Before, After, and Somebody In Between (20 page)

But now it’s time to go back to school, and I’m trying to keep my mind on what’s
really
important. Yes, I’m going to Waverly, and this is how it happens: First I take an entrance exam, and I totally ace it. Next, I have to be interviewed by the school dean with the druggie son. After promising me everything will be kept strictly confidential, he asks about the “incident” with Chardonnay. Nothing for me to do but tell him the truth.

Tipping back in his chair, he takes in every sweet detail of my ingénue get-up. “I can’t even imagine that. You hardly seem the type.”

I smooth my skirt with a demure smile. “I’m not. I promise. It just, um, got out of hand, and I was scared, and I didn’t know what else to do, and—” I shut my mouth before I get too carried away.

The dean says he understands, and gives me one warning: I have to abide by the rules one hundred and ten percent. If I don’t, I’m outta there, adios, end of story. “I hope you’ll be happy here, Gina.”

I offer him my newly acquired classic Brinkman handshake. “Thank you, sir. I’m honored to be here.” Dude, you have
no-o-o
freaking idea!

32

Next to Jefferson, Waverly Academy isn’t even on the same planet. No guards, no boys, no weapons in sight. No ear-splitting rap, no gum in my hair, and not one single shadow of another Chardonnay. How did I survive that hellhole?

Oh, wait. I didn’t.

On the official forms I write “Martha Kowalski” but I tell them right off the bat I only answer to Gina.
Gina, Gina, Gina
…I write it over and over in my neat loopy handwriting, dotting each
i
with a teeny circle. I look like a Gina in my long cello-friendly skirt, pointy, high-heeled boots, and the toxic layers of mascara it took me an hour to apply.

But best of all, I
feel
like a Gina. I blend in, safe and anonymous, with this trendy crowd of rich white-bread chicks with their camera phones and palm pilots, and hideously expensive haircuts. Maybe I don’t have the toys, but I do have the hair now—gold highlights and a celebrity hack job, courtesy of Jean-Philippe, Mrs. Brinkman’s stylist, who jabbers with her in French.

God, I wish Momma could see me now. Mr. Brinkman’s been asking me if I want to go see her, and I finally broke down and said yes. I just want to make sure she’s not as bad off as I imagine.

The only glitch at school is my last-period study hall. Three rows away and one desk up sits Danny’s old girlfriend, Caitlin Mackenzie. Well, doesn’t
this
bite the big one? Very small, very cute, with big, brown cow eyes and spiky black hair streaked with maroon. A microscopic diamond glitters in her nose, making my own unadorned nostril quiver in sympathy. Damn, she looks happy. Is she back with Danny? It’s been three full days now, and he hasn’t called.

Munching my nails, I try to force my attention back to my homework. But I hear Danny telling me how beautiful I am, how I remind him of autumn—and I waste the whole study hall daydreaming about his kiss.

Back home I get a very nasty surprise. Mrs. Brinkman shows me a letter from Momma’s social worker:
Mrs. Kowalski is doing well in rehab and will soon be transferred to a community facility. Regrettably, because she feels she needs to deal with some personal issues, she has requested that her daughter, Martha, not visit at this time
.

I’m majorly pissed off. Plus, my feelings are hurt, and Mrs. Brinkman can tell. “Well, wait a couple of weeks, and maybe we can try again.”

What
-ever
. I nod airily, like I couldn’t care less, wishing I could talk to someone about this, like maybe Shavonne. I really miss her, especially since I started school, but do I dare tell her where I am? What do I say? “Hey, I’m staying with the Brinkmans, but don’t ever, ever call me because I don’t want Nikki
to know I’m not from Columbus”? Same with Jerome, because he might just give me away.

Already this fantasy is getting complicated.

…

After dinner, it happens. The phone rings, and, yes, it’s Danny, and, yes, he wants to go out, and, yes, he’s picking me up in thirty minutes! I shower fast, then prance around in my walk-in closet in a state of naked panic. Dress or skirt? Pants or jeans? White lace bikini or cream-colored French-cut?

Gina’s reflection replies: “You are
such
a
slut.
You think he’s gonna see ‘em?”

I don’t know. Maybe? No! God, I hope so.

Mrs. Brinkman’s not thrilled about me going out on a school night, but Danny promises to have me home by ten. We hang out at a coffee shop near Shaker Square, and lucky for me Danny does most of the talking while I sit there happily, holding his hand under the table.
Thump-thump, thump-thump.
Move out of the way, ribs, my heart’s gonna explode!

