Eternal Heat (Firework Girls #3) (3 page)

This is what I love. This is what I love more than anything in the world, even more than my wonderful parents if I’m honest, and that probably makes me a horrible, selfish person. But music is pure magic and belongs to a whole other world. Heaven itself, maybe. I can’t help but give my complete devotion to it.

When I finish, my surroundings slowly come back to me and I realize I’m smiling. “Such a fun song,” I say and grin up at my new friend. Even if I never see him again, we’ve shared music together so that makes us friends now. Not that I’ve ever had this experience before, but that’s how it feels.

He’s giving me a shrewd look. “You were pulling my leg!”

“Huh? About what?”

“No lessons my eye. Who’s your teacher?”

I blink at him. “Just Mr. Bartlett in middle school.”

He’s still grinning, but he rolls his eyes. “Oh come on. You can’t play like that without taking lessons.”

He’s giving me a fluttery feeling in my chest again, but for completely different reasons now. “Was it okay?”

The grin slides off his face and now he’s just staring at me wide-eyed. “You really, really never had lessons before?”

“Well, I practice. And I’ve watched just about every video you can on YouTube.”

“That’s... like... kind of amazing.”

Still gaping, he drops onto the bench next to me. His elbow touches my bare arm for just a second and my heart beats a little faster. “What else can you play?” he asks.

But I don’t answer. With him this close I’m aware of his body in a way I wasn’t before. I realize I haven’t seen or heard anyone else in the house. The combination makes me a little skittish. I’m not afraid of him, but my parents would not approve and I’m not sure how I feel about things either. “Are your parents home?”

“Nah. They work late.” He says it matter-of-factly enough, but I sense something underneath. I wonder if he’s like my friend Jewel. Her mom is single and works two jobs and Jewel almost never sees her. She manages all right and everything, but she misses her mom sometimes too.

My parents, on the other hand, are always there. I love them for that, even though it gets annoying at times. And speaking of them always being home, I’d better get going. If I hurry and head straight there, I may not be gone on my walk any more than I usually am. I don’t really want to answer any questions.

“I’d better go,” I say, standing and giving him a grateful smile.

“Oh, okay...” He stands as well. “Thanks for coming in.” He smiles back at me.

Is it just me or is he getting cuter and cuter? I realize I’m standing there smiling at him like an idiot, so I start to head for the door.

He comes with me. As we leave his fantasy house and emerge onto the patio, he says, “Are you
sure
you haven’t had private lessons?”

“Nope.” Maybe he’s just flattering me, I don’t know. But he seems sincere and I can’t help but feel complimented.

“Well,” he says as we cross the yard to the back gate, “your parents are wasting a great natural talent. They should sign you up.”

“They want to,” I say, “but we can’t afford it.” What the hell? I’ve already bared my soul by playing in front of him, I might as well show him the rest too.

“Oh,” he says awkwardly. “Sorry.”

We stop by the gate. For the first time, I’m aware of the differences not just between our homes but between, probably, us. Here’s this boy in his prep school uniform (which I’d managed to kind of forget about until now) and I’m in my ratty-but-oh-so-comfortable cut-offs and he’s had
years
of private lessons while my parents can’t even afford one.

“You don’t need to be sorry,” I say. “It is what it is. But they’re really supportive and helped get the school to agree to let me use their piano before and after school.”

He smiles and nods. “That’s cool.” I examine him for signs of pity, but find none.

“Well,” he says shrugging, “you could always come here too.”

I blink at him. He grins at me nervously.

“If you want,” he says.

The appeal of his invitation swells inside me like a bloom opening on a rose. Yes, I would like that very much, and not just because of the piano. But could I really? I don’t even know this boy. Does he really mean it, or is he just being polite?

I absently pull one of my braids in front of me and play with the end, a nervous habit my mom likes to correct me about. “I don’t want to intrude,” I say.

“Nah, it’d be cool.”

I smile tentatively.

“It’d be nice,” he adds.

I grin. “Well, okay. Maybe.”

He smiles and my heart really lets loose this time. He’s cute and sweet and can play the piano like the devil. Oh yeah. I could crush on this boy hard.

“Good,” he says, smiling. I turn to let myself through the gate. Rather than closing it between us, he steps out onto the green. “Tomorrow?”

I smile. I hesitate. Finally I say, “Okay.”

“Cool,” he says. “See you tomorrow, Ashley.”

My heart hasn’t slowed one bit. “Okay. Bye, Erik.”

We give each other shy waves goodbye and I head back for the Greenbelt. Halfway there I look back. He’s gone, but still, I wait until I’m back on the path and truly out of sight before I give a little skip and clasp my hands to my chest. I can’t wait for tomorrow.

Friday of that week, Erik and I are sitting cross-legged on the floor of his living room, sheet music from the bookcase in haphazard stacks around us. I did go back on Tuesday, and have been back every day this week. I already feel like we’ve been friends for months instead of just a few days.

