Before, After, and Somebody In Between (31 page)

“What do you mean, you’re done?”

There is no getting through to that hillbilly mind. “I’m not going to any more of your dumb meetings, okay?
You’re
the one with the drinking problem, so
you
go and pray to, to Saint Jude or whoever that guy is—”

“Saint Francis!” Momma snaps.

“—and hold hands with a bunch of weirdos and listen to ‘em boo-hoo-hoo about all the shit in their lives. I’m done! The end.”

Momma sends me a flaming look. Okay, that wasn’t the smartest thing for me to say. Maybe I need to try a different approach.

“Oh, Momma. I’m kidding.” With a syrupy smile, I rub her stiff shoulders with my fingers and thumbs. “Anyway, those meetings don’t even get started till seven. If you let me take those lessons, I can make it back in plenty of time.” From Shaker Square? Yeah, if I fly.

Momma, still fuming, scooches away. “No, you got your fiddle and you can fool around with that. You don’t need any more lessons.” A fiddle, she calls it.

“That’s not fair!” I scream. “You’re just being a bitch about this!”

“You watch your mouth!”

Poor unsuspecting Larry tries to stick up for me. “Come on now, Lou Ann, why don’t you give the kid a break? You been listening to her play? Damn, she’s good.”

He winks at me, but before I can send him a vibe of gratitude, Momma leaps between us, snarkier than ever. “If I want your opinion, mister, I’ll be sure to ask for it!”

“Fine. Suit yourself.” Larry slams out in a huff.

I give up, hide in my room, and comfort myself with my little goldfish from Larry: Wolfgang, Johann, and teeny-tiny Ludwig. Larry or no Larry, drinking or no drinking. Nothing has changed. Nothing’ll ever change.

…

Zelda pops in unexpectedly on Friday. I don’t go to her office because Momma doesn’t make me, and so far nobody else seems to care. Today she starts blathering about some program she wants Momma and me to join—family counseling, vocational job training for teens…

Vocational training. Translation: for kids who can’t go to college.

“Do I have to do it?” I ask. “Like, is it a law or something?”

“No-o,” Zelda answers, and it kills her to admit it.

“Then forget it.”

“Martha,” Momma butts in, but I have so—totally—had it!

“I want to be a cellist, not some factory freak!” My finger bobs under Momma’s nose. “And you won’t let me take lessons even though they’re perfectly free, and—”

Momma whaps my hand away and launches into her usual tirade while Zelda grabs me and hustles me out of the room. “Get upstairs,” she hisses. “I will handle your mother.”

Trembling, furious, I make it to the top of the steps, and then press myself into the wall, listening to bits and pieces of their conversation.

“…already had the audition. She’s gifted, Lou Ann. And if the lessons are already paid for, what harm can it do?”

“Who cares if they’re paid for? It ain’t my money. You think that hot-shot lawyer’s gonna be doing that the whole rest of her life?”

Murmur, murmur
…and then I hear the word “life” again from Zelda, something about me doing something with my life, and all Momma says to that is, “You can’t do nothin’ with shit but make another pile of shit.”

“Martha’s life does not have to be a pile of shit. This isn’t difficult, Lou Ann.”

“I’ll tell you what’s difficult—it’s people like you who keep tellin’ her she’s so special!
This
is her life, okay? Ain’t nothin’ gonna change it.”

I decide, with a sinking chill, not to listen to any more. I slip into my room and watch my darting goldfish, remembering the day I figured out that Momma doesn’t “like” me very much. Is that really because of my dad? Or is it just because I’m me?

Zelda appears about ten minutes later. “Well, I have a
bit
of good news. I think your mother may be ready to compromise.”

“So what do I gotta do? Shave my head bald and wear a bone through my nose?”

“No. If you go back to Alateen, you can continue your lessons.” When I don’t jump for joy, she prods me with, “That’s fair, don’t you think?”

Sounds like blackmail to me.

Then again, when you think about it, what Zelda just pulled off is nothing short of a miracle. So…okay, fine, I’ll do it. Anything at all to get my lessons back!

Funny thing is, when I do go back to Professor Moscowitz, he never even mentions all the time I missed. He admits, grudgingly, that I sound “not too bad for a change,” which has got to be the biggest compliment that crazy dude ever gave anyone.

