Chuckie wiggled his fat fingers at me in a wave. I waved back. “ “Have you heard anything about our mother?” I asked as I spread a napkin over my lap.
Mr. Luther didn’t answer right away. Setting Chuckie on the counter, he cracked two eggs into a skillet. “When Margie left her last night, your mother was resting comfortably.” He smiled across the breakfast bar at me. “I’m sur
e Margie will have more to tell you when she gets up. Any sign of life from Jazz?”
“She was breathing,” I said.
“Rats.” He held up a palm. “Just kidding.” He didn’t smile like he was kidding.
“What’s everyone doing up at the crack of dawn?” Jazz appeared in the doorway, rubbing her eyes. Her smeared black eyes. Grousing, she sank into a chair across from me.
“Good morning,” her father said.
Jazz’s forehead crunched the table.
“Breakfast?” he asked her as he set a heaping plate in front of me. Besides the scrambled eggs, there were three strips of bacon, a slice of ham, a blueberry muffin, and a pile of hash-brown potatoes. For a second I just stared. And drooled.
“Coffee,” Jazz muttered.
Mr. Luther sighed. “Antonia, would you like coffee too?”
“Uh, sure.”
Michael widened his eyes at me. I widened mine back. “Me too,” he said.
Mr. Luther chuckled. He poured us all cups of coffee. With lots of cream.
“Make mine a double espresso,” Mrs. Luther said. She sort of floated into the room on a breeze, her lacy blue robe billowing out behind her. “What a night.” She squeezed my shoulder on her way past.
“And who is this little elf?” Mrs. Luther paused in front of Chuckie. “I don’t believe we were properly introduced.” She tickled his ribs.
“I’m Chuckie,” he said in a giggle.
“Nice to meet you, Chuckie.” She shook his pudgy hand.
Chuckie beamed. “Nithe to meet you, too.”
Taking her cup from her husband, she said, “You all have such beautiful manners. Don’t they, Jasmine?” She sat down next to Jazz.
Jazz grumbled.
“Aren’t you eating breakfast?” her mother asked.
Jazz made a gagging sound.
“Yes, she is.” Mr. Luther set a heaping plate in front of her. She shoved it away.
“Jasmine!” he snapped. “Sit up and eat. Act like a human being. We have guests, for chris’sakes.”
With a heavy sigh, Jazz straightened herself. Sighing again, she snatched the muffin off her plate and snarled, “Pass the butter. Pleeease.”
Mrs. Luther turned to me. “Dr. Vargas, my doctor friend, admitted your mother to St. Joseph’s last night. She was resting comfortably when I left. After she’s feeling a little better, he wants to do a psychiatric workup on her.”
“She’s not crazy!” Michael cried.
“Of course she isn’t.” Mrs. Luther reached over and patted Michael’s hand.
He recoiled. “She’s just scared,” he mumbled.
“Of course she is. And so are you.”
I met Mrs. Luther’s eyes and swallowed hard. “Can we see her?” I asked. My voice wavered. Hold it together, Antonia, my brain commanded.
Mrs. Luther smiled. “Give her a couple of days. Let’s get her back on her feet. I’m sure she wouldn’t want you to see her like this.”
Like what? I wanted to say. We’ve been living with her like this our whole lives. Well, not our whole lives. She hadn’t always been this bad.
My head sank slowly. I wondered if I’d ever see her again. And if I cared. What? I couldn’t believe I was thinking that. I was such a horrible person.
“Antonia?” Mrs. Luther cocked her head at me. “What are you thinking, dear?”
“Mother, please,” Jazz cut in. “You’re not her psychiatrist.” She made a face at me, then grinned. “I am.”
I had to smile. Yeah, right.
Michael asked the question that was on my mind. “What’s going to happen to
us?”
“Well, now.” Mrs. Luther exhaled. She took a bite of bacon. Brushing off her fingertips, she said, “We really should try to get hold of your father.” She lifted her cup and arched her eyebrows at me.
I swallowed hard. “That … could be a problem.”
“Why, dear?”
My cheeks flared. I stared blindly at my eggs.
Jazz said, “Because he’s dead. God, Mother. You’re so dense.”
Mrs. Luther’s lips grew taut. Then she turned empathetic eyes on me. “Is that true?”
Michael’s eyes locked on to mine. A silent agreement passed between us.
I nodded. It wasn’t, but it seemed easier than the truth.
