The View from the Top (4 page)

Tobin shut off his headlights but stayed in the still-running van, pushing his thumbs through holes in the sleeves of his hoodie and drumming them against the steering wheel. A chorus of crickets chirped all around him. If he listened carefully he could hear one that stood out—offbeat but still part of the group somehow. The soloist in the choir.

“So are you gonna join me or what?” Anabelle asked. She sounded annoyed.

“Oh. Right, yeah, of course.” God, why was he so retarded when it came to girls? Or, girl, really. Anabelle was the only one who turned him into such an idiot. “I was, uh, just getting something.” He reached into the glove compartment and pulled out a tape labeled FOR ANNABELLE.

Tobin loved the rattly feeling of a cassette tape in his hands. Cassettes were old-school and romantic. You could record onto them and practice from them and play them in your parents' beat-up cars. And he knew that Anabelle felt the same way. It was the first thing they'd ever bonded over.

Before this moment, here's how Tobin had imagined the handoff of the FOR ANNABELLE tape going down: He'd be saying goodbye to her after having not talked to her enough at the party. Then he'd pull the tape out of his pocket, push it into her hands, and kind of run away like the nervous freak that he was. Never in a million years did he think he'd be able to share this tape with her, live and in-person—to actually see her reaction to it.

Okay, here goes,
Tobin thought. His hand quivered slightly as he popped the cassette into the stereo and pressed play.

He got out of the van and hoisted himself onto the trampoline, then sat a safe distance from Anabelle, who still hadn't budged from her uncomfortable-looking facedown position.
Should you have sat closer to her?
he wondered as the hiss of the recording kicked in.
Just, like
,
a foot closer?
And then in came the piano, beginning with four bars of sparse chords. Next, the cello with its soft sweeping melody. Tobin imagined that this was
him
on cello, with Anabelle on piano, and that he was looking deep into her pale green sea-glass eyes, following her slow and steady tempo. He wondered if she was picturing playing the piece with him, too.

You definitely should've sat closer to her,
he thought. But it would probably seem strange to do that at this point. Too obvious and predatory. Maybe he could offer her his hoodie? It was still a little too cold to be outside in just a T-shirt and her arms were covered in goose bumps.

“This is nice,” Anabelle said when the violin came in, joining the piano and cello. “What is it?”

“Oh, the music?” Tobin said, as if he didn't even realize it was on—as if it had just randomly started playing in his car. “Schubert's Piano Trio in B-flat. The slow movement.” He was glad she liked it but decided he'd wait till later to tell her the tape was for her, that it was, in fact, an entire mix of pieces they could play together. Maybe. Someday. If she wanted to.

“It's so sad,” she said.

“But in a good way, right?” He hoped she wasn't changing her mind about liking it.

“No, in a totally good way.” For the first time, she turned to look at him. Her forehead and nose were imprinted with the grid of the net. “You know what it makes me feel like?”

“What?”

“Lie down like me,” she told him. “With your face in the trampoline.”

He did. And in the process got a little closer to her—still leaving just enough space so that they weren't touching. He hoped she wouldn't freak out and think he was coming on to her. But she was the one who'd said to lie down, so he figured he wasn't breaking any boundaries.

“See all that grass down there?” she asked.

Hovering over the lawn, all he could see was grass. “Yeah, I see it,” he said. His voice cracked a little because he was thinking about moving his sneaker over to touch hers, which, of course, he didn't.

“So this music,” she said, “it makes me feel like, even though I'm looking at a whole bunch of grass, all I can see is a single blade.”

This was what was great about Anabelle. She spoke so poetically about music. Tobin knew what he liked and what he didn't like, but talking about it never came naturally to him. “That is the absolute most perfect way to describe it,” he told her.

“You're just saying that,” she said. “You don't even know what I mean.”

“No, I do. I know exactly what you mean.”

“Prove it.”

“That single blade you're looking at?” he said. “I'm looking at the same one.”

“Yeah?” She giggled. “Which one?”

“That one right ... there.” As he pointed, his finger brushed her cheek. He quickly withdrew his hand, but she didn't even seem to notice he'd touched her.

“You mean the one farthest to the right in the clump under my nose?” she asked with the delight of a four-year-old.

“Yes,” he said. “That's the one!”

He was suddenly overcome with the desire to kiss her. Out here in the dark, no one would ever know.
What is wrong with you? he
asked himself.
She's got a boyfriend.

“Tobin?” Anabelle said as the dainty last notes of the trio faded and the spooky chords of the next piece started up. It was Beethoven's Sonata for Piano and Cello no. 2 in G Minor. He couldn't wait to hear how she'd describe this one.

“Yeah?” He glanced up to see if she'd moved her face out of the net. She hadn't, so he put his back down, too. He kind of liked this position. He felt like a superhero. Well, one who could only fly three feet above the ground. But still.

“You seem like you can keep a secret.”

Yes! She saw him as trustworthy. “Sure, I can do that,” he said. “Who would I tell, anyway?”

“I'm kinda having this problem,” she confessed. She was tapping one of her fingers on the net in time with the music. She must've picked up on the gorgeous way the rhythm had just changed.

“What is it?”

“Well, it's embarrassing. And it makes me feel like a horrible person.”

