Consent (20 page)

“Yes. One of the detectives told Edwin that it was Braden who went to Principal Oberdorfer.”

“
Braden?
But . . . but . . .”

I squeeze my eyes shut and try to re-create that night. Braden and Lianna left right after our rehearsal. Braden must have come back for some reason and seen Dane and me. But why would he turn us in . . . and then blame it on Lianna?

“I am
so
going to kill him!” I yell.

“Don't. I'm not pleased about it either. But I'm guessing that he thought he was protecting you. Also . . .” Dane hesitates. “I think the bloke might have feelings for you. I've seen the way he looks at you.”

“
Feelings?
I don't care, I'm still going to kill him!”

“You should cut him some slack. What's important is that this is over.”

“But Braden
started
it.”

“No, he didn't. He just complicated things. And in the long run, it all worked out.”

“Whatever.”

“Beatrice.” Dane laughs softly. “Enough about Braden. Please. It's so fantastic to hear your voice. How have you been?”

“It's been . . . I've been—” I stop, not knowing how to explain what I've been going through since the police investigation started. Depressed, miserable, terrified. “I'm fine now. I'm just so relieved that this is over.”

“I know. Me too.”

“Can I see you?”

“Not right now. But soon, I promise.”

“How soon?”

“As soon as Edwin tells me it's all right. For your sake as much as mine.”

“Okay, then.” It's hard to keep the hurt out of my voice.

“I'm sorry.”

“I know. I'm sorry too.”

We say good-bye and hang up. This is
good
news, I remind myself. Dane has been cleared. I can stop worrying and lying to everyone and just get on with my life.

So why do I still feel uneasy?

Plum parks her car on Carriage House Lane and turns off the radio—it's '90s night. Somewhere in the distance a dog begins to bark. Across the street a neighbor's curtain flutters in the window.

Plum flips her hair over her shoulder and turns to me. Even in the darkness, I can see the anxious look in her eyes.

“I know, I know,” I say before she can lecture me again. “I just need to see him. It won't take long.”

“But his lawyer—”

“I know what his lawyer said. But it'll only be for a minute. Five minutes, tops. Then we can go back to your house or go to the movies or whatever you want. Okay?
Please?
”

Plum draws her lips into a thin line.

“I'd do the same thing for you,” I say sweetly.

“No, because I would never be in this position, because I would never date a teacher!”

“Liar! What about Mr. Anderson and Mr. Thackeray?”

“They're
fictional.
Fine, go! I'll circle around the block a few times while I'm waiting for you to have your dumb rendezvous.”

“Great! Thank you!”

I slide out of the car and watch as she drives off. Tonight was supposed to be a big, fun Friday-night sleepover. But when she picked me up, I asked her to make the detour. I convinced her that it would be safer to have her drive me than for me to take our Subaru, which could be recognized.

The door opens before I even have a chance to knock. Dane stands there, looking absurdly sexy in a blue velvet robe and plaid pajama bottoms.

“Beatrice! I heard someone pull up. What are you doing here?” he asks with a huge smile.

“I wanted to see you.”

He takes my hand and pulls me inside. “You're not very good at obeying instructions, are you? On the other hand, I can't tell you how happy I am right this second.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

Closing the door, he draws me to him and kisses me slowly
and deeply. Relief mingles with desire as I melt into the kiss. He still wants me. Only me. How could I ever have doubted him?

When his lips move down to my neck and then below my neck, I pull back slightly. “Dane!”

“Sorry! It's just that I've missed you.”

“I've missed you too. But I can't stay. Plum's driving around the block. I just wanted to . . . I wanted to see you and . . .”

He strokes my hair and kisses me chastely on the cheek. “I know. I promise that soon we can see each other without having to worry about the police, the school, everything.”

“Okay.”

I turn to go. The space between us feels suddenly cold.

“Dane?”

“What, love?”

“Who's Porter?”

Silence.

I make myself look at him. The color has drained from his face.

Oh, God.

