Allegra Read online

  A combination of relief and joy floods through me. “I’m glad you like it.”

  “I don’t just like it. I’m moved by it, and I’m very impressed by your skill.”

  “Thank you.” For the first time in more than a week, I feel the numbness begin to melt away.

  We just stare at each other for a moment, neither of us knowing what else to say.

  A knock at the door causes us both to start. We swing around and see Spencer standing behind the glass. Mr. Rocchelli waves him in.

  “I’m sorry to interrupt,” Spencer says.

  Mr. Rocchelli doesn’t give him chance to finish. “We were just listening to Allegra’s music.” He clicks the mouse to replay it. “Let’s get an opinion from you.”

  I haven’t made eye contact with Spencer, but I hear him close the door and lean against it. It’s suddenly getting very warm in here.

  The music plays again. When it’s over, Mr. Rocchelli swings around. “So, what do you think, Spencer?”

  “It’s great,” Spencer says. I still haven’t looked at him.

  “Great? That’s it?” Mr. Rocchelli prods.

  “No, it’s way better than great. But I’ve told Allegra that already.”

  I remember that day, alone in this room with Spencer, when he claimed to be so moved by my music that he kissed me. My cheeks begin to burn.

  “Oh.” Mr. Rocchelli’s eyebrows shoot up. He glances at me, then back to Spencer. “I didn’t realize anyone else had heard it.”

  “It was awhile ago.”

  It was, and with an inward sigh I realize that nothing much has been added since then.

  “Okay, so how can I help you, Spencer?”

  “A bunch of us are having trouble with problem number three on the worksheet. We’d just like a little clarification of what you’re really asking us to do.”

  I look through the glass and see the rest of the class watching us. Spencer must have volunteered to speak on their behalf.

  “Oh yes, the one about harmony.” Mr. Rocchelli stands up. “That one is a little ambiguous, isn’t it? You keep at it, Allegra,” he says. “You’re doing an amazing job.” He passes Spencer in the doorway.

  Spencer wheels about to follow him, but somehow I manage to find my voice.

  “Spencer?”

  He turns back to me. “Yes?” His eyes are guarded.

  I reach into my backpack and pull out the envelope Dad gave me. I’ve been carrying it around for days, tucked between two textbooks to protect the photos. Spencer’s here now, and I might as well get it over with. “This is for you. The signed head shots of the Loose Ends guys.”

  For the briefest of moments, as he pulls the photos out of the envelope, his eyes light up. A smile tugs at his mouth, then quickly disappears. “Tell your dad thanks. I really appreciate it.”

  “He’s away right now, but I will when I talk to him.” He hesitates. I think he’s about to say something else, but then we both hear Mr. Rocchelli speaking to the class, so with a last glance at me, Spencer steps back into the classroom.

  “Back so soon?” Mr. Rocchelli notices me slipping into the sound room after school. His response to my piece of music has spurred me on.

  “Yep.”

  He comes and leans against the doorjamb. “For a girl who came to this school to dance, you sure spend a lot of time in the music portable.”

  His comment feels like a challenge. I’m up for it. “I figure that once I get this project finished, I’ll be excused from your class for the rest of the year. I’ll be able to take another dance class in block seven.” That thought had never occurred to me until this very moment, but I smile at him, feeling like I’ve suddenly one-upped him in our little battle.

  His eyes widen in surprise, and then he throws back his head and laughs. “You’re not going to escape my class so easily. Forget it.”

  I plug the flash drive into the computer and settle into the chair. Mr. Rocchelli is still standing at the door. I glance back at him.

  “I’m wondering…could I make a couple of little suggestions about your piece?” He puts his hands up. “Feel free to say no. It’s your composition, but there were some things I noticed when I was listening to it, especially the second time.”

  “Sure,” I say, suddenly suspicious. Maybe he doesn’t think it’s so good after all.

  He pulls the second chair closer to where I am. I start the music. After about fifteen seconds, he reaches out and stops it. “There. I think you need to repeat the melodic phrase at this point.”

