for me. That’s nice.”

  “Yeah, yeah, it’s great, but you should still stop by if you can.” She looks at me sideways. “You can’t leave me alone with Dame and all his weirdo friends.”

  “Hey! I slept with one of those weirdo friends.”

  She raises her eyebrows. “Exactly. What if I mirror your poor judgment?”

  “Poor judgment? Cody is a straight-A honor student and president of his class. And objectively hot, in case you’ve forgotten.”

  “Fine. That was an unsuccessful guilt trip.” She sighs. “I just want to celebrate with you, but I guess Saturday will have to do. It’s a big deal, Yvonne. Eighteen.”

  “Well, if I see you on Saturday that means I’ll have the best birthday weekend ever, because I’ll get to see my two favorite people.” I bump her shoulder with mine and take a large bite of my sandwich.

  She smiles in spite of herself, sips from her bottle of water, and looks at me. Her voice is noticeably softer as she asks, “Have you heard anything from her?”

  “No.” I don’t look up.

  Sabina and I stopped saying my mother’s name a long time ago, which is better than my father and I, who never mention her at all.

  “I just thought maybe since this is your eighteenth—”

  “She didn’t do anything for thirteen or sixteen or any other year. Why start now?” I don’t bother making my voice lighter or forcing my lips into a wry smile. Not with Sabina. “She’s probably out somewhere celebrating that she can officially cut ties with me forever and not get called out on it.”

  “I’m sorry, girl.”

  “Yeah.” I set down my sandwich. I slathered on too much peanut butter this morning. The ratio of bread to bananas is totally off, and my tongue feels like it will permanently stick to the roof of my mouth if I keep eating. “Me too, Sabs.”

  After school, I head to the music room, violin case strapped over my shoulder. I’ve been toting it around since I first started playing in the school orchestra, in fifth grade, the year before I got to Courtland Academy. I thought that after carrying it around for so long, it would start to feel like a part of me, like the violin had grown into an impermanent limb that I no longer noticed. But the truth is that I’ve gotten so used to having it with me it feels almost like a friend. I’d feel naked walking through the hallways without it.

  Ms. Ortiz looks up from her podium and smiles when I walk in. The room is large, filled with dozens of music stands, a piano, various types of percussion instruments, a couple of cellos and a bass, and filing cabinets stuffed with sheet music. Somehow Ms. Ortiz keeps it in immaculate condition, and we all like her enough to help out with that.

  “Thanks for stopping by, Yvonne.”

  I start to sit, but she gestures toward my instrument. “I was actually wondering if you could play for me.”

  I stare at her. “Right now?”

  “Please.”

  “But I’m not warmed up….”

  “I’ll let it slide.” She points to a music stand next to her podium, and when I move to look at it, I see a familiar piece of sheet music. It’s a movement from a Vivaldi concerto.

  “We played this last year,” I say, stalling for time. It’s one thing to be surrounded by the other students in class, but I feel shy standing here alone in front of Ortiz. Exposed.

  “I know,” Ortiz responds. She doesn’t have a desk in here, so she sits down in one of the front-row chairs.

  I slowly remove my bow and instrument from the case, trying to remember the last time I played this. I practiced with Denis until I could execute it to his liking, but I could tell he thought it took me too long to do so.

  I say a silent prayer to my violin before I begin to play. I never used to do that, not until the last year or so, when I could see the frustration in Denis. He was always frustrated, and at first I couldn’t tell if that was simply his personality or me misreading his strong French accent. But it wasn’t long before the life in his eyes faded more and more each time we met for lessons, and I could practically see him twitching with impatience as I played.

  I try to put all of that out of my mind as I touch my bow down on the strings. The piece is lively and quick, the type of music that would accompany impish elves in a fairy-tale scene of a ballet. I used to feel so alive as I played it, my mood shifting to match the piece. But I am mechanical as I work through the movement, and though I’m trying to impress Ortiz, my intonation is off. My heart isn’t in the piece, and it makes me feel like my violin and I are working against each other instead of together.

  Ortiz holds up her hand and I stop, grateful.

  “Am I in trouble?” I ask, only half joking. Anyone who’s had class with Ms. Ortiz loves her, but she’s not afraid to tell you how it is. She expects a lot out of her students, which puts us all a little on edge.

  “I don’t think you’ve ever been in trouble a day in your life, Yvonne.”

  I’m no bastion of obedience, but it’s easy to be good around Ortiz.

  She pats the chair next to her, and I swiftly slip my violin back into its case before I join her.

  Ortiz squints her warm brown eyes at me. “How do you feel about what you just played?”

  “Okay, I guess. I mean, it wasn’t perfect. My intonation—”

  “I’m not talking about the technical part. How did you feel?”

  I shrug. I didn’t feel much of anything, besides a little embarrassed and wholly unprepared. And I don’t know how to admit that to the woman who is always saying that we have to feel the music from inside.

  “Yvonne, you’ve been different this year. We’ve only been back in school a few weeks, but you’re not your usual self. Is there anything you want to talk about?”

  I thought I would have worked up the courage to tell Ortiz that Denis decided to stop working with me this summer, but I never did. Now I’m sitting here wishing I could curl up into a pea-size ball and roll right out of this room.

  “I’m not taking lessons with Denis anymore.”

  “Oh.” She pauses, which makes me think she knows the answer to the question she’s about to ask. “You’ve started working with someone new?”

  “I’m not working with anyone, Ms. Ortiz.
Denis dropped me, and I didn’t think anyone else would want to take me on, so…” I look down at my hands, thinking about the day he told me he no longer had room for me on his roster.

  “I’m sorry to hear that, Yvonne.”

  She doesn’t ask why, so she must know the answer to that, as well. I look up at her. “Am I really that bad? Honestly?”

  Ms. Ortiz sighs. “It’s not about good or bad for me. You used to have a spark in your eyes when you played.”

  I don’t know whether to feel better about how up-front Denis was with his feelings, even though his words made me cry—“It is simply not worth my time to continue with someone who is not improving”—or how Ortiz is trying to preserve my feelings but isn’t really answering my question.

  “What happened?” she presses, her voice gentle.

  “I don’t know…. I guess I just stopped loving it. I don’t get excited by the pieces anymore. Maybe a few here and there, but it’s all sort of boring. Uninspiring. No offense,” I say, looking at her from the corner of my eye.

  “I’m sure Mozart and Beethoven will forgive you,” she teases. “Was it something Denis did? Or me?”

  I shake my head.

  “You can be honest.”

  “No, really, Ms. Ortiz. I can’t look back at one day when I wanted to stop playing. I guess it just got less exciting over time.”

  She nods slowly. “That happens. When we spoke in the spring, you were thinking about conservatories….”

  I was thinking about them and talking about them, but I knew I wasn’t at the level of most of the applicants. I certainly wasn’t a prodigy, one of the kids who have to complete their schoolwork through tutors because they’ve been busy traveling the world for competitions and performing with world-famous orchestras since they were ten years old.

  Denis said that if I worked very hard and focused on music 200 percent, he could get me to a place where I would feel okay about auditioning. Okay, not good. As soon as he said that, I realized I wasn’t up to the challenge. You need raw talent or supernatural determination to make it to that level—usually both. Even if someone was gracious enough to suggest that I possessed a bit of both attributes, I knew it wasn’t enough to succeed. And that made me feel shameful. Lazy. Like I’ve been wasting everyone’s time, including my own.