Allegra Page 8

  I have a sudden idea. “Why doesn’t she move out until your road trip? That’s only fair. You’re gone enough already.”

  “She still has her harp students coming here.”

  “You still have your band rehearsals.”

  Dad finds my foot under the blanket and squeezes it. “We’re going to do it your mom’s way,” he says, and I know he’s closing the subject.

  My cell phone jangles. I check the caller ID. Spencer.

  “Take it,” Dad says. “I’ve got to go pack up my things. Steve is coming to get me.”

  I take a deep breath. “Hello?”

  “Hey, Legs!” Spencer’s voice sounds chirpy, light, uncomplicated.

  “Hey, Spencer.”

  “We missed you at school today.”

  “Oh. Thanks. I…I wasn’t feeling well.”

  “Are you contagious?”

  “No, why?”

  “I wondered if…if I could come by for a visit.”

  I can hear my dad in the next room, opening and shutting drawers as he packs up his clothes. Sadness begins to well up in me again.

  “No,” I tell him, hoping he can’t hear the quiver in my voice.

  “Allegra?”

  Uh-oh. He heard it. “Yeah?” I’m on the verge of losing it again.

  “Are you okay?”

  “Yeah.” I try clearing my throat, but the lump in it is too big. “But I gotta go.”

  “Will you be at school tomorrow?”

  “Maybe. Bye, Spencer.”

  I hang up before he can ask me anything else. How can I tell him that my dad is leaving?

  Dad must have finished packing. The floor outside my room creaks as he carries his things to the front door. My heart sinks deeper than ever. I have to get out of the house. I can’t be here when he leaves. I quickly pull on some clothes and running shoes, and when I hear Dad pass by my room and the screen door slams, I slip down the stairs to the studio and head out the basement door to the backyard. Pulling open the gate, I turn left into the alley. I begin to run, slowly at first, but picking up speed once I’m warmed up. I pound along the sidewalk, trying not to think about what’s happening at home.

  After a long time, I slow to a walk, and my breathing begins to return to normal. I wipe the sweat off my brow and turn, reluctantly, to begin the walk home. I wish I had somewhere else to go. Anywhere else. I grew up in this neighborhood; I should have friends I could drop in on. I wrack my brain. I don’t.

  The street I’ve run to looks familiar. I study the houses as I walk past them. A memory of a summer afternoon spent near here begins to surface in my mind. And then I see it, the large front yard with the rancher-style home set neatly back from it. I attended a birthday party here once. I must have been about ten years old, in grade five. All the girls in my class had been invited to the celebration. We started the party at an art studio, where we each chose a ceramic figurine to paint. I could handle that, simply withdrawing into myself while I painted. I listened to all the chatter around me but didn’t join in.

  When that was done, we returned to the birthday girl’s house. It was a hot day, so the girls changed into bathing suits and ran back and forth through the spray of a sprinkler on the front lawn, screaming in delight when the water hit their skin.

  I stood off to the side with the parents, mostly moms who’d helped with the driving. My dad was with me that day. He was the one who’d encouraged me to attend the party in the first place. Mom would have let me skip it.

  As I stood there, not knowing how to join in, Dad gave me a little push. “Go on, Legs. Go have fun.”

  I took a timid step back. The girls looked so silly to me, squealing like piglets when the water hit them. Then they’d crowd together in a tight pack until one of them dared to run through it again, and the rest would follow.

  I wanted desperately to escape from that yard. I realized I should never have listened to Dad. I’d only gone to the party because I wanted to please him, to spend time with him on one of his rare weekends home. But I knew he would be disappointed when he saw that I didn’t fit in with those girls.

  Suddenly Dad bolted from my side. I watched as he ran, fully clothed, through the spray of water. The girls shrieked and the mothers clapped in delight.

  He turned and began to run back again, but this time he did a cartwheel over the spray. The blast of water hit him directly in the face. The girls screamed even louder and jumped up and down. The moms clapped harder.

