The Whole Golden World (18 page)

28

O
n the good days, Morgan's cello seemed alive to her; like a friend, or more accurately, like a loving pet: responsive to touch and attention, never judgmental, ever present.

Other days, like this day, in her room with her solo, it seemed like the actual object it was. A bulky hollow chunk of wood that could only be coaxed to produce music with just the right stroke of the bow, the precise placement of the fingers.

Morgan felt tears sting her eyes as her fingers once again collided with each other like a highway pileup, and her bow squawked across the string. She carefully rested her bow on the stand and set her cello carefully on its side, biting down hard on a surging desire to snap her bow over her knee.

Though, she thought as she lowered herself shakily to the side of her bed, being fiberglass, the bow might not break anyway.

She'd known a solo would be hard, out there alone with nothing between her and the judges but her instrument and the music stand. But she'd given in to the conductor, Mrs. Allen, and her wheedling to try a solo, for just this last competition, in honor of her last year in orchestra. After all, next year in college she would not be playing, in fact she probably would not even take her cello; it would be far too bulky in a shared dorm room.

Morgan sat back on her bed and massaged her aching hands. Her temples throbbed now that she was prone, and she closed her eyes, savoring the notion of sleep. But she hadn't yet done her homework for the afternoon; she'd decided to practice first because the boys weren't home yet. They always whined when she practiced the cello. Even with her door closed it was pretty damn loud, even if she clipped the mute to the bridge to try and dull the ringing sound.

She stared at her phone, praying for him to text her. She picked it up and thumbed through the old texts, rereading the precious few he'd been able to send.

Miss you.

All clear with house.

Will have house to self Fri night.

That last text had driven her to distraction. It was nearly Valentine's Day and while all her friends were carrying on about the Snow Ball and who they were taking, and what they were wearing, and whether they would be getting flowers and chocolates . . . she couldn't share in any of it, not even to pretend to be interested in anyone. The secrecy had begun to unsettle her. The ease with which he ignored her in class—while she sat in her chair almost exploding, she felt so pent-up—was making her feel queasy.

Then came that message about Friday night. It had taken her three tries to text back, she'd been shaking so hard.

Of course she'd agreed to come, although . . . It was one thing to play house in his brother's mansion, but his own home? And how could he be sure she wouldn't come back unexpectedly? Did she really want to be in their private space?

But the rehearsal rooms were now full of college students actually rehearsing. Morgan herself never had a bit of privacy anywhere. What else was she going to do? Screw him in his car, or a crappy hotel room, like some kind of prostitute?

They'd made the arrangements very late one night, the glow of Morgan's phone setting her sheets alight as she huddled under the covers—late-night texting being specifically forbidden in her house—making her think of when she was little and was reading Harry Potter after dark with a flashlight until the wee hours. That seemed like a hundred years ago.

Morgan was going to drive to the mall to meet him. He'd said his neighbors were too nosy to risk her just driving up.

They were putting one over on everyone, and sometimes this made Morgan feel powerful indeed.

She heard the back door slam and her brothers bound through the door. The Elgar piece tumbled off the stand just then, bringing her back to the present problem. She couldn't seem to play the damn thing anymore.

Morgan was beginning to realize she'd have to cultivate another variety of lie. Barring a miracle improvement on her part, she'd never be able to go through with a solo performance, even if she scrounged up a real live last-minute accompanist. Then she'd have to make up some reason why not. Food poisoning, or a migraine.

This thought made her heart swell with a surprising burst of nostalgia and sadness for a rather pathetic end to her high school orchestra career. This definitely wasn't how her senior year was supposed to go.

 

Morgan felt like standing on the lunch table and telling everyone to shut the hell up.

They were all so . . . loud. Even though they were also all texting—a form of talking already—they were also talking over each other, shrieking “No!” and “Shut up!” out of surprise over some stupid revelation about something. There was no quiet corner to escape to. So she stuck in her earbuds and started the concerto playing, hoping maybe the music performed beautifully by Jacqueline du Pré would jar her back to being able to play it like she used to.

She listened, and picked the tomatoes out of her salad-bar lunch, and as such didn't hear Ethan until he manifested as a shadow over her shoulder.

She jumped and yanked out her earbuds. “Oh, you. Sheesh, you startled me.”

“What's up?” he asked, turning a chair around and straddling it backward.

“Nothing.”

“Wanna go to Snow Ball with me?”

Morgan quirked an eyebrow by way of response.

“You're my friend,” Ethan replied drily to her unspoken smart remark. “Plenty of boy-girl friends go to the Snow Ball. It would be fun. I'll wear the stupidest bow tie I can find and buy you a corsage as big as a softball. We could sit in the back and make fun of the bad dresses.”

“I don't want to do that.”

“Are you already going with someone?”

“No.”

“Then why not?”

“I just don't. It would be too weird.”

“Why? Like I said, we're friends.”

She glanced around behind them. No one was paying any attention. “I don't wanna be part of your pretending.”

Ethan flushed pink, and his jaw tightened. “That's not why I asked. I wish I'd never told you.”

Morgan glanced back down at her salad and pushed it away. “Sorry. I shouldn't have said that. But I just can't. I don't want to go be surrounded by couples right now.”

Ethan frowned. “Why not? It's not still David, is it?”

She waved her hand. “No, no. It's just . . .”

Morgan paused. Could she really? The pressure of holding it in was harder than she ever thought it could be. And if anyone understood about secrets . . .

