A Song For Julia Part 13

Then she started playing, gently, and I recognized the piece instantly. It was the sad, almost menacing beginning of Mozart's Piano Concerto No. 20. Not an easy piece to play, under any circ.u.mstances, much less if you were badly out of practice. She was being almost falsely modest, because her execution was perfect. Better than perfect, it was haunting. And not the least of which was because my mother had once played it in this very room. I looked over at Sean, half expecting to see him blow up.

He was sitting on the couch, nose stuck in his textbook. But that didn't mean he wasn't listening. In fact, this was normal behavior for him when faced with something overwhelming. He just scanned the words, down one column, then the next, then the next, and then he flipped the page.

My dad, though ... he stood in the doorway, leaning against it, and his eyes were watering. He saw me look at him, and an almost angry expression came over his face. He blinked his eyes, then roughly wiped them and looked away from me.

Of course, I knew why he gave me that look.

I felt like I was holding my breath as she played. That piano hadn't been played in six years, and it would have been six more if Sean hadn't insisted on it. The music was overwhelming. When I was little-really small-my mother used to play all the time. With each year that went by, she looked older, sadder, more exhausted. And then one day she just stopped. And then she was gone. Now, she made appearances for some holidays, and that was it.

Screw it. Time for some new memories.

I walked over and slid onto the piano bench next to Julia and said quietly, "Know any four-hand pieces?"

She didn't hesitate. Without a smooth transition, she began the opening bars of Sonata for Piano, Four-Hands in D Major, K.381. It was if she'd taken my question as a personal challenge. It's a beautiful piece, and also one that my mother taught me to play. I positioned my hands and joined in at the next measure. It starts out slow, measured, thoughtful, but by the third movement it's a challenge for even two people to play. And I hadn't heard it in years, much less played it. That's okay-it didn't have to be perfect. This was for fun. So we played, our hands moving together on the keyboard.

I glanced over at her at one point, and she was smiling, a small, secret sort of smile. Her hair was coming loose from the careless bun she'd put it in, a few stray strands covering the right side of her face. They framed her eyes. I swallowed, looked back down at the keyboard. And the funny thing was, I was smiling too. I'm not big on smiling. I'm not big on happiness, to be honest. This was both uncomfortable and strange territory.

But, before you think I've changed and become some preppy piano player in a monkey suit and bow tie, I was also very, very aware of her thigh in those black jeans, brus.h.i.+ng against mine. It was hot, and let me tell you, I've never once in my life been aroused while playing the piano. That could be wicked embarra.s.sing.

We got to the third movement, with its aggressive and very fast fingering, and we both started to fall apart. She laughed and tried to get back on track, and I did the same. But that didn't work so well, because now we were off kilter, ragged, and it sounded awful.

"Oh, dear G.o.d," she muttered, and that was all it took. I broke out into loud laughter, and so did she, and we fell together, for just an instant, laughing. She put an arm around me, for maybe a second, max, and then yanked it back.

"Okay," I said. "We've got to try that again sometime."

"It's a deal," she replied, a wide grin on her face.

"Tell you what ... we've got a piano back at the studio. Want to stop by tonight?"

She blinked her eyes, and a vulnerable, exposed expression flitted across her face. Her smile died, but she tried to bring it back, only it was that fake smile she sometimes got on her face, and then she said, "I can't ... um ... I've got a date."

Aw, c.r.a.p. Of course she has a date. She's a beautiful, smart as h.e.l.l girl-she's probably out every weekend.

On second thought-somehow I didn't think so. I was sure she could if she wanted to. But something about her was remote, lonely, isolated. And for just a few minutes, while we played side by side, it felt like I'd broken through.

"I'd love to do it some other time," she said, sounding extremely uncomfortable. "Really, I would. I just ... this was ..."

"Don't worry about it!" I said, too fast. "Have fun on your date."

I didn't want to say that. In fact, I wanted to find the guy and pound his face into the Southie pavement. Or the cobblestones or whatever the h.e.l.l the Barnies have over at Harvard. But I couldn't say any of that. She wasn't mine ... we weren't even really friends. What the h.e.l.l was wrong with me?

