Between the Notes (16 page)

R
eesa called around four o’clock. “How’d it go?” she asked, all breathless.

“Oh . . .” I hesitated, deciding whether to lie and tell her I’d bombed the audition or confess that I hadn’t gone.

“You bailed, didn’t you?” Her voice had that steady, I-am-pissed-off-but-trying-not-to-show-it tone.

“Yeah,” I said. “It was too far away, anyway.” I paused, waiting for her rant, but it didn’t come. She only sighed. “Are we still on for tonight?” I asked.

“Yeah,” she said. “Get over here already. I have something to show you.”

I yanked my hair into a ponytail and splashed water on my face, threw some clothes and my toothbrush in an overnight bag, and went down to the kitchen. Mom looked me up and down. “That’s what you’re wearing?” I had the same clothes on I’d worn to the food pantry.

“Since when do you care what I wear to Reesa’s?”

She had put on a nicer outfit just to drive me over there, maybe expecting Reesa’s mom would invite her in. But Mrs. Morgan didn’t even come out to say hello.

“I’ll pick you up in the morning. Ten o’clock,” Mom snipped.

I couldn’t believe Reesa’s mom would’ve brushed her off on purpose, but she was right there in the kitchen when I went inside. She smiled like she was posing for someone who was taking too long to snap the photo.

Reesa dragged me upstairs. “Wait till you see what I found.”

I was expecting an amazing dress, maybe a couple of great flapper costumes from her mother’s closet. But she opened her laptop, clicked on a browser window, and stood back.

“There,” she said. “The Wickertons of New York.”

I leaned in. It was a fuzzy photo of some people standing at the bottom of a big staircase.

“It’s from a few years ago, but look,” she pointed to a boy. “Same hair, only shorter. It’s got to be him.”

I looked at the caption, which identified the boy as Robbie Wickerton. “Wrong name,” I said.

“Maybe it’s a nickname. Because that kid looks exactly like James. You can’t tell me that’s not him.”

I looked closer at the boy named Robbie. There was definitely a resemblance, but I refused to agree with her.

“Please. It doesn’t look anything like him,” I said.

“It looks
exactly
like him,” Reesa insisted. But she put the photo away and didn’t bring up James or his family’s obscene wealth
again after that. I hadn’t told her about the trip to the food pantry or my failed attempts at getting a job, but even Reesa was perceptive enough to notice that something was bothering me.

“What you need,” she said, “is some Reesa therapy.”

She pulled out her nail polishes and gave me a manicure while we listened to music, taking turns choosing songs. Determined to cheer me up, she pulled out the big guns: her 1980s playlist. For every “Raspberry Beret” and “Girls Just Wanna Have Fun” she blasted, I countered with an “Over the Rainbow” or “I Dreamed a Dream.” It was Madonna versus
Evita
, Wham! versus Wagner, Joan Jett versus
Phantom of the Opera.

“You are not giving Reesa therapy a chance,” she said, as her latest selection, “Jessie’s Girl,” started to play. “The first step is admitting you have a problem.”

I nodded. “I definitely have a problem. But I don’t think Rick Springfield is going to fix it.”

She pulled me up from the bed to dance with her. I tried, really I did, but “Jessie” started with a
J
, like James, and it only reminded me that he’d stood me up at open mic night. It appeared he didn’t want me to be his girl, after all.

I flopped onto Reesa’s bed and flipped through her huge stack of celebrity magazines. She played with my hair, twisting it into ringlets, then teasing it so it stood straight out like a giant afro. It was hard not to feel at least a tiny bit better.

After dinner (take-out sushi from our favorite sushi place), Reesa grabbed our coats and led me out back to the deck. I could
see our old house from there, the window of my bedroom. It was dark. Empty.

“Here.” She pulled a key from her pocket and handed it to me. “I found this.”

I turned it over in my palm. “A key. To what?”

“Your house, silly.”

“Um, thanks. I guess my mom can give it to the bank people, or the Realtor or whatever.” I slipped it in my pocket.

“No, dummy. It’s for you. To get inside. Hello?” She wiggled her fingers like she was playing a piano. “It’s still there, right?”

It was. My piano hadn’t been sold yet.

“I know you miss it,” said Reesa. “I thought you might want to go back and play it one more time.”

I stared at the key in my hand. “But . . .” I missed everything about home—my old life—so badly. How did she know it was the piano I missed the most? “What if they changed the locks?”

Reesa shrugged. “Guess we’ll find out.”

She took my hand and we walked the short distance from her house to mine, slinking through the shadows.

“I feel like a burglar,” I said.

“It’s not like we’re going to steal anything,” said Reesa. “We’re only visiting, and it’s your house, anyway.”

I pulled out the key as we approached the back door. We hadn’t been gone that long, but everything seemed so different. The yard was sprawling, the patio immense. The flower beds so . . . so trimmed and mulched.

