The Other Me Part 9

"d.a.m.n straight. I'm the best, best friend you'll ever have, and don't forget it." She slings her arm around my shoulder and gives me a hug. I love her, I love her with a clarity of emotion I've never felt for anyone else. Not the effervescent hyperventilating emotion I've felt for cute boys and am starting to feel for Gabriel, but that warm from-head-to-toes kind of love that makes her more like a sister than a friend.

Gabriel

"IT'S A A date," Dirk says. date," Dirk says.

"It's not."

"Do those hurt?" He jabs a finger into the bruise blossoming across my ribs from cla.s.s yesterday.

I grab his hand and start squeezing. "Does this?"

"I know he's irritating, but please try not to break my son's fingers." Dirk's mom hands me my s.h.i.+rt. It's still warm from the iron. Apparently, no self-respecting young man can perform at a recital dressed in a creased s.h.i.+rt. My aunt's laundry lessons didn't extend to ironing, and I don't think we've owned an iron since Mom died, anyway.

"Thanks, Ma," Dirk says, only to get cuffed over the back of the head.

"Stop teasing him," she says. I b.u.t.ton up my s.h.i.+rt, and she starts doing my tie before I can object. "You need a haircut, sweetheart."

"I like it like this."

"It's very Jimmy Eat World," Dirk adds.

"Thanks," I say with sarcasm so thick you could cut it with a knife and head to Dirk's bathroom in search of gel and a comb.

Ja, I've gone and done it. I stare at the guy in the mirror with slicked-back hair and a cleanly shaved face. It's only a matinee, but Dirk's right, this feels a lot like a date. The only thing that matters is my performance. Playing from memory can always be problematic. It's so easy to lose track of where you are, to mess up and look like a complete moron. Playing with music is worse. I hate having a page turner, someone literally looking over my shoulder and noticing every imprecision. Trying to play and turn your own pages is a different kind of nightmare altogether.

MY FATHER FATHER won't be there. I put a note on the fridge, marking the date and time of my concert with yellow highlighter. No way he could've missed it, though he's made no comment about it. Just once, I'd like him to lose the ego and listen to his moffie son play. Or does having a son who plays piano automatically diminish his manhood as well? won't be there. I put a note on the fridge, marking the date and time of my concert with yellow highlighter. No way he could've missed it, though he's made no comment about it. Just once, I'd like him to lose the ego and listen to his moffie son play. Or does having a son who plays piano automatically diminish his manhood as well?

Dirk and his family can't make it today; they've got to trek out to Pretoria for his ouma's eightieth. At least my father let me borrow the bakkie-he's spending the afternoon fertilizing his precious flowerbeds-otherwise I'd be walking to and from the church.

"Hey, bru, we've got to go." Dirk bangs on the bathroom door. He gives me a stupid grin when I emerge. "Well, don't you clean up nice."

Marlize skips into the kitchen and stops short when she sees me. "Wow, when did you get so hot?"

I'm not sure how to take that coming from a twelve-year-old. Being Dirk's sister, she's probably more grown-up than most, even if she still plays sparkle pony PlayStation games.

"Don't you even think about it." Dirk shakes his fist at her.

"Maybe if you worked out more, you'd have a bod like that." She purses her lips and gestures to all of me with a wave of her pink-nailed hand. I don't know where to look.

"I better get going." Before Marlize can further embarra.s.s me. The whole family comes to see me off, telling me to break a leg and knock them dead, et cetera.

I drive in silence, playing the sonata over and over in my head, visualizing the trickier pa.s.sages and fingering them on the steering wheel. Inviting Treasa was a dumb idea. Now there's extra pressure on me not just to play well, but to play brilliantly, because as much as I might deny it to Dirk, I do actually want to impress her.

Treasa

THE STORM STORM started yesterday afternoon, tearing through our garden and ripping Dad's carefully quaffed trees and shrubs to shreds. It hailed too, turning the lawn into a frozen carpet of projectiles. The rain lasted all night, thunder rattling the windows in their frames while lightning kept making the landline ping. When I was little, Mom used to tell me it was G.o.d playing marbles with the angels. Celestial war would've been more appropriate. started yesterday afternoon, tearing through our garden and ripping Dad's carefully quaffed trees and shrubs to shreds. It hailed too, turning the lawn into a frozen carpet of projectiles. The rain lasted all night, thunder rattling the windows in their frames while lightning kept making the landline ping. When I was little, Mom used to tell me it was G.o.d playing marbles with the angels. Celestial war would've been more appropriate.