51

After that, I make an effort to be nice. I go to every meeting, sit in the back, and pretend to listen to all the miserable stories. Maybe years from now, when I’m famous, I’ll be laughing about this. Then again, maybe it still won’t be funny.

Tonight, Emilio, the boy with the dog-chain-swinging dad, stops me by the punch bowl before I can make my usual getaway. He’s kind of cute, in spite of his fanatical grin, with shaggy hair, dark eyes, a hint of a mustache, and the longest eyelashes I’ve ever seen. And I love his Rolling Stones T-shirt with the glow-in-the-dark tongue.

He blabs nonstop for a bit, then asks, “So who’re you with?”

“My mom,” I grumble.

“Which one’s your mom?” Emilio nods when I point her out. “Oh, I know her. She’s nice.”

“Nice? Ha-ha. She’s not nice to me.”

“Is that your dad with her?”

“No, they’re just living in sin.”

Emilio snorts into his Hawaiian Punch. Then, “So, you got a boyfriend?”

I stab him with my eyes. “Whaddaya think? I come here to pick up guys?”

“No, I mean sorry, I mean, I’m not coming onto you, okay?” Poor Emilio turns redder than the punch, and I wonder why I’m being so mean to him.

I sigh. “Forget it. I did have a boyfriend, but we, um, broke up.”

Too scared of me now to ask for any details, Emilio starts yakking about the meetings and how much they’ve helped him, and if I ever want to get together to discuss the program… y-a-w-n! Fossilized with boredom, I shift from one foot to the other till Momma’s piercing “Yoo-hoo!” thankfully frees me from his clutches.

…

Larry, believe it or not, is a good influence on Momma. Not only has she stopped bitching about having to hear me practice, she actually listens sometimes, but never really comments. Larry, though, always cheers me on.

“Couple more years, darlin’, and you’ll be charging admission,” he teases.

“I hope so,” I say honestly.

Momma squints dubiously. “You think she’s that good? Still sounds like a bunch of screeching to me.”

“Hell, yeah, she’s good. She’s even got a concert coming up.”

I shift uncomfortably. It’s not a real concert, just one of Professor Moscowitz’s studio recitals. Larry only knows about it because he’s been driving me to my lessons. I didn’t tell Momma, and if Larry hadn’t opened his trap, I probably wouldn’t have bothered. What if she refuses to come? Worse, what if she shows up and acts like an idiot?

I’m almost sorry I agreed to this thing. Plus, Professor
Moscowitz’s studio is so close to the Brinkmans, and to Waverly, what if I run into someone I know? I have no clue who’s playing besides me, or who’ll be in the audience.

“A concert?” Momma repeats, brows mashing together.

“It’s a recital,” I say reluctantly. “We take turns, and well, it’s really no big deal …”

“What’re you playing?”

Um, the same two things you’ve been listening to for the past month and a half? A section of “Winter” from Vivaldi’s
The Four Seasons
—yes, the same Vivaldi who got me hooked in the first place—and the “Simple Gifts” part from
Appalachian Spring.
“Why? Are you coming?”

“Depends. When is it?”

“Next Wednesday,” I mumble, half hoping she won’t hear me.

“Wouldn’t miss it,” Larry says heartily. “Right, Lou Ann?”

Momma stalls. “What about our meeting that night?”

“Hell, we can miss one meeting. Don’t you know this girl of yours is gonna be a star?”

Momma’s startled eyes collide with mine. I think it just dawned on her at last that my cello is not a game, that I’m dead serious about a career, and that I’ll be playing my cello forever whether she likes it or not. “Do you want us to come, sugar?”

“Sure,” I say airily, never mind that the worst vision imaginable just slammed into my brain: a drunken Momma staggering onstage, belting out some hillbilly ballad, then flashing a tit at Professor Moscowitz before falling headfirst into a tuba … omigod, omigod,
omigod
!

Momma breaks into a brilliant smile. “Well! Then we’re coming. You know, I might even have to break down and buy me a new dress for the occasion.”

Wow, this is serious.

I try not to be nervous, but sorry, I can’t trust her. I even go so far as to warn Professor Moscowitz, in a roundabout way, of course. “So what would you do if like this totally drunk, obnoxious person showed up and messed up your whole recital?”

He studies me from beneath his furry unibrow. “A relative of yours, perhaps?”

“Maybe.”

“Then rest assured, I vill shoot them on sight.”

Why do I get the feeling he’s not taking me seriously?

