Allegra (5 page)

Mr. Rocchelli excuses me from music-theory class to study in the library. By the end of the hour, I feel I'm ready for the exam. I've been studying music since I was five years old, and most of the material is second nature to me. Intervals, chord recognition, timing, scales… I'm as familiar with the language of music as I am the English language.

I find myself trying to slide back through the classroom door just as the rest of the class is coming out. When I pass Spencer in the doorway, he says, “Hey, we missed you.”

I look at him, not sure if he's serious. I keep moving into the classroom.

“Where'd you go?” He has stepped back inside in order to talk to me.

I turn to him and hold up my theory textbook. “I was in the library, studying. I'm challenging the course because I already know all the material.”

He looks disappointed. “So you're not going to be in this class?”

“No, apparently I'll still be here, but doing something different.”

“Good.” He smiles. “See you next time.”

“Yeah.”

Wow, two potential friends in one afternoon. Don't screw up, Allegra.

Mr. Rocchelli glances up from his desk, where he's typing on a laptop. “So, are you ready?”

“Yep.”

“Do you want to take it right now?”

I glance at the students filing into the classroom, carrying instruments. The school day is officially over, but some group must be meeting for a rehearsal.

“We're practicing,” he says, gesturing to the students, “but you can take the exam in the sound room. It's quiet in there.”

I think about that. It means I'll miss my bus, but it would be nice to get the exam over with. There will be later buses. “Okay.”

He hands me the folder and leads me to the soundproof room. “If you finish before I'm done rehearsing, you can leave it on my desk.”

I nod.

He looks right at me and smiles. “Good luck.”

“Thanks.”

The small room has a desk and a couple of chairs. I sit down and look around. There are computers and various recording machines and headphones. It's all very high-tech. One of the walls is made entirely of glass, and I can see Mr. Rocchelli moving about the classroom, assisting students. I open the folder and scan the exam. It's long—fifty questions—but it doesn't look too hard. I take out a pencil and start with the first one, transposing a mini-composition.

After about half an hour I sit back and stretch. Through the glass I watch the woodwinds rehearsing. Mr. Rocchelli stands in front of them, leaning forward, arms in motion. He glances from the music to the students and back to the music. His whole body is moving. It's like he's trying to draw music out of the students with his hands and arms. He's working hard. Eventually he drops his arms, and the students lower their instruments. He talks to them, though I can't hear what he's saying. The students laugh, and then the instruments are back in their mouths and Mr. Rocchelli's arms are in the air again. I notice a tattoo trailing down the inside of his right arm. With a bend of his knees, he's back at it—the music extractor. I smile and return to my exam. At least he's one teacher who really gets into his job.

The next time I look up, I've finished the exam and the students are packing up their instruments. I'm determined to ace this exam—I have something to prove—so I return to the top of the first page and begin checking my answers. There's a knock on the door, and Mr. Rocchelli pokes his head into the room. I see through the window that the portable has emptied.

“How's it going?” he asks.

“I'm done. Just checking it over.”

“Good girl. Bring it out when you're finished.”

I nod.

A few minutes later I collect my things and leave the sound room. Mr. Rocchelli is back at his desk. I'm aware of how quiet the portable has become while I was in the sound room. Creepy quiet.

Mr. Rocchelli leans back when he sees me approaching. I hand him the exam. He flips through the pages.

“So what will I be doing in this class?” I ask.

He looks thoughtful for a moment. “I have something really special in mind,” he says. “But maybe I should mark this before I tell you about it.”

“I passed.”

He chuckles. “You're one confident young woman.”

I try to mask my surprise. I don't think of myself as confident, not most of the time, but I do know my music theory.

“We don't have theory class tomorrow,” he says, “so could you come back after school tomorrow to talk about your assignment?”

I think about that. It means staying late at school two days in a row, but I'm intrigued now.
Something really special…

“Okay.”

“Good. See you tomorrow.”

I turn and walk toward the door.

“How are you liking the school?” he asks.

I pause and turn back, thinking about it. “It's too soon to say, really,” I tell him. “But I think it'll be okay.”

“I hope your experience will be better than okay.”

I don't know what to say to that, so I turn to leave again.

“Allegra…”

I swing around.

“I'm sorry we got off to a rough start.”

“Whatever.”

“No, seriously. I feel bad about being such a tyrant, but I really believe you'll be challenged in this class. Creatively challenged.”

I think he just wanted to be sure there'd be enough students for the class to run, but I don't tell him that. “See you tomorrow.” I escape quickly, not wanting to prolong the conversation. There's something about him that makes me anxious.

I hear raised voices before I even enter the house. Letting myself in quietly, I stand in the hallway and listen.