“Dane, who is she? Who's Porter Caldwell?”

“W-where did you hear that name?” he finally manages.

“Plum's neighbor. She goes to Greenley. She told Plum
about the . . . she said that you and this Porter girl may have had an affair.”

Dane exhales sharply. “It wasn't an affair.”

It wasn't an affair
—this was not the answer I wanted to hear.

“It happened once,” he goes on. “
Once.
And I didn't know she was a student.”

I squeeze my fists and will myself not to cry or scream or slap him. “So I'm not your first one.”

“My first . . . ? God,
no,
it wasn't like that! I told you, I didn't know she was a student. Greenley is a very big school. Besides, I didn't meet her there; I met her in New York. I thought she was twenty-one, twenty-two. The way she looked, the way she was tossing back those martinis. I had no idea she was fifteen or that she went to Greenley.”

“She was
fifteen
?”

“Yes, and it's not something I'm proud of.”

“You had sex with a drunk fifteen-year-old girl,” I say incredulously.

“I didn't
know.
I admit, it was colossally stupid of me. I was going through a bad phase in my life. But it's in the past, and it has nothing to do with us.”

Nothing to do with us.

I start for the front door again. Dane grabs my arm, and I shake it away roughly.

“Beatrice!”

“I thought you and I . . . but obviously, you have a thing for young girls.”

“I do
not
have a ‘thing' for young girls. Beatrice
, please
! I was an idiot, and I made a terrible mistake. But my feelings for you aren't based on how old you are. I'd want to be with you whether you were seventeen or twenty-seven or thirty-seven.”

“I wish I could believe you.”

“Please, love. Can't we talk about this?”

“Not now.”

“I'll ring you in the morning, then?”

“I think I just need to be alone for a while.”

I hurry outside and close the door behind me. Leaves crunch under my feet, and a gray cloud has settled in front of the moon.

Dane's eucalyptus scent lingers on my skin, and I fight back tears. How could this be happening?

As soon as I get into Plum's car, she knows.

“Ice-cream sundaes or hugs or home?” she asks me immediately.

“All of the above.”

“You got it.”

As we drive away, I glance over my shoulder at Dane's
house. I can just make out the shadowy outline of his face in the window. Regret and longing pulse through me.

Is this the end? Or just a different beginning?

I wish my love for him had died the exact second he broke my heart.

On the night of my eighteenth birthday, Dad takes Plum and me out to the Crown Club, which is the fanciest restaurant in Eden Grove. We sit in red leather booths, eat shrimp cocktail and massive steaks, and listen to 1950s jazz.

“Wish Theo could have been here,” Dad says as he sips at a glass of wine. “I left him a couple messages. I'm surprised he'd turn down a free meal.”

“Maybe he's out with his girlfriend?” I suggest.

“Girlfriend, what girlfriend?” Dad asks.

“Valerie something,” I say with a shrug. “They seem pretty serious.” Which is actually a lie, and I've been trying to turn over a new leaf in the not-lying department. But I need to distract Dad from the fact that Theo has never celebrated my birthday and probably never will. For him, this day is not my birthday, but the anniversary of our mother's death.

Actually, it's kind of a miracle that Dad and I are here. In the past he has barely acknowledged this day; usually it's pizza, store-bought cupcakes, and a Peanuts card with a fifty-dollar bill tucked inside. So . . . progress.

After dinner three tuxedoed waiters bring a massive chocolate cake to our table with an “18” candle in it. Plum sings “Happy Birthday” in an exuberant off-key voice while Dad takes a video with his phone.

“Make a wish!” Plum orders me.

“Okay!”

I scrunch my eyes closed. What should I wish for? What do I want more than anything?
Getting into Juilliard
occurs to me, but for some reason, I can't seem to go there tonight.

I open my eyes and blow out the candle.

“What did you wish for?” Plum asks.

I smile and shrug. “If I tell you, it won't come true.”

As we eat cake, I open my presents from Plum: a book called
How to Survive College
and a silver charm bracelet with a piano on it.