My dad cleared his throat behind us. Both of us spun around, quickly. Jesus. I'd forgotten anyone else was in the room.

"That was beautiful," he said. His voice cracked, "Thank you. That piano ... it needed someone to play it. No one plays it any more. It was wonderful."

Julia laughed, a little uncomfortable. "The end, not so much."

Dad smirked. "Can't win everything."

She looked at me, her fast downcast. "We should get going."

I nodded, strangely reluctant. "All right."

Dad looked off to the side for just a moment, as if he were debating something. Then he looked back at her. "Listen ... next Sat.u.r.day we're having a little birthday party of sorts for Sean. I'd like you to come, Julia."

"Oh," she said, her eyes wide. "I ..."

"Not taking no for an answer."

Her eyes darted to me and back to Dad. "I'd feel like I was imposing."

"I'm cooking," my dad said. "You said you don't get home cooked meals."

"Well ..." She started to say, her defenses down.

That's when Sean chimed in. "Please?"

She didn't hesitate. "Okay. I'd love to."

So we stood, and she ran off to use the restroom before we left. I started to head upstairs to change, but my dad grabbed my arm.

"Hey," he said.

"Yeah, Dad?"

"Listen ... be nice to her. All right? She's a good kid, and ... I think she's been through a world of hurt, somewhere along the line."

I took a breath. "Is that the best you can think of me?"

He shrugged. "I never know what to expect of you, Dougal. Just ... try not to hurt that girl."

I swallowed. "I won't," I said.

He gave me a nod, his expression serious, and then let go of my arm.

CHAPTER EIGHT.

What happened to you? (Julia) The ride back to Somerville was tense and awkward. Something, I don't know what-maybe the humidity or the wind direction or b.u.t.terflies in China-had put Crank into a mood again. He wasn't exactly hostile, but he wasn't friendly either. He sat in the pa.s.senger seat, staring out the window, a frown on his face.

I don't know why this bothered me. It's not like we were a thing. It's not like we were anything. But he'd switched moods so quickly, from anger and hostility last night, to open and laughing this morning, and now he was cold. I didn't get it, I didn't like it, and I was starting to not like him. At all.

"So," I said, trying to break the heavy silence. "Once you get your car checked out, just give me a call. Unless it's going to be a lot of money, I really don't want to get involved with the insurance, because that'll mean my parents getting involved."

He nodded. "All right."

I got off 93 for Somerville, and we were in traffic again. He was still silent, staring out the window. He was starting to irritate me. A few blocks from the Metro Club, I said, "Did I do something wrong?"

He jerked, surprise on his face. "What?"

"I said, did I do something wrong? Did I p.i.s.s you off somehow? Because I'm having some trouble figuring you out."

Crank shrugged and looked out the window again, then said, "I'm not an easy guy to figure out."

"I'm not interested enough to try. It's just that last night you were all, stay the h.e.l.l away, and this morning you were friendly, and now I'm sitting in a car with an ice cube. I don't do moody."

"I didn't ask you to," he responded.

"Are you always such a d.i.c.khead?"

His eyes widened, and he looked over at me. Then he smirked and laughed out loud. We were still sitting at a red light, so I glared at him.

"You're actually really hot," he said. The smirk on his face widened a little.

"You're actually really an a.s.s," I replied.

He grinned and rolled his eyes, and if the light hadn't turned green, I might have punched him. But instead, he said, "I'm sorry I was such a d.i.c.k last night. Look ... Sean's had a tough time. My mom left almost five years ago. And he's never gotten along well with the kids at school."

I don't think he realized, but as he spoke, his hands tightened into fists. "They treat him like dirt. And I don't want to bring someone around who he'll get attached to, only to get hurt again when you stop coming around."

"Why would he get attached to me? I was only there one night."

"He's already attached to you. Sean doesn't ask people for things. Ever."

I blinked my eyes, trying to shove back a wave of empathy for that kid. He was nice, just a little different. But I knew what people were like in high school. Nice didn't cut it in high school. Teenagers could be vicious, and Sean was different. Very different. I could only imagine what he went through every day.

