Allegra Page 11

  “I wanted to see you because I’m leaving next week, and you and I haven’t connected in the past two weeks.”

  “You’re going back on tour already?”

  “Actually, it’s just me going next week. I’ve lined up a few solo gigs to pay my way. The band is going to follow me two weeks after that. I need to get away on my own for a bit, to sort stuff out. Kind of like a holiday but not really.”

  Something about this ticks me off. I get up and go into the kitchen. He follows me. I take the milk out of the fridge and pour myself a glass. “Are you sure you’re not just running away from your problems?”

  Now he reaches for the milk too, and pours himself a glass. He stares at it before answering. “Maybe I am, Allegra. But my living situation is not ideal. I feel like I’ve overstayed my welcome at Steve’s, and your mom doesn’t want me here.”

  Even though I know this, hearing him say it out loud causes a huge pang in my stomach. I slump into a chair and rest my arms and head on the table. Dad comes up behind me and gently begins massaging my neck and shoulders. He often gave me back massages at bedtime when I was little. It seemed like he was home a lot more then, but maybe I’m remembering wrong.

  I sit for a long time and simply enjoy the feeling of his warm, strong hands kneading my shoulders, but eventually my brain clicks in again. “If you stayed near here—somewhere, anywhere—at least you and I could get together sometimes.”

  His hands leave my shoulders, and he moves to sit across from me. “I thought of that, Legs, but it felt like you’ve been avoiding me the last little while, so I wasn’t sure if there was any point in staying in town.” He pauses. “And I think a change of scenery will do me good.”

  My heart sinks even deeper as I consider this. Have I been avoiding him? I hadn’t thought of it that way, but I guess I have, in a sense. But now I desperately don’t want him to leave.

  He picks up a large envelope that is lying on the table and pulls out head shots of the band members. “These are for Spencer,” he says. “They’re all signed. Tell him I’d still like to see his collection someday. Maybe when I get back.”

  Like that’s going to happen.

  “So, can we plan to do something together before I leave?”

  I let out a sigh. I don’t want to do things with either my mom or my dad. I just want everything to go back to the way it used to be, when he’d come home and we’d have meals together, and the band would rehearse downstairs, and he’d be here when I got home from school.

  “Hey,” he says, sitting up taller. “I haven’t heard your composition for a while. Could I take a listen?”

  I remember the night I wanted so badly to share it with him and he wasn’t around. Now I’m totally not in the mood.

  “C’mon, Legs,” he says, getting up and walking over to the door that leads down to the studio. He flicks on the lights that illuminate the stairs.

  I grab my backpack from the floor by the front door. Passing him in the doorway, I point to his upper lip. “Nice milk mustache, Dad.”

  He laughs. The sound of it lightens my heart.

  Downstairs, I turn on the computer and plug in the flash drive. Dad sits on the stool at the keyboard, and I settle onto the old couch. The familiar phrases play through the small speakers. I watch Dad’s face as he listens to what I’ve written, but it doesn’t give much away.

  The music ends abruptly. “That’s it,” I say.

  Dad turns to look at me, his eyebrows arched. Finally, he speaks. “That was truly beautiful.” His voice is soft and sincere. There is an odd glow in his eyes. “I am really impressed.”

  Something inside of me awakens at his words, but I simply shrug.

  “Did you get much help on this?” he asks.

  “Only the help you gave me a few weeks ago.”

  “Really?” He shakes his head. “You’ve really got something special here,” he says. “I can’t wait to hear the finished piece.”

  If I finish it, I think. But something about his response may have renewed my interest in it.

  “Can we listen again?” he asks.

  I nod, and the familiar music starts again. This time our eyes meet while the music plays and Dad smiles, nodding his head.

  I continue to spend my lunch hours in the music portable, but I’ve given up the pretense of being there to write music. I usually do homework or read. I get left alone, even by Mr. Rocchelli. Talia and her gang seem to be avoiding me, and in music theory I make sure I’m safely tucked into the sound room before Spencer arrives in class.

