Allegra (17 page)

A body slides into the chair across the table from where I'm working. I look up and find Mr. Rocchelli smiling at me. Looking around, I see that the music room is empty except for the two of us.

“Did I miss the bell or something?” I glance up at the wall clock.

“No, no, you're fine. The Battle of the Bands contest is going on during the lunch hour all week. There's been a lot of hype. I'm guessing everyone must be there.”

I vaguely remember hearing something about that. “So how come you're not there?”

“I would be, Allegra, but I noticed you here and thought this would be a good opportunity to catch up on things.”

“Catch up on things?” I don't like the sound of this.

“Yes, I'm afraid I've been neglecting you. We haven't had a chance to discuss your progress on the composition for a while. How's it going? Do you need any help?”

“No, everything's fine.”

He nods. “That's good. Can I listen to what you've written?”

I glance at the sound room, suddenly remembering the last time I was alone in there with him and how anxious I was.

“I don't have it with me,” I lie. “We don't have music theory today, so I left it at home.”

He nods. “Tomorrow then. We'll make time in class when the rest of the students are working on something else.”

I nod. That would definitely be better than now, alone.

“How are your dance classes going?”

I glance at him and notice how carefully he's examining my face. “They're fine.” I feel my cheeks burn. Shit.

There's a long pause before he says, “That's not what Ms. Dekker tells me.”

My head jerks up. “You were discussing
me
with
her
?”

“It's okay, Allegra.” He puts up his hand in a kind of back-off gesture. I guess my reaction
was
a little strong. “Teachers often discuss their students, especially when one is struggling. Teachers need to know if they are also struggling in other classes.”

“So what did you tell her?” Now I'm watching him carefully, looking for any signs of a cover-up.

“Well…that was when I realized I'd been neglecting you. I couldn't say for sure how you were doing.”

“I'm doing fine. I played what I've written for my dad a few nights ago, and he thought it was great. So please tell Ms. Dekker not to worry.” I can't mask the irritation in my voice.

“There's no need to get upset, Allegra. Ms. Dekker is just concerned about you. She says you're extremely talented, but something has been holding you back for a while.”

“Maybe she's just imagining it,” I say softly.

“I doubt that,” Mr. Rocchelli says, just as quietly. I know he's studying me again, but I can't look at him.

“Now that I think of it, I've noticed a change in you too,” he says.

“I'm fine.” I begin to shove my books into my backpack.

“Did something happen with your friends?”

A surge of anger wells up inside me, and I fight back the urge to tell him to mind his own business. “No.” I stand up and swing my backpack over my shoulder.

“Sit down, Allegra, please,” Mr. Rocchelli says. I glance at his face. There's only kindness there. I take a deep breath and slump back into the chair.

“I'm sorry. I shouldn't pry. I'll try not to do it again. It's a bad habit of mine.” He smiles, clearly trying to ease the tension. “But as I told you before, I'm a good listener. Anytime you—”

“I'll remember that.”

“Good. Now, there's something else I've wanted to talk to you about. You mentioned your dad, and it jogged my memory. I like to invite guest speakers to class, to shake things up a bit. I was wondering if your dad would come to our class and talk about his music and the realities of playing in a band.”

“He's away on tour.”

“Oh.” He tilts his head, looking surprised. I guess I blurted it out a bit fast.

“Then how about your mother? She could talk about life as a working musician. What do you think?”

I think it's a really stupid idea, but I need to find a tactful way to say that. “I always feel a bit…a bit uncomfortable when my parents get involved in my stuff.”

Mr. Rocchelli looks baffled, so I elaborate. “With my dad…sometimes people treat him like a celebrity, and that's so weird for me.” I think about the night in the coffee shop.

“Aren't you proud of him?”

“Yeah, I am, but…well, fame comes with a price, you know.”

“What price is that?”

“Touring, for one. He's always away.” What has gotten into me? Why am I telling him this?

“I guess you don't like that.”

I give him a sharp look and stand up. “I think you're prying again.”

He shakes his head, exasperated. “I guess I am. It's a fine line sometimes. No problem, Allegra. I'll find some other guest speakers.”

“Thanks. So, are we caught up?” I pull my jacket on.

He nods, but he looks sad. “I guess we are. I'll see you tomorrow.”

As I walk away, I realize I just did exactly what Spencer accused me of—I put up a wall. I don't know why I do it. Worse than that, I don't know how to stop.

T
welve

True to his word, Mr. Rocchelli assigns a written project for the students in his theory class. He knocks on the sound-room door before entering.

“Is this a good time?” he asks.

I nod. I've already put the flash drive into the computer and am jotting notes in my book.

When he's comfortably seated, I start the music. I try not to anticipate his reaction but find myself stealing glances at him. He just stares at the lines of music scrolling across the screen.

When the music ends, I wait for him to speak.

He swivels his chair slowly until he's facing me. He's frowning; he must hate what I've done with his tune but is too polite to say so. He hesitates, perhaps looking for the right words.

“Allegra,” he says finally. His tone is serious, and he's staring at his hands. “When I gave you this assignment, I was curious about what you would do with it. I knew you understood your music theory, but I didn't know how well you'd be able to apply it.”

He stops, obviously still searching for words. Now I know for sure he hates it.

“You have totally exceeded my expectations. I know it's not finished, but what you've done is complex and powerful. It is on its way to becoming a magnificent piece of music.” He looks up, and now his expression is earnest.

