Allegra (22 page)

“You're soaked, Allegra,” Mr. Rocchelli says, more gently now. “I'm sorry, but I don't think it was meant to be tonight.”

“I have some sweatpants in my locker that I could change into.” I know I'm sounding too anxious.

Our eyes meet again before he looks back down at my foot. His gaze moves to the window, and he looks out into the night as he considers. “You need to call your parents, Allegra.”

“No. I want to work.” I shudder as another chill washes through me.

He sighs, stands up and moves away from me. “I've been foolish, Allegra. This is wrong.”

“Wrong?” I ask the question, but I don't really want to know the answer.

“It's inappropriate for me to be working with you here alone at night. I don't know what I was thinking.” His gaze goes back to the window again. “I allowed myself to get so caught up in what we were doing, what we were creating, that I forgot to use common sense. We need to reschedule our sessions to daytime slots.”

I just stare at him, not wanting to comprehend.

“Unless there are other groups here,” he says, shoving his hands into his pockets. “Allegra,” he says, turning to look at me again, “I believe we have created something pretty spectacular together. Seriously. I try not to think about it too much, but…” He lets out another sigh.

“But what?” The room is still except for the drumming of the rain on the metal roof.

“I think we could get it published. Hear it performed.”

I stare at him. He's talking about the music. For some reason, I thought he was talking about us.

He smiles, just a little. “And because I'm so excited about the music, I've allowed myself to become too close to you, my student. We need to step back a little, Allegra, keep this professional—teacher and student. You're completing an assignment, and I'm coaching you. That's all.”

He looks so sad as he speaks, trying to convince himself—and me—that this is just a case of a student completing an assignment, that I know, suddenly, the truth of this situation. He loves me too.

The rain continues to pummel the roof of the portable. Mr. Rocchelli has gone back to staring out the window. His profile is beautiful. The surge of my heart is greater than the throbbing in my ankle.

“I love you.”

It was not planned. I didn't even know the words were going to come out of my mouth. They hang in the air between us for a moment. Mr. Rocchelli's eyes widen as he stares at me.

Suddenly, he strides across the room and goes behind his desk. “Phone your parents, Allegra. Have one of them come and get you. Now!”

I feel the blood drain from my face, and then, just as suddenly, a rage courses through me. I stand and face him, ignoring my throbbing ankle. “Neither of them are home.”

“Where are they?”

“My dad's on a road trip with his band, and my mom's performing tonight.”

“But she knows you're here, right?”

I hesitate, wondering if I should lie, and in that moment his expression changes.

“Allegra, you did tell your parents that you've been coming here to work with me, right?”

I meet his gaze. “No. It was none of their business. Besides, they wouldn't care.”

He stares at me. I stare back. I can't believe he's reacting like this.

He flips open his laptop and types something.

I jam my foot back into my soaking-wet shoe, hardly noticing the pain. Mr. Rochelli is still across the room, and I assume he's looking up the phone number for a cab company. I grab my bag and hobble to the door. Then I reach into my bag and pull out the flash drive that contains our piece of music. Slamming it onto a desk, I look back at him. “It's all yours. And as of this moment, I am no longer enrolled in music theory.” I see his brow crease, but I just pull open the door and head back out into the rain.

I'm almost at my car when I hear his footsteps behind me. He grabs my arm and tries to pull me around to face him. I yank my arm away and try to press the Open button on my key fob, but my hand is shaking so hard that I keep missing it.

His hand closes over mine, and he tugs away the keys. I don't resist, just slump against my car, the rain coming down even harder now, if that's possible. I feel tears sliding down my face, warm on my skin where the raindrops are cold.

Noel pulls me around to face him. His hands rest on my shoulders. I feel his hand slip under my chin, forcing me to look up at him. “I'm sorry, Allegra. I handled that badly.”

I can't look at him and gaze instead over his shoulder, into the parking lot. The glow from the lone streetlight barely reaches this corner. My breathing is ragged as I struggle to hold back more tears.

“This is all my fault,” he says. “I've acted like a complete fool. No wonder you were confused.”

I feel myself flinch. Confused? I don't think so.

“I like you a lot, Allegra,” he says, his voice shaky. “You know that. You're also one of my most gifted students, and I want to push you to make the most of your talent.” His hands squeeze my shoulders. I look up, wondering if he'll kiss me. His hair is plastered against his head, his eyelashes clumped together with moisture. “But Allegra, I am your teacher, and you are my student, and that's it.” His eyes bore into mine, and then he drops his hands, turns and unlocks his car. He opens the passenger door for me. “I'll drive you home,” he says, his voice cracking. “Get in.”

“My mom…she'll need her car tomorrow.”

“How did she get to the theater tonight?”

“A friend drove her.” I frown, thinking of Marcus.

“Then I'm sure she can find a friend to drop her off here tomorrow.”

I'm too cold to argue, so I slump into the passenger seat. He shuts the door and walks around to the driver's side. After starting the engine, he turns the heat on full blast and backs out of the stall. Except for me giving him the odd direction, neither of us says a thing until we arrive at my house. As I reach for the door handle, I feel his hand on my arm.

“Are we okay, Allegra?”

I can't look at him, but I shrug. I have yet to process what has happened tonight.

“We will finish the project though,” he says. “It's important.”

“I'll think about it.”

“No, don't think about it. Commit to it. Tomorrow in class, we'll map out some new times.”

I close my eyes and sigh.

“It's easy to get confused, Allegra.”

I just shrug again. He's wrong, but I can't tell him that.

“Is your ankle okay?”

I rotate it. “It'll mend. It's not the first time I've twisted it.” I reach for the door handle again. This time he doesn't try to stop me.

“Good night, Allegra,” he says softly as I get out of the car. I don't answer and start to limp up the driveway.

