Running Barefoot (11 page)

“Ms. Swenson sent me up to speak with Coach Judd or Coach Jasperson….Marla Painter came with me, but she left and I can’t go in there!” My voice sounded a little like a wail, and I embarrassed myself with the sudden urge to cry. I wasn’t about to tell Samuel I was here for him.

“Just a minute,” he offered helpfully, “I’ll go see if there’s someone in there.”

At that moment, Coach Jasperson accompanied Marla’s messenger out of his inner sanctum. Coach Jasperson was eating a huge tuna sandwich with potato chips smashed in between the bread. Apparently he hadn’t wanted to give up any of his lunch break to chat with me. I breathed a sigh of relief and then shuddered in dread. This was going to embarrass me and embarrass Samuel. I knew he might never forgive me, but I did it anyway. As the messenger sauntered away I began to speak.

.“Coach Jasperson, Samuel here is my
neighbor.” I gestured towards Samuel, not daring to look at him. “He wants to join the Marines when he graduates. The problem is, he doesn’t know how to swim. He needs to be in a swim class or something here at the school, working with someone who can teach him.” I was talking so fast Coach Jasperson had stopped chewing in order to keep up. “He can’t come early to school, and he can’t stay late for transportation reasons . . . so it would be a very good thing if you could make sure he gets the help he needs during school hours.” I sounded like one of those wind-up dolls, prattling along cheerfully.

I sneaked a look at Samuel. His face was like a cold, hard mask. I knew he would never speak to me again. My heart broke a little.

“I’m sure Samuel would be glad to speak to a guidance counselor to rearrange his schedule to make it work . . .” I’d done what I could do, and my voice trailed off nervously.

“The Marines, huh?” Coach Jasperson was chewing again. “I’m sure we could figure something out....it was Samuel, right? You speak English?”

I cringed. I could see why Coach Jasperson thought he might not…after all, I’d done all the talking for him.

“Yes, I speak English.” Samuel’s reply was sharp, and I heard the outrage in his voice. He was furious with me. Still, I hoped Coach Jasperson didn’t hear it and misunderstand.

“Good, good!” Coach Jasperson was too busy
enjoying his sandwich, and he missed the darts shooting from Samuel’s onyx eyes.

“Well, you and I will go see Mr. Whiting, the guidance counselor, and I will set you up with one of the guys from the swim team. I think Justin McPherson could help you during 2nd hour. He’s my aid, and I never have much for him to do. If we can free your schedule up during second hour, you should be set.”

Bless Coach Jasperson for being very helpful and a little oblivious at the same time. He put one arm around Samuel’s shoulders, pulling him along, talking to him while he licked the last of the tuna salad from his fingers. Samuel turned and looked at me over Coach Jasperson’s beefy shoulder. I bit my lip to keep from tearing up as he glared at me. He turned his head dismissively, and I left the gymnasium as quickly as I could.

I missed the bus on purpose that night, and waited until almost 5:00 that afternoon to get a ride home with Johnny after wrestling practice. I was tired and hungry and more than a little distraught. I’d finished all my homework, including a book report not due for another two weeks. I’d tried to
read but found myself too jittery to focus. I longed for my music books – at least I could have gone into the band room and practiced the piano. I’d called Sonja from the office to tell her I wouldn’t be at my lesson that afternoon. When it was finally time to go, I had to sit crammed in between Johnny and another sweaty wrestler all the way home from Nephi. I should have just taken the bus, but I couldn’t face Samuel yet.

The next day I faked sick. My dad didn’t question me too hard. In fact, he didn’t question me at all. I never faked sick, so when I said I didn’t feel well and wasn’t going, he just shrugged his shoulders, felt my head, and asked me if I needed him to stay home from work to be with me.

“Uuggh! “Please no!” I thought desperately. Then I would have to fake sick all day. I told him I would just sleep and that I would be fine all by myself. He didn’t need much convincing. I spent the day playing the piano until my back and neck ached, and my fingers kept playing even after I stopped.

At 3:30 the doorbell rang. I was back on the piano playing Fur Elise, my feet bare, wearing my favorite old jeans and the soft blue BYU sweatshirt Jared had given me for Christmas. I ran my fingers through my hair and walked to the door, expecting Tara.

Samuel stood on the porch, his hands pushed down into his pockets, his head uncovered, his silky black hair blowing in the cold January wind. He
didn’t have his backpack, so I assumed he’d gone home first. I wondered what excuse he’d made in order to come see me. My heart was pounding so hard I was sure he could see it -

“Can I talk to you for a minute?” His voice held no anger, but there was a tightness around his mouth that I hated.

I moved aside and opened the door wider, indicating he come inside. He seemed hesitant to enter, but must have realized we couldn’t sit out on the porch in the cold for very long - plus, his grandpa or someone might drive by, and explaining would be weird. People in small towns saw things and talked....if someone saw Samuel sitting on my front porch with me, tongues would start wagging, and that would not be good.

Samuel stepped inside, and I shut the door behind him. He didn’t sit down, but stood stiffly a few steps from the door. I resumed my perch on the piano seat. I curled one leg up under me and stared down at the black and white keys, waiting.

“Are you sick?” Samuel asked bluntly.

“No.” My voice was a whisper.

“Why didn’t you go to school today? And where were you yesterday after school?” His voice was flat.

I tried to speak around the giant lump in my throat and had to swallow a few times to get the words to come out. “I was afraid to see you.” He seemed surprised that I would just come right out and admit it.

“What did you think I would do?” He asked sharply.

