Allegra Read online

  “No. I want to work.” I shudder as another chill washes through me.

  He sighs, stands up and moves away from me. “I’ve been foolish, Allegra. This is wrong.”

  “Wrong?” I ask the question, but I don’t really want to know the answer.

  “It’s inappropriate for me to be working with you here alone at night. I don’t know what I was thinking.” His gaze goes back to the window again. “I allowed myself to get so caught up in what we were doing, what we were creating, that I forgot to use common sense. We need to reschedule our sessions to daytime slots.”

  I just stare at him, not wanting to comprehend.

  “Unless there are other groups here,” he says, shoving his hands into his pockets. “Allegra,” he says, turning to look at me again, “I believe we have created something pretty spectacular together. Seriously. I try not to think about it too much, but…” He lets out another sigh.

  “But what?” The room is still except for the drumming of the rain on the metal roof.

  “I think we could get it published. Hear it performed.”

  I stare at him. He’s talking about the music. For some reason, I thought he was talking about us.

  He smiles, just a little. “And because I’m so excited about the music, I’ve allowed myself to become too close to you, my student. We need to step back a little, Allegra, keep this professional—teacher and student. You’re completing an assignment, and I’m coaching you. That’s all.”

  He looks so sad as he speaks, trying to convince himself—and me—that this is just a case of a student completing an assignment, that I know, suddenly, the truth of this situation. He loves me too.

  The rain continues to pummel the roof of the portable. Mr. Rocchelli has gone back to staring out the window. His profile is beautiful. The surge of my heart is greater than the throbbing in my ankle.

  “I love you.”

  It was not planned. I didn’t even know the words were going to come out of my mouth. They hang in the air between us for a moment. Mr. Rocchelli’s eyes widen as he stares at me.

  Suddenly, he strides across the room and goes behind his desk. “Phone your parents, Allegra. Have one of them come and get you. Now!”

  I feel the blood drain from my face, and then, just as suddenly, a rage courses through me. I stand and face him, ignoring my throbbing ankle. “Neither of them are home.”

  “Where are they?”

  “My dad’s on a road trip with his band, and my mom’s performing tonight.”

  “But she knows you’re here, right?”

  I hesitate, wondering if I should lie, and in that moment his expression changes.

  “Allegra, you did tell your parents that you’ve been coming here to work with me, right?”

  I meet his gaze. “No. It was none of their business. Besides, they wouldn’t care.”

  He stares at me. I stare back. I can’t believe he’s reacting like this.

  He flips open his laptop and types something.

  I jam my foot back into my soaking-wet shoe, hardly noticing the pain. Mr. Rochelli is still across the room, and I assume he’s looking up the phone number for a cab company. I grab my bag and hobble to the door. Then I reach into my bag and pull out the flash drive that contains our piece of music. Slamming it onto a desk, I look back at him. “It’s all yours. And as of this moment, I am no longer enrolled in music theory.” I see his brow crease, but I just pull open the door and head back out into the rain.

  I’m almost at my car when I hear his footsteps behind me. He grabs my arm and tries to pull me around to face him. I yank my arm away and try to press the Open button on my key fob, but my hand is shaking so hard that I keep missing it.

  His hand closes over mine, and he tugs away the keys. I don’t resist, just slump against my car, the rain coming down even harder now, if that’s possible. I feel tears sliding down my face, warm on my skin where the raindrops are cold.

  Noel pulls me around to face him. His hands rest on my shoulders. I feel his hand slip under my chin, forcing me to look up at him. “I’m sorry, Allegra. I handled that badly.”

  I can’t look at him and gaze instead over his shoulder, into the parking lot. The glow from the lone streetlight barely reaches this corner. My breathing is ragged as I struggle to hold back more tears.

  “This is all my fault,” he says. “I’ve acted like a complete fool. No wonder you were confused.”

  I feel myself flinch. Confused? I don’t think so.