“
I
“m sorry I just blurted it out like that,” Jazz said. We were back in her room, listening to music. At least, Jazz was. I busied myself making her bed. When she looked over at me for a response, I pretended to tuck my pillow in tighter. Jazz turned up the volume on her CD player. She’d picked out a heavy metal band, which I usually despise. Except now the crashing and bashing drowned out my thoughts. It was soothing, in a weird way The words were so angry. “Hurt me, baby. Slash me. Burn me.” I could really relate to them.
Sitting in front of her lighted vanity mirror, Jazz worked on her makeup. She twirled around on the little stool and tossed me the tube of black lipstick.
Perching on the edge of her bed behind her, I rolled the tube around in my hand.
She said, “If your mom’s not working right now, how do you eat and stuff?” She gasped, covering her mouth with her hand. “You don’t have a job after school, do you?”
“No,” I answered, although I’d been thinking about it. “We have money.” The check Mom got every month. Come to think of it, I hadn’t seen the check these last couple of months. Maybe that’s why Mom was using my college money. Which wouldn’t last forever. “Not as much money as you,” I added.
Jazz clucked and whirled back around on the stool.
I fiddled with the lipstick tube and decided not to use it. Carefully I replaced the tube on the vanity next to about a hundred others.
Jazz shot up. “C’mon, get dressed.” She yanked me up off the bed.
“I am dressed.”
“Then get undressed.”
“What?”
“I’ll give you another swimming lesson.”
That seemed a worthwhile way to spend a Sunday. Better than what I usually did, which was laundry and housework and homework—“Yikes! I need to go pick up my homework.”
Jazz made a face.
“I mean, so I can do it later.”
She smiled and slung a swimsuit at me.
The Luthers invited us to stay again Sunday night, which was a relief since I didn’t know what else we’d do. I figured there were laws against kids living alone. Even though that’s essentially what we’d been doing for the last six months.
When Mrs. Luther dropped me off to get my homework, I grabbed some clean clothes for the boys. I knew Chuckie’d need extra underwear, too. I packed a couple of blouses that I could wear with my skirt, even though they needed ironing. Everything did.
Sunday afternoon, Jazz had a piano lesson. “My teacher is Gregoire St. Jacques,” she told me. “Isn’t that romantic?” I was still trying to picture Jazz playing the piano. “Gregoire St. Jacques,” Jazz breathed. She pronounced it
San Shock.
It was romantic.
She added, “I’d give up the piano altogether if it wasn’t for Gregoire. He understands me. Like he says, “Muzeek comes from ze heart.’ “ Her eyes gleamed. “You probably can’t tell I’m deeply in love with Gregoire.”
My eyes widened at her and she laughed. Then she threatened me with a fist. “Don’t you dare tell him.”
“Gregoire and I never discuss you,” I said, getting out my history homework.
Jazz whapped me. The doorbell chimed and she leapt off the bed. Fluffing her hair in the vanity mirror, she rechecked her lipstick. Perfectly purple.
“You’d better stay here,” Jazz said. “Gregoire doesn’t allow other people around during my lesson. Not even my mother.” She grinned. “Another reason why I love him.” She sprinted to the end of the hall, stopped, inhaled deeply, and sauntered casually down the stairs.
Following her instructions, I got up and closed the door. As I returned to the desk, I sighed. If I had a desk this big, I’d get my work done in half the time. If I had a desk at all …
I barely had time to review the introduction on pre-Columbian civilizations before the sound struck. A chord. Then a scale. Up and down, up and down. The notes swirled through the air; they beckoned me.
That, and my curiosity. What kind of person was Gregoire San Shock?
Jazz’s door opened without a squeak. As I sneaked down the stairs, the trill of another scale swept up to meet me. Like a tidal wave, it swelled from the baby grand in the living room and rolled up the staircase. Even though Jazz was only warming up, the music was breathtaking.
Gregoire stood behind Jazz, conducting with his left hand as if she were an orchestra. Which, to my ears, she was. Gregoire was tall and thin. He had blond shaggy hair, which he wore in a ponytail. It didn’t cover his bald spot. I only noticed the shiny circle on his head because I was hovering over him, hunched down behind the stair railing.
“Let us play the polonaise,” Gregoire said in this exotic French accent.
Jazz groaned. “I hate the polonaise. Let’s jam.” Her fingers trilled the keys and she spun around on the piano stool.
Gregoire just looked at her.
She huffed. “God, I was just joking around.”