“So perfect,” I say, hugging her.

“I left my present at home, honey. I'm sorry,” Dad apologizes.

The Peanuts card.
“No worries, Dad. I'll have something to look forward to,” I tell him.

He and Plum check out the college survival book and discuss Cambridge. While they're occupied, I slip my phone out of my purse to see if Dane remembered my birthday.

I haven't seen him since that night. We texted, and I told him that I needed to take a long break from us. I told him that I wasn't sure we could ever be together again.

Still, my heart skips a beat when I see a new message:

Happy birthday.

With all my love,

Dane

I don't delete it.

• • •

Dad and I get home around nine, after dropping Plum off at her house. It's a school night, which means that I still have about an hour's worth of homework to do before I can go to bed.

As we walk through the front door, Dad flicks on the living room light and sweeps his arms in a dramatic way. “Ta-da!” he announces.

There is a mahogany Steinway grand where the old upright used to be.

“Oh. My. God.” I fling my coat to the floor and rush over
to the piano. I sit down on the padded bench and touch the keys reverently.

“Happy birthday, honey,” Dad says with a smile.

“Is this—”

“Yup. Steinway Model L. Built in 1927 in Astoria, Queens, about a mile from where your mom grew up.”

“Oh my God.”

I take a deep breath and run through some arpeggios. The sound is gorgeous, unlike anything I've ever heard.

Dad brings over a cardboard box and sets it down with a thud. “Found this in the attic. I thought you might like to go through this stuff. There are some other boxes, too.”

Curious, I lean over and open the flaps. There is a mountain of sheet music inside: Schumann, Schubert, Liszt, Brahms, and other composers, too.
Natalia Kim
is written on most of the covers, although some of them say
Natalia Levin.
Her handwriting is less curly than it was when she was younger, and she stopped dotting her
i'
s with hearts.

“Dad! This is
amazing
!” I exclaim.

“Yeah, I figured. I've got to . . . I'm going to feed Cream Puff now. You take your time, honey.”

He swipes at his eyes and wanders toward the kitchen, the cat at his heels.

I pick up a volume of Chopin nocturnes and leaf through it. Mom's
fingerings and other notations are all over the pages in light pencil.

I continue digging through the box and spot an old book—not a score, but a regular book. Curious, I pull it out. The title is
Testimony: The Memoirs of Dmitri Shostakovich.

A dried flower falls out of the pages. It is a pink rose, its petals flat and papery and browned with age. I wonder if Dad gave that to Mom?

I open it to a random page and carefully replace the flower. A line in the text catches my eye:
One must speak the truth about the past or not at all.

I guess Shostakovich knew what he was talking about.

On the morning of Christmas Eve, I am downtown doing some last-minute shopping when I catch sight of Dane strolling into Café Tintoretto.

I stop in my tracks and stare. Small snowflakes flutter onto my parka and melt into invisible puddles. Nearby, a fake Santa Claus rings his bell to collect money for the Salvation Army.

I haven't seen Dane since the night he told me about Porter Caldwell. His hair is shorter, and I don't recognize his coat, which is dark gray with wide lapels. A blue scarf, also unfamiliar, is wound around his neck. He is carrying the same old messenger bag, though.

I thought I would feel no emotion, but I guess I was wrong. Obviously, it hasn't been long enough. Will it ever be long enough?

On an impulse, I walk up to the café window, which is
adorned with sparkly Christmas lights. Peering inside, I spot Dane at the marble counter talking to Signor Vitale. A moment later he sits down at a table with a cappuccino and reaches into his bag. He pulls out a score and checks his watch.

Is he meeting someone?

I wait for a minute, then two minutes, then three. I'm not sure what I'm doing, watching him through this window—spying, really—but I can't seem to make myself move. I wonder how he is and what he has been up to lately? He never came back to A-Jax, and I didn't return any of his calls or e-mails or texts, even the birthday message, so I have no idea about his life these days.