“They didn’t care,” she mumbled.
Not only did she look like death, she acted it. “You’re still holding out, aren’t you?”
Her shoulders shrugged.
“Jazz.” I touched her arm. “I think they’ve suffered enough. Don’t you?”
She raised her head slowly, as if it were weighed down by lead, and sat up in her seat. Her mascara was smeared. It was obvious she’d been crying.
“Are you okay?” I said.
“Yeah,” she replied. “It’s just …” She shook her head. “My mom and I had a big fight.” She rolled her eyes. “So what else is new? She said if I’m not going to play, they’re going to sell the piano. My piano.” Her voice rose. “They have no right.” Tears welled in her eyes.
“Jazz, can’t you just—”
Her glare cut me short.
“Can’t you play when they’re not home?”
“That’s the problem.” She swiped her nose with the back of her hand. “They’re always home. At least,
she
is. Couldn’t she get a job or something? Check into a psych ward—” Jazz blanched. “Oh, God.” She clapped a hand over her mouth. “I’m sorry, Antonia.”
“That’s okay.” I smiled. At least Jazz was back to joking around.
“Have you seen your mom again?” she asked suddenly.
“No.” I shook my head. “I can’t. I—” Couldn’t even say it.
“Can’t handle it?” Jazz offered.
I looked at her.
“I know I couldn’t. All that stuff you told me about the psych—I mean, the hospital. It’s giving me bad dreams.”
“Me too,” I said.
“If it were me,” she went on, “I’d be scared shitless to go back there.”
“I am! Not just the place—what if she’s worse? What if she never gets better? What if we have to live in foster homes the rest of our lives?”
“You won’t.” Jazz reached out and touched me. “I promise. Everything will work out fine.”
“Where have I heard
that
before?” I muttered.
“My mother?”
We both snorted. For some reason, I felt a hundred percent better. “I wish I could help you with your mother.”
“Could you dig up some evidence that I was switched at birth?” she said.
I laughed.
She sighed. “You wouldn’t happen to have a piano on you.”
“Let me check.” I searched in my backpack. “Sorry, no.”
“Then there isn’t anything you can do. There isn’t anything anyone can do.”
“Maybe I could talk to your mom—”
“No!” Jazz barked. “God, no. This is between me and her. It’s my life. I have to be able to do what I want.”
“But you’re not,” I said.
She just looked at me, and slumped over again.
That night as I lay in bed, I couldn’t get Jazz out of my mind. The rift between her and her mother had only grown since I’d been counseling her. If that’s what I was supposed to help Jazz with, I was a complete and utter failure.
But that didn’t bother me as much as how unhappy Jazz was. She’d given up the one thing she loved most in the world. Her music.
Expression meant everything to Jazz. All you had to do was look at her to know that was true. And Jazz’s music was the way she expressed the person she was inside — a passionate, strong, joyful person. Whenever I was with her, she made me feel that way. Which, I suddenly realized, was why I liked being around her.
Jazz was also the most stubborn person I’d ever met. Or proudest. She’d never give in to her mother now. She couldn’t.
Lying on Yolanda’s bed, staring at a greased-up guy on a poster, I wished there were some way I could get Jazz playing again. Some way to bring her music back to her.
You wouldn’t happen to have a piano on you.
Jazz’s plea repeated in my mind.
I shot bolt upright in bed. That was it!
“
M
rs. Thornberg said we could use the piano in here during fifth period,” I told Jazz. “There aren’t any orchestra or play rehearsals right now.” Pulling open the double doors to the school auditorium, I kicked down the doorstop and shoved Jazz in.
She shrank back against the far wall. “I told you I gave up the piano.”
“Yeah, I know what you told me.” I held up two fingers right in front of her face. “Come on.”
I led her down the center aisle to the stage. On the side wall was a panel of light switches, and I flicked them all on. In a blinding flash, the stage illuminated. The whole auditorium lit up.
An old upright piano stood silhouetted against a black backdrop. Jazz wandered over to it. “You think I’m going to play this crappy thing?” She folded her arms in disgust.
“I asked Mrs. Thornberg to order a baby grand for you. It’s on the truck.”
Jazz sneered.
“Give me a hand,” I said. “Let’s move it out.” I positioned myself behind the monster and pushed. It didn’t budge. “Help me!” I ordered her.