The storm has kept me awake, not that I was going to be able to sleep anyway. My alarm clock flashes 4:45 and lightning illuminates my room before another crash of thunder sends Riker scurrying up the bed in search of my face.

At least Mom said yes to the matinee. Of course, she's taking me and waiting in the car and driving me home. At least I'll still get to see Gabriel and hear him play. Taking it slow isn't a bad thing. I've never really had a boyfriend, unless you count Dennis in grade six. We dated for a whole eight hours before he told me he wasn't ready for a serious commitment. There was Trent in grade eight, my first kiss, and it was awful. He clearly didn't own a toothbrush, and the entire time he had his tongue in my mouth, all I could taste was the Bovril sandwich he'd had for lunch. Gabriel's older, and he's probably had plenty of practice kissing girls. I haven't had any practice. What if I'm a terrible kisser, and he tries to kiss me and I do the wrong thing? What if my braces put him off and he doesn't even want to kiss me? I fall asleep imagining all the horrible ways our first kiss might not even happen.

"YOU HAVEN HAVEN'T been on a first date yet, and you're worried about kissing him?" Jordan sits on my bed, watching me fight with my hair. been on a first date yet, and you're worried about kissing him?" Jordan sits on my bed, watching me fight with my hair.

"How do you know if you're a good kisser?"

"People tell you."

"I've only ever kissed one guy." I twist and pin a strand into place.

"Really?" She looks at me in the mirror. "Trent in grade eight?"

"Yup."

"That's depressing."

"Tell me about it." I examine my makeup. It's not much, but at least the foundation quiets the riot of freckles across my face, and the mascara accentuates my otherwise pale eyes.

"You need to practice." Jordan swings her legs over the edge of the bed.

"On who?"

"Me, of course."

"You want me to kiss you?" I do a final twist at the back and jam in half a dozen pins.

"Not particularly, but I'm willing to do this for the good cause of improving your kissing skills."

"Are you serious?"

She rolls her eyes and spins me around on the wheelie chair. "Stand up." Jordan places a hand on my waist and another on my neck. "Lean in slowly and just let your lips touch." She does, and her lips are sticky with gloss. "Then you pull back a little and gaze into each other's eyes." We do, and a startling warmth spreads up from my belly as she places my hands on her waist. "Then you go in for the real deal."

She kisses me, her lips slightly parted, and then her tongue slips between my teeth and she tastes of toothpaste and strawberry lip gloss. I pull her closer and kiss her back. Her fingers tighten on my neck, and we're getting really into it. Too into it. I'm not sure who freaks out first. We both pull away and don't say anything for a few awkward moments.

"You'll be fine," Jordan says as she twirls a strand of dark hair around her finger. "You're not a bad kisser. Definitely room for improvement, but certainly not bad." Her face is uncharacteristically flushed, and her hands are shaking as she reapplies lip gloss.

"Resa, we're going to be late." Mom walks in. "Wow, you look lovely."

"Thank you." In tight three-quarter jeans and a fitted T-s.h.i.+rt, I feel like a turkey dressed for the pot. Jordan wanted me to wear a skirt. Thankfully, the storm last night turned into set-in rain, and the day is too cool for bare legs. Not that I'd be caught dead in a skirt unless it's a school uniform. The b.u.m-floss thong Jordan insisted I wear is already annoying me. Why can't I just be a guy and wear boxers and baggie jeans and not have to worry about matching my bra to my panties, or what the color of my underwear might reveal about my s.e.x life when I have no s.e.x life at all!

"Can I give you a ride home, Jordan?"

"Thanks, Mrs. Prescott."

It's been almost three years, and Mom still won't tell Jordan to call her Melissa. I pull on my All Stars and work the laces back into the shoe around my foot.

"Why don't you ever wear sandals?" Mom gripes as we head to the car.

"Because I like my takkies." Sandals? In what universe, Mother?

Mom thinks better of getting into an argument and swallows whatever comment she was going to make next. We drop Jordan off first, leaving Mom and me alone for the ten-minute trip to the church.

"How are your ears?" Mom asks over the Madonna song playing on the radio.

"Healing. Still a bit tender, but they'll be fine."

"Jordan was sweet to come over today."

"She's not the monster you imagine."

"I didn't...." Mom sighs. "Why is it that every conversation feels like I'm waging a war with you?"

I say nothing and keep staring out the window, watching raindrops slither across the gla.s.s. We pull into the church. There are a lot of people here.

"I should come in with you."

"Mom, I think I can manage a five-meter walk by myself."

Mom purses her lips. I fling open the door and dash through the drizzle into the church before Mom can change her mind and demand to walk in holding my hand like I'm a toddler.

