Chapter 32

 

MUSICIANS CAN BE strange creatures. There’s an intensity that flows through their veins. Is it any wonder when they spend their lives striving to play a perfect piece that anything less than perfection becomes offensive to them? I was lucky that I only ever played to amuse myself. I wasn’t a musician. To me a musician was somebody who devoted their time to stirring others’ souls to joy with their music.

When I spent time with my violin, it was a sanctuary, a way to unblock myself and release all I felt inside. I felt for musicians, like Miranda, who had to rely solely on performing for others. By Jed’s words, it had stopped instilling her with peace and joy a long time ago.

As I snuck into Renee’s building, I followed my gut instinct and headed to the second floor. A young kid, maybe ten or so years old dawdled out of the room in front of me, head to chest, tears dripping off her chin.

I heard somebody call out to them about having a pathetic bow technique and that they would never amount to anything.

“Nice teacher,” I muttered to myself. The voice had been young, female.

I dropped to my haunches in front of the sobbing kid, hoping I looked like a friendly face. “Do you enjoy playing?” I asked, trying to ignore the pang of hurt and sorrow from her.

She nodded. Tears dropped down onto her shoes.

“Do me a favor. I want you to go back to your room and find your favorite piece. You have one, right?”

She blinked and then smiled, a watery smile.

“And do you know it by heart?”

“Yes, Miss,” came a little reply.

“Then shut your eyes and play it. Forget her and let every bit of love and joy you have into it. Play the piece just for you.” I smiled at her. “Forget the mistakes, forget technique, just play.”

She bit her wobbling lip.

“It’s your friend. Don’t let some mean snob tell you no different. She ain’t no better than you are.” I took the kid by the shoulders and gave them a squeeze. If I hugged her and somebody saw me, they would either think I’d gone soft or think I was planning to abduct her. Space was a good idea.

“But . . . Miranda is the best.”

I shrugged. Miranda’s attitude stank. “She still gotta pee. Ain’t nobody better or worse than you, just different.”

My attempt at philosophy earned me a snigger. “Thanks, Miss Samson.”

I watched her scurry off and turned back to the classroom. Now to bring Miss Smart-ass back down to earth with a violin bow.

Miranda was alone when I entered the state of the art rehearsal room. Angst and anger rumbled around her. If I could have seen her aura, it would have been crackling and rumbling like a storm cloud. She turned to see me and a flash of rage pulsed from her eyes.

“You’re not meant to be in here.”

I took a seat at the edge of the small stage and folded my arms. She couldn’t go and tell anybody because I was between her and the door.

“I think you should leave.” Her tone was too much like Renee’s and my temper soared to the surface.

“Last I checked, you were a skinny excuse for a student and I was the staff member.”

She glared at me. “I’m more important than the likes of you.” She flicked her hair back with arrogance. One thing I’ve learned is that folks who put on that kind of show rarely feel worth anything.

“Why, ’cause you can play a fiddle?” I asked, using Nan’s name for it.

“It’s a violin.”

“Same difference.” I shrugged. “It’s not like it’s hard. It’s not even a proper skill. You can’t build or buy nothin’ with a hunk of wood and strings.” If my last dig hadn’t gotten to her, I was sure that would get her riled.

“Excuse me?” Miranda shoved her nose in the air. “I doubt you can even read let alone music.”

Wow, I didn’t have a lot of admiration for Jed’s taste in women. “Even a child can play them. I bet you’re not even playing something original for the gala, are you?”

She glared like she would impale me on her bow. Easy to reel in.

“Classical musicians have about as much originality as a fast food joint anyhow.”

Miranda slunk onto one hip. I was getting through, good. “You’re comparing incredible artists with people in a burger joint?”

How superior. “Yeah, both of you are just following what somebody showed you. Someone else did the creating, they were the genius. You ain’t doing nothing a computer program couldn’t.”

“And what about expression?” Her voice shot up an octave. I tried not to smile.

“Big deal. Loud, quiet, fast, slow . . . burger has ketchup, mayo, or plain . . .”

