Pickup Notes

by Jane Lebak

  Harrison only said, “Did you get it?”

  I looked at my lap. Pocket change to Harrison would still have been a lot for me. Maybe four months’ rent.

  “I figured as much. You were right to take the viola. And if your parents take it from you, you produce that will for the police.”

  “I—” My eyes stung. “Everyone would hate me.”

  “So let’s see.” His eyes fiercened. “Your parents would steal your viola, and ‘everyone’ would blame you for wanting it back?”

  “Because I’d be making trouble.”

  “No, they’d have made the trouble, and if they got arrested, tough luck. Why is that so hard to see?”

  I blinked hard.

  The waiter arrived with the soup. As he departed, Harrison said, “Do you have renter’s insurance? Get it. It’s something like ten bucks a month. I’ll even spot you for it because a string quartet needs a viola.” His eyes gleamed. “Although we could upgrade you to a chainsaw.”

  I smiled despite myself. “The difference between a chainsaw and a viola is that in a pinch, you can use a chainsaw in a string quartet.”

  He looked disappointed. “You heard that one too?”

  “And,” I added, “you can tune the chainsaw.”

  “I thought you could tune a lawn mower.” He paid attention to his soup for a while, then looked up. “Okay. First, get renter’s insurance. Then, when you file a claim for a viola, they’ll wonder why they’re shelling out twenty grand and do some investigating. Then your relatives can hate the insurance company.”

  Did Harrison have x-ray vision? His gaze was that relentless. “I’d have to file a police report. My family would still hate me.”

  His eyes clouded. “Look, your parents may be your relatives, but you’re talking about the antithesis of family. Anyone who would invade your apartment and steal your livelihood isn’t family. And your dad, who didn’t properly execute his own father’s estate? Worthless as a father, and definitely not family. Neither, for that matter, are grandparents who charge rent while also requiring the tenant to clean. What are you? Cinderella?”

  I recoiled. “My grandparents need me!”

  Harrison looked unconvinced. “They go to a bowling league. They can push a vacuum cleaner.”

  I shook my head. “But they’re all I’ve got.”

  “They’re not all you’ve got!” He slammed his hand onto the table so hard that other diners turned. “They treat you well when they like what you’re doing. Meanwhile we’re not related, but we’ve got each other’s backs even when we’re driving each other crazy. That’s what family does.”

  The soup bowls were cleared. The sushi arrived. My pulse slowed. People returned to their own food.

  Harrison said, “My dad told me, ‘Pick your family.’”

  Yeah, because that was totally possible. “You can’t choose your family.”

  “I had an aunt who pitched a fit whenever anyone disagreed with her. Four times a year she’d threaten my grandparents they’d never see the grandkids again, claim she didn’t remember whatever nasty things she’d done, and flounce out. A month later she’d return as if nothing happened. Dad got tired of the show, so he cut her off. Even my grandparents aren’t allowed to talk to him about her.”

  Was he really saying— “You want me to cut off my parents?”

  “It was the best decision he ever made.” Harrison pointed his chopsticks at me. “Pick your family.”

  I looked at my lap.

  “You choose who you marry, right? That’s the center of the family.” Harrison gave a wolfish grin. “When you marry me, we’ll start our own family.”

  “Thanks,” I said, and then, “but I’m not marrying you.”

  He chuckled. “You hesitated that time.”

  My head swam. “But—cutting them off— My uncle did that. Uncle Bill and my aunt just walked out of my grandmother’s one Thanksgiving. They—” I closed my eyes. “But that’s selfish, isn’t it? Doesn’t family mean you can count on them?”

  That’s what Grandma said afterward. And Mom. Angry, always angry.

  “You should be able to count on them,” Harrison said. “My point is, it’s not automatic. Take your mother. Does she treat you like family?”

  Cold all over, I stopped eating.

  “But Josh—does he treat you like family?”

  Despite everything. Although I guess I had treated him the way my family treated me.

  “My dad’s right.” Harrison was a judge rendering a verdict. “You can pick your family.”

  I pushed at a piece of sushi. “I figured friends were Fate’s apology for our families.”

