Consent (6 page)

I place my hands on the keyboard and peer at Lianna. She positions her violin and bow and gives me a slight nod. Braden nods too.

After a beat Braden inhales loudly and dips his head toward his bow arm. Then he begins to play. A measure later Lianna joins him. Their duet is a mere whisper because the music is marked
ppp,
for
pianissimo possible,
which means “softest possible.”

I jump in at the fourth measure, at
p,
which is simply
piano
or “soft.” The shift from
ppp
to
p
is subtle and sublime, especially with the three voices weaving together. I've never played chamber music; I've never even performed in public, except for Plum a couple of times, and of course the various people who've overheard me practicing: Dad, Hannah, Mr. Rossi. Grandma Min, when she used to visit us from Tucson. I have to admit, it's really amazing to create sound with other instruments.

We play on. The initial rush of pleasure begins morphing into sheer hard work. I have to focus, really focus, to execute my part. Despite the hours of practice last night and my stellar sight-reading skills, the piece is still unfamiliar and not in my body yet. It will be, though, eventually. By the holiday concert I should be able to run the entire thing from muscle memory—if I stay in this group, that is.

The piece accelerates. Halfway through the
appassionato
section, which is fast and frantic, my left hand shoots out to turn the page as my right hand flies across the keyboard. But someone beats me to the page-turning—Mr. Rossi. How long has he been standing there?

I'm rattled but manage to play on. Mr. Rossi continues to page-turn for me. He knows the piece so well, and the rhythm of my playing so well, that he turns each page at the precise millisecond without waiting for my signal. It's almost like we're playing the piano part together.

After the
appassionato
section comes the
tempo rubato
section, then the
risoluto.

As the piece reaches its climax, it swells and then settles. Slowly, gradually, the music trickles back down to
p,
then
pp,
then
ppp.

The violin and cello fade away, and the last two measures of the piece are mine alone: three G-minor chords, each more quiet than the last. With the final chord, I come down as lightly and tenderly as I can and then hold . . . and hold . . . and hold.

When I finally let go, I can feel Mr. Rossi watching me as I sink my trembling hands onto my lap.

Silence fills the room.

We all glance up at Mr. Rossi. He is still watching me.

“Well?” Lianna's voice slices through the stillness.

Mr. Rossi startles as though waking up from a trance. “What? Sorry. Yes, it's a good beginning.”

Lianna pouts. “A good beginning? That's all?”

“This is your first time together. Beatrice, I thought you didn't know this piece.”

“I didn't. I learned it last night.”

“Last night.” For a moment Mr. Rossi seems at a loss for words. Lianna whispers something to Braden.

“Right, then. Why don't we take it from the top?” Mr. Rossi finally manages.

This time he pulls up a chair to the left of me, which is the usual protocol for a page-turner. When I play the opening octaves, he leans in so closely that I can feel his warm breath on my neck.

My pulse quickening, I give in to the music.

That night when I get home, I log on to my computer and find an e-mail from Mr. Rossi:

I need to discuss an important music-related matter with you. We could meet tomorrow after school in my classroom, if you are free. I'll also be at Café Tintoretto Saturday afternoon from around 4:00 to 6:00, if that's more convenient. Just 30 minutes, I promise.

Dane

At the bottom of the message is his phone number.

I read the e-mail again—twice, three times, four times. What does it mean?

I go get my phone downstairs to call Plum. I need to talk to her immediately. An imaginary flirtation was one thing. But this . . .

“How was your chamber rehearsal thingy?” she says as soon as she picks up. “Also, do you want to come over for dinner? Like, seven? Daddy and I harvested all the basil from the garden because he said there might be a hard frost soon. We made pesto!”

“Pesto sounds great, but I can't. Listen, I . . . Mr. Rossi e-mailed me,” I blurt out.

“About what?”

“He says he wants to discuss something music-related with me. Here, listen.” I read the e-mail out loud.

“Oooh, a
date
!” she shrieks when I'm finished.

“Plum, it's
not
a date.”

