Porcelain Keys (10 page)

There it was. The man’s card, with creases in the corners where I’d folded them over and over. I picked it up and held it in front of me.

N
ATHANIEL
B
OROUGH
, NCTM

Master’s Degree in Music Pedagogy & Performance

Juilliard Graduate

I looked at his address. He lived only twenty miles away in Colorado Springs. And then my heart began to pound as my eyes fell on the picture in the upper left-hand corner. The man in the photo, seated at a piano and wearing a tuxedo, was the very same man I’d seen a couple weeks earlier arguing with Dad. Was it possible that he had come to offer me lessons, and Dad had intercepted him? Anger lapped at me, but it was quickly washed away as fear and
excitement began rushing dually through my veins. Maybe I could take lessons from him. It would drain my savings account, and there was a chance Dad would find out. But it was the only way I’d get into Juilliard someday. And the only sure way to keep Thomas Ashby
in awe
of me.

W
hen I got
home from work Saturday afternoon, I changed and went over to Thomas’s to ask if he could give me a ride to Colorado Springs the next week to see Nathaniel. The front door was cracked open when I got there, but I knocked anyway.

“Come in!” Elsie called from inside. I stepped in to see her poking her head out of one of the bedrooms in the hallway. “He’s downstairs,” she said. “Will you see if he’s done with his homework? I need his help scraping wallpaper in the bedrooms.”

“Sure,” I said. “Can I help too?”

“That’d be wonderful.” She smiled. “I’ve got an apron around here somewhere you can use.”

Near the front door, a long stairway led to the basement. I went down it into a big family room that was void of furniture save for an old sofa and Mr. Euler’s upright piano. Light spilled from an open door at the end of the hall, so I followed it and found Thomas sitting on a stool at a desk, his back to me. He hovered over something and had
earbuds in his ears. On the edge of the desk was a small iron and some colored blocks of waxy-looking material.

I approached him slowly, peaking over his shoulder to see what he was working on. He had some kind of heat tool in his hand, like a thick metal pen with a long electrical cord. He was brushing it on a canvas in small strokes. When the canvas came fully into view, my breath caught in my throat.

It was an impressionistic landscape painting, but not any landscape. It was undoubtedly the lake we’d gone to the day before, with yellowing aspens skirting the shore and Pikes Peak towering in the background. A little fishing boat drifted in the middle of the lake. In the boat was a boy and a girl, both with dark hair.

I smiled, my heart soaring with hope. He didn’t notice me behind him, even though I was close enough to smell his familiar scent. So I plucked an earbud from his ear and put it in my own.

“Whatcha listening to?”

He jumped in surprise, and I recognized the music immediately. A piano piece. The Chopin Etude I’d played for him a couple days earlier.

He smiled and reached up to retrieve the earbud, the backs of his fingers grazing my cheek. “I can’t seem to get enough of it.”

I felt my cheeks warm, so I nodded to his canvas. “I didn’t know you were an artist.”

He shrugged. “It gives me something to do when I’m feeling restless.”

“It’s beautiful. Almost more beautiful than the real thing.” I nodded to the tools on his desk. “What’s the iron for?”

“For melting wax. It’s called encaustics—basically painting with wax.” He picked up a block of white wax and smeared it on the iron, instantly melting it. He added some blue and a little pink, then took a blank sheet of paper and spread the melted wax on the paper.

“It looks like a sunset.”

“Exactly. Instant sky.”

Tank leapt up on the desk, and his fur grazed the iron. Thomas shoved him off, but Tank swiped at the fabric-covered power cord and took the iron down with him. Thomas snatched the cord just before the iron hit the carpet.

“Stupid cat,” Thomas muttered. “He likes the warmth of the iron, but sometimes he gets too close. One of these days he’s going to catch himself on fire.”

He reached down to unplug the iron and stylus, and I took the chance to glance around his room. An oak dresser. A twin bed. A notebook and his physics textbook lying open on a plain navy comforter. Dozens of unframed paintings and drawings were tacked to the walls. If he painted when he was restless, he must have been restless often.