  “I like you a lot, Allegra,” he says, his voice shaky. “You know that. You’re also one of my most gifted students, and I want to push you to make the most of your talent.” His hands squeeze my shoulders. I look up, wondering if he’ll kiss me. His hair is plastered against his head, his eyelashes clumped together with moisture. “But Allegra, I am your teacher, and you are my student, and that’s it.” His eyes bore into mine, and then he drops his hands, turns and unlocks his car. He opens the passenger door for me. “I’ll drive you home,” he says, his voice cracking. “Get in.”

  “My mom…she’ll need her car tomorrow.”

  “How did she get to the theater tonight?”

  “A friend drove her.” I frown, thinking of Marcus.

  “Then I’m sure she can find a friend to drop her off here tomorrow.”

  I’m too cold to argue, so I slump into the passenger seat. He shuts the door and walks around to the driver’s side. After starting the engine, he turns the heat on full blast and backs out of the stall. Except for me giving him the odd direction, neither of us says a thing until we arrive at my house. As I reach for the door handle, I feel his hand on my arm.

  “Are we okay, Allegra?”

  I can’t look at him, but I shrug. I have yet to process what has happened tonight.

  “We will finish the project though,” he says. “It’s important.”

  “I’ll think about it.”

  “No, don’t think about it. Commit to it. Tomorrow in class, we’ll map out some new times.”

  I close my eyes and sigh.

  “It’s easy to get confused, Allegra.”

  I just shrug again. He’s wrong, but I can’t tell him that.

  “Is your ankle okay?”

  I rotate it. “It’ll mend. It’s not the first time I’ve twisted it.” I reach for the door handle again. This time he doesn’t try to stop me.

  “Good night, Allegra,” he says softly as I get out of the car. I don’t answer and start to limp up the driveway.

  His car pulls away.

  Fifteen

  I slide down into the warm, sudsy water, allowing the fragrant bubbles to cover me. The anger has melted away, and now I simply feel numb. Resting my head on the back of the tub, I close my eyes and allow my thoughts to run free.

  When, exactly, did everything go sideways tonight? Sharing the umbrella, running together through the rain, laughing at the craziness of it…we were in complete sync, just like when we’re writing music.

  I open my eyes and watch as bubbles burst open, releasing their fragrance. Twisting my ankle…that’s when things went wrong. If that hadn’t happened, we’d still be at the school right now, working on the piece. The musical ideas would be dancing around us, and we would pull them in and enter them into the score. The music would become more and more powerful and the realization of that would be like a drug, drawing us closer and closer. Our musical dance would be a flawless performance.

  I run a washcloth up and down my arms, then let my hand drop back into the water with a splash. The truth hits me, and the numbness is replaced with complete and utter shame. I should never have told him that I love him. That was when things really went sideways. If I could only rewind the clock, go back to those few seconds before I turned my ankle. We’d skirt around that hole in the pavement, tumble into the classroom, arms still linked, passionate about creating music together…

  I watch a steady drip of water falling from the faucet head. My eyes close, heavy, but then flut
ter open; I sit up. I slam my hand into the water and watch as it splashes up the tile wall. Somehow I need to fix this mess I’ve created. I can’t turn the clock back, and I can’t take the words back either. Can we find that magic place again or have I spoiled it forever?

  I hum the first few bars of the piece. It relaxes me. I hum a little more.

  I turn on the tap and swirl more hot water into my bath. Perhaps we can get back on track. Noel let it slip that he wants to see our piece get published and performed. Was he serious? If he was, our names would be forever linked together, as composers.

  Shutting off the water, I notice that the bubbles have mostly disappeared, and I lift my foot to inspect my ankle. It is swollen and starting to change color. I’ll have to miss a few dance classes, but it’s not too bad. I’ve had worse.