  Life feels flat. I try to give 100 percent in Ms. Dekker’s dance classes, but I don’t think I’m fooling her. I’ve resumed a few of my dance classes at Turning Pointe, but the dancer inside me hasn’t been revived.

  “Care for a coffee?” Dad asks. It’s his last evening in town, and we’re at the dance studio. He’s just spent two hours watching my jazz and hip-hop classes.

  “I don’t think so. I’m too sweaty to go anywhere.” I pluck a damp lock of hair off my cheek.

  “What’s a little sweat?” He smiles. “C’mon. We’ll just go across the street. No one around here will know you anyway.”

  At the coffee shop, Dad steps aside to let me order first.

  “A decaf, grande, soy, sugar-free, extra-hot caramel macchiato.”

  Dad turns to stare at me. “Huh? What the heck is that?”

  “Should I hold the caramel syrup on top?” the cashier asks. “It’s not sugar-free.”

  “Yeah. Please.”

  Dad just shakes his head. “Black coffee for me.”

  “Mild or dark roast?”

  “Mild, I guess.”

  “For here or to go?”

  “For here.” He turns to look at me. “I long for the days when we simply ordered a cup of coffee.”

  Now it’s my turn to shake my head.

  “Do I know you from somewhere?” the cashier asks Dad as she hands him his change, her eyes scanning his face.

  “I don’t think so,” Dad says politely.

  The cashier calls my order to the barista and pours Dad his coffee. She’s still studying his face. “You didn’t teach at Bayview Secondary, did you?”

  “Nope, I don’t teach school,” he says, accepting his coffee.

  We find a table in a corner, and I wait for the barista to finish making my drink. The cashier has joined her behind the counter and they are conferring, sneaking glances at my dad. Eventually she calls out my drink order, and when I go to collect it, she says, “Is that Jerry Whitford from the Loose Ends?”

  “Yep.”

  “Cool! Are you his date or…”

  “I’m his daughter.” Feeling slightly sickened by her assumption, I return to the table.

  “She asked if I was your date,” I tell Dad.

  He tilts his head back and laughs.

  “I didn’t think it was funny.”

  “Well, I’m flattered.”

  “They figured out who you are.”

  “Oh.”

  “And they must think that Jerry Whitford would date girls my age.”

  “They’re just being silly, Legs. Forget about it.”

  I can’t just forget about it. I can’t believe anyone would think my dad would date a teenager, even if he wasn’t married.

  We sip our drinks in silence. My body is finally cooling down, and I zip up my hoodie. I glance back at the cashier and see she is still staring at my dad.

  “Does this happen to you everywhere you go?” I ask him, nodding to the cashier.

  “Sometimes,” he says. “No paparazzi though.” He snaps his fingers in mock disappointment.

  “So, Legs,” he says, putting his cup down. “I’m gonna call you at least once a week. Hopefully you’ll be home.”

  “You could get a cell phone, Dad. Then I could call you.”

  “I guess I could. Maybe it’s time.”

  “It is time, Dad.” I don’t know why he resists having one. Is it because he doesn’t
want us calling him? I decide not to go there. “Are you still thinking this will be the last tour for you?”

  His fingers tap his cup. “My thinking was that I wanted to spend more time at home, with you and your mom.” He stops tapping and stares out the window for a moment. “Now I don’t know if I’ll be welcome at home.”

  I blink back tears. “How are you and Mom going to sort things out if you’re away?”

  “I don’t know, Legs.” He reaches over and places a hand on mine. “This is the stuff I need to sort out in the next couple of weeks. When I said I was going to quit touring, I guess it was because I sensed things weren’t…weren’t quite right here. But I guess I figured that out a little too late. I probably should have quit touring before the last one.”

  We sit in silence for a moment. I watch as the barista clears tables. She stops at one to chat with the customers. Suddenly, all their eyes turn to stare at us. I tug back my hand.