Even though I don’t ask him, he eventually brings up Caitlin. “We broke up a few days ago. She kind of gets on my nerves.” Why? What does she do? Tell me, tell me, so I don’t do the same thing! “I see her around at the ski club, but that’s about it.”

“She skis, too, huh?” Okay. I can learn.

“Well, that’s all we have in common. I guess her dad told her musicians don’t make any kind of money, so she started giving me grief about going to Juilliard—”

Wait. Stop the clock! “You’re going to Juilliard?”

“Oh, yeah. Music composition. I passed my audition and everything.”

Oh, if I wasn’t so hot for him, I’d rip him to pieces.

Danny looks off into the distance. “Cait couldn’t care less about my music. She’s clueless, you know? I mean, music to a musician is like what, art to an artist? Writing to a writer? It’s all you can think about, it’s like—”

Yes, yes! I know exactly what he means. How dare that diamond-nosed midget expect him to give it up!

“A passion,” I blurt out, finishing his sentence. “I know! I know what that feels like.” At least I did, at one time. And now my mind wanders to Mr. Brinkman’s cello, just sitting there in its dusty case, alone and unused…

Danny watches me intently for a second, then tosses some bills on the table. “Come on back with me, Gina. I’ve got a surprise for you.”

He lives a few blocks from the Brinkmans, in a house twice as big but not nearly as homey. And, at this moment, definitely unoccupied. Trying to squelch the ding-ding-dinging in my brain, I ask innocently, “So, like where are your folks?”

“Out,” is all he says as he tows me over to his piano. “I finished that piece I was working on, and I wanted you to be the first one to hear it.” His gold class ring glitters as his fingers sweep over the keys, and after he finishes the jazzy, romantic tune, he asks, “Can you guess the title? I kind of named it after you.”

Martha? I think stupidly. And then he shows me what he wrote at the top of the page:

“Autumn” by Daniel Brinkman
For Gina

“Wow.” That’s me, I remember. Me, Gina. “That’s so cool! Thanks.”

Pleased, he leans over to kiss my cheek. “So, you want something to drink?”

“Sure.” I follow him to the bar where he pours two Cokes,
adding a smidgen of rum to both. “Yikes, what’re you trying to do, get me drunk?”

“No way. Uncle Dick’ll kill me if I bring you back drunk.”

“Oh, he’s already seen me—” I stop as his eyebrows shoot up. Straight, black, impossibly thick eyebrows, like those dark, sexy guys in foreign films. “Never mind. It’s a long story.”

Smiling, Danny brushes his knuckles along the side of my face. “So when are you gonna start telling me some of these long stories of yours?”

I take a gulp of my Coke, tasting the rum. Gina, I know, is treading on ver-ry dangerous ground here. “Oh, one of these days I’ll tell you all my secrets.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.” Another big fat lie.

He shows me around his Taj Mahal house and then leads me, kind of bashfully, into his bedroom. My brain alarm dings even louder, but my feet keep moving. I case the photos on his dresser, jealously searching for Caitlin, as he flips a CD into the player. Once again, Elvis starts singing, “Wise men say…” and Danny, without a word, yanks his sweater over his head, holds out a hand, and smiles that dark, sexy smile of his—and that’s when it hits me.

Tonight’s the night.

Setting my Coke aside, he pulls me down beside him onto the fluffy plaid comforter. “Gina. Have you ever been with a guy?”

Dazed, I shake my head. What, he can’t tell?

“I promise I won’t do anything you don’t want me to do. It’s just that—it’s like I’ve known you my whole life, and I don’t even know the first thing about you. Just that you’re so, so beautiful.” He brushes my hair back and starts kissing me everywhere.

Okay, okay. There’s gotta be a thousand reasons why I better come to my senses again. Like, what about those incurable
diseases they warn you about in school? Oh, and don’t forget Momma’s you-let-a-boy-into-your-pants-once-you-ain’t-never-gonna-see-him-again speech?

“Don’t be nervous,” he says softly into my ear, his hands already under my yellow cashmere sweater, unhooking my bra, pulling it free. He tries to slide my sweater over my head, but, horribly shy, I push him feebly away. So he fastens his lips to my throat, then moves them lower…and lower. “I’d never do anything to hurt you, Gina,” he says between pants. “If you want me to stop, then tell me, okay? Trust me.”