I wandered from painting to painting, taking in the beauty and brilliance of his talent. There were people and landscapes, abstracts and wildlife. There were galaxies and nebulae, and all kinds of beautiful things you’d see through a telescope. Each one was bursting with color, texture, emotion. I lifted my hand to feel the texture of the paint, but hesitated at the last second, unsure if he wanted me to touch them. I glanced at him, and he was smiling. “It’s okay. You can touch it.”

I ran my fingers over the surface, smooth in some places, sharp and coarse in others. There was something thrilling
about touching something his hands had created, like wandering through the terrain of his subconscious and discovering the beauty of his soul.

When I came upon a small painting of a girl, with cropped blonde hair and big brown eyes, I paused. She looked to be in her teens, and her face was pretty, though sad. I wondered who she was, but not wanting to betray my interest in her, I moved on to other paintings. I didn’t see the other subjects, though, because the girl’s face was burned into my vision as though I’d stared at a lightbulb for too long. I squeezed my eyes shut and tried to flick the image and my curiosity away. She was probably just a friend, I told myself.

I came to a crowded bookshelf, and my eyes were drawn to a shelf packed with various wire-bound notebooks. I took hold of one and started to slide it out, but Thomas snagged my wrist to stop me. I looked at him. The corner of his mouth was turned up and he was shaking his head. “Uh-uh. Those are my journals.”

“Oh.” I slid the notebook back in and dropped my hand. “There are a lot of them. Did you start journaling in grade school or something?”

He shook his head. “Only a couple years ago. I . . . had a lot of things to sort out.”

I eyed him with curiosity, hoping he’d expound, but he turned away and began organizing the tools on his desk. I glanced back at the journals, wondering what kind of feelings could have required twelve hundred pages to sort out. I would have given anything to read them, but I let it go, instead perusing the dozens of spines on the upper shelves.

The Encaustic Studio
and
Artistic Techniques for Working
with Wax. The Feynman Lectures on Physics.
Carl Sagan’s
Cosmos. The Songs of Distant Earth
by Arthur C. Clarke.

“Are you going to be an astronomer like your mom and grandpa?” I asked.

He shrugged. “I’m torn. Art and astronomy both appeal to my creative side, just in different ways.”

“Astronomy is creative?”

“Incredibly. It’s not just about looking through a telescope; it’s understanding physics and trying to imagine how something was created. Like reverse engineering.” He turned to me and leaned against his desk. “But to be honest, sometimes a blank canvas feels more intriguing to me than the mysteries of the universe. Maybe it’s the simplicity that appeals to me.”

“Reverse engineering the universe does sound like a pretty overwhelming task.”

He smiled. “Sometimes when I sit down to do physics homework, it makes me restless. On a lot of levels, it’s absolute, no bending or changing the rules. And I know there’s a purpose and application for it, but right now it feels so abstract and distant.” He picked up a block of wax. “But you apply some wax to a blank canvas, and you get an instant result, and one that is different every time.” He looked down at the block of wax thoughtfully, shaving a bit off with his thumbnail. “But . . . I don’t know. I want to either go to Berkeley for astronomy, or Paris Sorbonne for art. I just haven’t decided which.”

Berkeley or Paris,
I thought with disappointment. Either way, he would be thousands of miles from Juilliard. “So,” I said, recalling why I’d come over in the first place, “I was wondering if you’d be able to give me a ride to Colorado Springs Monday after school?”

“Sure. Why?”

“There’s someone I need to see. He’s an old friend of my mom’s from Juilliard, and . . . I’m hoping he can give me lessons.”

He brightened. “Really? That’s great!”

“I’m hoping it will be. But my dad can’t know about it.”

“Of course.” He nodded solemnly.

“And . . . there’s something else.”

He raised an eyebrow.

I sighed. I didn’t want to make him feel bad, but if I was going to be more discreet about hanging out with him, he needed to know. “My dad is being weird . . . about you.”

“What do you mean?”

“Nothing. It’s just . . . instead of picking me up for school from now on, I’ll just meet you at your house.”

He looked down, his brow wrinkled in puzzlement. His lips parted to say something, but he was interrupted by his mom calling him from upstairs.

“Oh, I forgot,” I said. “Your mom needs your help scraping off wallpaper.”

Thomas didn’t move, and when he raised his eyes to meet mine, they looked hurt. “So your dad doesn’t want you hanging out with me?”