There's a signpost pointing away from the actual church to an events hall. I pa.s.s several other teenagers, all wearing uniforms. Oops.

"Treasa." Gabriel separates from a group of Stormhof students and joins me outside the hall, under the dripping eaves. His hair is combed back and slicked down with gel. He smells like soap and aftershave, a dizzying combination.

"Was I supposed to wear my uniform?" Might as well have tentacles coming out of my b.u.t.t since everyone's staring at me, the only one in civvies.

"I forgot to mention that, but don't worry. It's a government school thing, anyway, so you won't get into trouble. Here." He hands me a rain-spattered program. He's playing second to last out of thirty performers.

"They save the best for last, right?"

"Something like that." He grins, and there's a hint of arrogance in his stance I find kind of s.e.xy. The Stormhof Matrics walk past, chatting in Afrikaans. I don't catch all of what they say, but there's a comment about Catholic schoolgirls that makes them all laugh, Gabriel included. The familiar warmth of a blush wends its way up my throat. I gulp in a lungful of rain-cooled air and banish the blood from my face.

"I've got to sit with the performers, but I'll see you after the concert." He touches my arm as he says it.

"Sure." His touch is like a brand.

He catches up to his schoolmates, and they disappear inside. Alone and feeling horribly conspicuous, I find a spot at the back, hoping no one will notice me. I actually wish Jordan had come today. For a moment I even consider going to get my mom so I won't have to sit alone. Then the first player gets up and performs something by Bach on the violin.

An hour and a half later, Gabriel goes to the piano. A hush falls over the hall as he raises his hands in preparation for the first note. For the next six minutes, I am enthralled by his fingers, by his body as it moves to the music, his shoulders bunching with every powerful chord. His fingers fly across the keys and his foot pumps the pedal. He closes his eyes before he starts the second movement, and so do I, imagining myself at the piano, imagining the keys beneath my fingers, what it must feel like to be that good at something, that flawless. Too soon, the heartbreaking movement comes to a close, and a few irritating members of the audience actually clap.

Gabriel cracks his knuckles before launching into the third. I close my eyes again, just listening. Somewhere in the middle of the piece, where the runs turn fiendish, the notes slip out of control, and my eyes flash open as Gabriel fudges a trill and ends on a dissonant chord. He clenches his jaw, his eyebrows gathered in a tight frown as he fights to regain control of the music. He recovers, and the rest of the piece is pure perfection. He brings the sonata to a cras.h.i.+ng end, and the audience bursts into applause, some even whistling. Despite the audience's approval, Gabriel bows and leaves the stage without even the faintest wisp of a smile.

The final performer steps up, a black girl who's singing an aria from The Magic Flute The Magic Flute. My attention is on Gabriel as he sits dead still amongst his peers. The girl's voice slices straight through me as she nails the super high notes of the aria. The audience gives the girl a standing ovation. Gabriel rises too, and so do I, if only to keep him within my view.

Afterward, I wait for him under the eaves. The rain has stopped, and the sun is prying its way through the clouds.

"Hi." He sounds deflated, his shoulders sagging.

"You were brilliant."

"No, I wasn't." He stuffs his hands into his pockets.

"Oh, come on, you made one tiny mistake." My attempt at lightening his mood is met with a scowl.

"Now you know why I'm second to last." He turns and walks away.

"Wait." I run after him and grab his arm. He tenses, and my heart lurches. "I just meant that one wonky trill shouldn't take away from the perfection of the rest of it. Interpretation and expression is more important than technical precision anyway, right?"

He regards me for a moment with eyes far too green. Then his lips twitch up into a smile. "You want to go for coffee or something?"

"You're not with your friends?"

"No."

"Wait, my mom's here. I can't just leave."

"Oh, okay." Dejection mars his face.

"Would you mind coming with me while I ask her?"

"Why not?"

We pick our way past puddles to Mom's Toyota, and I tap on the window, startling her from a nap. Gabriel waves, and Mom rolls down the window.

"Mom, this is Gabriel, the pianist."

"Nice to meet you, Gabriel."

"Afternoon, ma'am." Gabriel shakes Mom's hand through the window.

"I hear you're quite the star-black belt karate, pianist, and academic, I see."

Star? Where does Mom get this stuff, and why do I tell her anything when all she ever does is embarra.s.s me? Gabriel, however, seems to be preening in the wake of the compliment.

"I was wondering, ma'am, if it would be all right with you for me to take Treasa for coffee."

"Oh, now?" Mom looks at me and I nod, hoping she says yes. "You drive?"