A combination of relief and joy floods through me. “I'm glad you like it.”

“I don't just like it. I'm moved by it, and I'm very impressed by your skill.”

“Thank you.” For the first time in more than a week, I feel the numbness begin to melt away.

We just stare at each other for a moment, neither of us knowing what else to say.

A knock at the door causes us both to start. We swing around and see Spencer standing behind the glass. Mr. Rocchelli waves him in.

“I'm sorry to interrupt,” Spencer says.

Mr. Rocchelli doesn't give him chance to finish. “We were just listening to Allegra's music.” He clicks the mouse to replay it. “Let's get an opinion from you.”

I haven't made eye contact with Spencer, but I hear him close the door and lean against it. It's suddenly getting very warm in here.

The music plays again. When it's over, Mr. Rocchelli swings around. “So, what do you think, Spencer?”

“It's great,” Spencer says. I still haven't looked at him.

“Great? That's it?” Mr. Rocchelli prods.

“No, it's way better than great. But I've told Allegra that already.”

I remember that day, alone in this room with Spencer, when he claimed to be so moved by my music that he kissed me. My cheeks begin to burn.

“Oh.” Mr. Rocchelli's eyebrows shoot up. He glances at me, then back to Spencer. “I didn't realize anyone else had heard it.”

“It was awhile ago.”

It was, and with an inward sigh I realize that nothing much has been added since then.

“Okay, so how can I help you, Spencer?”

“A bunch of us are having trouble with problem number three on the worksheet. We'd just like a little clarification of what you're really asking us to do.”

I look through the glass and see the rest of the class watching us. Spencer must have volunteered to speak on their behalf.

“Oh yes, the one about harmony.” Mr. Rocchelli stands up. “That one is a little ambiguous, isn't it? You keep at it, Allegra,” he says. “You're doing an amazing job.” He passes Spencer in the doorway.

Spencer wheels about to follow him, but somehow I manage to find my voice.

“Spencer?”

He turns back to me. “Yes?” His eyes are guarded.

I reach into my backpack and pull out the envelope Dad gave me. I've been carrying it around for days, tucked between two textbooks to protect the photos. Spencer's here now, and I might as well get it over with. “This is for you. The signed head shots of the Loose Ends guys.”

For the briefest of moments, as he pulls the photos out of the envelope, his eyes light up. A smile tugs at his mouth, then quickly disappears. “Tell your dad thanks. I really appreciate it.”

“He's away right now, but I will when I talk to him.” He hesitates. I think he's about to say something else, but then we both hear Mr. Rocchelli speaking to the class, so with a last glance at me, Spencer steps back into the classroom.

“Back so soon?” Mr. Rocchelli notices me slipping into the sound room after school. His response to my piece of music has spurred me on.

“Yep.”

He comes and leans against the doorjamb. “For a girl who came to this school to dance, you sure spend a lot of time in the music portable.”

His comment feels like a challenge. I'm up for it. “I figure that once I get this project finished, I'll be excused from your class for the rest of the year. I'll be able to take another dance class in block seven.” That thought had never occurred to me until this very moment, but I smile at him, feeling like I've suddenly one-upped him in our little battle.

His eyes widen in surprise, and then he throws back his head and laughs. “You're not going to escape my class so easily. Forget it.”

I plug the flash drive into the computer and settle into the chair. Mr. Rocchelli is still standing at the door. I glance back at him.

“I'm wondering…could I make a couple of little suggestions about your piece?” He puts his hands up. “Feel free to say no. It's your composition, but there were some things I noticed when I was listening to it, especially the second time.”

“Sure,” I say, suddenly suspicious. Maybe he doesn't think it's so good after all.

He pulls the second chair closer to where I am. I start the music. After about fifteen seconds, he reaches out and stops it. “There. I think you need to repeat the melodic phrase at this point.”

“Oh. How come?”

“Well, because one of the most important ingredients in music is repetition. People have an unconscious desire for it, and the repetition of the melodic phrase here would satisfy that need.”

I nod. He's articulating something I know but haven't ever put into words.

He continues. “Repetition sets up a degree of predictability that's reassuring to a listener. With this solid base, you can then create surprises without taking the audience too far out of its comfort zone.”

I start the piece again and realize that I do change the chord progression right at that point. Repeating the initial melodic phrase is a good idea.

“Perhaps you could feature another instrument, or add harmony in the repetition.”

“Yeah, that's a good idea.”

“The basis of writing music,” he adds, “is building melodic ideas over an extended period of time, but you don't want to change the ideas too quickly.”

Building melodic ideas over an extended period of time.
That's a great way to sum it up. I look at Mr. Rocchelli with new respect. Maybe he can teach me something after all.

He clicks the mouse to continue the music. About a minute later he stops it again. “I think you're rushing it a little here.”

“Really?” I go back just a little and play it again. He's exactly right. It does begin to speed up. I make a note in my book.

We listen to the remaining section, but he doesn't have any more suggestions. The room becomes still when the music finishes. I feel him turn to look at me. I return his gaze, noticing how dark his eyes are, how his lashes sweep his cheeks. There's stubble on his jaw, as if he forgot to shave this morning. The room suddenly shrinks, and I have to look away. “Do I dare ask you another question?” he asks quietly.

“You can ask,” I mumble. “I might not answer.”

“Fair enough.” He studies me a little longer. I grow increasingly uneasy under his scrutiny. I glance through the window and wish someone would come into the classroom.