I hesitated, then shook my head.

He frowned. “Did he say why?”

“No. He’s just being unreasonable, as always.”

He nodded, but there was a trace of sadness in his face, and it made me regret saying anything.

“Just forget I mentioned anything, okay?” I nudged him in the shoulder. “We’re still friends, no matter what.”

He tried to smile, and his mom called again. I tugged on his arm. “Come on,” I said with an encouraging smile. “Let’s go scrape wallpaper.”

I

Monday afternoon, Thomas and I pulled up to a boxy cobalt-blue house on the outskirts of Colorado Springs. Wood trellises covered in white honeysuckle hung over the porch, and neatly trimmed bushes lined the walkway leading to the front door.

I turned to Thomas. “Will you come with me?”

He’d been quieter than usual today, seeming contemplative. He’d excused himself halfway through lunch, about the time Dirk started playing twenty-one questions with me and snatching cherry tomatoes from my lunch tray. Trisha had followed Thomas out into the hall like a puppy, and from the nauseatingly seductive looks she’d given him in English, they must have had an interesting conversation. But not wanting to betray my jealousy, I hadn’t asked him for details.

“Of course,” he said as he cut the engine.

My chest felt tight as we approached the porch, and as we climbed the steps I took a deep breath, hoping Nathaniel would be willing to teach me and that I still had time to prepare for Juilliard auditions. I’d put on my best clothes this morning, a light blue eyelet dress and white slipper shoes I’d gotten from Vivian. I’d even applied my makeup like she’d shown me and blow-dried my hair until it was shiny and straight.

Piano music seeped through the window panes, and I glanced at Thomas nervously. He gave me an encouraging smile. I rang the doorbell, and the music stopped. A few seconds later, the front door opened, and there stood the same man I’d seen arguing with Dad a couple weeks earlier. His face went slack, like he was surprised to see me.

We all just sort of stared at each other for a moment without saying anything. He was built like a poplar, tall and thin, with short sandy-blond hair and a well-trimmed beard. He wore a black dress shirt and the beginnings of wrinkles beneath his square-rimmed glasses.

“Are you Nathaniel?” I finally asked, though I was sure it was him.

“I am,” he said, pursing his lips and nodding slowly. “And you’re Aria.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t call first,” I said. “Is this a bad time?”

He shook his head. “No—I’m glad you came. Please, come in.” He waved us in.

We stepped into the living room, which was consumed almost entirely by a black Steinway grand piano. The room was bright, with white carpet, pale paint, and a sleek white sofa running the length of the tall windows. Open books of sheet music covered a narrow coffee table wedged between the sofa and piano, and more sheet music crowded the built-in shelves on one wall.

I briefly introduced Thomas, then Nathaniel gestured to the sofa. “Have a seat.” His voice was deep and confident, and I recognized the sound of it from when he’d talked with me at Mom’s funeral.

Thomas and I settled into the sofa, and Nathaniel sat on a chair beside the piano. “You’re all grown up,” he said. Then with a thoughtful expression, he added, “You look just like Karina.”

“So people say.” I never knew how to take the comment. Mom was pretty, so I knew I should take it as a compliment, but it sometimes made me feel invisible, like the speaker wasn’t seeing me, they were just seeing Mom.

“I’m willing to bet you play as well as her too.”

“Well,” I said, fidgeting with my skirt, “I guess that’s why I’m here. I found your card—I’d forgotten all about it until the other day. And I’m wondering . . . if you’re still willing to teach me, and if I still have a chance at getting into Juilliard next year.”

“Next year? Whew.” He shook his head. “Auditions are in March. Prescreening videos are due in December. That doesn’t give us much time.” He must have seen the disappointment in my face because he added, “It’s not impossible, but it depends on where you’re at now. Have you been practicing?”

“Yes, when I can. But not as much as I’d like.”

“Well, there’s only one way to determine how much work you’ll need.” He gestured to the piano. “Why don’t you come to the piano?”

I hesitated, my heart suddenly knocking against my ribs, then I nodded and rose. I had never really had performance anxiety, but now my legs felt shaky as I moved across the room to the piano. It felt like my future hinged on this moment. Would he tell me that I wasn’t good enough? That Juilliard wasn’t even a possibility?