  Lying back, I allow the entire piece of music to run through my head. I can see the notes on the page and feel how they blend to create various moods. I take a long, head-clearing breath and sigh. I like it. Maybe it is as good as he thinks. It’s hard to tell. I’m too close to it; I know it too intimately. It’s like it is with dance: all I can do is perform and hope the audience connects with me. I can’t see what they are seeing, I can’t tell how “good” it is, I can just hope they feel something.

  Will people respond to our music?

  I pull the plug and watch as the water swirls down the drain. Perhaps not all is lost. I step out of the tub and wrap a towel around me. Using a hand towel, I clear a circle in the mirror. I stare into large gray eyes. Coils of hair have escaped from where I’d gathered them into a knot at the top of my head.

  I graduate from school in less than a year. He won’t have to obey those teacher-student rules once I’m no longer his student. I smile at the face in the mirror. The face smiles back, confidently. I may have found a way to fix this mess after all. All I need is patience.

  The phone rings as I’m stepping into flannel pajamas. It’s Dad.

  “I’ll be home for Christmas,” he says, “but only for a couple of days. We have a gig on the twenty-eighth, but then there’s only a couple more weeks after that and we’re finished.”

  My heart flips at the word Christmas. I hadn’t even thought about what that would be like this year, with my parents separated.

  “Legs, are you still there?” he asks.

  “Yeah yeah, sorry. My mind just wandered.”

  “I’ve been talking to your mom. We figure we’ll drive up to Dave’s on Christmas Eve.”

  Dave is my mom’s brother, and most years her whole family descends on his home, as he has the most space and his wife, Sandra, loves to put on a big Christmas dinner.

  “We’re still a family,” he says, “and we’ll spend Christmas together as usual. The rest of the family doesn’t know about our new arrangement, and this doesn’t seem the time to tell them.”

  “Whatever,” I say. Christmas seems so unimportant right now. I just want to think about the music, and Mr. Rocchelli. Noel.

  There’s a long pause. “How’s the composing going?” he asks, as if reading my thoughts.

  “Really well,” I tell him, feeling myself brighten. “Mr. Rocchelli thinks we may be able to get the piece published when we’re finished.”

  “When we’re finished?” Dad asks.

  “We’ve been working together on it,” I tell him, somewhat sheepishly. I’m glad he can’t see my face, as I know my expression would give too much away. When he doesn’t respond, I add softly, “You bailed on me, remember?”

  “I didn’t bail, Legs. There’s nothing I’d like more than to be working on that piece with you.”

  “But you chose to go on tour.”

  “I had to get out of town, honey, but it wasn’t an easy choice. I’d much rather be there with you, but that didn’t seem like an option.”

  I don’t respond. The way I see it, if he chose to leave, he had options. It’s as simple as that.

  “I look forward to hearing it when I get back. Is it almost done?”

  “It’s close, but we keep going back and polishing and improving what we’ve already completed. It’s been an amazing process.” I know I’ve said too much, and with too much enthusiasm, but it just spilled out.

  “That’s great, Legs. I’m really happy that you’re writing music. Maybe you and I will write some together someday too.”

  “Maybe,” I tell him, but deep in my heart I want it to be Mr. Rocchelli—Noel—and me writing music together in the future.

  “And how’s dance going?” he asks. “Are you ready to take on the world stage next year?”

  “Actually, I’ve slowed down a little. I twisted my ankle, so I have to take some time off.” I don’t mention that the injury only occurred tonight. “Besides, the writing is taking up most of my time right now.”

  “Really? It’s hard to imagine that anything could keep my girl from dancing. How bad is your ankle?”

  “Not bad.” I rotate it and flinch in pain.

  “Well, I hope it heals up quickly so you don’t lose too much time.”

  His words make me think. It’s amazing how fast I’ve lost interest in dance. Right now, I couldn’t care less about taking a week or two off.

  “Anyway,” he says, “I’d better get some sleep. We have five nights in a row of shows coming up.” He sighs. “I think I’m getting too old for this.”

  Ms. Dekker takes one look at my ankle and excuses me from ballet class. “Take the week off from all your dance classes,” she says, “and then we’ll reassess the situation.”