  I felt more isolated than ever. When Dad got back to my side, dripping wet, he said, “See, Legs? It’s easy.”

  I knew he thought he was helping, but he’d only made matters worse, drawing more attention my way. I simply pulled my towel tighter around me.

  Dad knew better than to push the issue. He put his arm around my shoulder, and we watched as the other girls did cartwheels through the spray.

  We stayed at the party long enough to watch the birthday girl open her presents and blow out her candles and then I caught Dad’s eye and motioned to the door.

  His eyebrows arched in surprise, but he excused himself from the circle of women who were fawning over him, the local celebrity.

  “Let’s go,” I whispered.

  “You’re not staying for a piece of that cake?” he asked, eyeing it hungrily.

  I shook my head.

  “Okay,” he said. “Grab your things and we’ll say our thank-yous.”

  Back home, I heard my parents talking in the kitchen when they thought I was in my room.

  “I told you,” Mom said. “She’s just not social. There’s nothing wrong with that.”

  “Maybe she needs to be encouraged a little more,” Dad said.

  “She is who she is,” Mom said, coming to my defense as always. “Not all of us are party animals like you.”

  Dad didn’t answer, and I felt sick. There was nothing I wanted more than to please him.

  He wasn’t really a party animal, but he was comfortable hanging out with groups of people, and I’m still not, despite the counseling Mom eventually agreed to take me to. Now, I realize, my parents had practically this same conversation about me just a few evenings ago. Some things never change.

  I think that may have been the last birthday party I was ever invited to. I was never shunned by the other girls; I was simply left alone. That was fine with me.

  I push the memory from my mind and continue toward home. I think of Angela, the girl I met when I was allowed to start dance classes. She also started taking classes later than most of the other girls, and she also takes nearly as many as I do. We are friends, but not outside the studio. I don’t know why. Maybe she’s like me; she knows that while we’re at the dance school we can relate, but outside, who knows? I pick up the pace. Dance. I will go to class tonight. Dance will take me away from my worries, help me escape the painful situation at home. I begin to run again.

  Nine

  I’m so lost in thought the next morning that I just about hit the ceiling when Mr. Rocchelli taps on the sound-room window. He opens the door and steps into the room. “There, we’re even,” he says, grinning. “I just got you back for that first day of school, when you nearly gave me a heart attack.”

  I smile, remembering how high he’d jumped. It seems so much longer ago than just two weeks.

  “What were you concentrating on so hard?” he asks.

  I look down at the computer screen and realize I haven’t done a thing over the hour-long class. “Just thinking about the music,” I lie.

  Through the window, I see the students filing out of the room. Julia is walking beside Spencer, chatting up at him. He pauses at the door, turns back to look at me and waves. I wave back. Julia’s eyes flash.

  Mr. Rocchelli glances at Spencer too. “So how’s it going in here?” he asks. “Do you need some help?”

  “I’m okay for now,” I say.

  “Your friend Spencer”—he nods toward the door— “is in my sound-engineering class and seems to know his w
ay around Logic. He might be able to give you a hand with the technical stuff.”

  “Thanks. I’ll remember that.”

  Mr. Rocchelli studies my face. I look down at the equipment.

  “Is everything all right?” he asks.

  “Yeah.” I pull the flash drive out of the computer and put it into a pocket in my backpack. I take a step toward the door, assuming Mr. Rocchelli will move, but he doesn’t. He stays firmly planted in the doorway. I glance up at him.

  “You were away yesterday,” he says. “Were you sick?”

  “Yeah, but I’m fine now,” I lie.

  “You still look a little tired,” he says. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

  I squeeze myself around him, being careful not to make contact. “Yes, I’m sure, but I won’t be okay if I’m late for ballet. See you tomorrow.” I turn and immediately collide with a guy who has seemingly appeared out of nowhere. Books go flying. Flustered, I apologize, help him pick up his things, check that he’s okay and, with a last look at Mr. Rocchelli, who’s still watching me from the sound-room doorway, race to class.

