Allegra (12 page)

Mr. Rocchelli studies my face. I look down at the equipment.

“Is everything all right?” he asks.

“Yeah.” I pull the flash drive out of the computer and put it into a pocket in my backpack. I take a step toward the door, assuming Mr. Rocchelli will move, but he doesn't. He stays firmly planted in the doorway. I glance up at him.

“You were away yesterday,” he says. “Were you sick?”

“Yeah, but I'm fine now,” I lie.

“You still look a little tired,” he says. “Are you sure you're okay?”

I squeeze myself around him, being careful not to make contact. “Yes, I'm sure, but I won't be okay if I'm late for ballet. See you tomorrow.” I turn and immediately collide with a guy who has seemingly appeared out of nowhere. Books go flying. Flustered, I apologize, help him pick up his things, check that he's okay and, with a last look at Mr. Rocchelli, who's still watching me from the sound-room doorway, race to class.

“Welcome back,” Talia says when I sit down beside Spencer at lunchtime. It's become our habit for Talia, Molly and Sophie to sit on one step, and Spencer and me on the step above them. I'm not sure why they always save the space beside Spencer for me, but they do.

“Thanks.” I smile as normally as I can and pull a sandwich and a bottle of water out of my bag.

“Were you sick?” she asks.

“Yeah, but I'm okay now.” I leave it at that and hope she won't ask what I was sick with. I feign intense interest in my sandwich, lifting off the bread and rearranging a leaf of lettuce.

I can feel Spencer watching me, but I ignore him and turn my gaze across the room.

With a last glance at me, Talia goes back to a conversation she was having with Molly and Sophie when I arrived, and Spencer and I sit in uneasy silence for a few moments.

“You sounded kind of…funny on the phone yesterday,” he says.

“Oh, that. I'm sorry. You caught me at a bad moment.”

He stabs the last noodle in his Styrofoam bowl. “Has Steve dropped off those autographed headshots yet?”

“No, I don't think so. I'll ask my dad to remind him.” My dad. Just thinking about him brings me down again.

“Thanks.”

I nod.

“When's the next rehearsal?”

“I don't know.” But I do know that I'm not inviting Spencer over for it. How would I explain why my dad is leaving with the others when the rehearsal is over? I don't know why this new living arrangement embarrasses me, but it does.

I glance at Spencer and wonder again if he has befriended me just to get closer to the Loose Ends. Did I imagine those moments when our friendship felt like something more? Right now, I feel too depressed to even care. “Mr. Rocchelli says you know how to use Logic,” I say, changing the subject.

“I'm learning.”

“He thought you might be willing to help me with it.”

His face lights up. “No problem.”

That makes me feel a little better. “Thanks. I'd appreciate it.”

He glances up at the wall clock. “We've got time right now. Want to get started?”

That takes me by surprise. “Sure.” I swallow the last piece of my sandwich and collect my things. We hurry out to Mr. Rocchelli's portable but find the door locked. “Shit,” Spencer says, banging it with his fist.

That's the second time I've seen Spencer hit something when he's mad. It doesn't fit with his usually easygoing temperament.

“I guess he can't leave all that equipment unsupervised when no one's there,” I say.

The school door bangs shut behind us, and we both swing around. Mr. Rocchelli is heading toward the portable, keys in hand.

“Spencer's already agreed to tutor you?” he asks, sliding the key into the lock.

“Yeah, and he doesn't like to waste any time.”

“I see that.” Mr. Rocchelli pushes the door open and steps aside to let us pass. “In the future, if you sign up to use the room I won't lock you out. As it was, I didn't think anyone was going to be here today.”

“We didn't know either until five minutes ago,” Spencer says, leading the way into the sound room.

Mr. Rocchelli smiles at me. “Go to it,” he says.

I feel my heartbeat quicken. What is the matter with me?

Spencer is a patient teacher, and by the end of the lunch hour I feel way more confident with the program. He listens to snippets of what I've written and appears genuinely impressed. He watches as I tuck away the flash drive. “You look better than you did earlier,” he says.

“Better?” I tease. “I wasn't looking well before?”

“No,” he says seriously. “You were looking…sad.”

That's because I
was
sad. But I'm not going to tell him that. Working with the program was a good distraction, just as dance class was last night. I'll have to remember this. Keep busy. Keep distracted.

“Well, I'm glad I'm looking better.”

“Do you want to come back here after school?”

I think about it and glance at the schedule on the wall. No one has the room booked. “What I really need to do now is simply work on the music,” I tell him. “I think I know enough about the equipment to get started.”

He thinks about that. “I could do homework in the portable,” he says, gesturing to the main room, “and you could work in here. If you have any problems with the program, I could help you.”

I glance through the window at Mr. Rocchelli, who is working at his desk. I'd feel more relaxed about being here after school if Spencer was here too.

“Okay, thanks.”

“Good. It's a date.”

I glance up at his choice of words.