“Definitely go with Saturday. Tell him tomorrow is out because, you know, your Dictator Mom best friend is forcing you to come over for an SAT prep session.”

“Oh, yay.”

“You'll thank me when you get a perfect score. You're going to say yes, right? To the café invite?”

“Sure, I guess so.”

“What are you going to wear?”

“What difference does that make?”

“Wear your red top—you look really sexy in it.”

“Plum!”

I hear her cackling on the other end.
Witch.
I flop down on the living room couch and stare up at the ceiling. Cream Puff jumps onto my chest and digs in her claws.

And then Plum is talking again, not about Mr. Rossi but the other thing. College.

“We're all set for Columbus Day weekend! I signed us up for a Harvard information session and tour on Saturday morning. They were
literally
the last slots available for the whole weekend! I also signed us up for Northeastern and Tufts. We have some time on Sunday and Monday if there are other colleges you want to visit, like maybe MIT and BU? Oh, and Aunt Jessika said we can stay with her and her girlfriend at their town house. Isn't that great? They have four cats! Your dad said it was okay, right? And make sure you get out of your lesson with Scary Russian Lady. You and I have never been on a road trip together. It's going to be so much fun. . . .”

After rambling about college some more, Plum announces that she has to go. We blow kisses over the phone and hang up. I shake Cream Puff off my chest and head back upstairs to my computer.

Sitting down at my desk, I try to compose a reply to Mr. Rossi. Do students and teachers hang out in cafés? I remember
that Mr. Starmer used to hold “office hours” at The Grind on Friday afternoons. But he was really old and sort of a famous poet, so people expected him to act eccentric. I remember, too, seeing Mr. Jablonski and Annie Richmond there once, talking quietly in a corner. There was a rumor that they were having an affair, but nothing ever came of that, and Annie ended up dropping out of school because she got pregnant—not with Mr. Jablonski's baby, but with some random JV basketball player's baby.

I guess it can't hurt to meet Mr. Rossi at this Café Tintoretto place. Because I'll only stay for a minute. Or thirty minutes. Whatever.

I type:

Dear Mr. Rossi,

Wait . . . he's “Dane” now.

Dear Dane,

Who starts an e-mail with “Dear”?

Thank you for your note. Tomorrow doesn't work, but it happens that I'm free around 4 p.m.
on Saturday, so I will stop by Café Tintoretto then. If anything comes up last minute, here is my cell . . .

Too businesslike.

I stare at the blank screen for what seems like forever.

Finally, I type:

Yes, Saturday, Café Tintoretto at 4.

Simple and unambiguous.

I add my phone number as a P.S. and hit Send.

Now there is no going back.

On Saturday, I rush into Café Tintoretto at ten minutes past four. It's on a tiny side street and not easy to find. The inside is small and dimly lit, with stained-glass windows, high tin ceilings, and a handful of antiquey tables. Gold-framed paintings of Greek gods and goddesses cover the orange walls. A scratchy but beautiful rendition of the “Flower Duet” from the opera
Lakmé
spins on an ancient record player.

I am wearing the red top Plum likes, but only because it's laundry day and nothing else is clean.

Mr. Rossi—Dane—jumps to his feet when he sees me. When I reach his table, we stand there awkwardly for a second; do we shake hands or what?

“I—,” I begin.

“I—,” he says at the exact same time.

We both smile. “Sorry, you go ahead,” he says.

His gaze lingers on my face. Does he notice that I'm wearing makeup for once? Although “makeup” might be an exaggeration, since it's just a new lip gloss color, Naked Peach, and an invisible layer of blush. I tried eye shadow as well, but it looked too obvious, so I baby-oiled it off.

“I just wanted to say, this is my first time here. It's nice.”

“Yes, isn't it? It's rather an anachronism.”

Dane is in weekend mode in a gray cashmere sweater, jeans, and tortoiseshell glasses. The sweater looks impossibly soft, and I have to resist the urge to touch it; that would definitely not be cool.

A sleek silver laptop sits on the table next to a pile of scores. Stickers cover the lid:
ASPEN MUSIC FESTIVAL, TANGLEWOOD, ROYAL ACADEMY OF MUSIC, CONSERVATOIRE DE PARIS.