I soak up every word, wondering what the old Martha would say—but no, I won’t think about Martha. I’m Gina now, and I’m with Danny, Danny, Danny…

So I do it. I trust him, and I let him go all the way, trying not to pay attention as he fumbles, one-handed, with what I guess is a condom wrapper. I’ve seen R-rated movies with Shavonne, so I figured I’d know what to do, or at least be able to fake my way through it. But it kind of hurts, and it’s faster than I expected, too fast for me to do anything back.

Then he holds me so tight, I can feel my bones crack. “I love you, Gina.”

And Gina whispers back, “I love you, too.”

33

Professor Leopold Moscowitz: short and stocky, with a flowing gray mane, thick overgrown eyebrows, and clacking dentures. First thing out of his mouth at the start of my lesson is that he doesn’t, under any circumstances, “poot up vit boo-shit.” “Boo-shit” meaning not practicing, not paying attention, tardiness, skipping lessons, or not progressing as fast as
he
thinks I should. He doesn’t waste his time, he adds, with no-talent nobodies. At least that’s what I think he said. His English sucks, and those clacking teeth drive me nuts.

“Play,” he says, thrusting a pile of music at me.

“Can I look it over first?”

“Vat’s to look over?”
Clack, clack.
“You can either play it or you cannot play it. And vee only have an hour, so do not vaste any more of my time.”

Sheesh! Slowly I open the case, and the professor stares at the cello like I just unveiled the Holy Grail.

“Magnificent,” he murmurs, touching the scroll. “Treat it with kindness, with respect. It vill be your best friend.”

I lift the cello out with cold, cold hands. I haven’t played for so long, how can I possibly play now? I couldn’t even bring myself to
tune it, and had Danny do it for me. Until now, this very moment, I’ve hardly touched the thing at all.

But the cello climbs into my arms with a will of its own, the bow fitting into my fingers as naturally as a pencil. I fill my lungs, straighten my shoulders, and concentrate only on the music in front of me. When the notes come out frazzled, I wonder if it’s too late. Maybe it’s already gone, everything I learned.

“Stop, stop!” Covering his ears. “Oy, I can’t bear it!”

“Um, I haven’t played for a while—”

His beady eyes gleam. “Hmph!”
Clack, clack.
“That is perfectly obvious.”

“—and I’m trying to focus, and—”

“Do not focus! Just look at the notes and play.”

I suck air in, whoosh it out slowly, and raise my bow again. Okay, don’t focus, don’t concentrate, just look—at—the—notes—and—play! I touch the bow to the strings, and after another wobbly start, I’m back—my eyes see the notes, and the music flows from my brain, down to my fingers, and out through the cello. I don’t even know what I’m playing, but it’s very heavy on the vibrato, which is when you make your fingers quiver on the strings. Mine quiver so hard, my left wrist almost cracks in two.

I finish with a dramatic screech and then sit there, panting. The roof doesn’t cave in. In fact, nothing happens at all. Is he the least bit impressed? Who can tell? That homicidal look on his face seems to be his normal expression.

Silence, heavy shrug, and one final
clack.
“Okay, you need vork. But ve’ll see vat you can do.”

…

From then on, I spend every spare moment with either my cello or with Danny. Movies, dinners, playing our instruments together, and concerts, lots of concerts! The ones at Severance Hall
are my favorite. Every time we go, I sit there in a trance, soaking up the music, and picturing me up there in the middle of that orchestra. I want to see the conductor’s face for a change. I want to feel the hot lights on my skin, feel the music from every side, feel that thundering applause—and know, without a doubt, that people are clapping for me.

Danny’s the only one who even remotely understands. Now he’s teaching me how to write music, and it’s hard, but a lot of fun. I hate when we’re not together, and I think about him every second. I even sleep with the yellow sweater I wore that first night, just so I can smell him all night long.

Tonight Nikki catches me floating upstairs after he drops me off. “Nice hickey,” she comments with a vicious grin.

I slap my hand over my neck. “Um, so how was rehearsal?”

Nikki tugs at her leotard. “Awesome! One of the girls ripped up her knee, so they gave me her part. Now I’ll be onstage even longer, and I get my name and bio in the program.” She pirouettes alongside me as I make a beeline to the john. “Did Danny tell you about the party?”