Eternal Heat (Firework Girls #3) (4 page)

“No!”

“Well, how is it different?”

I exhale. “Okay, maybe it’s not. But why don’t you want me to meet your parents?”

He faces back to the tree again, and says with a dull voice, “It’s my dad, mostly. He’s just kind of... hard to get used to.”

I frown. “What do you mean?”

“Well,” Erik continues, “he’s just hard in general. I don’t know. I don’t want to make you uncomfortable. And I guess I don’t want to be uncomfortable.”

Wow. Is his dad really that bad?

“I’m sorry,” he says.

He’s frowning and starting to look a little upset. I lightly bump his arm with mine. “Hey. It’s okay.”

He looks at me and I give him a smile.

He’s still frowning. “It’s really not you. I think you’re great.”

My smile broadens and I feel the heat rising to my cheeks. God I hate it when I blush! I bump him with my arm again and say, “Are we going to watch
Lost
or what?”

So we do. By the end of episode two, I’m hooked and ask for more. Somehow my head has ended up resting on his arm. I don’t mind that either. We binge watch four more episodes and only stop because we’re both starving and his battery’s nearly dead.

“Next time we need to bring snacks,” he says on our way back down the Greenbelt.

“Definitely,” I say, pleased that he’s already talking about a next time.

When we get to the bridge, I slow my steps so it’s easier to stop at the top. He follows my lead and we lean on the rail, looking at the river stretching away from us. His arm is pressed against mine, shoulder to elbow. Still looking at the water, he bumps me gently with his hip. I smile and bump him back.

We look at each other, both grinning. Our eyes lock in a way they haven’t before. My heart is pounding more than it ever has around him, because I think he’s going to kiss me. I hold his eyes because I want him to. Then just like that, like it’s the easiest thing in the world, Erik Williams leans in and gives me a kiss. His lips are so soft on mine, I think I’m going to float away over the river. This is nothing like the awkward kiss Bernie Shepherd gave me.

Erik pulls away slowly. We both smile at each other and I look down at the river, blushing. I feel silly, like a little kid, but also amazing, like something big inside me is different now. Still smiling, I glance at him. His eyes are still on me and he’s giving me a look that makes me feel weak. I want to kiss him again, but I’m not sure how to manage it. Still smiling, I hold his eyes and lean in the tiniest bit. It turns out that’s all it takes.

His lips press against mine again. I love him this close to me. This time his fingertips just barely brush the underside of my jaw. I think my knees are going to give out. Part of me wants to keep going, but the other part of me feels a little relieved when he pulls away. I think this is all I can handle for the moment.

This is definitely nothing like kissing Bernie. By comparison, Bernie and I were kids playing at something. But with Erik, everything feels more real.

“Come on,” he says gently, nudging me with his shoulder. He pulls my hand into his and we take our time going back.

I didn’t get to see him Sunday—his family actually had plans—but we’ve finally exchanged numbers, so we’ve texted plenty. I offered some speculation on the future of Sun and Jin in
Lost
, but he wouldn’t say if I was right or not. We also discussed which song he should teach me first and finally settled on a sonata by Clementi. After a brief kiss when I showed up at his house today after school, we got straight to it. He already had the sheet music on the piano, waiting for me.

“This is different from the one I saw,” I say as we settle next to each other on the bench.

“I got you your own copy so you could make your own notes on it.”

I roll my eyes. “Well that defeats the whole purpose of borrowing what you have here.”

He shrugs. “Go ahead and run through it, then we can talk about it.”

He’s taking on what I imagine to be the demeanor of a piano teacher starting a lesson. It’s adorable. Also, pretty exciting. I want to learn whatever he’s willing to teach me.

I turn my attention to the sheet music and do what I usually do before starting on a brand new piece. I keep my hands on my lap and run my eyes along the music. I keep proper time, hearing the music in my head as I go along, and imagine my fingers playing the chords. When I get to the end, I take a deep breath, place my fingers on the keys (God, I’m still so in love with this piano), and play what I just heard in my head.

It always sounds so much better in real life. Imagining it in my mind is one thing, but when the music is really here it’s like it’s been set free and wants to climb to the rafters. And these rafters are a lot higher than the music room at school! I’m still not done drooling over how much better the acoustics are in this house.

Even though I’m deep in the rabbit hole of the music, as I run over the places I know I could play better with practice, or differently now that I’ve tried it once and think I know a better way, I mentally make note of them like I always do. I’ll ask Erik about those places first. I’m not as polished as he is, I can hear that clearly. I want to try to learn what he knows.

