A Season of Eden (11 page)

Had Mr. Christian ever hurt anyone? Dumped anyone?

Been dumped? The thought that any girl could knowingly hurt him sent a hot flush of anger through me.

Rationally, I knew he’d had his share of the same experiences we all have. But I cared enough that I didn’t want him to be hurt by anyone. And I knew I was the only one who could make sure that would never happen.

I walked through our empty house wishing I could undo the way I felt about Mr. Christian because it would only torture me. But his face, his voice, the light inside of him, the gentle way his hands flickered over the piano keys was locked inside of me.

I ached in that hollow place. What if he never spoke to me again?

The day I had not seen him at school felt like a week.

I’d never missed a guy like this. No one had ever occupied my thoughts so completely. Like his music, his image drifted endlessly in my mind, a melody I couldn’t stop hearing, even in sleep.

Thinking of him, I went to my computer. After I hooked up my iPod, I downloaded some of the music he played for us in class. What I really wanted was to hear him sing, to listen to his creations. I closed my eyes, laid on my bed and saw him at the piano, fervently playing the keys.

In my vision he wore his coat, blue shirt and a dark tie with his dark brown cord pants. He was so clueless about fashion, the flaw made everything else about him more appealing.

I saw myself lying on the grass somewhere with him sitting over me, as if I was the piano. I yearned for him to explore me with that same intensity with which he touched the instrument. Sweet heat filled me. I easily imagined him kissing me. Leaning over, his body pressing mine deep into the grass as the sun warmed us both.

Chopin’s delicate melody played in my ears. If James thought I was like any other teenaged girl, he was wrong.

He wasn’t like any other man. I wanted him in my life. I refused to accept anything I had done was wrong. The rising swells of the music urged determination.

I counted the hours until the concert

•••

The blood-red dress hung on some of the girls, and fit like a twisted glove on those more plump. On me, the gown clung nicely. But then, I’d had Stacey’s tailor do some tucking and nipping.

I wore my hair up, with some loose curls draping down the back. I even stuck some sparkly pins in it. I didn’t want to look like I was going to prom, like some of my choir mates looked. I preferred looking as though I was ready for a date.

Walking through the outdoor halls of school at night felt like I was in a dream of dark mists. I smelled the ocean on those mists. Rather than streaming sun, the low-lit corridors were surrounded by now-dark and empty common areas. Other choir members threaded through the halls along with me, but none were in my circle of friends, so we didn’t talk. Laughter, conversation and music seeped into the night nearly as thick as the fog beginning to reach into the area.

I heard the usual whispers trail me after I passed some of the younger girls. I ignored them. My insides were strumming, anticipating seeing Mr. Christian.

When Mr. Horseman had conducted, he’d dressed for concerts in a tuxedo. Images of Mr. Christian’s glowing smile and toffee-colored curls against a black and white tux whet a need in me that had been starved for a day.

I entered the dark auditorium and looked for him. He was standing at the front of the room, his profile facing me.

His lean frame was covered in black: sleek pants and a tight black turtleneck sweater, pushed up at the sleeves.

The spotlight skimmed his head, lighting his brown-sugar waves and curls to an angel’s halo. My heart leapt.

He was directing Renaissance choir through a rehearsal of one of their numbers and most of the other choral groups stood along the sides of the auditorium or sat in the seats, listening.

I made my way to the front, drawn to sit as near him as possible, then stopped myself and slid into a row in the middle.

I had a clear view of the muscles of his back, the way they shifted underneath the taut black fabric of his turtleneck. The long, strong curve of his spine moved like a slim aspen in the wind as he conducted.

The acapella harmonies of Renaissance choir rung like church bells through the room. I’d never heard anything more unified and perfect. When they finished, everyone cheered and applauded. He whispered something to them and they all laughed. I wondered if they were his favorite group, because they sounded the best.

When he called Concert Choir up for our run through, I tried to stay hidden. I wasn’t anxious for him to see me. I just wanted to watch him. I stood on the back row with the altos, just like I did in class. The moment our line filed in and stopped, I felt him looking at me.

His gaze captured mine for a long, sweaty moment while the other choir members filled in the lower risers.

I wondered if he was waiting for me to smile or in some way acknowledge him. I didn’t do anything but meet his gaze levelly.

He finally looked over the rest of the choir and lifted his arms, ready to begin. For the first time, I noticed the pianist, an older petite woman with dark hair, grey streams woven into it. She had Mr. Christian’s firm chin and straight nose. A small pair of glasses sat propped on the tip of her nose. Her rounded cheekbones perched high on her lightly painted face in a glamorous smile.

His mother.

We began our aria with gusto. We’d been instructed to keep our eyes on our conductor so I did, watching James’

face light and change like a child’s on Christmas morning.

I felt myself smiling as I sung, something I thought looked ridiculous, but now, with the excitement of an audience and the thrill of performing, couldn’t stop if I had to.

Our peers applauded our first song. I felt good about it, hearing the harmonic voices fill in around me. James stood at the music stand with both hands braced. The muscles in his shoulders bunched.

“Pretty good, guys,” he said. “Remember, this is a classical piece. We aren’t working on the railroad all the live-long day, singing because we have to.” Everyone laughed. “And smile. I look up and I see these morbid faces.

We’re having fun tonight, okay? Tonight, everything is going to change.”

“Why?” somebody asked. A crackle of comments followed. Mr. Christian waited until they died down.