“You can't just drop in here any old time you please and tell me how to run my life!” My mother's voice.

“I'm not doing that.” Dad. He sounds a little more reasonable. “I'm just concerned about her.”

Her? They must be talking about me!

“Oh yeah? You want
me
to stay home more, but what about you? Maybe it's my turn to have a life finally.”

“I just think she shouldn't be alone so much. It's not right.”

“It's a little late to worry about that, don't you think? Ten more months, and she could be living on her own. I have to have something in place for myself, and I'm not going to get an opportunity like this again.”

I step into the kitchen. Mom is standing at the stove, wooden spoon poised in the air like a conductor's baton. Dad is across the room from her, holding a mug. Their backs are to the door.

“What's going on?” I ask.

They swing around to look at me, embarrassed. They glance at each other. “It's nothing,” Mom says, turning back to the pot on the stove.

“Sounds like something to me.”

“How was school?” Dad asks.

“Were you talking about me?” I ask.

Dad sighs. “Yes, we were.”

I see my mom glance sharply at him.

“What were you saying?”

“I was saying I'm a little concerned that you're alone so much now that your mom's working nights.” He looks back at her, but I can't read his expression.

“I'm seventeen, Dad, not seven. And I'm fine. Better than fine.”

“I don't see you hanging out with any friends.”

“I made two new friends today, as a matter of fact.”

He smiles, but it's forced. “That's good.”

“Do you want me to hang out at the mall or, even better, at the park, drinking and doing drugs?”

“No, of course not, but you need to have some fun.”

“I'm having fun. Dance is fun. I don't have time for hanging out.”

He nods. “Okay, Legs.” But I know he doesn't buy it. He thinks I'm a geek who can't make friends. The truth is, I haven't had time for them. Between music and dance and school, it's all I can do to keep up. Athough I do hang out with Angela between dance classes.

“I'm going to my room to study.”

“How 'bout we go to a movie tonight?” he asks.

“Can't. Dance class.”

“Tomorrow night?”

“Dad, I dance every night except Saturday, Sunday and Monday.”

“And now you're dancing at school too?”

I nod.

“Then maybe you could skip the odd evening class when I'm at home.”

I realize he's telling me that he wants to spend more time with me. Or maybe he's just feeling sorry for me. For some reason, tears spring to my eyes. “I'll think about it.”

I leave the kitchen, but I don't go to my room. Instead I go down the stairs to the music studio. Hearing them argue like that—about me—is too weird. It's the second time this week I've walked in on something. There's so much tension between them.

Mom's harp stands majestically in one corner of the studio. I sit down at the piano and stare at the keys. My right hand rests on them, and I pick out a simple tune. I haven't practiced in six months, maybe more. I completed the academy exams and then quit, cold turkey. The last argument around here was back when Mom wanted me to continue studying. I told her I'd completed my part of the bargain. I was done with studying music.

My left hand automatically joins my right on the keys, and I find myself playing Grieg's “Morning Mood.” It comes back to me as if I'd played it just yesterday. I lean into the piano and pound the keys, enjoying the full range of emotion the music triggers. It comes so effortlessly, and for a few minutes I enjoy the sensation, completely losing myself just as I do when I dance.

But then the piece is over. My hands drop to my lap after the last trill.

“That was beautiful, Legs.”

Dad has come down the stairs and is sitting on the bottom step. “Can I join you?”

“What do you want to do?”

“We'll jam. You play whatever you like, and I'll join in.”

I have a flashback to a time when I was much younger and had to practice the piano every evening. I didn't like coming down to the studio alone, so Mom always sat close by, reading on the old couch. Once I'd mastered a piece, she'd accompany me on the harp. If Dad was home, he'd pick up an instrument too, and we'd all play together.

I nod at my dad and let my hands decide what to play next. They choose a dreamy Satie piece, “Gymnopédie No.
1
.” I don't think I've played it in years. A moment later, the soulful sound of a wooden flute has joined in, filling in the blanks, and the music floats around the room, so much richer with the addition of another instrument. I finish the song, and a flute note lingers after the final piano chord. I love the mood we've created together. He puts his hand on my shoulder and smiles down at me. “We make beautiful music together.”

I laugh, and the melancholy spell is broken. Mom calls down the stairs that dinner is ready.

Both of them try to keep the conversation light while we eat, and then Mom rushes away to get ready for her evening performance. I clear the table and leave Dad with the dishes so that I can get ready for dance. The tension from earlier is almost gone.

“Will you be home later?” I ask him as I head out the door.

“I will,” he says. “Maybe we can jam some more.”

“Maybe,” I reply, and I smile to myself. We're finally finding a way to connect.