  I limp down to the library, determined to start on my English essay, which I’ve put off for far too long—something that never would have happened in the past. I slide into a chair and pull my English binder and textbook from my backpack. I’m just starting to write when I sense someone sliding into the chair across the table from me.

  “Hi, Allegra,” Spencer says, pulling me out of the world of Alice Munro’s short stories.

  “Hey.”

  “Are you skipping dance class?” he asks.

  “No,” I tell him, noting that he seems to know my schedule. “I have an injury. What are you skipping?”

  “I have a spare.” He reaches into his pack and also pulls out a binder. “Is your dad back from his road trip yet?”

  “No, not until Christmas. And then he’s just taking a few days off.”

  He nods and begins flipping through the pages. “I really appreciated getting all those autographed photos. I hope you told him.”

  “I did.” I return to my textbook, but now I have trouble concentrating on the words. Talia told me that Spencer likes me. I glance at him, then go back to my textbook. It seems more like it’s my dad and his band that he likes, and I’m just the person who can keep him posted on their activities.

  We work in comfortable silence for a while, but I’m not getting anywhere with my assignment. I grab my pen and notebook. “I’m going to use a computer,” I tell him, standing up. “Watch my stuff ?”

  He nods, and I turn and begin to limp away.

  “Allegra?”

  I turn to see what he wants. He’s scribbling on a pad, but his pen appears to be out of ink. “Have you got a pen I can borrow?”

  “Maybe. Try the bottom of my backpack.”

  “Thanks.”

  I see him reach for my bag before I turn around.

  I spend the rest of the period researching information for my project and trying to put thoughts of Noel out of my mind, but not very successfully. When the bell rings, I head back to the table.

  Spencer has packed up his things; he hands me a pen. “This is yours,” he says. “Thanks.” I take it from him and note that he doesn’t look at me.

  “See ya later,” he mumbles before turning and practically dashing out of the library.

  I wonder, briefly, what has come over him. He usually hovers around, and with my sore ankle I thought he might even offer to carry my backpack for me, but I shrug it off. He must have somet
hing on his mind. I toss my pack onto my shoulder and limp off to my history class.

  When the lunch bell rings, I suck up all my courage and head toward the music portable, but at the door of the main building, I feel that familiar shortness of breath, and sweat breaks out in my armpits. My chest feels tight. I turn and start walking toward the multipurpose room instead. My breathing returns to normal and my skin dries quickly. I wonder how I’ll ever be able to enter the music portable again.

  It’s slow going through the crowded hallways. Every time I get jostled in the crowd, I put too much weight on my ankle and pain shoots up my leg. Eventually, I take cover at the end of a bank of lockers and wait for the crowd to disperse. Once the traffic becomes lighter, I continue toward the multipurpose room.

  I see the girls and Spencer in their usual places. They’re huddled together, reading something that Spencer has in his lap. Talia looks up and spots me walking toward them. I see her lips move, and suddenly all their heads jerk to look in my direction. Spencer tucks the sheet of paper he was holding into his pack.

  “What’s up with you guys?” I ask, sitting down beside Talia and taking an orange and a tub of yogurt from my lunch bag.

  She looks directly at me, but the others suddenly become very interested in their own lunches.

  I look more carefully at each of them, but they continue to avoid my eyes.

  Spencer suddenly grabs his pack and stands up. “I have to be somewhere,” he says.

  I watch as he leaves. “What’s with him?” I feel a sinking sensation in my stomach. I’ve just been accepted back into their circle, but something is wrong already. “He started acting all weird in the library too,” I add, but mostly to myself.

  None of them answer my question, but I see Sophie look past me, and her eyes widen.

  I turn just as Mr. Rocchelli sits down on the step right below me.

  “Hi, girls,” he says brightly, looking into each of our faces.

  “Hi,” we all say in unison. I can feel Talia staring at me, so I focus on peeling my orange and hope my face doesn’t give me away.