“I'm seeing someone.”

“Yeah? Bring him to the dance, then.”

“I can't.” Morgan stared at the fake woodgrain of the cafeteria table.

“Why not?”

“He doesn't go here. He's . . . older.”

Ethan leaned in and whispered, so close to Morgan's ear his lips almost brushed her scar. She could feel Ethan's breath in her hair, which made her think of
him
and his brother's house and she shivered. Ethan was asking, “How old?”

She made herself face him. “Old enough you can't tell a single soul what I just said.”

Ethan's expression grew hard. “That doesn't sound good.”

“I don't need you to judge me.”

“I'm just saying that any romance you have to hide and sneak around about . . .”

Morgan jammed her phone and earbuds in her backpack, standing up abruptly and giving Ethan one last, eyebrow-raised look.

Really. He should talk.

She'd almost made it out of the cafeteria when she heard her name shrieked at the same time as Britney grabbed her hand. She yanked her over to the table where she sat with some girls from the band: flute players mostly, pretty girls whose giggles sounded airy and high, just like their instruments.

“Hey! Let's go to the movies Friday night. Then we can go get a coffee or something.”

The girls looked at her expectantly. With Morgan standing and the rest sitting, faces raised, they reminded her of baby birds, twittering and all.

“Can't. I have plans.”

She walked away quickly, knowing the bell was about to ring. She heard running feet behind her and cringed just as Britney caught up to her and snagged her elbow. Morgan fought her urge to yank away. Britney was such a touchy-feely kind of a girl, and that had really started to annoy the ever-loving hell out of her.

“What's up your ass? You too good for us or something?”

What if I am?
she was tempted to blurt. “No, I'm sorry. I'm just busy, like I said. I am way behind on practicing for solo and ensemble.”

“But you can't rehearse all night. Come out after!”

“I can't. I'm not feeling well lately. I think I'm getting my period or something. I'm just really tired.”

Britney yanked Morgan to a full stop in the hall. Kids crashed into them from behind and cursed them out. Britney towed Morgan off to the side. “You're not pregnant, are you?”

Morgan started laughing, and she was so tired and loopy from the previous night's suffocation dream that she thought she might keep laughing all through calculus, Spanish, and the drive home. Finally she stopped. “I'm tired. Just old-fashioned tired. Anyway, I'm not dating anyone, remember? You ought to know, right?”

Britney and David supposedly weren't boyfriend and girlfriend, but they seemed to be together an awful lot, even so.

“Not dating anyone that we know of, anyway. Maybe you have a secret lover,” Britney said, but it was clear from the toss of her hair as she spoke that it was just something to say, a joke of a notion so ludicrous it wasn't even worth sounding scandalized about. She gave Morgan a quick hug and made her promise to come to another movie sometime soon, and she nearly skipped away down the hall.

Friday couldn't come soon enough, Morgan decided, as with effort she peeled herself away from the wall and trudged off to class.

 

Friday evening, leaning on the side of her Chevy in the mall parking lot, Morgan checked her phone. Right on time. But no sign yet of his car. She was just standing there in her ballet flats and miniskirt, goose bumps prickling her legs.

It was freakishly warm for February, but not so warm it was miniskirt weather. She wasn't supposed to be standing around, though. She was supposed to be picked up by now, in his warm car, on his way to his house. She had a change of clothes in her backpack, and Nicole was lined up to be her cover story, complete with fake Facebook update later. They'd even taken a cell-phone picture together that Nicole would later post. As far as Nicole knew, Morgan was dating a twenty-one-year-old college student in secret because her parents would have thought he was too old for her. Nicole thought that was terribly romantic and was all too happy to help. Not to mention, Morgan let Nicole copy her calc homework every morning as a show of gratitude.

There. She recognized the car. Though she couldn't yet see the driver and didn't want to approach a stranger. She was already feeling naked and exposed, standing out in the open. . . . Finally she exhaled, not realizing she'd been holding her breath.

He'd rolled down the passenger window. “Going my way?” he asked, and winked.

“I am now,” she replied, and hopped into the warmth of his car as he pushed the button to roll the window up again.

She reached over to peck his cheek, but he moved back.

She sat back, feeling herself blush, and stared at her hands.

“Sorry, it's just . . .”

“I know,” she said quickly.

“And, um, there's something else I have to ask. I need you to, like, slouch down or something. The seat reclines with a button on the side.”

“Oh,” was all she could think to say. The mechanical whirr of the seat reclining reminded her of the dentist's office. Finally she was low enough to be underneath the window view. She rested there on her back, staring up at the car's beige interior, not wanting to look at him from this humiliating position.

He didn't speak, either. They rode in silence with something unspoken growing between them like a balloon filling to the point of breaking.

Morgan was arguing with herself.

How dare he! You aren't some whore.

But be realistic: This could ruin him. That's why it's so powerful, isn't it? The fact that he's risking everything to be with you?

He could make it right. If he wanted to be together, he could leave his wife and in a few months see you properly. There would be no need for hiding like a criminal.

Morgan turned toward the passenger door, feeling the blood drain from her face. Her stomach turned over, and a wash of dizziness crashed over her.

“I'm carsick,” she finally said. “I'm afraid I'm going to be sick.”

“Just a couple blocks,” he said, his voice gritty with strain. She heard a noise as he cracked the window. Cold outdoor air swirled into the car, of little help to her. “Breathe deeply,” he said sharply. Like a command.