I still haven’t met his parents, since I have to be home well before they tend to walk in the door. His dad is a high-end lawyer and his mom is the CFO of a cosmetics company with locations in five different states. Erik told me half the time they’re not even home for dinner.

I did finally tell my parents about my new friend, mainly so I could stay longer without arousing suspicion, but I didn’t mention that we’re here alone. Even though Erik and I haven’t so much as kissed, my dad would go ballistic if he knew I was alone with a boy like this. (That’s the reason my mom and I decided not to tell my dad when Bernie Shepherd kissed me after Prom last year. Bernie and I never really turned into much, so there was no reason to freak my dad out about anything.)

Besides, me being here is kinda sorta innocent, if you don’t count the way Erik makes my heart flutter when I’m with him or the fantasizing I do about him when I’m not.

Every day I’ve returned, he’s already been changed out of his school uniform. Today, he’s wearing jeans and a plain, black tee that makes him look extra hot. I’m wearing my favorite stonewashed jeans and a flowy peasant top. “This is a good one,” Erik says, holding up the little booklet of sheet music so I can see the title.

It’s a classical piece by Chopin, but I’m not familiar with it. I take it from him and open it up so I can look over the measures. As I go, I can hear it in my head. Actually, I think I might have heard this one before but I’m not sure. I hum a few bars. “Like that?” I ask.

He nods. “Have you played it?”

“Nope,” I say, closing the book and adding it to the “Songs to Learn” pile. I’ve already played him many of the songs I know, and he’s played me several of his as well. We’re looking through his stash of music to see what I should learn to play next. I’ve noticed some of the songs have hand-written notations at various places along the measures.

“I don’t know how I’m going to pick just one,” I say, pulling another book off the shelf.

“Maybe you should stop looking for more then,” he teases. “Besides, these aren’t going anywhere, you know.”

“I guess,” I say, flipping through the book. “Hey,” I say enthusiastically, “I know this one!”

“I haven’t learned that one yet,” he says, scooting closer to me and looking over my shoulder. My heart rate increases in response, but I’m pretty good at holding it together around him. I even survived watching an episode of
Lost
on his fancy, new iPad yesterday, and that was with his shoulder pressed against mine almost the entire time. I didn’t fall in love with the series as much as he promised me I would, but I still agreed to watch the rest with him some time. Because, you know, the shoulder.

“It’s a fun song,” I say, tapping the page with my finger. “You should play it while I finally pick something. Then it’ll be my turn.”

I plop the book in his lap and scoot the “Songs to Learn” pile closer to me.

“I told you, silly, I don’t know this song.”

I look at him and furrow my brows. “Can’t you read music?”

He laughs. “Uh,
yeah
I can read music. But you can’t just sit down and start playing a song you don’t know.”

“Well, it doesn’t have to be
perfect.
” I smile wickedly. It’s only been four days and I already know a way to tease him.

He rolls his eyes and stands up, holding the music. “I’m not a perfectionist.”

“Are too,” I say, returning to the pile. I start spreading the stack in front of me, hoping there will be one clear winner among them, but so far there isn’t. Ugh, how will I ever choose? I want to play all of them right now.

Erik has settled himself on the bench behind me and begins to play. As usual, listening to him causes me to stop what I’m doing. But this time, it’s for a different reason. He keeps stumbling at various places, and once even goes back and redoes a measure before going forward in the piece again.

I’m surprised how much he’s fumbling through it. When he gets to the end, he nods. “Yeah, that’s cool. Maybe I’ll learn this one next.”

He turns and smiles down at me. I’m not sure what to say. What I’m thinking is,
Don’t you know how to read music better than that?

My phone dings and I pull it out of my pocket to check it.

Mom:
Remember we have to leave at five sharp.

“Oh right,” I say, checking the time. “Dang it. I have to go.”

I text back a quick:
K.

“Right,” he says, sounding a little disappointed. “Movie night.”

I nod. Movie Night has been a Morrison family tradition for a couple years now. Usually we just rent something from Redbox, but every now and then we splurge and go to the dollar theatre, like tonight.

“I’ve still never heard of a family that uses up their senior daughter’s Friday night every single week,” Erik says, teasing me.

“I think that’s the point,” I say. “That way I can’t get into trouble with boys.”

Erik gives me a grin that makes my cheeks hot. I smile and look away, gathering the music back into a pile again. “Should we put this back on the shelves?”

“Did you pick a song?”

“I can’t. There’s too many good ones. Will you pick one for me?”

“Okay. You can leave it. I’ll put it away. I know you have to go.”

I sigh and stand. As he walks me to the back gate, like he always does, I realize I’m not sure how weekends fit into our friendship. I’ve been coming every day after school, but what happens tomorrow? Then I have to remind myself that he probably doesn’t want to see me
every
day. I mean, we just met. And probably he does stuff with his family on the weekends. Or, maybe he does. Actually, I’m not so sure.

“So...” he says hesitantly, after we go through the gate.

“So...” I say hesitantly too, “um... shall I come work on it... next week sometime?”

He looks at me, holding my eyes. Oh man, my heart’s really going now. I wonder, not for the first time, what it would be like to kiss Erik Williams.