  He shook. “Except those people you chose as friends may have good families themselves.”

  When the check arrived, Harrison took it. “I invited you. In my world, the host pays.”

  I’d crashed his apartment, but somehow he’d invited me. “Thank you.”

  As Harrison slid his gold card into the plastic folder, he said, “Oh, I totally forgot! What do you think about performing at a music festival?”

  What did I think? I thought, if I played at a music festival, that was a concert. Recitals had too many beginner students, and weddings were by invitation, but a festival—my parents would come.

  With a flatness that belied my pounding heart, I said, “How would we manage that?”

  “The recent publicity might score us an invite to one of the summertime classical festivals. Shreya’s for it, Josh too, so that leaves you.”

  I said, “Do they pay?”

  He shrugged. “Not much.”

  As the waiter took the credit card, I said, “If we can wrangle an invite. And not just for exposure, because I’m not giving them slave labor. And not if we’re already booked.”

  “I’m glad you’re so flexible,” Harrison deadpanned. “I’m eyeing one in Westchester and one in Poughkeepsie. I’ll drop them an email. If they say no, we’re no worse off.”

  And if they said yes, heaven only knew what Harrison would charge for the world-famous-performed-at-the-whatever-festival Boroughs String Quartet. But my parents might come. They’d hear us play.

  The waiter returned. Harrison filled in the tip, signed it. He frowned, and numbers flashed in his eyes as he recalculated. I knew him well enough that if anything, he’d revise the tip upward. Sure enough, he did.

  Out on the street, Harrison said, “Come back upstairs.”

  I shook my head. “I need to head home. I’m working tonight.”

  “Then I’ll walk you to the station.” Harrison’s eyes were sad. “I’ll keep the viola safe so you won’t have to worry.”

  We walked three blocks in silence before stopping at the stairwell. I said, “It’s probably a home-grown viola, you know. Not worth five figures.”

  “Regardless.” His face tightened, his brows inverting. “I wish I could do something for you.”

  And then in a motion, he kissed me. My muscles melted, and with my eyes closed I inhaled the spice of him and pulled the warmth of him against me even as heat flushed through my body. I buried my hands in his hair. His arms, so strong. He smelled so good.

  In the next second we both came to our senses and recoiled, eyes wide, breathing sharply in the chill.

  “That wasn’t professional!” I exclaimed even as Harrison said, “I’m— I just—” He shook his head, like Josh clearing a block. “I didn’t realize how hard it would be.”

  I couldn’t tell whether he was going to back away or try again, but he stayed frozen, his eyes rooted to my face as if awaiting permission. Or a scolding. And as my heart hammered, I didn’t know which I’d choose. Break his heart—or finish breaking my own.

  “I’m sorry.” He shifted aside, then repeated, “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t do that again!” I could barely see because of the wind, and all I wanted was to run. Leave behind my quartet, my past, my family, and the embarrassment of being not-quite-good-enough to be his girlfriend, but also n
ot quite lousy enough to forget. “You told me it would destroy everything, and there’s already enough destruction.” He looked stricken. I tore my gaze from him. “Don’t do that to me. Just—don’t.”

  When he made some kind of affirmative motion, I fled into the subway.

  FOURTEEN

  Monday morning I made sure to arrive last, but even so, I hesitated before turning Harrison’s doorknob.

  Fortunately, the first thing I did on entering was burst out laughing: he’d secured my viola case to the couch with a Kryptonite lock through the handle and a bicycle chain around the coffee table.

  Standing, Harrison laid a hand over his heart. “By God, Joey, your viola was safe with me!”

  Shaking not just with laughter but with relief, I couldn’t even unzip my jacket. It was okay: yesterday was just a glaring lapse in professionalism. Today we’d be professional again.

  Harrison rolled his eyes. “Josh, go undress her. We need to get started.”

  Jerk.

  Josh actually moved toward me. I waved him off. “No, really, I can manage.”

  As I stashed my hat and gloves in the sleeve, Josh lifted the jacket from my hands. Low-voiced, he said, “Wh-wh-wh—” He stopped. ““Wh-why is your viii-ola here?”