“Because it’s my first concert, that’s why. And you’re all going to do great.” He sent his smile to everyone as if he was celebrating with a toss of confetti. His wandering gaze finally rested on me and held. My heart fluttered.

“For those of you that weren’t here at six like you were supposed to be,” he sent his gaze generally, “my mother is our accompanist for the night.” He gestured to her with an extended hand and she briefly stood, smiling.

“Hi, Mom!” somebody shouted. She nodded back.

“That’s Mrs. Christian to you, buddy,” Mr. Christian shot with a grin.

For a moment, I envied him, having a mother who would do something like this for him. Obviously, she had taken the time to not only learn, but master each choir’s songs to be able to just walk in and sit down and play perfectly.

We sang our last song and he told us we sounded much better, then we all filed off stage and another group filed on.

During the performance, I sat with Josh and his friends in the music room, across the hall from the auditorium. The doors were left open so we could easily hear the concert in progress. Different choir groups came and went. I knew I wouldn’t see Mr. Christian through the night; he had to be on stage. But we watched the show via a black and white monitor.

“Matt’s so mad.” Josh sat next to me with a cup of Swiss Miss steaming in his palms. “You want?”

I shook my head. “I said I was sorry.”

“You don’t blast a guy and say you’re sorry.”

“I wouldn’t walk away, Josh, without saying something.

We’re friends.”

“Not anymore,” he sipped.

I stared at him. A couple of giggling freshman bumped into him to get his attention.

“Hey!” He steadied his hot chocolate and glared at them.

“Easy, they’re fans.”

He tried not to hide a pleased look behind another sip.

“Seriously. You’ve really pissed him off.”

“I didn’t mean to, I just thought it was the best thing for us both.”

“You left him hanging, you know, for the rest of the year.”

Matt’s real reason for his bruised ego was so superficial. I sighed. “We’re not each other’s accessories. I’m sorry if he won’t have a date for prom, but, cry me a river, he could get any girl to go with him.”

“Who will you go with?”

“I probably won’t go.” Nothing about prom sounded even remotely alluring to me now. Unless, of course, I was there with Mr. Christian. We could chaperone. I started laughing and Josh sat back, confusion on his face.

“What?” he asked.

“Nothing.”

“I’m sure Matt wouldn’t think it’s funny.”

Mr. Christian and I at prom together? I doubted Matt would get a laugh out of that. “It wasn’t about him. Josh, none of this is about Matt. You guys are so self-absorbed it’s nauseating.” I stood, frustrated. We were on next and I wanted to cool off before I stood up under the hot lights.

I left him sipping his hot chocolate and walked the cold, nearly-empty hall just outside the auditorium alone.

“Concert Choir!” somebody called for us and soon, red dresses and black suits congregated near the doors as Girls Choir in their blue dresses poured out of the auditorium like a stream of water.

My nerves jittered, even though I had no one there to watch me sing. I wanted us to do great for Mr. Christian.

This was his night. A lot of the parents held his future as music director in the palms of their hands.

“Smile, guys,” I whispered to everyone around me.

Most looked at me with awe that I had addressed them.

“Mr. Christian’s depending on us.”

“Yeah,” another, less-popular girl stole the opportunity to give her two cents worth. “Or the ax will fall.”

I didn’t like that image one bit and raised my brow at her. “There is no ax. He’s a great conductor and nothing’s going to screw that up. Just sing your best and smile.”

“And look at him,” another girl piped.

That would be the easy part.

The concert ended with the Renaissance choir. I snuck into the back of the auditorium, like most of the other students, and was smashed against the back wall for the final song and standing ovation Mr. Christian received.

When Leesa Weitz brought out a dozen red roses and laid them in Mr. Christian’s arms, I flushed with jealousy. I couldn’t believe I hadn’t thought of giving him something.

He smiled and gave her a hug.

I clapped along with the audience. How stupid. I should have been the one he hugged and appreciated for the thoughtful gesture. But then I hadn’t been thoughtful, I’d been just as self-absorbed as I’d accused Josh and Matt of being.

I nearly fell into another slimy bout of self-centeredness by gathering my purse and leaving without giving Mr. Christian my congratulations but, I stopped. He’d be alone at some point tonight. At some point, every last student and parent would be gone.

I straightened the music room. The place had become a shamble of discarded Styrofoam cups and napkins and paper airplanes during the concert.

“Want me to help?” I heard Leesa’s voice and turned.

She stood in the door, the ruby dress fitting her body like a legwarmer on an oak tree.

“That’s okay, I’ve got it.” I wondered if she felt like I did about Mr. Christian and that was why she was hanging around. “That was cool, the roses.”

“It’s custom.”

“Yeah. A nice one.”

She went to a chair, retrieved a ratty grey coat and put it over her arm. “Sure you don’t want me to help?”

“That’s okay. I’m almost done.”

After a pause, she left. I was alone in the music room and sat at the piano, my fingers dusting the keys without making a sound. Another half hour dragged by.

Finally, I heard the melodic timbre of Mr. Christian’s voice and the soft pitch of a woman’s. I’d completely forgotten his mother. He’d probably driven with her.

Embarrassed, I quickly gathered my bag to make a dash out but the two of them came through the door. Mr. Christian stopped when he saw me. The roses in his right hand lowered an inch. His mother only stopped when she saw us both standing like statues, staring at each other.

“Eden.”

“Hey.”

“Mom, this is Eden. She’s one of my students.”