"He's a good kid," I said.

"You've only seen one side of him. You haven't seen him having a meltdown, and freaking out and breaking things. You haven't seen his heart broken. People think Aspie kids don't want to have friends. It's not that at all. He wants friends desperately, but everybody rejects him."

"Aspie?"

"Asperger's."

I took a deep breath, my eyes tearing up a little, and Crank kept talking.

"I'd do anything, anything in the world, to make his life a little easier. But I can't. All I can do is protect him a little."

We'd reached Central Square. I took a right and then drove slowly into the parking lot at the Metro. I took a deep breath and said, "So you want me to stay away. Not come to his birthday?"

He shook his head. "I don't know what I want, all right?"

Well, that made two of us. I squeezed my hands on the steering wheel. "Well, maybe you need to figure that out. But don't be an a.s.shole while you do it. Because I didn't do anything but be nice to you and your brother."

"Well, you did wreck my car." As he said it, a grin appeared on his face.

I couldn't help it. I laughed. "All right. There is that. I promise I won't do it again."

He opened the car door, started to get out, then paused and looked over at me. "All right. I'll call and let you know what the damage is. And ... do come Sat.u.r.day. Sean will be upset if you don't."

"I'll be there," I said.

Without another word he got out, slammed the door of the car and walked away.

Twenty minutes later, I had the car parked and leaned back in my seat for just a few seconds and closed my eyes. I was exhausted. It had been a long, late night after a long day on Friday. I'd hardly slept, and it had been an emotionally charged morning. I wanted to get back to my room and go to sleep for a couple hours before I went out with Barrett.

Which I really didn't want to do. I don't know why I'd agreed to go out to dinner with him. A couple days ago it seemed like a good idea. Now I wasn't so sure. But I'd committed, and he was going to show up at six o'clock, and I didn't want to be a complete b.i.t.c.h and cancel. So there. Stuck.

For just a second, I thought of taking the coward's way out and canceling via text message. Then I realized I hadn't touched my phone since ... the accident? Oh, no. When I hit Crank's car, I'd lost the phone. I frantically started looking, and there it was, in the back seat. I picked it up. Twelve missed calls.

Oh, for G.o.d's sake. Nine from my mother. Looked like she'd gotten over her aversion to cell phones. The other three were from Jemi. Now that was unusual. I selected her number and dialed.

She answered immediately, her soft British accent sounding urgent. "h.e.l.lo? Julia! Are you all right?"

"Hey, Jemi ... of course I'm okay, what's wrong?"

Silence for a few seconds, and then she said, "Um ... you ran out of the Metro last night upset and didn't come back to the room ... and you weren't answering your phone. I was worried. Where are you?"

"Oh ... I'm right across the street, I'll be back at our room in a few minutes."

"I'm here. Your mother has called. A few times."

"Thanks," I said.

As I walked back to Cabot Hall, I realized I should have thought a little more. I wasn't exactly the type to stay out all night and not answer calls. I wasn't really the type to go out at all. And I knew my roommates had some kind of system worked out where they called each other, kept tabs on each other, if one was going to be out late. It was a safety thing, and smart, and had never really been necessary for me.

G.o.d, I was exhausted. I trudged up the stairs to the third floor and down the hall to our suite. When I got there, Jemi was sitting on the couch, her feet up on the coffee table, a textbook in her lap. She looked up and gave me an uncertain smile.

"Hey," I said.

She opened her mouth to speak, but the phone rang first. She gave an unhappy smile. "That will likely be your mother again."

"Sorry," I muttered, then walked over to the phone and picked it up. It had a tiny piece of gra.s.s stuck to the cradle. Which meant one of my roommates had searched the yard, found the phone, and brought it up here. Oh, boy, there were going to be questions.

"h.e.l.lo?" I said.

"Julia? Julia?" My mother said at a shout. I started to respond, but before I even had a chance, she said, "Can you hear me? Answer me!"

"Yes, Mother."

"Where have you been?" she demanded. "I've been trying to reach you since last night."

"I stayed at a ... friend's house last night. I forgot my phone in the car."