Allegra (20 page)

He stretches and runs his fingers through his hair. “All that concentrating…I'm exhausted!” He laughs at himself. It's a nice laugh, warm and contagious. “How about a tea break?” he asks. “Can I make you a cup?”

I nod. “Sure,” I say, but truthfully I'm sorry to stop working on the music. I'm in my comfort zone with that. I'm not comfortable with drinking tea together.

He leaves the sound room, flicks on the classroom lights and returns to his desk, plugging in the kettle that sits on a counter behind it.

I get up, stretch and follow him toward his desk. He's pulling various kinds of tea out of a cupboard. “Peppermint?” he asks. “Green? Black currant?”

“Whatever you're having.”

He scans the boxes. “Chamomile,” he says. “Does that work for you?”

“Sure.” I have no idea what chamomile is. I watch as he pulls a couple of mugs out of the cupboard and drops a tea bag into each of them. He pours boiling water into the mugs, then pushes at the tea bags with a spoon. He seems lost in thought as he swirls the tea bags around. When he decides the tea is ready, he holds a mug out to me. I watch as he brings his cup up to his face and inhales. His eyes close briefly.

“Chamomile always reminds me of my mom,” he says. “It was her favorite.”

I inhale too. The fragrance doesn't remind me of anything.

“I miss her,” he says, taking a sip.

“Where is she?”

“She passed away a year ago.” A sad expression crosses his face. “Almost to the day.” He pulls up the sleeve of his T-shirt so I can see his entire tattoo. I can't help but notice the long muscles. “These are the dates of her life.”

“Oh. I'm sorry.”

“Thanks.” He lets the sleeve drop. “She really supported my ambition to be a musician. Unlike my father.”

“What did he think you should do?”

“Anything that provides a steady paycheck.”

I think about my parents. They've encouraged me to be a musician even though they know the income isn't always steady.

“So is that why you became a music teacher?”

He nods. “It really wasn't a compromise though. I belong to a small jazz ensemble and we perform a couple of times a month, and landing a job at a fine-arts school, well, it all worked out.” He smiles at me and takes a big gulp of tea.

“How about you?” he asks. “Do your parents support your ambition to be a dancer?”

I think about that and then smile. “Not really,” I say. “Ironically, they want me to be a musician, like them.”

He smiles at that too.

“They worry that I won't be able to support myself with dance.”

“I guess all parents are the same that way.”

“Except your mom,” I remind him.

“Yeah.” He nods, staring into his mug. “She was special.”

The room is still as Mr. Rocchelli regards his tea. Finally he gives his head a little shake and looks up. “Sorry,” he says. “I didn't mean to go there. It was the tea…”

“No worries.”

He smiles. “Tell me a little about yourself, Allegra,” he says, leaning back against the counter.

I sit on the edge of a table. “There's not much to tell,” I say. “I dance, go to school…” My mind goes completely blank. “And that's about it.”

“You have interesting parents.”

“Maybe to you.” I smile.

He smiles back. “Good point. How about your friends?”

I don't want to tell him that I don't “do” friends very well. “I have a friend at my dance school. Angela. She's great.”

He nods, waiting for me to go on.

“But that's about it.”

He cocks his head. “I was under the impression that you were friends with Spencer.”

“Was.”

“Oh?” His eyebrows arch: a question.

I take a long sip of my tea, then sigh. “I blew it with him.”

I can't believe I've just admitted that. It must be because he shared with me about his mother. “But he invited me to have lunch with him and his friends tomorrow,” I add.

Mr. Rocchelli is still studying me. “That sounds positive.”

I shrug. “Who knows? I've never been very good at keeping friends.”

“I'm surprised to hear that,” he says gently.

“I never really got kids my age,” I tell him. “All the drama and the things they talked about…well, none of it interested me. So I removed myself, I guess, and then it got so I didn't even know how to act with them.”

Mr. Rocchelli doesn't respond and I don't look at him, but I know he's listening intently.

“So I figure it's best just to stick to myself. Less difficult that way.”

“Maybe you had the advantage of releasing all that adolescent drama and angst in your music and dance.”

“Maybe.”

“Will you have lunch with Spencer and the others tomorrow?”

Now it's my turn to gaze into my mug. “Yeah, I guess.”

“You know, Allegra,”—Mr. Rocchelli's voice is very soft and kind—“you'll find that once you're finished school and are out in the world, dancing professionally, you'll connect with people more like yourself, people who are passionate about what they're doing, and you'll suddenly find that you fit in.”

“I thought that was what I was going to find at this school; it's why I transferred.”

“You
are
different from most girls your age,” he adds.

Our eyes meet and hold a moment too long. I nod and look away. There's a current running between us, something so strong it feels almost tangible.

“In a good way,” he adds, breaking the serious mood with a laugh. I feel the current snap. I don't know whether I'm relieved or disappointed.

“There's nothing wrong with the other girls!” he adds quickly. He rotates his mug, watching the tea slosh around the bottom. “They're just more...more social than you. And this is still a high school, no matter what they call it.”