  I looked at the carpet. “Harrison was keeping it safe.”

  Frowning, Josh took a step backward.

  Harrison said, “Someone was looking for a five-finger discount.”

  Shreya crouched on the carpet, and a moment later she had the viola in her hand, the case open but still chained up. “Thank heaven for you, Harrison, safeguarding her most precious possession.”

  Josh said, “Viv?”

  I shook my head. “Mom.”

  He sighed as he hung up my jacket.

  Taking my viola from Shreya, I said, “I probably overreacted.”

  “If you could believe that at all, I doubt it was an overreaction.” Shreya squinted at me. “What happened?”

  I shot Harrison a helpless look.

  “Oh, that reminds me!” Our fearless leader tossed Josh something off the bookshelf: a plastic package containing a locking doorknob and a set of keys. “Install this for her. She said she couldn’t.”

  I snatched it from Josh’s hands. “I know how to turn a screwdriver. It would be a bad move politically.”

  Josh followed me to the stands. “I www-would have kept it s-s-s-safe for you.”

  I met his eyes, but I couldn’t very well say, I started to dial your number, but—

  Josh said, “I was c-closer.”

  I said, “I’d pestered you late enough on Saturday night, and it was ridiculously early. You were probably still sleeping.”

  He accepted the lie. Great. Dig the hole even deeper.

  Harrison, who never put down a shovel if he could help it, then handed me a key. “And this is so you can visit your viola whenever you want.”

  I blinked. “But—” Oh no, maybe we weren’t being professional after all. “Um, thanks?”

  “I’ve wanted one of you to have it for a while anyhow, in case you get here and I’m out.” In two years, that had happened once. We’d waited five minutes. “You’re the logical choice, since you’ll need one after we get married.”

  I said, “I’m not marrying you. But thanks.”

  Josh, on the other hand, sounded like an arctic blast. “I don’t get one so I can visit my cello?”

  I tensed, but Harrison made puppy-dog eyes. “Jealous? I can make another copy if you want, but your good cello is home and I have the practice one. She’s got it reversed.” And then, without waiting for an answer, Harrison said, “Oh, about the CD, I have the studio reserved for Thursday. Show up there instead of here.”

  As if this wasn’t enough of a trainwreck. Damn, damn, damn. We were going through with it. I busied myself sliding his key onto my key ring.

  Shreya said, “That stuff we’re recording? Are we sure we can use any of it?”

  “We’ve got the rights to three songs.”

  I said, “Have we heard any more from the lawyer?”

  Harrison glanced toward me, uneasy, then back to Shreya and Josh. “You won’t hear from her again.”

  I cocked my head. “Your brother is handling things?”

  Harrison grinned. “Joey, don’t you know how a viola is like a lawsuit?” He waited a beat. “Everyone is happiest when the case is closed.”

  I said, “They dropped it?”

  Harrison said, “Just don’t worry. The Voice has lawyers getting rich off this stuff. With any luck, it’s over.”

  That sounded strange, but before I protested, he pulled out his music. “Come on. We’re string players, not attorneys.”

  Woody wouldn’t tune, viola-esque punishment for not playing yesterday. Harrison scoffed until it wouldn’t tune for Josh either. Finally I took the viola aside and explained about my mother. And whether it wanted attention, or whether my touch had warmed it, afterward it held its tuning.

  When practice ended, Josh called his father to swap the taxi while I looked at the lock. Changing it would take five minutes. Dealing with the fallout, five hundred years.

  As Josh shut his phone, I said to Harrison, “Josh and I worked on another fusion this Saturday.”

  Harrison brightened. “Have you got it with you?”

  Josh turned from the window, uncertain. “It’s nnn-not quite ready yet.”

  “I thought it was close.” I offered a smile. “Could we get together and polish it up?”

  Sounding puzzled, he said, “Sure. To-to-tomorrow morning?” Followed by, “Even if you think I’m sleeping, wake me up.”