“What are you doing tomorrow?” he asks.

I smile and shrug. “Nothing much. Chores in the morning, but nothing after that.”

He smiles too. “Nothing in the afternoon?”

I shake my head. The way he’s smiling at me makes me feel bold. “Want to play then?” I suggest.

His smile falters a bit before he hitches it back on. “I was thinking we could go for a walk on the Greenbelt. I feel guilty I’ve been keeping you from your walks.”

“Oh, okay. That’d be cool.” I actually really like the idea of a walk with Erik, but something about the way he responded to my suggestion is nagging me, way in the back of my head.

“Want to meet at the sign?” he asks, gesturing to the “Private” sign next to the Greenbelt. “Say, one o’clock?”

“Sure,” I say smiling. “See you then.”

I hurry back home, but that nagging feeling follows me the whole way.

When I get to the sign five minutes to one the next day, Erik is already there waiting for me. He’s wearing shorts and a sleeveless athletic top and when I see him I think I’m going to die. His arms are long and sinewy and defined. His legs are tanned and muscular. I remember now something he told me on Tuesday—that he likes to go for runs on the Greenbelt—but I forgot. I guess we’ve both neglected our love for the Greenbelt this past week.

He smiles and slowly starts toward me when he sees me. I think I see his eyes sweep up and down my body—I’m in my plaid shorts and a snug tee—but I’m not sure.

“Hey,” he says, as I draw near.

“Hey. Which way do you want to go?”

“Whatever you want.”

“Let’s go that way,” I say, pointing further down the Greenbelt. I miss my bridge, and like the idea of going there with him.

He agrees and we head down the path. Almost immediately, an awkward silence swells between us. I’m not sure what to say. It occurs to me that maybe we don’t really have much in common outside of the piano. But at the same time, I know that’s not really true because we’ve talked about plenty of other things. Why does it feel so awkward right now?

“How was the movie last night?” he asks.

Relieved to have something to say, I start telling him about it. And just like that, the awkward part is over and we’re chatting easily. When we get to the bridge, we don’t stop at the top like I usually do. We continue on, entertaining each other with funny stories about our teachers. His chemistry teacher last year sounds like a crazy old coot and I think my chemistry class would have been a helluva lot more interesting if I’d had someone as entertaining as that guy.

I’m pleased to see that whenever there’s a little hidden footpath that breaks away toward the river, Erik likes to follow them as much as I do. Even though I’ve already been down them all. I love winding through the trees, ducking under branches, and going right up to the river’s edge where the water plays its music best.

When we head down these little paths, it feels more intimate too. Like we’re all alone in the world. It’s even more private than when we’re in his home all by ourselves, but I’m not sure why. Still, every time we go back to the main Greenbelt with its broad, tree-lined lane and occasional jogger, something in me is disappointed to leave the privacy behind.

Our conversation has lingered on school and I’ve taken to asking him questions about the private school he attends. In some ways it sounds different than what I know—his school is definitely smaller—but in other ways it’s the same: classes, professors, homework. He makes it sound less like a foreign world and more like what I guess it is: just a school.

We get to the point on the Greenbelt where I usually turn around and go back, but we keep going. I like that I’m discovering something new with him.

There are new side paths to follow, some as faint as a deer trail. One leads to an inviting grassy area shaded by a massive oak.

“This is nice,” he says. “Wanna sit here?”

“Sure,” I say, finding a soft spot and sitting down. He sits down next to me, but lays all the way back, tucking his hands behind his head. I grin and lay down next to him, pulling my braids in front and resting my hands on my stomach. My shoulder is touching his arm and feeling all electric about it.

The broad canopy of branches arches above us. Their dark arms spider out against the bright green of the leaves, blue sky peeking through.

“This is the best way to look at a tree,” I say.

“Yeah.”

My attention’s a little divided though. I really want to kiss him. But I’ve only known him a week and maybe he only wants to be friends. I don’t want to mess anything up. Besides, I’ve only ever let one guy kiss me. I’ve never been the one to make the first move. So I’m just going to lay here feeling tingly and play with the end of my braid and pretend I’m very, very interested in looking at the tree.

He rolls toward me slightly and my heart catches in my throat, but he was just retrieving his phone out of his pocket.

“Are you game for episode two of
Lost
?” he asks, waggling his eyebrows at me.

“Here?” I’m still not used to the idea of watching movies on phones and tablets. The Morrison house isn’t exactly down with the latest technology. “Wouldn’t it be more comfortable at your place?”

His smile falters and he hesitates.

Now I know what the nagging feeling was from yesterday. “You don’t want me to meet your parents,” I say, a sick feeling settling in the pit my stomach. “Do you?”

He puts his phone on his stomach and looks back up at the branches. “No,” he says simply.

“Because I’m not rich?” I didn’t mean to say it, but I do think it.

He looks at me quickly. “What? Of course not. Do you think I care about that?”

I shrug. “I don’t know.”

“So are you my friend only because I have money?”