  “I’m not giving up, Legs.” He leans across the table. “When I get back, your mom and I will resume our counseling sessions.”

  “That’s almost two months from now.”

  “I know. But it gives both your mom and me time to reflect on what we really want.”

  “And what about me? What about what I want?”

  Dad stares into his empty mug, and I could be mistaken, but I think his eyes are glistening. “The sad truth is, Legs, we don’t always get what we want.”

  I glance at the barista again. She quickly looks away.

  A boy about my age approaches our table. He’s holding a paper napkin and a pen. “Excuse me, Mr. Whitford, I was wondering if I could have your autograph?”

  I’m about to tell him to get lost, but Dad sits up and takes the pen and napkin from the boy. He looks up, clears his throat and smiles warmly at him. “And what’s your name?” he asks.

  “Riley.”

  I watch Dad write on the napkin: To Riley. With best wishes from Jerry Whitford.

  The boy thanks him and goes back to his table. I see him showing the napkin to his friends. I turn to look at Dad. How did he flip so easily from being a dad having a heart-to-heart talk with his daughter to being Mr. Cool Celebrity?

  Dad must have read my thoughts. “It’s just part of my job, honey.” He shrugs. “Without fans, I’d have no income. I have to keep them happy.”

  I realize how rarely I’m out in public with him, and for the first time ever I get a glimpse into my dad’s life on the road. “Do your fans swarm you after your performances?” I ask.

  “Swarm is too strong a word, Legs. Sometimes they stick around for autographs.”

  I think about the barista, the cashier and the boy named Riley. I think about Spencer and the dance teachers and the moms at Turning Pointe. They all see someone else when they look at my dad. No doubt a lot of women are among those waiting around after performances for autographs. I don’t like the images my mind is conjuring. Has he been a faithful husband all these years? I can’t go there right now.

  “So where were we?” he asks.

  “I don’t remember,” I say, tilting my cup back and draining it. “But I think I should go. I have a lot of homework.”

  “I’m going to miss you, Legs.” He’s looking at me, hard. He reaches out and takes my chin between his fingers, forcing me to look back.

  “I’m going to miss you too, Dad. Get that cell phone.”

  He lets me go and smiles. “I will,” he says. “But you’re the only one I’m giving the number to.” He emphasizes the word only.

  “Sounds good,” I say.

  A body slides into the chair across the table from where I’m working. I look up and find Mr. Rocchelli smiling at me. Looking around, I see that the music room is empty except for the two of us.

  “Did I miss the bell or something?” I glance up at the wall clock.

  “No, no, you’re fine. The Battle of the Bands contest is going on during the lunch hour all week. There’s been a lot of hype. I’m guessing everyone must be there.”

  I vaguely remember hearing something about that. “So how come you’re not there?”

  “I would be, Allegra, but I noticed you here and thought this would be a good opportunity to catch up on things.”

  “Catch up on things?” I don’t like the sound of this.

  “Yes, I’m afraid I’ve been neglecting you. We haven’t had a chance to discuss your progress on the composition for a while. How’s it going? Do you need any help?”

  “No, everything’s fine.”

  He nods. “That’s good. Can I listen to what you’ve written?”

  I glance at the sound room, suddenly remembering the last time I was alone in there with him and how anxious I was.

  “I don’t have it with me,” I lie. “We don’t have music theory today, so I left it at home.”

  He nods. “Tomorrow then. We’ll make time in class when the rest of the students are working on something else.”

  I nod. That would definitely be better than now, alone.

  “How are your dance classes going?”

  I glance at him and notice how carefully he’s examining my face. “They’re fine.” I feel my cheeks burn. Shit.

  There’s a long pause before he says, “That’s not what Ms. Dekker tells me.”

  My head jerks up. “You were discussing me with her?”

  “It’s okay, Allegra.” He puts up his hand in a kind of back-off gesture. I guess my reaction was a little strong. “Teachers often discuss their students, especially when one is struggling. Teachers need to know if they are also struggling in other classes.”