I have nothing to say to that, so I gulp down the remainder of my tea. He does too. “Let's get back to work shall we?” he suggests.

As I follow him back to the sound room, I know something in our relationship has shifted. Something important.

As I make my way through the crowded hallway toward the multipurpose room where I'm meeting Spencer and the girls, I think about Mr. Rocchelli's last words to me this morning:
Just relax at lunch, Allegra. It will be fine
.

My parents have been saying the same thing to me all my life, but it never is fine. Somehow, though, coming from him the advice doesn't sound hollow. I believe him, and I was touched this morning that he'd even remembered what I told him last night about having lunch with Spencer and the girls today.

This morning's music-writing session went just as well as last night's. In only two sessions, he's pushed me to think outside the box and come up with musical ideas I never would have had without his encouragement. His own ideas of adding subtle layers to the music have made it that much richer.

“Mr. Rocchelli,” I'd said today, pointing to a place on the rough score, “why did you change these quarter notes to eighth notes?”

He'd looked at me then, clearly trying to come to some kind of decision. Then, instead of answering my question, he'd said, “Allegra, when we're working like this, could you please just call me Noel? Mr. Rocchelli sounds way too formal in this kind of setting. It makes me uncomfortable. You can go back to Mr. Rocchelli when we're in class.”

I'd nodded, and realized that I'd been right. Something really has shifted between us.

I'd far sooner be having lunch in the music room, near Noel, than in the multipurpose room with Spencer and the girls.

I spot them sitting in their usual places. Spencer sees me coming and waves. The girls' heads turn, in unison, to watch me approach.

Spencer shuffles over to make room for me beside him. I squeeze in between him and Talia.

“Good to see you, Allegra,” Molly says. Sophie nods in agreement.

“Good to see you too,” I answer. I open my lunch bag. “I'm sorry about…about everything.” There. I'd said it, and it was easy.

“We don't even remember what went wrong,” Talia says. “It was so stupid.”

There are nods of agreement all around.

“So what's new?” Molly asks, unwrapping some cookies. She offers one to me.

I shake my head. “Not much, really.”

“Your dad's on tour?” Spencer asks.

“Uh-huh.”

“That was so much fun, the night we sat in on the rehearsal,” says Sophie.

“It was amazing,” Spencer agrees, biting into the cookie he's taken from Molly.

I unwrap my sandwich and find my thoughts are already back to Mr. Rocchelli, wondering if he's made any time for his own lunch.

“Still dancing lots?” Talia asks.

“Yeah, the usual.” I smile at her. “And I'm still working really hard on my music-theory project.” Her eyebrows arch. I look away. “I want to get it done. Free up some more time to dance.” Even as I say it, I know it isn't true.

Fortunately, the subject changes, and I relax and listen to the chatter around me. It feels good to be included again, and I'm relieved that it all happened so easily, yet I'm aware that something has changed in me since the last time I sat here with the four of them. When I think about who I was then, and even though it's only been a few weeks, it's like I've become a different person. That other Allegra was anxious about being liked by these four and trying not to say or do anything stupid. But now… now that doesn't seem important. I still like the four of them. I'm glad to have lunch with them, but my thoughts are still in the music room with Mr. Rocchelli. Noel.

F
ourteen

I feel like I'm floating through my days. Nothing really matters except my time in the sound room with Mr. Rocchelli. Working on the composition has become my entire life. I still show up for my dance classes and meet Spencer and the girls for lunch, but my mind is always on the next music-writing session. Spencer keeps urging me to hang out with him after school, but so far I've been able to put him off. Even the problems my parents are having seem less important. Mom and I have occasional meals together, but we don't talk much.

The bell rings, ending my jazz class with Ms. Dekker. “Allegra,” she says. I'm mopping myself off with my towel, as there's no time for a shower between classes. “Could you remain behind for a moment?”

I look at her, surprised. She hasn't been on my case for several weeks now. What could she want? Come to think of it, I
have
been distracted, not really able to focus on anything. Maybe it's showing in my dance. I brace myself for the inevitable lecture and wait by her desk until everyone else has left. She comes over and perches on the corner of it. She's smiling, for a change.

“You're dancing like you're in love or something, Allegra,” she says.

I feel my eyes widen, and she tilts her head back and laughs. “I'm sorry,” she says, reaching out and lightly touching my shoulder. “I'm teasing. It's just that your dancing has taken on a whole new, very expressive dimension. You've not only returned from the funk you were in, but you're really tapped into your musicality. You're dancing like you're inside the music.”

Inside the music. That's huge praise coming from her.

“Anyway,” she says, still smiling, “I just wanted to welcome you back and tell you to keep doing whatever it is that's making you so happy. It suits you.”

I walk off down the hall, thinking I'm heading toward my English class, then realize I'm going in the wrong direction. I turn around and pick up my pace, arriving just as Mr. Clement is shutting the door.

“Glad you could join us, Allegra,” he says, smiling, but he's watching me carefully. Can he also see a change in me?

I flop into my chair and drop my dance bag on the floor beside me. I glance over at Talia, only to find that she, too, is watching me.