She snapped to attention. “Geez, have a hemorrhage.” Heaving and grunting, we rolled the beast to center stage. I went back for the piano bench. Shoving it under her rear, I said, “Okay, play.”
“I told you—”
I clapped hands over my ears. “I can’t hear you.”
She met my eyes and held them. I lowered my hands. “You said you had the polonaise down perfect. I don’t believe you.”
“What?” Her eyes narrowed.
“Prove it,” I said.
She frowned at me. But she turned and eyed the keyboard. Lightly she ran her fingers over the keys. A shaky breath escaped her lips.
“Go ahead,” I said softly over her shoulder.
She stretched her fingers. Without warning, her hands attacked the keyboard. An explosion of sound erupted from the piano. The music reverberated in the empty auditorium, echoing off the walls, the ceiling, the seats. Slowly I backed away, down the stairs and off the stage. I slid into a seat in the front row.
Jazz was transformed as she rocked and swayed to the rhythm of her music. Her eyes closed and stayed closed as her fingers pounded up and down the keyboard. Suddenly the music stopped. “Shit,” Jazz muttered. “I did it again.”
With a determined look on her face, she hit the keys. She played the same passage, then stopped. Her hands fell to her lap and her head lolled backward.
“You’re out of practice,” I called up to her. “It’ll come back.”
“It’s not that,” she said in a small voice. Her head fell forward. She squeezed her eyes shut, as if holding back tears. “I never want to play that polonaise again.”
I understood. Even though it was beautiful music, it was painful for her. Associated with bad memories. Sort of like the smell of bacon for me. “Then play the piece you were listening to before. The minuet.”
Jazz turned slowly and smiled at me. “The Bach.” She raised her fingers over the keys. All at once her hands were dancing, filling the void with music. It was so joyful, so uplifting. A lump lodged in my throat.
What I wouldn’t give to have a talent like that. Even a passion. For something. Anything. Like the way I used to feel about gymnastics. Or math. Maybe I had a hidden talent, somewhere down deep. Something I hadn’t discovered yet, or let discover me.
The music ended and Jazz sagged forward on the bench. I jumped to my feet, clapping. Behind me, applause echoed down the aisle. Jazz and I both whipped around. Standing in the double doorway were a few people from the front office. Behind them, clapping and whistling, were two of Jazz’s punky pals.
Jazz screeched back the bench and shot out of there. “Jazz, wait!” I cried. But she was gone.
I didn’t see Jazz the next day and she never showed for our regular Friday peer counseling session. I sat there for twenty-five minutes, then got mad and left. So she hated me for exposing her to her friends. I could understand that. Even though it wasn’t my fault. Is that what she thought? That I’d arranged for those guys to be there? That I’d tricked her into performing?
It bothered me all afternoon that Jazz might think I’d set her up. I couldn’t even finish my lasagna at dinner. “Are you all right, Antonia?” Luis asked. “Last time Tillie made lasagna, you ate like a horse.”
“I guess I’m just not hungry. It’s delicious, though.” I didn’t want to hurt Tillie’s feelings. “Maybe you could save it for me. May I please be excused?”
Tillie said, “Sure. I’ll put your dinner in the fridge, in case you want a midnight snack.” She smiled.
I forced a smile back. At the door I twisted around. “Would it be all right if I used your phone again? I won’t talk long.”
Tillie flapped a hand at me. “Gab as long as you—”
I raced to the den and dialed Jazz’s number. It rang once, twice. “Hello?” a man answered.
It startled me. “Uh, hello, Mr. Luther? Is Jazz there?”
“Who’s this?”
“It’s Antonia Dillon.” My voice cracked.
“Antonia, hello,” he said, a little less ominously.
I cleared my throat. “I know Jazz is grounded, but I really need to talk to her. It’ll just take a minute.”
He hesitated. “Don’t tell Margie, okay? She’ll exile me to the guest room for a month.”
I let out a short laugh. “I won’t. I promise.”
A few minutes later I heard a click and the faint sound of breathing. “Are you there, Jazz?” Mr. Luther asked.
“No, it’s your guilty conscience speaking.”
He sighed. “I’m hanging up.” Another click sounded.
“So?” Jazz said flatly.
“Listen to me,” I said quickly. “I didn’t plan for those guys to be there in the auditorium. They must’ve seen the crowd or heard you playing and come in to listen.”