  “Oh. How come?”

  “Well, because one of the most important ingredients in music is repetition. People have an unconscious desire for it, and the repetition of the melodic phrase here would satisfy that need.”

  I nod. He’s articulating something I know but haven’t ever put into words.

  He continues. “Repetition sets up a degree of predictability that’s reassuring to a listener. With this solid base, you can then create surprises without taking the audience too far out of its comfort zone.”

  I start the piece again and realize that I do change the chord progression right at that point. Repeating the initial melodic phrase is a good idea.

  “Perhaps you could feature another instrument, or add harmony in the repetition.”

  “Yeah, that’s a good idea.”

  “The basis of writing music,” he adds, “is building melodic ideas over an extended period of time, but you don’t want to change the ideas too quickly.”

  Building melodic ideas over an extended period of time. That’s a great way to sum it up. I look at Mr. Rocchelli with new respect. Maybe he can teach me something after all.

  He clicks the mouse to continue the music. About a minute later he stops it again. “I think you’re rushing it a little here.”

  “Really?” I go back just a little and play it again. He’s exactly right. It does begin to speed up. I make a note in my book.

  We listen to the remaining section, but he doesn’t have any more suggestions. The room becomes still when the music finishes. I feel him turn to look at me. I return his gaze, noticing how dark his eyes are, how his lashes sweep his cheeks. There’s stubble on his jaw, as if he forgot to shave this morning. The room suddenly shrinks, and I have to look away. “Do I dare ask you another question?” he asks quietly.

  “You can ask,” I mumble. “I might not answer.”

  “Fair enough.” He studies me a little longer. I grow increasingly uneasy under his scrutiny. I glance through the window and wish someone would come into the classroom.

  “If you have such a natural talent for music,” he says, “why are you pursuing dance?”

  The question is an easy one, and I relax a little. “I’ve been surrounded by music and musicians my whole life,” I tell him. “My parents live and breathe it. Their friends are musicians too. All of them talk like nothing else in life really matters, and everyone assumed I’d follow in my parents’ footsteps. When I was finally allowed to take dance classes, I felt…such a release. I discovered a whole new world. With music…” I pause, trying to find the words. “With music you can express a lot of emotion through an instrument, but with dance I am the instrument. It just feels…so good.” I sigh, knowing how inadequately I’m expressing myself.

  Mr. Rocchelli nods thoughtfully.

  “And besides”—I meet his eyes again—“did you want to do exactly what your parents did? Or what they wanted you to do?”

  He smiles. “Good point. Can you see me as a beekeeper?” He lowers his voice. “But you can’t blame me, a music teacher, for being disappointed that one of my most talented students isn’t as excited about her talents as I am.”

  I look away.

  “And just think, if I hadn’t been such a jerk and insisted that you take my class, I wouldn’t have had this opportunity to see what you can do.”

  I know I should tell him that he’s not a jerk—quite the opposite, in fact—but I can’t make my mouth operate. />
  “So,” he asks, “have you named the piece yet?”

  “No. Any ideas?”

  “Yeah. I think we should simply call it Allegra.” He smiles.

  “That’s a dumb name.”

  “I don’t think so.” He stands and puts his hand on my shoulder. “You get back to it then. I’ve distracted you long enough.” His fingers squeeze my shoulder before he leaves. I watch through the window as he walks through the empty classroom to his desk.

  I try to work, but I’m too aware of Mr. Rocchelli’s presence. He has no idea what a distraction he is. Finally I give up and put my things into my backpack. “Have a good night,” I say as I cross the room toward the door.

  He looks up from the paper he’s reading. “You too, Allegra. You have a good night too.”

