Allegra (2 page)

We don't seem to be moving. I crane my neck to see what's going on at the front of the line. Ms. Jennings is speaking to a tall skinny guy with a tidy ponytail and small frameless glasses. Her arms are folded across her chest, and she's shaking her head.

“Sorry, Spencer, there's nothing I can do for you,” she says.

Spencer jabs his finger at the paper on the counter, but she's not willing to budge on whatever the problem is. Finally he smacks his hand on the counter. She simply stands taller, folds her arms even tighter and then peers around him to the next student. He kicks the counter and stomps out of the office.

Oh great, I think. Ms. Jennings is not in a cooperative mood, and I don't think she warmed to me after our chat this morning. Things are not looking good.

From my backpack I pull out the form Mr. Rocchelli has refused to sign. I stare at the line where his signature is supposed to be. The signature Ms. Jennings says I need to get out of his class.

I think back on my visit to his classroom. Had I heard him correctly? Is he new to this school too? Will Ms. Jennings even know what his signature looks like? Most people just scrawl something illegible when they have to sign something.

I pull out a pen and a textbook to write on. When the attention of the students on either side of me is elsewhere, I quickly scrawl a signature. I make a big fat
R
at the start, and the rest is just a long squiggle. There. Now I won't have to convince her of anything. She'll just have to put me in another dance class.

The line inches forward. My stomach growls. I watch Ms. Jennings's face as one student after another slides a form across the counter to her. She glances at each one, sometimes making changes in the computer and sometimes just pushing the forms back at the students.

When there are only two students to go before I reach her, a tall figure passes behind me, heading toward the end of the counter where he can go through to the staff-only side. It's Mr. Rocchelli. My stomach clenches.

I drop my head and let my hair fall around my face, but in my peripheral vision I see him walk to the rear of the office to check a bulletin board. He stands there studying the messages, his back to us. The student at the counter moves away, and there's only one more person before it's my turn. I keep my eyes glued to Mr. Rocchelli's back, willing him to stay put until I'm safely out of there.

I listen to the conversation going on in front of me. The girl's babbling away about her summer holiday. Ms. Jennings is smiling. Her face has softened. Bad timing—she likes this girl, and their conversation doesn't seem like it's going to end anytime soon.

I clear my throat.
Get on with it
, I want to say.
There are people waiting
. The girl glances back at me and then leans forward to speak more softly to the school counselor. In that moment I see Mr. Rocchelli swing around and move toward a bank of narrow drawers. He pulls one open and reaches inside for a stack of papers. Then he pushes the drawer shut and leans back, rifling through the pages in his hand.

Ms. Jennings is now consulting the computer screen beside her. “Well,” she tells the girl, “if we move you into the chamber choir, that would free up block seven and then you could take music theory.”

The girl's face lights up. “Perfect!”

Ms. Jennings types something into the computer. “
Voilà!
” She smiles at the girl. “It's done.”

The girl turns to leave, and my heart leaps. I'm going to get away with it. I step up to the counter, but then the girl is back, nudging me aside.

“Sorry,” she says to me, then turns to Ms. Jennings. “Could you please print me out a new course-selection sheet?”

“Of course,” Ms. Jennings says.

I clench my jaw again as Ms. Jennings reopens the girl's file and hits the Print button. The printer farther down the counter whirs to life. Ms. Jennings walks toward it, and that's when she notices Mr. Rocchelli standing at the back of the office. Suddenly her shoulders straighten, her face settles into a pleasant expression, and she pushes her glasses up into her hair, using them as a hair band. “Mr. Rocchelli,” she says, raising her voice so he can hear her across the room. “I've just enrolled another student in your music-theory class.”

He looks up from his papers. “You have? Great!” He walks across the room toward her. “I'm so relieved to hear that,” he continues. “The enrollment for that class is so low, I was afraid it might get cancelled. Students seem to be put off by the word
theory
for some reason.

My other classes are all full.” “Maybe that's because it sounds like work,” she says with a roll of her eyes. She starts walking back to the counter, motioning for him to follow her.

The girl waiting for her course-selection sheet has stepped aside, and now I'm standing there, totally exposed. I'd already placed the sheet with the phony signature onto the counter, in a futile attempt to get the process over with as quickly as possible. Now I feel the blood draining from my face, and I reach for the Drop form, knowing I have to get out of there fast.

But Ms. Jennings is faster. In a single motion, she places the other girl's printout on the counter and snatches up my form.

“Allegra!” Mr. Rocchelli says, seeing me.

I nod but don't look at him.

“Mr. Rocchelli, this is Julia,” Ms. Jennings is saying. She motions to the girl standing beside me. “She's the student who just enrolled in your class.”

Mr. Rocchelli's attention turns from me to the other girl. “Hello, Julia,” he says. “I look forward to seeing you in block seven. It's going to be a great class.”

Part of me is aware that Julia is blushing, but most of me is trying to figure out how I can slink out of here without being noticed.

“Allegra here is in that class too,” he says, turning back to me.

Now I feel
my
cheeks burning.

Ms. Jennings glances at my form. “Actually,” she says to Mr. Rocchelli, frowning, “it appears you've just given her permission to drop your class.”

“I have?” he says. I finally look up, and he holds my gaze a moment longer than I expect. Then he takes the form from Ms. Jennings and glances at it. I look back down at my feet and feel my heart sink. I wonder if I'll be the first student in history to get expelled on the very first day of starting a new school.