“You know what I mean,” he says, looking away. I follow him out of the sound room. “We'll be back after school,” he tells Mr. Rocchelli as he heads across the room.

“You've got a whole year to complete this project,” Mr. Rocchelli reminds me. “It doesn't have to be done in one semester.”

“Have you forgotten?” I ask him. “I'm working on a masterpiece. That takes time, lots of time.”

He laughs. “See you after school.”

My after-school session in the sound room is completely different from the hour I spent there during music-theory class. This time I'm focused, and only twice do I have to ask Spencer for help. I work on the second part of the piece and begin creating an entirely new segment of music, including a new melody that wasn't part of Mr. Rocchelli's original song. This section has some darker themes, and the notes come easily to me. I play it on the small keyboard that sits in the corner.

When I look up, I find Mr. Rocchelli standing in the doorway. “I don't recognize my song anymore,” he says.

“Oh, you will,” I quickly assure him. “I'm just adding to it.”

He smiles. “It's wonderful. I like what I just heard.”

“Oh, that. It's really rough.”

“I know, but I still liked it.”

“Thanks.” I feel my face growing hot. I've never been good at taking compliments, especially about things I'm new at.

“I just came in to tell you that I'm off to a meeting, but I've given the room key to Spencer. He'll lock up and return the key tomorrow. I've got a spare key for the morning.”

“Okay, thanks.”

He studies me. “Why don't you guys go have some fun? You've worked hard enough today.”

“I'm on a roll. Can't quit now.”

He pats my shoulder. “Then I'll leave you to it.”

I watch through the window as he speaks to Spencer and then heads out the door. Suddenly the portable feels very still and quiet. Creepy again. Spencer looks over at me. I give him a little wave and go back to work.

It takes a few minutes, but eventually I get back into the zone, that place where my mind thinks of nothing but the music. Using only the computer, I add a variety of instruments. I click
Playback
so often, I'm afraid I'll wear out the mouse. Eventually I sit back in the chair. I feel satisfied with what I've accomplished, but now I need some feedback.

“Want to take a listen?” I ask Spencer from the doorway.

He hurries in and I sit him in the chair and start the music. I stand to the side. He closes his eyes and listens. When it's over, I reach past him to shut it off. He opens his eyes.

“Wow,” he says. “That was sad.”

“Was it?”

“Yeah. But beautiful too. Haunting.”

Hmm. I wonder if it's too different from the rest of the piece, the part Mr. Rocchelli wrote. “Will you listen to the intro and see if it flows into this?”

“Sure.”

I play the piece from the start, and shut it off after the new section. Spencer's eyes flutter open. They look a little glazed, and he blinks again.

“That's amazing,” he says.

At first I don't know whether to believe him, but his expression is completely sincere.

“I hear a whole section of string instruments playing that part.”

I nod. That might just work.

He stands up, and I go to step back to make room, but his hands land on my shoulders, keeping me close. I fight the urge to shrug free. He looks directly at me. “This is really, really good,” he says. His voice is as intense as his gaze.

“Thanks,” I say and look down at my feet. The sound room is suddenly sweltering hot. Sweat breaks out all over me.

I feel his fingers under my chin, and he lifts my head so I have to look up at him. His eyes are questioning, his head tilted. I stand frozen to the spot. Part of me wants to flee, put as much distance between us as I can, but another part yearns to stay in this moment.

Spencer leans in and kisses me softly. His lips linger, looking for a response, but I feel only numbness and confusion. He pulls his mouth away, his arms circle me in a hug, and he pulls me close. “I'm sorry,” he says. “It's too soon.”

“It's okay,” I say. And it is. The hug feels very nice, and I relax into his body.

By the time I get home, Mom has already left for the theater. There's a note on the fridge:
Sorry I missed you. Dinner is in the fridge. You can take the car to class.
I slump into a kitchen chair. The house feels incredibly empty. It's amazing how fast I've grown accustomed to having Dad home in the evenings. I really want to see him tonight.

I look up Steve's phone number. I'll tell Dad I'm calling to see if he can bring over the autographed head-shots. Then, when he's here, I'll ask him to listen to the music I wrote this afternoon. For some reason, I need to know that he approves, that he thinks it's good.

The phone rings and rings. No one answers. The voice mail clicks on. I hang up without leaving a message.

I think about eating dinner and getting ready for dance class, but I can't motivate myself to get out of the kitchen chair. For the first time ever, I don't feel like going.

I pick up my bag and jog down the stairs to the studio. Plugging my flash drive into the computer, I listen to what I've written so far. I cringe. How did I miss those mistakes? I grab my notebook and write down what needs to be corrected. Then I begin jotting down new ideas. I move to the piano and try a few variations. When I hear what I like, I jot the notes down. I flip through my notebook and read through the sketches I've made for the third and fourth parts of the piece. As the outside light fades, I turn on the overhead lights and continue working.