  On Thursday, we met at a recording studio in Upper Manhattan. No more than a room with great acoustics and a zillion dollars in equipment, the place was large enough for us and four chairs. “Be careful,” Harrison said. “They might squeak.” We had music stands. We had music on the stands. We had Jenny.

  Jenny managed the studio. She ran the equipment and performed sound checks, made sure everything recorded, and afterward propositioned the male musicians. Last year she nabbed Harrison.

  Professional. That was us.

  The first time we recorded, I would have sworn two women worked there. Behind the sound board, Jenny had all the humor of a safety officer in a nuclear power plant. From voice alone, I predicted a grey-suited woman with a bun so tight her eyes couldn’t close.

  Then I saw a woman with shaggy orange hair and a crop-top that showed off the Chinese dragon tattooed around her navel. She had “KISS ME” embroidered across the seat of her size-two low-rise jeans. She moved around the studio with a businesslike efficiency, bending over to attach this, wire that, check another thing, and at the same time allowing the guys to read the writing on the...well, read the writing.

  Today, Sergeant Jenna issued headphones so we could communicate with the sound room, and then Miss Jenny purred that Harrison’s violin looked really hot.

  Shreya stared open-mouthed. I never could bear to ask Harrison what happened with Jenny, but after a month he failed to mention her again. I assume she snagged some guy with a twelve-string electric guitar and forgot the violin. It never works out well.

  Sergeant Jenna barked that we needed to get started. “Sound check!”

  Josh announced, “My name is Joshua Galen!”

  “Check!” said the drill sergeant. “Violins?”

  The violins played G scales. Josh played a C scale. I did nothing with the viola, the sandwich instrument. Sergeant Jenna told us to hang tight while she adjusted the sound levels.

  Josh said, “My name is Joshua Galen.”

  Déjà vu, all over again. “I knew that.”

  He beamed. “I know you know, but I wanted to say it while I had the chance. Hi, my name is Josh.”

  Hey, wait a minute. “You aren’t stuttering!”

  Harrison and Shreya stared as he tapped his headphones. “I can hear myself. It’s creating a choral speech effect. I’m going to take this opportun
ity to say my name five hundred times. Hi, I’m Joshua Galen.”

  “Pleased to meet you, Mr. Galen.” Shreya offered a handshake. “I’m Shreya Ramachandran.”

  Harrison said, “I’m sorry, but I didn’t catch your name, sir.”

  “I’m Joshua Galen.”

  “People!” barked the drill sergeant into our headphones so we jumped. “I’m ready.”

  “Hey, Joshua Galen,” Harrison said as he raised his violin, “let’s see if you can play that thing.”

  “Of course I can.” He watched Harrison for his cue. “Or my name isn’t Joshua Galen.”

  Once the giggles ended, Harrison cued us.

  You’d think after practicing a hundred times, we’d have sounded fluid, but then you’d be as wrong as I was. Instead we needed a dozen takes to finish the first piece. Playing a reception, of course, we never took do-overs, but then again, Harrison also didn’t worry his pretty head so much about whether a note was slightly flat or a quarter of a beat late.

  The lack of an audience, while off-putting, imparted more of a chamber-music feel. For a hundred years, chamber music would have been heard only by the musicians and maybe a couple of guests. The most spectacular performance ever, ever, ever was in 1785, with Joseph Haydn and Ditters von Dittersdorf on violins and Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart on viola, plus one Johann Baptist Vanhal as cellist. No wedding guests and no ticket-holders. Only one another and God Almighty.

  So in a way, this was chamber music as it should be, played in a chamber.

  And in another way, this was sterile and wrong, almost masturbatory.

  Between takes, Shreya said, “You’re self-conscious.”

  I frowned.

  “Your vibrato is tense. Your wrists are tense. Your bowing is tense.” She waved a hand to include the whole studio. “Forget this. Imagine a crowd paying attention to a bride.”

  “Musical wallpaper.”

  She pointed right at me.

  On the second piece, I tried with my eyes closed, but whenever I checked the score, it was still the white walls and microphones which never voiced their opinions at the moment but expounded your sins later, when it was too late.