Mr. Cline, but Isaac will blow a gasket if I pull that crap on him.”
“So don’t.”
“Thanks, R.J. You’re so helpful. Glad we had this talk.”
Maybe it’s because I want to get a reaction out of Isaac. Maybe it’s because I like to sabotage myself. Whatever the reason, I decide to use one of the hymns he played last week at church and pair it with a straightforward Alberti bass in the left hand. Simple and sweet. I can do simple and sweet, right? Nothing dramatic and no nuances required.
Just before bed, I pull on a long-sleeved shirt over my pajamas and head out to the studio one last time to make sure I’ve got the thing down. R.J. follows and throws himself onto the loveseat to listen. He’s been doing this since we were little, and it’s one of the things that keeps us so close. He’ll sit for hours and listen to me play. His friends teased him about it when he was in middle school and high school, but his constant string of girlfriends thought it was sweet.
The third time through the composition, he opens the door to leave.
“Hey. You didn’t tell me what you thought.”
He narrows his eyes. “Nothing ventured, nothing gained, Sis.”
R.J. is right, of course. I know it the minute Isaac walks into the studio the next morning, Bruins mug in hand.
Sweat collects in unmentionable places, but it has little to do with the heat index.
“Let’s hear it.”
“I don’t think — ”
“No excuses. Begin.”
I will disappoint him. Mostly, I’m angry that I set myself up to fail. But then, there’s a teeny-tiny, slimy part of me that secretly wonders What ’s he gonna do?
I hang onto that thought and begin to play. When I look up, he’s not there. His car is gone.
I cry like the sniveling little brat I am.
***
Morning brings buckets of rain and thunder every few seconds. The leaves on the live oaks tremble in the wind with a constant hussshhh sound. I want to crawl back in bed.
Instead, Isaac is here and forces me to do Bach’s Two-Part Inventions for warm-up. I’m well into the second exercise when his cell rings.
“Sorry. Should take this.” He turns to go outside, but it looks like monsoon season. “Yeah, man?”
I can’t play, so I begin marking up the sheet music. Whoever put in the recommended fingerings is an idiot.
“Wow. Okay. No, that’d be great. Any time, you know that. Uh, yeah, she’s right here.”
At that, my ears perk up. I glance at Isaac, who’s looking at me through narrowed eyes.
“Don’t think that’s a good idea.”
A man’s voice booms from Isaac’s phone so loud I can hear it across the room. “ Hah! You are so full of shit! She doesn’t exist! ” Isaac rolls his eyes and holds out the phone.
“I’m so sorry. My friend needs to talk to you. I’m not responsible for anything he says.”
“Uh, okay.” His phone smells like aftershave. “Hello?”
“Who are you?”
“Um, who are you ?”
“I am every woman’s dream and what I want to know is: who are you; how old are you; and why Ike had the balls to tell me some little girl in Alabama plays Rachmaninoff better than me? And…go.”
“I’m seventeen. It’s not like I’m twelve.”
“Well then, that makes it much better. Totally trumps my Conservatory degrees. Please excuse me while I scrape my ego off the floor. I’m Dave, by the way. And you have a very sexy voice, anyone ever tell you that? Must be the accent.”
“Uh…”
“It’s okay. I often render women speechless. So, Sexy-and-Seventeen, what’s your actual name?”
“Julianne. Or Juli. Whatever.”
“Uh-huh. And now for the real question: Can you really play Rachmaninoff as well as Ike says?”
“I don’t—I don’t know. He said that?”
Isaac rubs his temples.
“He did. And I challenge you to a duel. Hear that sound? That’s me throwing my glove on the floor. I bite my thumb at you. It’s on, Julianne-or-Juli-whatever. Next time I’m in Mobile, it’s you and me in a classical music death
“So don’t.”
“Thanks, R.J. You’re so helpful. Glad we had this talk.”
Maybe it’s because I want to get a reaction out of Isaac. Maybe it’s because I like to sabotage myself. Whatever the reason, I decide to use one of the hymns he played last week at church and pair it with a straightforward Alberti bass in the left hand. Simple and sweet. I can do simple and sweet, right? Nothing dramatic and no nuances required.
Just before bed, I pull on a long-sleeved shirt over my pajamas and head out to the studio one last time to make sure I’ve got the thing down. R.J. follows and throws himself onto the loveseat to listen. He’s been doing this since we were little, and it’s one of the things that keeps us so close. He’ll sit for hours and listen to me play. His friends teased him about it when he was in middle school and high school, but his constant string of girlfriends thought it was sweet.
The third time through the composition, he opens the door to leave.
“Hey. You didn’t tell me what you thought.”
He narrows his eyes. “Nothing ventured, nothing gained, Sis.”
R.J. is right, of course. I know it the minute Isaac walks into the studio the next morning, Bruins mug in hand.
Sweat collects in unmentionable places, but it has little to do with the heat index.
“Let’s hear it.”
“I don’t think — ”
“No excuses. Begin.”
I will disappoint him. Mostly, I’m angry that I set myself up to fail. But then, there’s a teeny-tiny, slimy part of me that secretly wonders What ’s he gonna do?
I hang onto that thought and begin to play. When I look up, he’s not there. His car is gone.
I cry like the sniveling little brat I am.
***
Morning brings buckets of rain and thunder every few seconds. The leaves on the live oaks tremble in the wind with a constant hussshhh sound. I want to crawl back in bed.
Instead, Isaac is here and forces me to do Bach’s Two-Part Inventions for warm-up. I’m well into the second exercise when his cell rings.
“Sorry. Should take this.” He turns to go outside, but it looks like monsoon season. “Yeah, man?”
I can’t play, so I begin marking up the sheet music. Whoever put in the recommended fingerings is an idiot.
“Wow. Okay. No, that’d be great. Any time, you know that. Uh, yeah, she’s right here.”
At that, my ears perk up. I glance at Isaac, who’s looking at me through narrowed eyes.
“Don’t think that’s a good idea.”
A man’s voice booms from Isaac’s phone so loud I can hear it across the room. “ Hah! You are so full of shit! She doesn’t exist! ” Isaac rolls his eyes and holds out the phone.
“I’m so sorry. My friend needs to talk to you. I’m not responsible for anything he says.”
“Uh, okay.” His phone smells like aftershave. “Hello?”
“Who are you?”
“Um, who are you ?”
“I am every woman’s dream and what I want to know is: who are you; how old are you; and why Ike had the balls to tell me some little girl in Alabama plays Rachmaninoff better than me? And…go.”
“I’m seventeen. It’s not like I’m twelve.”
“Well then, that makes it much better. Totally trumps my Conservatory degrees. Please excuse me while I scrape my ego off the floor. I’m Dave, by the way. And you have a very sexy voice, anyone ever tell you that? Must be the accent.”
“Uh…”
“It’s okay. I often render women speechless. So, Sexy-and-Seventeen, what’s your actual name?”
“Julianne. Or Juli. Whatever.”
“Uh-huh. And now for the real question: Can you really play Rachmaninoff as well as Ike says?”
“I don’t—I don’t know. He said that?”
Isaac rubs his temples.
“He did. And I challenge you to a duel. Hear that sound? That’s me throwing my glove on the floor. I bite my thumb at you. It’s on, Julianne-or-Juli-whatever. Next time I’m in Mobile, it’s you and me in a classical music death