Porcelain Keys (7 page)

Thomas kept his eyes on me, but I looked away. I didn’t want to talk about it. Talking about it meant feeling it—the guilt of knowing that if I weren’t here, she would be.

He lifted his hand from mine and placed it on the keys. He started playing a song I’d never heard before. It sounded like he played a couple wrong notes, but it was a nice melody.

“I didn’t know you played,” I said as I watched his big fingers clumsily navigate the keyboard.

“I don’t.” He smiled. “I only know one song. And as you can see, I don’t make the piano weep. I make it retch.”

I laughed, and he started to sing along. What he lacked in piano-playing abilities, he made up for with his voice. As his soulful tones filled the room, I practically felt the hearts forming in my pupils. As I listened to the words, a tingly, peaceful feeling washed over me like a cool stream, leaving water in my eyes.

“Where did you learn that song?” I asked as he continued playing.

“From my mom. It’s one of her favorites. It seems to help her when she’s feeling sad about things.”

I put my right hand on the upper keys and started playing along with him. “Sing it again. I want to hear the words.” And I wanted to hear his voice again.

“I will, if you play another song for me. And if I can sit next to you while you play.”

Before I could reply, I heard Dad’s truck rumbling down the driveway. I unconsciously shot a panicked glance at Thomas and jumped off the bench. I slammed the cover shut and grabbed his hand, yanking it toward the door.

“Come on—we need to get out of here,” I said with urgency.

He followed me out of the room, confusion and alarm flashing across his face.

“What’s going on?”

I locked and shut the parlor door. “My dad can’t know we were in the parlor, okay?” I said, trying to suppress the desperation in my voice.

“What?” He peered out the living room window, but Dad had already driven around to the back of the house. “Why not?” He glanced back at me, puzzlement cinching his brow.

“He’s coming in now.” I grabbed the trail maps from the side table. “Please—just don’t say anything about the piano.” I scurried away from the parlor door and sat on the couch, patting the spot next to me firmly for him to sit down.

“But why?” He moseyed over to the couch and sat next to me.

“Please, Thomas.”

“Will you explain later?”

“Yes.”

“Okay. We weren’t in the parlor. I didn’t hear you play rapturous music.” One corner of his mouth lifted into a smile.

“Thank you,” I breathed. Opening a trail map, I launched into a description of one of the trails and tried to appear calm as I heard the back door swing open. Dad came directly to the living room, and when he saw us on the couch, his expression turned surprised.

“Hey, Dad,” I said, standing and gesturing to Thomas. “This is Thomas, our new neighbor.”

Thomas stood and offered his hand. “Hello, Mr. Kinsley.”

Dad came over, took his hand, and then, smiling, said, “You Frank’s grandson?”

“Yes, sir.”

Dad released his hand and folded his arms across his chest. “I’m sorry to hear about your grandpa. He was a good man.”

“Yes, he was. Thank you.”

“I’m surprised to see you here,” Dad said. “You’re the first person Aria’s brought home in years. And here I thought she’d get through high school without making any friends.” He meant to tease, but his words hurt.

“Aria was just showing me some trail maps.” Thomas gestured to the open map in my hands.

“You hunt?”

“I fish, but I’ve yet to move on to bigger game.”

“You should try Rampart.” Dad pointed to the three-foot rainbow trout mounted above the television. “It’s where I caught that beauty right there.” Dad plunged into the story of how he’d caught the fish, a story I’d heard him tell a dozen times. I watched the way his hands moved and his eyes lit up with the enthusiasm of a zealous fisherman telling his story. It made me happy to see him this way, cheerful and sober. “I’m going to Rampart tomorrow morning with a couple buddies,” he said. “You’re welcome to come with me if you want.”

Thomas glanced at me as if looking for permission. I smiled and shrugged, and Thomas turned back to Dad. “Sure. School’s out tomorrow, so that sounds great. Can Aria come too?”

Dad eyed me with raised eyebrows. “You want to come, Aria?”

It had been years since Dad had taken me fishing. It used to be one of my favorite things to do, but after he banned me from the piano, I stopped going with him so that I could spend the time in the parlor. “Sure,” I said, willing to give up a few hours of piano time in exchange for spending time with Thomas.