“Lesson planning,” he says, nodding at the scores. “I've found this to be a good place to get work done. It's often empty this time of day.”

I point to one of the scores. “ ‘Suite from Cinderella'? What's that?”

“It's a suite by Prokofiev, arranged for two pianos. Fantastic piece. You know, you and I should play it together sometime.”

“Really?”

“Really. The orchestra room has two pianos, so we could rehearse there.”

Dane and me playing “Suite from Cinderella” together . . . the thought of it makes me strangely giddy. And it's not just the prospect of having lots of practice sessions with him alone. The chamber rehearsal on Thursday made me realize how nice performing with other people can be. With Lianna and Braden, it was great. With Dane, it would be . . . epic.

He is asking me a question.

“I'm sorry, what?” I say.

“I haven't ordered yet. Can I get you something?”

I hesitate. I was only going to stay for a short while.

I glance around; there's no one else from A-Jax here, which is no surprise, since everyone goes to The Grind. The only other customers are a couple in the corner who are discreetly making out. I try not to gawk at them.

“Um, sure. Yes. Thank you,” I say quickly.

Dane smiles at me—not his usual devastating smile, but a shy, eager smile—and for a moment I swear he looks like a teenager and not a teacher. What is that about? He seems different outside of school: friendlier, less guarded.

We walk over to the marble counter together. Behind it an old man in an apron pours foamy milk into a white cup while a strange-looking silver urn hisses and sputters steam.

“Ciao, Professore!”
he booms jovially at Dane.

“Ciao, Signor Vitale. Come stai?”
Dane replies.

“Bene, bene. E tu?”

“Bene, grazie.”

Dane pulls out a slim black wallet and turns to me. “Beatrice, what would you like?”

“You speak Italian?” I ask, surprised.

“I'm Italian on my father's side. How do you feel about cappuccinos?”

“I feel fine about cappuccinos. Wow, so you're bilingual.”

“Actually, I speak four languages. Not because I'm brilliant or sophisticated, mind you. I was forced to take French and German at my school, and I hated every minute of it. Also, we traveled quite a bit.
“Due cappuccini, per favore,”
he says to Signor Vitale.

“Si, arriva subito.”

We?
I wonder if he's talking about his family growing up or about a family now. I sneak a glance at his left hand. Still no wedding ring. Also,
traveled,
past tense.

We take our cappuccinos back to the table. The make-out couple gets up to leave, their arms snaked around each other. Dane glances at them and then at me. He rakes a hand through his hair and clears his throat. “So.”

“So.”

“What are you working on these days?”

“You mean, like, music?”

“Yes, I mean, like, music.”

“Well, there's the Rachmaninoff and the Schumann Fantasy, obviously. I'm also working on the Beethoven Opus 111, ‘Jeux d'eau,' and some other stuff: Bach, Chopin . . . oh, and Prokofiev, speaking of.”

“Which Prokofiev?”

“The sixth sonata.”

“Ah, yes, the first of the three War Sonatas.”

“War Sonatas?”

“He wrote them at the onset of World War Two. They were a reaction to Stalin, whose secret police arrested and shot his friend. Have you gotten to the third movement yet? It's quite lyrical and romantic, in contrast to the other movements which are quite . . . well, violent.”

“I'm only on the first movement. It's seriously difficult.”

“Has your Mrs. Lugansky pointed out the conflict between the A-major and A-minor keys?”

Mrs. Lugansky.
“N-no.”

“It gives the piece a very tense, unstable mood. Have you picked up on that?”

“Yes, now that you mention it.”

We sip our cappuccinos. It's incredibly delicious—strong, sharp coffee with an airy layer of warm milk. Sunlight streams through the stained-glass window above us and ornaments our
table with flecks of ruby, emerald, and sapphire. I touch one of the rubies, and my hand glows red.

“Beatrice?”

“Yes?”

“Listen, the reason I asked you to meet with me . . . the thing is . . . okay, I'll just say it. Why do you want to major in pre-law?”