“You do not have time to joke around. The Chopin competition is next Saturday. All three pieces must be perfect. Be serious now, Jazz. You can win this thing, you know.”
“I am going to win it,” she said defiantly. “I’m the best. You said so yourself.”
“That was my first mistake.” He grinned at her. Deep dimples dented his cheeks.
I could see why she was in love with him. I think I was, too.
“Play!” he ordered.
And she did. Gloriously. My jaw came unhinged.
Awesome
was the only word to describe her playing. She had a God-given talent. I closed my eyes to listen. It was so moving, so consuming, that I didn’t notice the stirring beside me. When I opened my eyes, Michael and Chuckie had crouched down next to me.
“Wow,” Michael breathed.
I nodded. That’s all you could say. Chuckie just sat there, mesmerized. We were all mesmerized. We settled in on the stairs like the Three Stooges, listening to Jazz’s entire piano lesson.
At the end, I hustled the boys back upstairs to the game room. Downstairs I heard Gregoire say, “The mazurka and concerto are perfect, Jazz. But the polonaise is not. It does not come from here.” He fisted his heart.
Jazz looked crushed. “I’ll work on it,” she said. “I promise. I won’t let you down.”
He gathered up his things and headed for the door. Before leaving, he turned and said, “It’s not me you will be letting down.” His eyes strayed up to the balustrade and met mine.
My face flared. Quickly I backed away and slipped into Jazz’s room.
A minute later she tromped in. “Your mother was right,” I said from the desk. “You are an extremely talented pianist.”
She clenched the doorknob. “You heard me?”
“We all heard you. God in heaven heard you.”
“Did She?” To the vaulted ceiling, Jazz performed a sweeping bow. “I hope You enjoyed the show.” She smirked. Sprawling across the bed, she hugged a pillow to her chest and said, “So, what’d you think of Gregoire?”
“As they say in France,” I replied, “ooh-la-la.”
Jazz squealed and tossed the pillow at me.
I fended it off with a forearm. “What are you practicing for? A competition?”
“A young artists’ Chopin competition. And a recital next month. Oh, and, Tone, do me a favor.” She sat up, looking serious. “Don’t tell Animal or Ram or Eeks about the piano.”
I frowned. “Why not?”
She shrugged. “They’d think it was, you know.” She wrinkled her nose.
“Normal?” I ventured.
“Nerdy,” she countered. “I mean, classical music?” She made her psycho face. “And look at this.” She rolled off the bed and hurried to the closet. Riffling through a rack of clothes, she yanked something out of the back.
“This
is what my mother expects me to wear to the Chopin competition.” She held up a dress on a hanger.
I gasped. It was gorgeous. Lush blue velvet with a wide white satin sash.
“It’s hideous, isn’t it?” Jazz hung it back up.
I didn’t say what I was thinking. Wishing, praying. That if she didn’t want the dress, would she please give it to me?
M
onday morning Mr. Luther dropped us off at school on his way to work. “You think we could do peer counseling today?” Jazz asked, glancing back over her shoulder as her father drove away. “I might not be here on Wednesday.”
“Uh, sure,” I said. “Where’re you going Wednesday?”
Jazz pulled out her makeup kit and began her transformation. “I might be ditching the rest of the week. I really need to practice that polonaise.”
Someone called, “Yo, Jazz.”
She whipped her head around. “Later,” she said to me as she loped off toward the science wing.
Good, I thought. That solved one problem. I didn’t really want to be seen with Jazz. People would talk. “Like who?” I muttered. “All your friends?” Still, there was my reputation to consider.
At our afternoon peer counseling session, Jazz started off by saying, “Your brothers are so sweet. It must be really fun to have them around.”
“Fun?” I scoffed. “They’re a pain.”
“Really?”
I just looked at her. “Not Chuckie. He’s okay, but Michael’s a brat. A brat and a half.”
She pursed her purple lips. “He does seem kind of angry.”
“That’s an understatement. He’d kill the world if he could.”
“Why?”
I took a deep breath. “Don’t ask me. I’m not a child psychologist.”
“You’re not?” She looked shocked. “But DiLeo said you were. I want my money back.”
I sneered.
Jazz flung off her boots and climbed up onto the table. “Tell me about your mom,” she said. “What happened to her?”
I folded my hands on the table and looked up at Jazz. She sat lotus style, facing me. “I have a better idea,” I said. “You tell me about your mom.”
She stared over my head, trancelike. “What about her? Ohmmm,” she chanted.