“Well, I better get home,” Thomas said. “I told my dad I’d clean up the orchard this weekend, and if we’re going fishing, I’d better get a head start.”

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” I said, handing him the trail map. “You can return this to me then.”

He took it, a small, intimate smile crossing his lips and touching his eyes. I couldn’t help but notice Dad studying us from the corner of my eye. “Tomorrow,” Thomas said, then he turned to Dad. “I’ll see you bright and early.”

E
arly Friday morning,
Dad woke me up with a hand on my shoulder. “Aria, wake up.”

I stretched and yawned, opening my eyes halfway in the dark room. “Is it time to get up already?”

“Listen, I got called into work. I should be back in the afternoon, but we’ll have to go fishing another time.”

“Okay,” I mumbled and closed my eyes, wanting to go back to sleep.

“I need to leave right now, so I need you to get dressed and go tell Thomas that we won’t be going.”

I sat up and rubbed my eyes. “Why can’t you just call?”

“I don’t have their number. Besides, it’s too early to call. I don’t want to wake up his parents. Just get dressed and run over there.”

“Can’t you just stop there on your way to work?”

“Just do it, Aria,” he said firmly. “I need to leave now or I’ll be late.”

I staggered out of bed, and Dad walked out. A few seconds later I heard the back door shut and Dad’s truck
roar to life. I flipped on the light and shuffled to the closet, debating how dressed up I should get to deliver my message. Unsure if he was already waiting for us and not wanting to make him wait longer than necessary, I threw a green hoodie over my T-shirt and pulled on some jeans and sneakers. I stopped in the bathroom to brush my teeth and tie my hair into a ponytail.

As I walked away from the house through the cool grass, I drew in a deep breath, filling my lungs with the crisp morning air. The sun hadn’t yet emerged from behind the east mountains, and the horizon was a jagged silhouette against a pale violet sky. I hopped over the wooden fence and walked through the orchard until his house came into view.

I saw him sitting in a white wicker chair on his porch, hands in the pockets of his black hoodie, one ankle resting on his knee. His hair was disheveled like he had just rolled out of bed, and my heart trilled at the sight of him. “Hey,” I called out.

He turned to me and stood, his expression surprised. “Hey. I thought your dad was picking me up here, or I would have just come to your house.”

“He got called into work, so we’ll have to go another time.”

“Oh,” he said, sounding disappointed. “Well, you and I could still go. I could drive.”

He didn’t need to persuade me, but I hesitated, not wanting to sound too eager. “Okay.” I shrugged. “I just need to go back and get my fishing gear.”

“On second thought,” he said, taking a step toward me, “why don’t we just hike to the lake up here?” He pointed to the narrow canyon on the east side of his land. “I haven’t been up there since I was a kid.”

“It’s a lot smaller, and it’s not stocked. If you want to catch something, we should probably just go to Rampart.”

He shrugged. “I’m more in the mood for hiking than fishing.”

“All right—let me just go get some water and something for breakfast.”

He unzipped his backpack, pulled out a granola bar, and handed it to me. “I have plenty of other snacks and water in here.”

“Okay, then.” I smiled. “Let’s go.”

He shouldered his backpack and we walked around his house and toward the mountain. At the edge of the orchard, he plucked a couple ripe apples and dropped them into the pockets of his hoodie.

“How did you convince your dad to let you out of cleaning up the orchard today?” I asked, seeing all the apples on the ground.

“I did some bartering. He said I could go fishing if you help me shovel apples later today.”

“What?”

He grinned. “Don’t worry, Aria. My dad’s a sensible guy. As long as I have the orchard cleaned up before it snows, he’ll be fine.”

“Let’s go, then, and I’ll help you later,” I said with a smile.

The sun broke over the mountains as we walked through the open field of long, golden grass. The seeded amber tips glowed in the morning light, bowing and swaying gently, and I held out my arms to feel their feathery texture under my fingertips. We quietly made our way through the grove of aspens and followed the stream into the canyon. A soft breeze blew through the trees as we hiked alongside the babbling stream, filling the air with the scent of pine.

“So,” he said as we hiked along the narrow trail, “can you explain now?”

“Explain what?”

“Why can’t your dad know we were in the parlor?”