“Oh, and could you not call me Gina that night?” Yes, that’s what he still calls me, and yes, I love hearing it. I love that “Gina” can be resurrected for a couple hours each week. “My family calls me Martha, and you’ll just confuse them.”

Professor Moscowitz shakes his shaggy silver mane, but he’s not interested enough to ply me with questions. He says (half in English, half in either Russian or Yiddish) that as far as he’s concerned I can call myself Jascha Heifetz as long as I show up, play well, and don’t throw my head around like a goddamn racehorse.

“Heifetz wasn’t a cellist,” I argue before I realize this was a test.

With a sneer of approval, he shoos me out the door.

52

Momma, true to form, waits till the day of my recital to run out for a new outfit. She calls in sick from work, and makes Larry drive her to Tower City because she wants a
real
dress this time, not some discount rag. It’s funny to see her all psyched up like this, because I’m not used to the “new” Momma. Every day she stays sober feels like a miracle.

I decide not to wear the outfit I bought for Waverly’s spring concert (bad karma!) and instead find a long ivory dress with spaghetti straps in my overly jammed closet. With no blow dryer, no conditioner, and an outdoor temperature of ninety-five muggy degrees, there’s not much I can do with my crazy mop except twist it into a scrunchie and spray the hell out of it.

At six thirty p.m., an hour and a half before the recital, Larry calls me from Tower City. “Bad news, darlin’. I kinda lost your momma.”

“What do you mean, you lost her?”

“We were supposed to meet in the food court, and I’ve been waiting for two hours. I was hoping maybe she took the bus home or something.”

“Well, she’s not here, and my recital’s at eight!”

“Well, how ‘bout if I come home and run you over, and then—”

“No, no, go look for Momma. I can get there myself, unless you think I should wait …”

“No, you go on ahead. Maybe we’re just passing each other up.” Poor Larry sounds like he wants to bawl. “Soon as I find her, we’ll be there.”

Crap. Where is she?

I ride the bus to the rapid transit, the rapid to Shaker Square, and make it to the studio with seven minutes to spare. My first real performance, not counting my audition, and here I am, too flustered to see straight. I glance around at the audience, at the other musicians—nobody I know, thank God—and then watch the door for Momma and Larry, waiting and wondering.

At Professor Moscowitz’s impatient hiss from his seat at the piano, I jump up, trip over someone’s foot, and make my way to the platform. The studio is small, with just enough chairs for invited guests, so the two empty seats are sickeningly obvious.

The second I touch my bow to the strings, the dread, the panic, instantly disappear.

Yes, I am focused.

Yes, I play beautifully.

Yes, the nutty professor is bobbing his head as he plays along, and holy shit, what’s that on his face? No way! He’s never cracked a single smile the whole time I’ve known him.

The applause rocks me, making me so giddy I practically float back to my seat. I did it, I did it—and everyone clapped! I’ll never forget that sound, and I want to hear it again, and again, because
this is exactly who I was meant to be!
I know it without a doubt. Nothing will ever change my mind!

Afterward, Professor Moscowitz pumps my arm so hard he almost rips it from the socket. “That was extraordinary, Gina. Extraordinary!” And yes, other people are congratulating me, too, and shaking my hand, praising me from all sides. I’m stunned enough to forget about those two vacant seats, and all because Professor Impossible-to-Please Moscowitz called me “extraordinary” in front of witnesses, no less.

On the way home, in the back of the almost-empty bus, my jubilation fades as it hits me:
Momma had damn well better be dead!
And when I hear voices shouting on the other side of my front door, I know she’s alive, but that Larry’s ready to kill her.

“…never, never understand how you could do this, Lou Ann!”

“I didn’t do nothin’ to you! I told ya, we just talked.”

“Right, you talked!”

The door smashes open and Larry barrels down off the stoop as Momma calls, “Now don’t go runnin’ off on me, Larry! Larry? Come back here!”

Larry plows into me in the dark. “What happened?” I yelp. “Where was she?”

“I said I was sorry!” Momma screams through the screen. “What more do you want?”

“Go ask your momma what happened,” Larry says, jerking open his car door.

“Lar-
reee
!” Momma comes flying down the steps. “Larry, ple-ease don’t go!” For a moment I swear she’s about to race after the car. I pull her back into the house before we end up on somebody’s camcorder. “Martha, stop him!” she pleads, clawing at my dress.