  “Welcome back,” Talia says when I sit down beside Spencer at lunchtime. It’s become our habit for Talia, Molly and Sophie to sit on one step, and Spencer and me on the step above them. I’m not sure why they always save the space beside Spencer for me, but they do.

  “Thanks.” I smile as normally as I can and pull a sandwich and a bottle of water out of my bag.

  “Were you sick?” she asks.

  “Yeah, but I’m okay now.” I leave it at that and hope she won’t ask what I was sick with. I feign intense interest in my sandwich, lifting off the bread and rearranging a leaf of lettuce.

  I can feel Spencer watching me, but I ignore him and turn my gaze across the room.

  With a last glance at me, Talia goes back to a conversation she was having with Molly and Sophie when I arrived, and Spencer and I sit in uneasy silence for a few moments.

  “You sounded kind of…funny on the phone yesterday,” he says.

  “Oh, that. I’m sorry. You caught me at a bad moment.”

  He stabs the last noodle in his Styrofoam bowl. “Has Steve dropped off those autographed headshots yet?”

  “No, I don’t think so. I’ll ask my dad to remind him.” My dad. Just thinking about him brings me down again.

  “Thanks.”

  I nod.

  “When’s the next rehearsal?”

  “I don’t know.” But I do know that I’m not inviting Spencer over for it. How would I explain why my dad is leaving with the others when the rehearsal is over? I don’t know why this new living arrangement embarrasses me, but it does.

  I glance at Spencer and wonder again if he has befriended me just to get closer to the Loose Ends. Did I imagine those moments when our friendship felt like something more? Right now, I feel too depressed to even care. “Mr. Rocchelli says you know how to use Logic,” I say, changing the subject.

  “I’m learning.”

  “He thought you might be willing to help me with it.”

  His face lights up. “No problem.”

  That makes me feel a little better. “Thanks. I’d appreciate it.”

  He glances up at the wall clock. “We’ve got time right now. Want to get started?”

  That takes me by surprise. “Sure.” I swallow the last piece of my sandwich and collect my things. We hurry out to Mr. Rocchelli’s portable but find the door locked. “Shit,” Spencer says, banging it with his fist.

  That’s the second time I’ve seen Spencer hit something when he’s mad. It doesn’t fit with his usually easygoing temperament.

  “I guess he can’t leave all that equipment unsupervised when no one’s there,” I say.

  The school door bangs shut behind us, and we both swing around. Mr. Rocchelli is heading toward the portable, keys in hand.

  “Spencer’s already agreed to tutor you?” he asks, sliding the key into the lock.

  “Yeah, and he doesn’t like to waste any time.”

  “I see that.” Mr. Rocchelli pushes the door open and steps aside to let us pass. “In the future, if you sign up to use the room I won’t lock you out. As it was, I didn’t think anyone was going to be here today.”

  “We didn’t know either until five minutes ago,” Spencer says, leading the way into the sound room.

  Mr. Rocchelli smiles at me. “Go to it,” he says.

  I feel my heartbeat quicken. What is the matter with me?

  Spencer is a patient teacher, and by the end of the lunch hour I feel way more confident with the program. He listens to snippets of what I’ve written and appears genuinely impressed. He watches as I tuck away the flash drive. “You look better than you did earlier,” he says.

  “Better?” I tease. “I wasn’t looking well before?”

  “No,” he says seriously. “You were looking…sad.”

  That’s because I was sad. But I’m not going to tell him that. Working with the program was a good distraction, just as dance class was last night. I’ll have to remember this. Keep busy. Keep distracted.

  “Well, I’m glad I’m looking better.”

  “Do you want to come back here after school?”

  I think about it and glance at the schedule on the wall. No one has the room booked. “What I really need to do now is simply work on the music,” I tell him. “I think I know enough about the equipment to get started.”

  He thinks about that. “I could do homework in the portable,” he says, gesturing to the main room, “and you could work in here. If you have any problems with the program, I could help you.”

  I glance through the window at Mr. Rocchelli, who is working at his desk. I’d feel more relaxed about being here after school if Spencer was here too.