“No, there's nothing that could possibly be horrible about you, Anabelle,” he said. “We all have our downsides. But that just means you're human.” He still wasn't touching her. Not physically. But he felt as if their minds were melding in a way that was completely tangible.

“So ... I think I like someone,” she said slowly. “Someone other than Matt.”

“Really?” It was
him.
No it wasn't. Could it be? Definitely not. Or maybe it could. Who else would it be? Just then, the piano and cello struck a triumphant major chord.
That must be a sign
, he thought.
It's me.

“Yeah,” she said. “The thing is, I'm not sure if he likes me back. I mean, it's hard to tell—but I'm pretty sure he does.”

It
had
to be him. God, he was so stupid! He should've been giving her more clues all along that he liked her—no, loved her. Liking a girl is what you did in second grade; this was much bigger.

“The thing is,” she said, “I don't feel right about trying to find out where this other thing could go unless I break up with Matt first. But I don't know, it's kind of hard for me to imagine anyone
but
Matt being interested in me. So maybe it's not worth it.”

Should he just come out and say he was absolutely, positively, without a doubt, interested?

Should he grab her and kiss her?

No. He would not be a typical guy. He would not be one of those guys who just saw women as objects. He'd handle this respectfully. Like a gentleman.

“I'm sure he'd be into you if you broke up with Matt,” Tobin said.

“You think?” she asked, turning on her side to face him.

He rolled over to face her, too. She was giving him this funny little smile.
Coy
was the word for that type of smile.

Okay,
he thought.
That's it. No more waiting around.
This was going to be his best shot with her and she was making it clear that she wanted him. If he waited any longer, she might decide to go back to Matt. This was perfect, actually. They could have a summer romance. Ride bikes, picnics, hikes up the bluffs. And when it came time to part ways in the fall, well, that would suck. But at least she would've been his first girlfriend.

The piano was arpeggiating up and down as if to say,
Time is running out—go for it!
He closed his eyes and took a deep breath like he always did before cannonballing off the bluffs into the ocean, then leaned in to where he assumed her lips would be and—

—and her lips weren't there. He got the side of her ear. He opened his eyes to see that she'd turned her head. She had this look on her face as if she'd just seen the climax of a horror flick.

Tobin sat straight up, his thumbs shooting through the holes in his hoodie. “What—what happened?” he asked. “I thought—”

“I'm so sorry,” she said, hugging her knees. “I didn't mean—”

“I've never tried that with anyone before.”

“Oh no, don't tell me that. Now I feel awful.”

“So do I,” he said. “I don't get it. It seemed like you wanted me to.”

“No, I guess I wasn't being clear,” she said. “I was talking about someone else.”

“Who?”

“It doesn't matter.”

“It does to me.”

She was rocking back and forth, making the trampoline shift underneath him. “You have to promise not to tell anyone.”

“I won't. Just tell me. You owe me that after all this.”

“It's Jonah,” she said.

Wait, what?
Jonah?
Jonah Wilder? Jonah Wilder who would flirt with anything with boobs? Who could get any girl he wanted? Who probably slept with more girls than any other guy in the history of Normal High?

“You're being quiet,” Anabelle said.

“Yeah.” Tobin's skin was burning up. The music had just gotten to the syrupy part that always reminded him of scenes in cheesy old movies, when a couple has their first kiss. “I've gotta go,” he said. He stood up and bounced a couple times on the trampoline, sweat trickling down the insides of his arms.

“Wait,” she said. “Stay a little longer? This feels so abrupt. Shouldn't we talk things through some more?”

“I don't have anything else to say.” Tobin turned and jumped down to the grass. “Here,” he said, after he got in the van. “If you're gonna stay out here, you'll need this.” He took off his hoodie and tossed it at her through the window. He'd thrown it harder than he meant to and he thought he heard the zipper hit her face. Nice impression to leave her with the last time he saw her, probably ever. Unless they ran into each other coming and going from their jobs on the boardwalk. Which he hoped they wouldn't.

As he drove off he watched her in the sideview mirror getting smaller and smaller, clutching his red sweatshirt like a security blanket.

Back at home, Tobin stormed straight to his room and pulled out his cello. Instinctively, he started playing his part in Schubert's Piano Trio. He'd been practicing it a lot lately so that he'd be ready to try it with Anabelle once she got the tape. Well, that wasn't going to happen anymore. No, he needed to go solo from now on. He dug around in his music folder until he found the Prelude to Bach's Suite no. i in G Major, just meant for a single cello. He opened the photocopied pages and placed them on his music stand. There, that was more like it. This piece was made for him, and him only.

Tobin's bow glided over the strings, lightly hitting the first arpeggios. As the piece built, he slowly started throwing more weight into his arm and pressing his callused fingers into the fret board more forcefully. The gritty low notes were his favorites—they made him feel like his veins were wires on a circuit board and his blood was electricity.

Just as he was about to hit the final chord, a noise came through the wall from his dad's bedroom. It was a sound Tobin had grown used to, but somehow it never became less unpleasant. And it was different almost every time; his dad rarely brought home the same woman twice, or at least not twice in a row. The one he had in there right now kept saying “Steve, Steve, Steeeve” and panting as if she'd just finished a triathlon. There was some banging, too.

He had to get out of here. Now.

He laid his cello on his bed without packing it in its case and ran back to the van.