I half wished I could take a picture of her without the camera blowing up ’cause she was a beautiful color purple. “I mean fiddle players . . . you’re all pretty predictable, right. Who doesn’t play the Chaconne when they want to pretend they are good?” I shook my head. “Like a production line.”

I’d seen when I walked in that was the score she had. She sucked in her chin, stomped up to me, and thrust her violin into my hands.

“If you’re so clever, you play it.”

“Easy . . . music?” I smiled a sweet smile at her.

She ripped the stand up, slammed it down in front of me, throwing the music my way. I held the violin upside down, for comic effect, as she shot a sneer at me.

The glint in her eyes was enough. I’d played the piece in Serenity a lot. It wasn’t my favorite piece but it was a test. It made you work technically, it tested your stamina. It also looked impressive. I turned the violin around the right way. I gave a nice ear-grating bow just to make her wince.

“Ready?” I asked, ignoring the fact Renee had just wandered into the room. Did she have a tracker on me or something?

“This oaf thinks she can play Bach.” Miranda sniggered, a snide smile on her face.

Renee nodded and took a seat to the side.

Not wanting to look at her, I focused on the music and started to play.

Miranda’s jaw dropped as I caressed the strings. The thing about Chaconne Partita Number Two in D was that it resembled a workout. It tested strengths in both hands, it got harder and harder and finished with a flourish. The ultimate showpiece. It lasted fifteen minutes too, so any weakness was gonna show up.

There were sections to it and I learned to play them all by heart. By the time I got to the last section, I stopped pretending I was reading the score and closed my eyes. I savored the sound, the release, and let my heart take over. Every note resonated with all I felt.

I finished and opened my eyes.

Miranda stared like I’d grown a moustache and Renee was dabbing at her eyes.

There was a strange connection between her and me playing the violin. I couldn’t explain it but the music seemed to dance around her in quiet moments when we talked.

I missed that. I missed that bond. Well, at least the bond I thought had been there. She was a stranger now, so distant, so hostile.

Would I ever be able to have the energy or be willing to try and bridge the gap again?

I couldn’t do it by myself. I was in no man’s land ready to sound the retreat and just accept she weren’t the friend I’d thought she was.

Still, I missed her smiling at me, dumb as it sounded. I missed her real accent, the joy in her eyes when she found me funny.

A wave of melancholy hit me as I kept my gaze locked with hers. I wondered if I’d just chosen to see what I needed to in a tough time and forgotten all the misunderstandings, the hurt, and the confusion that had come with knowing her.

“Where did you learn to play like that?” Miranda asked, her voice a lot more respectful now.

I broke the link with Renee, turned to her, and put the violin on a chair. “Prison.”

Miranda’s shoulder’s hitched up. “But you’re a genius, the way you played . . .”

“I’m just repeating what a load of other violinists could do just as well. Bach was the genius.” I hated how sad, how drained I felt. “It wouldn’t matter if I was a genius.”

“Of course—”

“No.” My voice wobbled. I took a breath. “Jobs, duty, career, they just mean you get paid.” I sighed. “Love what you do, sure, but it don’t make you no better than anybody else.” I avoided looking at Renee. “It won’t ever make you happy neither.”

“Performance, glory, they make me feel good.” Miranda’s barrier lowered. The uncertainty clear. I got a flash of why.

“They give you a cheap thrill. Happiness, love, being free, it comes from inside.” How could I explain it to her without revealing what the truth of her situation was? “You can’t control what goes on around you with a violin. It’s a friend, sure, but it ain’t a weapon.”

Miranda shook her head and picked at her sleeves. “It can buy me a better life.”

I was glad she didn’t know the true weight of her words. It would buy her a life of slavery. “It buys nice stuff. It don’t mean you’ll feel any less alone when you have it.”

I could feel Renee’s gaze on my cheek. I kept my eyes on Miranda.

“Building up a wall, pretending you don’t care, it may stop folks hurting you but take it from me, being lonely is a lot worse.”

She bit her lip. “I can’t get distracted.”

“Kid,” I said, walking over to her. “Your wrist is so bad that you can’t sleep, you can barely move your neck. Your head is full of so many worries that you can’t even stand the sight of it anymore.” I sat beside her and we both looked at the discarded violin. “Your mom would have loved you even if you’d never played a single note, no matter what they told you.”