“It’s not what you would
do
,” I answered miserably, the lump in my throat growing, choking me. “It’s how you would
act
. I can’t stand it - you being so mad at me. You looked at me yesterday like you wished I were dead, and I just couldn’t face you, knowing how much you hated me!” I folded my arms around myself, willing the pain in my heart to subside.

“I was mad…but I could never hate you.” His voice was soft, and I felt the tightness in my chest ease just enough to make breathing easier.

“I wish you hadn’t done that, but a part of me was glad that you did; I think that makes me even more ticked off - I hate it that part of me is thankful for what you did.... It’s weak to need or want someone to speak for me.” He paused for a minute and I shifted on the piano bench so that I could face him. He glared down at me, his jaw set, his eyes wet. “You can’t do that again, Josie. I don’t want you to take care of me. I know you did it because you
do
care….but don’t take my pride from me.”

“Is pride more important than friendship?” I said sadly.

“Yes!” Samuel’s voice was harsh and emphatic.

“That is so ridiculous!” I threw my arms wide in frustration.

“Josie! You are just a little girl! You don’t know how helpless and weak and stupid it made me
feel to stand there while you arranged my life like I was some kind of charity case!” Samuel fisted his hands in his hair, and growling, turned towards the door.

“I am not a little girl! I haven’t been a little girl for years…for ever! I don’t think like a little girl, I don’t act like a little girl. I don’t LOOK like a little girl, do I? Don’t you dare say I am a little girl!” I pounded down on the piano keys - playing a violent riff, reminiscent of Wagner himself. Now I knew what Sonja meant by letting out the beast! I wanted to throw something, or smash something, and scream at Samuel. He was so impossible! Such a stubborn, mule-headed jerk! I played hard for several minutes, and Samuel stood at the door, dumbfounded.

Suddenly Samuel sat down beside me on the piano bench and put his hands over the top of mine, bringing the din to a halt.

“I’m sorry, Josie,” Samuel said softly. I was crying, tears dripping down onto the keys, making them slippery. I was a terrible beast, not fierce at all - just a blubbering, baby beast. Samuel seemed at a loss. He sat very still, his hands covering mine. Slowly, his hands rose to my face and gently wiped the tears from my cheeks.

“Will you play something else?” He requested softly, his voice remorseful. “Will you play something for me...... please?”

I wiped my tears off of the piano keys with the bottom of my sweatshirt. He waited patiently
beside me, letting me regain my composure. I was still hurt and frustrated, and I didn’t understand him at all. But I had never been able to hold onto anger very long ... and I forgave him immediately, giving in with a soggy sigh.

“You know I love “Ode to Joy’ but I don’t really want to play that right now…” My voice was a little gravely from crying, and I looked up at him.

“Have you ever heard Mozart’s Piano Concerto Number 23 in A Major?”

“Ummm, I really wouldn’t know if I had.” He smiled ruefully as he looked down at me, shaking his head and wiping a stray tear from my cheek.

“It’s my favorite song . . . today.” I smiled a little. “I have different favorites on different days. But today is a Mozart day.”

His hands fell to his lap as I began playing. I plucked out the lilting melody, trilling through the notes, fingers flying though the rolling chords, coaxing every last bit of aching sweetness from the wistful concerto. How I loved this music! How it healed me and filled me and soothed me.

The last musical phrases were so soft, so faint, that Samuel leaned in to hear the very last high, clear, notes as my fingers grew still on the keys. I looked up at him then. He was staring down at my hands resting on the now silent keys.

“Play more,” Samuel urged softly. “Play the one you played at Christmas ... the second one.”

I acquiesced immediately, my heart swelling
at his response, his sincere enjoyment.

“Does it have a name?” He said reverently, when I finished.

“
Ave Maria
.” I smiled. “It’s beautiful, isn’t it? It was written by Franz Schubert. He was only 31-years-old when he died. He died completely broke, not knowing that his music would be treasured by people forever.”

“And you know this because….?” Samuel raised his eyes to mine in question.

“My piano teacher, Mrs. Grimaldi, tells me all about the composers when I play their music. She says to be a great composer, I have to love the great composers, and if I don’t know them, how can I love them?”

“Which one do you love the most?”

I giggled a little. “It’s kind of like my favorite song. It changes all the time, depending on what kind of mood I’m in. Ms. Grimaldi says I am a very mercurial musician.”

“I think I’m going to have to go look that word up.”

“The dictionary says it means active, sprightly, full of vigor.” I laughed. “I had to look it up as soon as she said it, but I think Mrs. Grimaldi meant always changing, unpredictable.”

“So who is your favorite composer today?”

“Lately, I have been enamored with Frederin Chopin.”

“Does enamored mean in love with?”

I giggled again. “More like captivated by.”

“Why are you captivated by him?”

“He
was
handsome,” I answered promptly, and felt like a silly idiot when Samuel raised his eyebrows and smirked. “But mostly it was because he wrote mainly for the piano ...more than any other composer in history. I am a pianist, so....I like that. He was also very young when he died - only 39 years old. He died of Tuberculosis. He also had a torrid love affair with a famous writer. He was filled with guilt because he never married her, and he was certain he was going to go to hell because of it. He ended their relationship before he died, trying to repent of his sinful behavior, but it’s so romantic. He was such a tragic figure.”

“So play something by Chopin,” Samuel demanded.

I had the first portion of Chopin’s
Nocturne in C Minor
memorized, and I loved the dramatic rhythm of the low - high, low - high pattern throughout the beginning. It was a moody piece, and it appealed to my romantic nature when suddenly it became sweet and melodic, full of nostalgia and tenderness. I had not memorized the incredible difficulty of the final movement, tying it all together in a triumphant and impressive finish, so I improvised a little to end it before I got there.