Mr. Rocchelli doesn't speak for a few moments. Those five or ten seconds feel like an eternity. Finally, I can't take it any longer. I look back up. He's staring at me, his head tilted. My heart is now pounding. He nods. “You're right, Ms. Jennings,” he says. “It seems I did give Allegra permission to drop my class.”

I'm vaguely aware of Ms. Jennings looking back and forth between me and Mr. Rocchelli. I'm waiting for him to bust me, but he just continues to stare. Finally he holds the paper up and very slowly rips it in half. “But I have since changed my mind. I think Allegra needs my class. Actually, I
know
Allegra needs my class. I take back my permission for her to drop it.”

Ms. Jennings keeps glancing back and forth between us; then she shrugs. “Whatever you say.” She cranes her neck to look to the person in line behind me. “Can I help you?” she asks.

I step to the side but keep my eyes fixed on Mr. Rocchelli. He seems to be waiting for something. Probably an apology. He's not going to get one.

“I guess I'll see you in block seven then,” I say finally, turning and walking toward the door. I can't help myself: I have to look back. He's dropped the ripped-up paper into a recycling box, but he's still watching me.

I leave the office and start walking down the hall. That's when I notice how bad my hands are shaking.

The sharp smell of cleaning solution assaults me when I walk through the door. Something's wrong. My mom is a lot of things, but a clean freak isn't one of them. I find her in the kitchen, on her knees, scrubbing the floor. She looks up when she sees me standing in the doorway. “Well?” she asks, rocking back into a squatting position. “How was it?”

“It sucked.”

Mom sighs and rolls back onto her butt, her back leaning against a cupboard. “Why did it suck?”

“They're making me take music theory. I don't need it. I've done the work already. You know that.”

She nods thoughtfully. “Okay, so how were the rest of your classes?”

I just shrug. They were fine, actually, but that awful situation in the school office—getting caught forging that signature—well, the whole stupid thing unsettled me. “So what's with you?” I ask, motioning to the floor.

“Your dad called. He'll be home tonight.”

I should have guessed. Dad's visits always throw her into a cleaning frenzy. It's not that he likes a clean house—not at all. It's just that his imminent arrival stirs something up in her, a weird kind of nervousness that she works off by cleaning.

Mom gets to her feet as I open the fridge. “Are you working tonight?” I ask. Mom landed her job with the orchestra about a year ago. It was a huge deal for her. Before that, she worked from home, teaching harp and piano. She still teaches but not as much.

“Just a rehearsal,” she says. “But there are five performances a week for the rest of the month.” She watches as I pour myself a glass of nonfat milk. “At least you'll have your father for company.”

“How long will he be home?”

“Who knows?” She sighs.

I nod, heave my backpack over my shoulder and take my milk and an apple down the hall to my room. I drop the food on my desk and flop onto the bed. Rolling over, I stare at the ceiling. Like Mom, hearing that my dad's coming home unsettles me too. The truth is, I really don't know him that well. He's been touring with his band since I was a small kid, and he's on the road more than he's here. I've come to think of his visits home as crash landings. He'll sleep for most of the first few days, and then, as he emerges from his stupor, he'll start glancing at me, shyly, more like a stranger than a father. I think he'd like to know me better too, but I haven't figured out how to help him with that. He's full of confidence when he's onstage performing, dancing around, being goofy, but he's like a self-conscious kid with me. He tries, I'll give him that. When he's home, he comes to a lot of my dance classes and sits in a chair watching hours of tedious barre work and exercises. My teachers at the studio let him hang out there because Sonia, the owner, is a big fan of his band, Loose Ends, and she gets seriously weird when he's around. He's rarely home for my performances, but he's definitely seen the rigors of training.

Mom appears at my bedroom door. “I'm leaving,” she says. “I've got a ride. The car's all yours, if you need it.”

I nod.

She turns to leave, then swings back around. “No dance tonight?” she asks.

“No, it's registration night. Dance classes start up tomorrow.”

“Oh, okay.” She hesitates. “Well, then, I guess I'll see you in the morning.”

“Yep.”

She studies me for another moment, blows me a kiss and is gone.

I spend the evening waiting. I do homework, eat, chat online with Angela, my friend from dance, all the while expecting to hear Dad come through the door.

I pace and peer out the window. I wish he'd carry a cell phone like every other parent does so I could phone him and see where he is. I try to plan what we can talk about when he does get here. Maybe I can tell him about my problems with Mr. Rocchelli. Not the forgery part, but what a stubborn jerk he is. Dad would get it. He wouldn't have the time of day for a guy like Mr. Rocchelli. Dad is a self-taught musician and doesn't believe in spending years studying music theory and all that. It's a running joke between him and Mom. She's classically trained, but it's only recently that she's found work performing. He's been a performing musician for years.

One of the great things about Dad is he doesn't question my desire to study dance, which Mom only let me take seriously once I'd completed the highest level of piano performance at the National Music Academy. It was the deal we had. Once I'd mastered the music, she'd support my dream of being a dancer. That's how I ended up at a performing-arts school. It's finally my turn.

The hours tick by. I take a long bath. I read. Eventually I give up waiting and go to bed. I don't hear either of them come home.