My heart plummeted. How could I have forgotten that I owed him an explanation? I didn’t have a ready answer, because the answer was so complicated. I couldn’t tell him the whole truth, because he might tell his parents, and it would only make things worse to have the Division of Child Welfare show up at my door. Besides, I wanted Thomas’s respect, not his pity. “It’s just a rule he has,” I finally said. “He doesn’t like music in the house.”

“Why not?”

“Um,” I hesitated, trying to figure out how to explain. “Because it hurts him.” When I didn’t say more, he eyed me with a trace of skepticism like he knew there was more to it than that.

“He used to love to hear my mom play,” I offered. “He would sit in the parlor for hours while she practiced, his eyes closed, like a sailor bewitched by a siren. I think her music is what he loved most about her. But when she died, things changed. He doesn’t like to be reminded of her. He keeps the parlor locked, and he put all her things in the attic where he can’t see them.” I couldn’t believe I was telling him this. I’d never talked to anyone about it.

“All her things?” he asked.

“Yeah—pictures, clothing, music.” I thought privately about the last time Dad had found me in the attic. He’d dragged me down and secured the hatch with an abundance of four-inch screws. What Dad hadn’t known was that I’d already taken one of her dresses to my room. I couldn’t put it back in the attic, so I’d tucked it in a box
and kept it hidden all these years in the hollow space of my box spring.

“He couldn’t even bear to look at the plants she’d grown in the yard.” I described how charming the house had looked with roses and jasmine climbing up the porch railing and marigolds popping out of window buckets—before Dad tore them out.

He was quiet for a long time, pondering my words. Finally he asked, “Did he let you play the piano before your mom died?”

I nodded. “He actually loved to hear me play. He would go to all my recitals and competitions, and beam with pride just like the other parents.” I sighed. “I tried to play for him after my mom died because I thought it would comfort him, but it seemed to have the opposite effect. And eventually he locked the parlor door and forbade me from playing anymore. So I don’t . . . at least not when he’s at home.”

“That must be hard for you.” He studied me a moment, then shook his head and looked away, frowning thoughtfully. “Not to mention tragic. Your mom taught you, and she’s gone. By forbidding you to play, he’s cutting off this incredible emotional link between you and her.”

Relief washed over me when he said those words, to the point that tears brimmed in my eyes. To share the burden of grief, to have someone understand, were things I had never known until that moment. But with the tears came a feeling of self-consciousness, and I walked faster to hide my emotion, swallowing the lump in my throat. “Anyway,” I said, “I probably shouldn’t have told you all this. I hope you won’t say anything to anyone.”

Thomas caught up to me. “I won’t.” He was quiet for
another long stretch, then he said, “You’re stronger than you look, you know?”

“Is that why I’m out of breath right now?”

“No—listen.” He stopped me, and laying his hand on my arm, he looked directly into my eyes. “You have a gift, and I’m not talking about a ‘play at the county fair’ kind of gift. I’m talking about Juilliard. Carnegie Hall. You belong on a grand stage, not hidden behind dusty black curtains in a school auditorium.”

“Juilliard? I think you overestimate my abilities.”

“No.” He shook his head. “You
underestimate
your abilities.”

“You’ve only heard me play two pieces. Maybe they’re the only ones I know.”

“I’m willing to bet your repertoire is larger than you let on.”

“Maybe, but you’ve still only heard me play two—not enough to gauge my abilities.”

He pinned me with a scrutinizing gaze, and his mouth eased into a playful smile. “You may not know this, but Beethoven was my third great-grandfather’s second cousin . . . once removed . . . or something like that. So I have an uncommon ability to spot Juilliard material when I see it.”

I rolled my eyes and smiled before turning away and resuming hiking. “Okay, I’ll admit that I’m pretty good at the piano. But I can’t do anything about it until after high school.”

“What are you going to do after high school?”

“Get my own place and my own piano, then I can play as much as I want.”

“That’s it?”

I stopped and turned to him. “What do you mean, ‘That’s it’?”

“Your plan is to sit in an apartment and play for yourself?”

“Well, I . . .” I’d been so focused on securing my freedom that I’d never really thought beyond that point. “I don’t know. When I get to that point, I’ll figure out the next step.”