Her eyes widened at my words. She’d never told a soul what drove her.

“How do you know that?” Her voice was quiet enough that I could hear Renee shifting in her seat.

“Because my mom weren’t around neither. She still ain’t. Although she got a funny way of showing it, she loves me . . . in her own way.” A prickly feeling rippled up and down my arms. I felt raw just talking about it. “Judging by your nice violin, she loved you like all moms should.”

“I used to . . .” She sighed. “I used to feel her when I played.” She ran her hands through her hair, undoing her ponytail. “It was like she was with me but I don’t feel her anymore.”

“Try playing what’s in your heart next time.” I sensed the storm around Miranda weaken. “She’ll be there.”

“It hurts so bad when I play.” She didn’t need to tell me, the kid was in agony.

“Then rest.” If I’d had my burdens, I would have fixed it for her but Frei’s words about me not interfering entered my mind. “You’ve been playing since you could hold a bow. You know what you’re doing.”

“I can’t mess up at the gala—”

“No.”

Miranda frowned, so I nodded at her. “You think like that and there’s no point you turning up.”

I glanced at Renee. Her eyes unreadable, a stranger.

“Focus on what you can control. If you play when you’re hand is so bad, you will narrow your chances of success. It don’t mean you won’t succeed but it’ll be harder.”

“Focus on what I can control,” she mumbled.

I smiled. “Combating scary stress one-oh-one.” I’d learned that from Renee. “Someone who I care a lot about once told me to think baby steps. It helps.”

The bell rang.

Miranda jolted into life, gathered her things, and fled like I’d shot at her.

I sat, staring at a wobbling music stand and trying not to look at Renee who I swear was burning a hole in my cheek. Not at all awkward, nope.

“When did you get so wise?” There was the accent I knew, her tone. It hurt to hear it. It hurt and it helped. How did that work?

“Been through a couple of learning curves.” I didn’t dare look at her. “Don’t mean I know much, just means I get kids with issues.”

“You’re very good with them.”

Was I? Not really. I treated them like I’d treat anybody else. Kids were easier to reach sometimes. Adults seemed set on shielding themselves too much.

“You are always so good to be around.” I met her eyes, shocked at her words. Gray, open, warm, like she cared. “I—”

“Roberta, there you are.” Wonderful. If Renee had a tracker on me, sure-as-shoots, Owens had one on Renee. I fought not to roll my eyes.

“Do you have a bell on her?” I muttered through gritted teeth.

Renee’s eyes veiled then hardened and I didn’t bother to wait for an answer. It wouldn’t be nothing I wanted to hear anyway. I stomped out and headed down the corridor filled with a silent stream of much younger students. I didn’t want to think why there had been only thirty in my age group to start the year. Where had the others gone?

I paused at the top of the stairs and turned back to see Renee in conversation with Owens. It wasn’t my place to help her no more, that much was clear. I was only good to talk to when nobody else was around. I was worth her time when she wanted something.

That sounded a lot like my mother. At least Sam hadn’t cared who saw us talking.

Wasn’t that just great? I’d had a father who’d been too embarrassed by me, too hung up on the woman I resembled to tell me anything. I had a mother who hadn’t bothered to stick around long enough to see me walk. Sam, my so called best friend, was a homicidal maniac who had tried to kill me. Then there was Renee, who’d been a friend, she’d pretended like she cared. I’d had to fight for every bit of her she’d shared. I didn’t count enough for her to think I deserved an explanation.

I wasn’t important enough to her for an apology. I’d felt that she knew she was wrong yet it still didn’t matter.

Why bother saying sorry to me? I was just somebody she worked with. What did it matter that she could see I was hurt? She had better things to do.

I sighed. So I’d found out someone else had been less than truthful. I didn’t mean a whole lot to her, at least not enough. I’d found out the same thing time and time again, so what made this any different?

I turned away when Renee looked in my direction and headed down the stairs. A friend who wasn’t quite the friend they’d made out to be . . . It was all too familiar.

Some things never changed.