When I finish the song and emerge back in the real world, I can’t help clasping my hands to my chest. “Good choice!” I say. “I love the little flourishes in the middle. Right here,” I put my finger to the place and smile. I’m still all tingly from the music.

I turn to him, grinning, but he’s scrutinizing me with a serious expression.

Uh oh.
“Was it that bad?”

He doesn’t answer me. His expression doesn’t change at all. “Are you messing with me?”

“Huh?”

But he doesn’t answer. Instead he gets off the bench and goes to the bookcase behind us. After only a moment’s consideration, he pulls a book off the shelf and opens it up, flipping the pages sharply. I want to ask him what’s wrong, but I’m afraid to know. Instead I watch him and fidget with the end of my braid and try not to flinch when he sits down and puts the open book in front of me.

“Ever play this?” he asks, pointing.

I read the title. I don’t recognize the piece but I don’t answer right away. Instead I go over several measures to make sure I don’t know the tune. “No,” I say.

Something’s wrong, but I don’t know what.

“Go ahead then,” he says. He doesn’t sound angry. More like... determined.

For a brief moment I consider saying no. I don’t know what’s going on. I don’t know that I want to play. If he’s picking my playing apart, well then why doesn’t he help me? I can hear the difference in our playing, but how am I supposed to know how to make it better without help? It’s been a long time since I’ve had anyone around to tell me what I need to fix. It’s not like that’s my fault.

But I focus on the sheet music in front of me anyway. I go over it mentally first, starting back at the beginning. The whole time, I sense him watching me. Why is he watching me like that?

When I finish my reading I almost say I won’t play until he tells me what’s wrong, but the song I just read is lilting around in my head and my fingers are itching to bring it to life.

It occurs to me this may be the last time I ever play his piano, and that’s what gets me moving more than anything. I want to hear this song on this piano. I may not be trained like he is, but I know enough to know the piano at school won’t do this song justice.

So I play. And before I fall into the hole the music always creates, I think,
screw him
, because if he’s not going to help me or if he’s going to send me home, then I’m going to play it how I like it. Eyes glued to the sheet music, I follow along and bid my fingers to do their part and the song swells inside me. I run through a set of measures so goddamned amazing to play, I’d stop and play them again just for fun if I were alone, but I keep going.

It’s over too quickly, and when it is, I’ve never in my life felt more vulnerable in front of another person as I do now. Because I know it’s not how it would sound if he were the one playing it. Besides that, I’m not going to play anymore songs until he tells me what’s wrong, and maybe once he tells me what’s wrong I still won’t want to play.

I turn to him, matching his frown with one of my own. “Okay, what?” I demand.

He blinks at me.

I exhale forcefully. “You’re kind of freaking me out. Would you just spit it out already?”

“You really never played that before.” He says it like a statement, not a question.

I answer anyway. “No. Obviously.”

“You
swear?
You’re not messing around with me?”

“Erik, will you please tell me what’s wrong?”

He breaks out into a smile. Then he starts laughing a little. Then he starts laughing a lot.

“What?” I say, still irritated and more confused than ever.

“You’re a freaking prodigy or something and you’re, like, completely clueless about it.”

I can’t say why, but I feel slapped. My face is getting hot and not because he’s cute. He continues to laugh, but I’m scowling. “Stop,” I say quietly.

“How are you even doing that?” he says, apparently not hearing me. “That was fucking
amazing
.”

I’m not an idiot. I know my playing isn’t up to snuff. I don’t play like he can. So why is he acting like this? “Cut it out,” I say, hopping off the bench and pacing away from him, folding my arms. I’m rewarded with the view of the green and the pond, but I’m too angry to enjoy it. He’s the one messing with me, and it’s not funny.

“Hey,” he says softer now, just a trace of lingering laughter on his voice. “What’s wrong?”

“What’s wrong?” I say, spinning, arms still crossed. His smile disappears as he takes in my fuming expression. “What the hell was all that?” I say, gesturing to the music.

He blinks in surprise. I thought he was playing a game with me, but now that I see the confusion on his face, I’m not so sure. I don’t know what’s going on. We stare at one another a moment. Some of the hardness between us slowly softens, but I’m still guarded. I still don’t know what just happened.