His car pulls away.

F
ifteen

I slide down into the warm, sudsy water, allowing the fragrant bubbles to cover me. The anger has melted away, and now I simply feel numb. Resting my head on the back of the tub, I close my eyes and allow my thoughts to run free.

When, exactly, did everything go sideways tonight? Sharing the umbrella, running together through the rain, laughing at the craziness of it…we were in complete sync, just like when we're writing music.

I open my eyes and watch as bubbles burst open, releasing their fragrance. Twisting my ankle…that's when things went wrong. If that hadn't happened, we'd still be at the school right now, working on the piece. The musical ideas would be dancing around us, and we would pull them in and enter them into the score. The music would become more and more powerful and the realization of that would be like a drug, drawing us closer and closer. Our musical dance would be a flawless performance.

I run a washcloth up and down my arms, then let my hand drop back into the water with a splash. The truth hits me, and the numbness is replaced with complete and utter shame. I should never have told him that I love him. That was when things really went sideways. If I could only rewind the clock, go back to those few seconds before I turned my ankle. We'd skirt around that hole in the pavement, tumble into the classroom, arms still linked, passionate about creating music together…

I watch a steady drip of water falling from the faucet head. My eyes close, heavy, but then flutter open; I sit up. I slam my hand into the water and watch as it splashes up the tile wall. Somehow I need to fix this mess I've created. I can't turn the clock back, and I can't take the words back either. Can we find that magic place again or have I spoiled it forever?

I hum the first few bars of the piece. It relaxes me. I hum a little more.

I turn on the tap and swirl more hot water into my bath. Perhaps we can get back on track. Noel let it slip that he wants to see our piece get published and performed. Was he serious? If he was, our names would be forever linked together, as composers.

Shutting off the water, I notice that the bubbles have mostly disappeared, and I lift my foot to inspect my ankle. It is swollen and starting to change color. I'll have to miss a few dance classes, but it's not too bad. I've had worse.

Lying back, I allow the entire piece of music to run through my head. I can see the notes on the page and feel how they blend to create various moods. I take a long, head-clearing breath and sigh. I like it. Maybe it is as good as he thinks. It's hard to tell. I'm too close to it; I know it too intimately. It's like it is with dance: all I can do is perform and hope the audience connects with me. I can't see what they are seeing, I can't tell how “good” it is, I can just hope they feel something.

Will people respond to our music?

I pull the plug and watch as the water swirls down the drain. Perhaps not all is lost. I step out of the tub and wrap a towel around me. Using a hand towel, I clear a circle in the mirror. I stare into large gray eyes. Coils of hair have escaped from where I'd gathered them into a knot at the top of my head.

I graduate from school in less than a year. He won't have to obey those teacher-student rules once I'm no longer his student. I smile at the face in the mirror. The face smiles back, confidently. I may have found a way to fix this mess after all. All I need is patience.

The phone rings as I'm stepping into flannel pajamas. It's Dad.

“I'll be home for Christmas,” he says, “but only for a couple of days. We have a gig on the twenty-eighth, but then there's only a couple more weeks after that and we're finished.”

My heart flips at the word
Christmas
. I hadn't even thought about what that would be like this year, with my parents separated.

“Legs, are you still there?” he asks.

“Yeah yeah, sorry. My mind just wandered.”

“I've been talking to your mom. We figure we'll drive up to Dave's on Christmas Eve.”

Dave is my mom's brother, and most years her whole family descends on his home, as he has the most space and his wife, Sandra, loves to put on a big Christmas dinner.

“We're still a family,” he says, “and we'll spend Christmas together as usual. The rest of the family doesn't know about our new arrangement, and this doesn't seem the time to tell them.”

“Whatever,” I say. Christmas seems so unimportant right now. I just want to think about the music, and Mr. Rocchelli. Noel.

There's a long pause. “How's the composing going?” he asks, as if reading my thoughts.

“Really well,” I tell him, feeling myself brighten. “Mr. Rocchelli thinks we may be able to get the piece published when we're finished.”

“When
we're
finished?” Dad asks.

“We've been working together on it,” I tell him, somewhat sheepishly. I'm glad he can't see my face, as I know my expression would give too much away. When he doesn't respond, I add softly, “You bailed on me, remember?”

“I didn't bail, Legs. There's nothing I'd like more than to be working on that piece with you.”

“But you chose to go on tour.”

“I had to get out of town, honey, but it wasn't an easy choice. I'd much rather be there with you, but that didn't seem like an option.”

I don't respond. The way I see it, if he
chose
to leave, he had options. It's as simple as that.

“I look forward to hearing it when I get back. Is it almost done?”

“It's close, but we keep going back and polishing and improving what we've already completed. It's been an amazing process.” I know I've said too much, and with too much enthusiasm, but it just spilled out.

“That's great, Legs. I'm really happy that you're writing music. Maybe you and I will write some together someday too.”

“Maybe,” I tell him, but deep in my heart I want it to be Mr. Rocchelli—
Noel
—and me writing music together in the future.

“And how's dance going?” he asks. “Are you ready to take on the world stage next year?”

“Actually, I've slowed down a little. I twisted my ankle, so I have to take some time off.” I don't mention that the injury only occurred tonight. “Besides, the writing is taking up most of my time right now.”

“Really? It's hard to imagine that anything could keep my girl from dancing. How bad is your ankle?”

“Not bad.” I rotate it and flinch in pain.

“Well, I hope it heals up quickly so you don't lose too much time.”

His words make me think. It's amazing how fast I've lost interest in dance. Right now, I couldn't care less about taking a week or two off.

“Anyway,” he says, “I'd better get some sleep. We have five nights in a row of shows coming up.” He sighs. “I think I'm getting too old for this.”