The key slid into the slot and turned easily. When I pushed the door open, the alarm sounded, which I expected. It was just a little tiny beep, a reminder to disarm it. I punched in the code, the last four digits of our phone number, and pressed
ENTER
.

It went silent.
I was home.

We stepped inside and pulled the door closed. It was dark in the house, and cold. I knew the heat was turned off, or set very low. But there must be electricity since the alarm was working. Reesa flipped one of the six switches by the kitchen door. The recessed lighting above us flickered on.

I breathed in the smell of home. But it wasn’t quite what I remembered. Whatever combination of odors made home smell like home—the cooking, the furniture, the soap Mom used and Dad’s cologne, Kaya’s rescued frogs and Brady’s bouquets of dandelions—it was already dissipating.

I crossed the kitchen to the back stairs that led up to my room. Reesa followed me, turning on lights as we went. Everything was so big and so painfully empty. None of our furniture remained. I knew it was being sold off, but didn’t realize they’d take it all so quickly. The hardwood floors were bare. Our footsteps echoed through the house. I entered my room, stared at the spot where my four-poster bed used to stand. No more desk, no dresser, no vanity, no rocking chair. It was all gone. Only the window seat remained. I walked to it and sat in my usual spot, where I used to watch Reesa crossing our yard on the way to my house. I wondered if Reesa remembered how we used to talk on our cell
phones until she made it all the way up the stairs and sat down across from me.

She plopped herself down there now and put her hand up to her ear and mouth like a phone. “Bye. Hi.”

She remembered.

“Bye. Hi,” I whispered.

Reesa dropped her hand to her lap. “It’s weird in here. Like a ghost town.”

I nodded. Nothing was the same, and now that I was here, I knew we’d never be back. I just hadn’t expected everything to be so . . . gone.

“You want me to stay?” said Reesa.

“I think I’d like to be alone, if that’s okay.”

She nodded and scooted out into the hall. I waited until I heard the kitchen door close before making my way to the piano room, tears pricking at my eyes. Everything was so different. I couldn’t believe I’d lived here less than a month ago. It felt like a lifetime. And seeing the piano there, all by itself in the moonlight in the middle of the room, reminded me of a line in the nursery rhyme song, “The cheese stands alone.” I plunked out the simple melody on the keys, and sang along. “Heigh-ho, the derry-o, the cheese stands alone. . . .”

I nudged the piano seat out and sat down, played one of the lullabies I’d made up for the twins. It sounded hollow.

Just rusty,
I told myself. I tried again, grasping for something deep inside that would bring the song to life. Came up empty.

It didn’t feel right here. No furniture, no rugs, no family . . . nothing but cold, bare floors. Only memories remained, and they were lonely here, too. I closed the lid on the piano keys, slid my hand over its smooth wood surface. Every sound I made was magnified, eerie.

I thought I heard a noise downstairs and checked my watch. Only seven thirty, not time to go. I tiptoed to the door, listened. Footsteps crossed the kitchen and started up the steps. I clung to the wall.

“Ivy?” Reesa waltzed into the room. “Where are you?”

My shoulders relaxed. “Rees, you scared the crap out of me.”

She turned to see me huddling by the door. “Your mom just called.” She thrust her cell phone into my hand, a pinched look on her face. “You need to call her back.”

I couldn’t figure out why Reesa seemed angry. “Is everything okay?”

“You have a visitor.”

“A visitor?” I ran through a mental list of people who knew where we lived and might pop by unexpectedly, and came up with . . . nobody. “Who?”

Reesa put both hands on her hips. “Apparently, James Wickerton is at your house, waiting to see you.”

I
followed Reesa out of my old house, turning lights off as we went. She didn’t speak to me the whole way, just stomped a few paces ahead of me. It gave me a moment to be: A, scared that this was the end of me and Reesa; and B, mortified that James was in my apartment. When we got to her yard, I called Mom.

“It’s me,” I said.

She had her we’ve-got-company voice on. “There’s a young man here to see you. His name is James. He says you have a date.”

“A date?”

Reesa glared at me.

“Would you like to speak to him?” said Mom.

“No, no. I, um . . .” I glanced at Reesa with pathetic, help-me eyes.

She grabbed the phone and put it to her ear. “Hi, Mrs. Emerson. It’s Reesa. Why don’t you ask James if he wants to pick Ivy up here at my house.”

She shoved the phone back into my hand and plopped down
on one of their deck chairs, arms crossed firmly over her chest. There was some discussion in the background on Mom’s end.

“He says that’s fine,” said Mom. “We’re giving him the address.”

“Thanks, Mom. Sorry about the, uh . . . confusion.”

“Just be home by eleven. Here, at the apartment,” she specified. “Not Reesa’s.”

I pushed the button to end the call and handed the phone back to Reesa. She snatched it and walked away from me into the yard.

“Reesa,” I called after her. “I was going to tell you. . . .”

She spun around. “That you’re dating the guy I’ve been pining over for weeks? You didn’t think it might be appropriate to mention that he already has a girlfriend, and that girlfriend happens to be YOU?”