“Hey,” he says quietly, raising his hands in surrender and slowly sliding off the bench toward me. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to make you mad.”

“I’m not mad,” I say, but my arms are still crossed. I know I’m lying.

He stops half way between me and the piano. “I’m sorry I...” he says softly, then stops. “Maybe you don’t know this, but you’re pretty amazing in the sight reading department.”

I’m still frowning, but my arms slowly unfold and come to my side.

“Sorry, I thought you were tricking me or something,” he continues. “Most people can’t read like that. There are a few pianists in the professional world who are known for being able to sit down and sight-read well enough to be concert ready, but most of us have to actually practice. We have to get familiar with it to play it well all the way through.”

I shrug. I still don’t think I get it. “Aren’t you supposed to be able to read music?” God, the hours I spent training my fingers to follow along. Was that stupid? Is that not how people do it?

“Sure. You’re just crazy good at it.”

I still feel kind of weird. I wish this hadn’t happened. I’m not even sure why.

He comes to me and puts one hand on my shoulder. “Hey,” he says softly. “It’s a good thing. Okay?”

It’s not until this moment that I realize that what I thought was anger inside of me, was really fear. My mom says there’s usually a softer emotion hiding under anger’s fierceness, but I don’t want to talk about any of this anymore.

“Look... can we just... play?” I say. “I thought you were going to teach me some stuff.”

“Yeah,” he says, squeezing my shoulder gently and dropping his hand. “I can teach you some things.”

“Okay,” I say, trying to let my earlier panic slide away. “That’s better. Cuz you said you would.”

He smiles at me and I give him a half smile back.

“I will,” he says. “Come on.”

We get to work and it doesn’t take long for the tension of our argument, or whatever it was, to slide away. Soon, we’re back to having fun. Even though I don’t have anything to compare it to, I think he’s a good teacher.

After a couple times through the song, he takes a chance and leans over to kiss me. I willingly kiss him back. We lose our focus a bit after that, and have difficulty making it all the way through a song without kissing each other. Finally we give up altogether and end up moving our practice session to the couch.

A few weeks later, it’s Movie Night again. Tonight’s pick is from our own collection—
Freedom Writers
—and this time, Erik’s joined us. He’s been to my house for dinner a couple of times, but this is the first time he came for the movie. I’m amazed at how easily he’s fit in with my family. My mom loves him and he gets along well with my dad. It doesn’t hurt that Erik has sense enough to keep a respectable distance between us when we’re with my parents. My dad keeps an eagle eye on us anyway. Only my mom knows Erik and I have kissed, but even she thinks there’s been nothing more than a peck goodbye at the end of our dates. Or maybe she’s feigning ignorance for my sake, because part of me thinks she has to know better.

I still haven’t met Erik’s parents. Given what he’s told me about them, I’m not in much of a hurry. They sound kind of intense.

Erik and I are sitting next to each other on the couch, not touching, and my dad is on the other side of me. He’s wearing his beat up jeans and petting the cat, Missy, who’s crawled up onto his chest. Missy is technically mine, but she really only likes my dad. She follows him around and gets under his feet until he’s tripping over her gray, furry body and cursing that we should’ve bought a dog. But the fact that he lets her lay all over him betrays his true feelings.

My mom is sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of my dad, her flowing skirt in a puddle around her. She’s wearing a bold-patterned top, her long, straight hair hangs past her shoulders, and she has no makeup on other than some lip stick. When Erik first met her, he said she looked like a hippie, which sounds about right. My mother was named after Susan B. Anthony. When I was a child and first learned about such a thing as feminism and women’s rights, I couldn’t quite wrap my brain around it. It had never occurred to me that I might be denied something simply for being a girl. I think my mom is the reason why. She’s sort of quietly larger than life, my mom.

As the credits roll, we slowly start to shift in our seats and stretch our legs. “Ah,” Mom says, getting to her feet and going to our old combo DVD/VCR player. “Such a good film. And an important one.”
Freedom Writers
is a true story about a teacher finding a way to reach students at a tough high school in LA. “What do you think would happen if all students in situations like that were given hope and a voice?”

“There’d be a lot less violence,” I say. Too often, violence is borne of the desperation and hopelessness consuming otherwise decent people. I wonder, not for the first time, what I would be like if I were raised in the darkest pockets of the inner city like the kids in the movie. Who would I be? It makes me grateful for what I have, such as it is. I wonder what Erik thinks about it. He’s even further removed from the inner city than I am.