  Bending from the waist, I grab hold of the backs of my ankles and pull myself into a deep stretch. I’ve resumed my evening dance classes at Turning Pointe, and we’re doing our usual warm-ups. I close my eyes and check in with my body. My mind settles on the same little ache that’s been plaguing me for a while: not the discomfort of sore muscles, but the deep-inside ache I feel at messing things up with Talia, Molly, Sophie and Spencer. For years I went without any friends and thought I was perfectly content. Getting a taste of friendship has made me realize what I was missing all those years. And having a guy interested in me…well, I have to admit, I liked that feeling.

  “Okay, girls,” says Veronica, my ballet teacher. “Down on the floor. Twist to the right.”

  As I hold my twist, I remind myself that I didn’t switch to Deer Lake to make friends but to dance. Fortunately, the dancer in me seems to be coming back to life. Even Ms. Dekker commented on it this afternoon.

  “You nailed the pirouettes today,” she said after class. “The old Allegra seems to be back.”

  Turning to stretch in the other direction, I think about my composition. It seems that the harder I work on it, the more alive I feel in the dance studio, and the harder I work in the dance studio, the more I can shake off everything else that is going on. Maybe the old Allegra really is back. The old Allegra with no friends or anxiety issues and—according to my teachers—lots of talent. I guess you can’t have everything.

  Moving into a right-legged split, my mind settles on my composition. It’s really coming along. I think about Mr. Rocchelli, and immediately my face gets warm. I switch to a left-legged split. When he comes into the sound room to check on my progress, I get really nervous, but when he’s not there, I wish he was. I even found myself seeking him out today to ask a question— a question I already knew the answer to. What is wrong with me? This is the same guy who totally ticked me off six weeks ago. And besides, he’s a teacher.

  I catch a glimpse of Angela in the mirror. She’s watching me with a funny smile on her face. “What?” I mouth to her reflection.

  She just shakes her head and rolls her eyes, but the smug little smile stays on her face as she continues to stretch. I refuse to look at her for the remainder of the class.

  Angela plunks herself down on the bench beside me in the change room. “So, are you back for good?” she asks, pulling off her ballet slippers. “It was lonely around here while you were on your little sabbatical.”

  “I didn’t miss that many classes.”

  “Allegra, you don’t usually miss any classes.”

  “Well, I’m back.”

  “Good. I missed you.”

  I smile at her. It’s good to have at least one friend, even if we never see each other outside of the dance school.

  “What was that look you gave me in the warm-up?” I ask her.

  “You should have seen your face,” she laughs. “You were, like, totally in la-la land. What were you thinking about?”

  I feel my cheeks burn when I remember. She tilts her head. “Maybe I should ask who you were thinking about,” she says.

  I swat her arm with my ballet slipper. “I wasn’t thinking about anything or anyone. I was concentrating on my splits and wondering why I can’t get the left one as low as the right one.”

  “Sure you were,” Angela says. “And I’m thinking about how much fun tomorrow’s math test is going to be.”

  I shake my head but wonder at how easily she was able to read me. I’ll have to work on that. What if Mr. Rocchelli can read me as easily as that? My skin burns even hotter at the thought.

  True to his word, Dad gets himself a cell phone and checks in regularly. We don’t have much to say when he calls, but I like to hear his voice anyway. Besides, I like to know that he’s thinking of me. He made me swear not to give out his number to anyone else. I wonder if he’s afraid of getting inundated with calls from crazed fans.

  “How’s your mom?” he asks me one afternoon.

  “She’s fine.” What else is there to say?

  “Still getting rides to work with Marcus?” he asks.

  I’m startled that he mentioned Marcus’s name. “I don’t know.” I actually don’t. I make a point of not being around when Mom leaves for the theater. On the other hand, I’m back to taking the car to dance classes, so unless she’s found someone else to ride with…

  “You could buy me a car,” I suggest. “And then Mom wouldn’t need a ride.”

  “Ha!” he laughs. “You should be so lucky.”

  “How’s the tour going?”

  “Oh, about the same as all the others. What about you? How’s dance?”

  “Good.”

  “How about the composition?”