  “Okay, thanks.”

  “Good. It’s a date.”

  I glance up at his choice of words.

  “You know what I mean,” he says, looking away. I follow him out of the sound room. “We’ll be back after school,” he tells Mr. Rocchelli as he heads across the room.

  “You’ve got a whole year to complete this project,” Mr. Rocchelli reminds me. “It doesn’t have to be done in one semester.”

  “Have you forgotten?” I ask him. “I’m working on a masterpiece. That takes time, lots of time.”

  He laughs. “See you after school.”

  My after-school session in the sound room is completely different from the hour I spent there during music-theory class. This time I’m focused, and only twice do I have to ask Spencer for help. I work on the second part of the piece and begin creating an entirely new segment of music, including a new melody that wasn’t part of Mr. Rocchelli’s original song. This section has some darker themes, and the notes come easily to me. I play it on the small keyboard that sits in the corner.

  When I look up, I find Mr. Rocchelli standing in the doorway. “I don’t recognize my song anymore,” he says.

  “Oh, you will,” I quickly assure him. “I’m just adding to it.”

  He smiles. “It’s wonderful. I like what I just heard.”

  “Oh, that. It’s really rough.”

  “I know, but I still liked it.”

  “Thanks.” I feel my face growing hot. I’ve never been good at taking compliments, especially about things I’m new at.

  “I just came in to tell you that I’m off to a meeting, but I’ve given the room key to Spencer. He’ll lock up and return the key tomorrow. I’ve got a spare key for the morning.”

  “Okay, thanks.”

  He studies me. “Why don’t you guys go have some fun? You’ve worked hard enough today.”

  “I’m on a roll. Can’t quit now.”

  He pats my shoulder. “Then I’ll leave you to it.”

  I watch through the window as he speaks to Spencer and then heads out the door. Suddenly the portable feels very still and quiet. Creepy again. Spencer looks over at me. I give him a little wave and go back to work.

  It takes a few m
inutes, but eventually I get back into the zone, that place where my mind thinks of nothing but the music. Using only the computer, I add a variety of instruments. I click Playback so often, I’m afraid I’ll wear out the mouse. Eventually I sit back in the chair. I feel satisfied with what I’ve accomplished, but now I need some feedback.

  “Want to take a listen?” I ask Spencer from the doorway.

  He hurries in and I sit him in the chair and start the music. I stand to the side. He closes his eyes and listens. When it’s over, I reach past him to shut it off. He opens his eyes.

  “Wow,” he says. “That was sad.”

  “Was it?”

  “Yeah. But beautiful too. Haunting.”

  Hmm. I wonder if it’s too different from the rest of the piece, the part Mr. Rocchelli wrote. “Will you listen to the intro and see if it flows into this?”

  “Sure.”

  I play the piece from the start, and shut it off after the new section. Spencer’s eyes flutter open. They look a little glazed, and he blinks again.

  “That’s amazing,” he says.

  At first I don’t know whether to believe him, but his expression is completely sincere.

  “I hear a whole section of string instruments playing that part.”

  I nod. That might just work.

  He stands up, and I go to step back to make room, but his hands land on my shoulders, keeping me close. I fight the urge to shrug free. He looks directly at me. “This is really, really good,” he says. His voice is as intense as his gaze.

  “Thanks,” I say and look down at my feet. The sound room is suddenly sweltering hot. Sweat breaks out all over me.

  I feel his fingers under my chin, and he lifts my head so I have to look up at him. His eyes are questioning, his head tilted. I stand frozen to the spot. Part of me wants to flee, put as much distance between us as I can, but another part yearns to stay in this moment.

  Spencer leans in and kisses me softly. His lips linger, looking for a response, but I feel only numbness and confusion. He pulls his mouth away, his arms circle me in a hug, and he pulls me close. “I’m sorry,” he says. “It’s too soon.”

  “It’s okay,” I say. And it is. The hug feels very nice, and I relax into his body.