“I’m sorry.” I put my face in my hands.

“You
promised
,” said Reesa. “I asked you if you liked him and you looked me right in the eye and you promised me you didn’t. And, shit . . . that day in the hall? When he was making hand signals at you? You were totally lying to me!”

I shook my head, knowing it was true but not wanting it to be. “It just happened. I didn’t think he liked me that much. I was pretty sure he’d bail the second he found out where I live.”

Reesa let out a sharp burst of laughter. “You really think highly of him, don’t you? Must be a real catch. I guess I should thank you for saving me from the guy.”

“I was wrong, okay? I’m sorry.”

She brushed past me to go inside.

“It’s not like I stole him from you.” I followed behind her. “He never showed any . . .” Oohhh . . . I could tell that was the wrong thing to say before I even finished saying it.

She wheeled around. “I get it, Ivy! He didn’t like me. He never liked me! That hurts, but it’s nothing compared to my best friend lying to my face for three weeks. I guess I know now why you insisted he wasn’t my type.”

“I thought you’d be mad,” I said. “I was afraid you’d tell everyone about . . . about my move, and . . .”

“Fantastic! I’m delusional
and
I’m a shitty friend. Thanks a lot. I feel so much better now.”

She stormed into the house, and I trailed behind her, pleading. “Reesa, I’m sorry. Please.”

She grabbed my stuff from her room, threw it at my feet, and slammed the door. I picked up my bag and went into the hallway bathroom to do something about my hair. It was still teased into a ridiculous Afro. I dug through my bag for a brush and dragged it over my hair until it was straight enough to braid. When I was finished, I looked like some kind of crazed Heidi.

I changed into my extra clothes—a cute skirt and boots I’d brought in case Reesa wanted to go out. I paused outside her door, but the music was blasting and she didn’t answer my knock. I whispered, “I’m sorry,” then hurried downstairs and outside. James was just driving up when I reached the Morgans’ gate. He looked incredibly hot and thoroughly confused.

“Hey,” he said.

I hopped into his car without a word and he drove off. I had no idea where we were going but didn’t really care. I was pretty sure I’d just lost my best friend. Losing James, too, would be a perfect icing on the cake of my increasingly miserable life.

“You didn’t get my note, did you?” I said. “About meeting at the King last night?”

“No,” he said. “I looked everywhere. Where did you leave it?”

“Right on the shelf.”

He shook his head. “Didn’t find it. Then I thought maybe you left it at the cemetery, so I went there this morning and searched all over the place.”

I groaned. “I’m sorry.”

“So you thought I stood you up?”

I nodded. “How did you find me?”

“I waited at the Save-a-Cent until your friend”—he cleared his throat—“excuse me, not-your-friend Lennie came along, so I could ask him where you live.”

“You didn’t,” I cringed.

“Yeah, and he wouldn’t tell me at first. He said if you wanted me to know where you lived, you would’ve told me yourself.”

“Well, that’s kind of true.”

He took his eyes off the road long enough to throw me a thoroughly exasperated look. “Why wouldn’t you want me to know where you live?”

I sank down in my seat a bit. “You’ve seen it, haven’t you? I live
in the worst neighborhood in the district.”

“And . . . you think I care about that?”

“I don’t know,” I said meekly. “You drive such a nice car. . . .”

He pulled up to a red light and squared his shoulders to face me. “Is that why you like me? Because I drive a nice car?”

“No.” I bent over and buried my face in my knees. I took a deep breath, hoping the words would come out right, and flopped back on the seat. “That day when we went to the cemetery, you said truth is never as good as what you imagine. I was afraid I wouldn’t live up to . . . you know, whatever you imagined.”

The light turned green and he drove on. I stared at the road in front of us until he pulled to the side and stopped the car.

“All I imagined was a girl who makes me feel special,” he said. “Who likes me for who I am, not for where I live, or who my family is, or what kind of car I drive. You could live in a cardboard box for all I care.”

“Well, it might come to that,” I said.

“Don’t care,” he said.

“I can’t afford to go places, like into the city. Or to concerts. I can’t even rent a stupid costume for Willow’s Halloween party.”

“
Really
don’t care about any of that.”

“You say that now,” I said. “But when everybody else is doing something fabulous and I can’t?”

“You’re all the fabulous I need.”

I sighed. “Stop saying the right thing.”

He laughed. “I’m not trying to.”

A reluctant smile came to my lips. “Stop being nice without even trying.”

“I’ll, uh . . . try to, um, not try?”

We both laughed, and he took one of my braids in his fingers and tugged it until my lips were close enough to kiss. And then he did, he kissed me until it felt like he was my oxygen and I was his. Cars zoomed by in the darkness, their head beams hitting us with bursts of light—like fireworks ignited by the heat of our kisses.

When we finally pulled apart, I looked into his icy-blue-warm eyes, and said, “You need to not try more often.”

He threw his head back in a silent laugh and shifted the car into gear, and we sped off into the night—my lips tingling and heart singing.