  “Good. Mr. Rocchelli thinks I have talent.” I don’t know why, but it feels good to mention that.

  “We already knew that.”

  I smile. “When are you coming home?”

  “About a week before Christmas.”

  I wonder how that will go. Will he be here with Mom and me?

  “I’ve got to run, Legs. Sound-check time. I miss you.”

  “I miss you too, Dad.”

  “Love you.” The phone goes dead.

  For some reason, tears spring to my eyes. I know it was my idea for him to get a cell phone and call me, but now hearing his voice makes me miss him even more.

  During the next couple of weeks, I book the sound room as often as I can without appearing greedy. With the positive feedback I’ve received from both Dad and Mr. Rocchelli, I want to immerse myself in the project, get it finished.

  I’ve become hyperaware of Mr. Rocchelli’s presence. More and more, I’m distracted by him, my eyes following him as he moves about the room, assisting students or conducting various band and choral practices. He moves gracefully, as though he, too, were a dancer. I sigh, watching his fingers run along a keyboard as he demonstrates something for another student. She giggles as she tries to copy his lead, clearly enjoying the one-on-one attention. Occasionally he seems to sense my gaze on him, and when he looks at me I quickly avert my eyes, making me look as guilty as I feel, I’m sure. But hard as I try not to go back to staring at him, I inevitably find myself doing just that.

  It’s a Friday afternoon in early November. Once again I’m in the sound room, working. Mr. Rocchelli is tutoring some students in the larger room. I think vaguely about the weekend ahead. How I am going to fill the long days? Perhaps enough time has passed that I can call Talia or Spencer, apologize for my stupidity and suggest we go to a movie or something. But just thinking about this scenario makes my palms sweat, and I have to push the thoughts away.

  After about an hour of struggling with a transition, I slump back in my chair. Looking around, I see that the music room has emptied. Mr. Rocchelli is the only person remaining, and he’s wandering about the classroom, straightening chairs, collecting sheets of music and just generally tidying up from the week. I feel myself tense as he passes the sound-room door, which I’ve left open.

  “Any big weekend plans, Allegra?” He leans against the doorjamb, smiling at me.

  I shake my head and feign total concentration on what I’m doing.

  “An
ything I can help you with here?” he asks.

  “Well, actually…” I look at him, trying to determine whether he really wants to help or is just being teacher-like. I decide he’s sincere, and I really am stuck. “I’m having trouble with the transition from the second section to the third section.” I sigh. “Any suggestions?”

  He comes all the way into the room and sits down. “Play what you have, the part you’re struggling with.”

  I play just the last section that I’ve completed, which he hasn’t heard yet. He listens, his head cocked.

  “What I can’t figure out,” I say once he’s heard it, “is how to tie it into this section.” I play the third section of the composition. I haven’t progressed very far, so I stop it after a few bars.

  “Transitions can be hard, can’t they?” he comments. He thinks for a moment, then seems to come to a decision. “What I often do when faced with this kind of problem is go to the masters and listen to what they’ve done.”

  “Which masters?”

  “Bach, Schubert, Handel.” He steps out of the sound room and I watch as he takes a set of keys from his desk drawer. He unlocks a cabinet, which I see is filled with CDs. He selects a few and brings them to me. “Take these home for the weekend and listen to them, concentrating on the transitions. That might help.”

  My mom has tons of cds, but I take them from him anyway. “You want me to copy what these guys have done?” I smile. He’s so easy to tease. “Isn’t that plagiarism?”

  “Very funny, Allegra. No, you’ll put your own spin on it, but there’s a lot to be learned from studying these old guys.”

  “Too bad there are no famous female composers.”

  “It is a shame, isn’t it? I’m sure the women of the day would have had a lot to offer these guys if they’d been consulted.”

  “Consulted? Imagine if they’d been free to compose their own music!”

  “You’re right. What was I thinking?”

  We stand there smiling at one another. I feel totally relaxed.

  “Allegra, there’s something I want to ask you.”