  “So what did you tell her?” Now I’m watching him carefully, looking for any signs of a cover-up.

  “Well…that was when I realized I’d been neglecting you. I couldn’t say for sure how you were doing.”

  “I’m doing fine. I played what I’ve written for my dad a few nights ago, and he thought it was great. So please tell Ms. Dekker not to worry.” I can’t mask the irritation in my voice.

  “There’s no need to get upset, Allegra. Ms. Dekker is just concerned about you. She says you’re extremely talented, but something has been holding you back for a while.”

  “Maybe she’s just imagining it,” I say softly.

  “I doubt that,” Mr. Rocchelli says, just as quietly. I know he’s studying me again, but I can’t look at him.

  “Now that I think of it, I’ve noticed a change in you too,” he says.

  “I’m fine.” I begin to shove my books into my backpack.

  “Did something happen with your friends?”

  A surge of anger wells up inside me, and I fight back the urge to tell him to mind his own business. “No.” I stand up and swing my backpack over my shoulder.

  “Sit down, Allegra, please,” Mr. Rocchelli says. I glance at his face. There’s only kindness there. I take a deep breath and slump back into the chair.

  “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t pry. I’ll try not to do it again. It’s a bad habit of mine.” He smiles, clearly trying to ease the tension. “But as I told you before, I’m a good listener. Anytime you—”

  “I’ll remember that.”

  “Good. Now, there’s something else I’ve wanted to talk to you about. You mentioned your dad, and it jogged my memory. I like to invite guest speakers to class, to shake things up a bit. I was wondering if your dad would come to our class and talk about his music and the realities of playing in a band.”

  “He’s away on tour.”

  “Oh.” He tilts his head, looking surprised. I guess I blurted it out a bit fast.

  “Then how about your mother? She could talk about life as a working musician. What do you think?”

  I think it’s a really stupid idea, but I need to find a tactful way to say that. “I always feel a bit…a bit uncomfortable when my parents get involved in my stuff.”

  Mr. Rocchelli looks baffled, so I elaborate. “With my dad…sometimes people treat him like a celebrity, and that’s so weird
for me.” I think about the night in the coffee shop.

  “Aren’t you proud of him?”

  “Yeah, I am, but…well, fame comes with a price, you know.”

  “What price is that?”

  “Touring, for one. He’s always away.” What has gotten into me? Why am I telling him this?

  “I guess you don’t like that.”

  I give him a sharp look and stand up. “I think you’re prying again.”

  He shakes his head, exasperated. “I guess I am. It’s a fine line sometimes. No problem, Allegra. I’ll find some other guest speakers.”

  “Thanks. So, are we caught up?” I pull my jacket on.

  He nods, but he looks sad. “I guess we are. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  As I walk away, I realize I just did exactly what Spencer accused me of—I put up a wall. I don’t know why I do it. Worse than that, I don’t know how to stop.

  Twelve

  True to his word, Mr. Rocchelli assigns a written project for the students in his theory class. He knocks on the sound-room door before entering.

  “Is this a good time?” he asks.

  I nod. I’ve already put the flash drive into the computer and am jotting notes in my book.

  When he’s comfortably seated, I start the music. I try not to anticipate his reaction but find myself stealing glances at him. He just stares at the lines of music scrolling across the screen.

  When the music ends, I wait for him to speak.

  He swivels his chair slowly until he’s facing me. He’s frowning; he must hate what I’ve done with his tune but is too polite to say so. He hesitates, perhaps looking for the right words.

  “Allegra,” he says finally. His tone is serious, and he’s staring at his hands. “When I gave you this assignment, I was curious about what you would do with it. I knew you understood your music theory, but I didn’t know how well you’d be able to apply it.”

  He stops, obviously still searching for words. Now I know for sure he hates it.

  “You have totally exceeded my expectations. I know it’s not finished, but what you’ve done is complex and powerful. It is on its way to becoming a magnificent piece of music.” He looks up, and now his expression is earnest.