She didn’t respond. In the background heavy metal music blasted away. “Just a minute,” Jazz said. The volume lowered and she came back on. “God, that piano is so out of tune. I sounded awful.”
“Awful? You were awesome.”
“Yeah, right,” she muttered.
“Didn’t you hear them clapping? They loved it. They thought you were fantastic.”
“They were whistling. They thought I was a geek,” she said.
“They know better. Don’t they?”
She snorted. In a smaller voice, she said, “I feel so guilty, like a criminal. They keep asking me why I’m in such a bad mood and I can’t tell them. They know I’m hiding something. They think I don’t trust them.”
“I don’t see why you can’t tell them. What kinds of friends are they if they can’t accept the real you?”
I guess she didn’t have an answer for that. After a long silence, she said, “That piano hasn’t been tuned since it was made. Middle C sticks. The pedals don’t work. Good thing Bach’s dead. If he heard me play his Minuet in G like that, he’d have killed himself.”
So that was it. Besides her secret being revealed, she was afraid her performance had been less than perfect. I understood. It was the same way I felt about homework assignments. They had to be perfect. Not that I felt a passion for homework; that’d be stupid.
“I wouldn’t worry too much about the piano,” I told her. “They were all watching you. Believe me, you were sensational.”
“They weren’t supposed to be watching me,” she snarled. “They were supposed to be experiencing the music.”
“They were. At least I was. Everyone else might’ve been surprised to see who was playing it. No offense.”
She didn’t say anything.
“Jazz, I didn’t mean—”
“I know what you meant,” she broke in. After a slight hesitation, she said softly, “Can we do it again Monday? After we talk?”
“That was the plan,” I said.
“Uh-oh. I just heard my mom on the stairs. I better go. Tone? I mean, Antonia?”
“Yeah?”
“Thank you,” she said, and hung up.
F
rom the end of the hall I could see Jazz standing outside the conference room door, stretching her fingers and shaking out her hands.
“Jazz,” I called to her. “Let’s just go to the auditorium. We don’t need to talk today.”
She rushed up to me. “Are you sure?” The color had returned to her face and her eyes gleamed again. She was psyched.
So was I. “Yes, I’m sure. Come on.” I had my reason for not wanting to meet officially, but she didn’t need to know.
At the auditorium door Jazz blocked my entrance. “I have to tell you something, Tone. Antonia. Geez!” She smacked her own head. “I keep thinking about this and” —holding my eyes, she finished—’I think what your dad did really stinks. Abandoning you guys like that. Ram’s dad’s a bastard, too, but at least he calls once in a while.”
My face flared. “You told Ram about my dad?”
Jazz’s jaw dropped. “Of course not. That’d break the oath of confidentiality. Not to mention, I might get fired.”
“From what?”
Jazz opened her mouth to answer, then shut it. A couple of teachers emerged from the copy room and headed our way. “Oops.” Jazz yanked open the door and shoved me in. “You don’t want to get a bad rep for hanging with me.”
I clucked. Brushing by her, I said, “I can hang with anyone I want.”
“Ooh.” Jazz widened her eyes. She made sure to shut the door behind us. “Look out, world. I’ve created a monster.”
I twisted around. “Maybe I already was one. Like you said, bad and bode.”
Jazz snorted.
As we scurried down the center aisle, I added, “My dad isn’t a bastard. Well, okay, he is. But I can sort of understand why he left. He just couldn’t take it anymore.”
“Couldn’t take what?” We’d reached the stage and I flicked on the lights. Jazz didn’t race to the piano, the way I expected. She stalled at the bottom of the stairs, waiting for me to answer.
“Mom,” I said. “And us, too.” My hollow voice echoed in the closed hall. “Go on.” I waved her off. “We don’t have that much time.”
She didn’t move. “Maybe we should talk today.”
“We’ll talk Wednesday. Now go. Dazzle me with your brilliance.”
She took the stairs two at a time. As I resumed my seat in front, I called up to her, “What are you going to play?”
“I don’t know.” She scraped back the bench. “I was going to sneak out some sheet music this morning, but Mom was hanging around the piano. I don’t know what she was doing; she can’t even play “Chopsticks.’ She was just sitting on the bench, staring. Probably at her own reflection. Anyway, the only things I have totally memorized are the Chopin and the pieces I was going to play for my recital.”
“Play what you were going to play for the recital,” I said.