Jacque continues softly running her fingers along the keys. The piano is silent. My head is screaming.
“The day I saw you is such a clear memory,” she says.
What? I may explode all over this Common Room. All over the books. All over the sofas. All over that piano.
She turns and looks at me. We lock eyes. Blood rushes to my face. I want to run away, but she’s talking. “I remember your mom too. She had such a pretty smile. I’m so sorry about what happened.” She drops her chin.
Even if I were a normal conversationalist, I don’t think I’d have a response to those kind words.
Jacque crosses her arms and continues looking at her lap. “I’m also sorry I didn’t go to her funeral. It was so…selfish.”
She doesn’t even know me. Why is she pouring out apologies like water? I’d never have expected her to show at Mom’s services. I probably would’ve collapsed if I’d seen her there.
“I was afraid, you know?” she says. “It would’ve been my first time at a wake.”
I should tell her it’s okay, not to stress about it, but she’s talking to me with genuine sincerity. I don’t want her to stop. Ever.
Her leg bounces just like it did in sculpture class. “I’ve wanted to apologize to you for a while, but…” She takes a big breath. “Yeah. I guess we’ve never talked before, so it would’ve been kinda strange. We’re talking now though. So…I’m sorry.”
I nod. “It’s all right.”
She uncrosses her arms and sits on her hands. “That song you played was incredible. You’re really good. I hated piano. I’m too much of a daydreamer. You have to be so disciplined to play. So determined. It just wasn’t my thing. My father forced me to take lessons. That day was my last time at Mrs. Gramble’s studio.
“I cried the whole car ride home, then while I did my homework, all through dinner, in the bath, even when my dad tucked me in. The tears worked.” She laughs. “He let me quit. I think that’s why I remember that day so clearly. It was the first time my dad gave in on something he was determined to make me do. The feeling of power I had, at nine years old…” She drops her eyes, and her chest lifts as it fills.
I’m shell-shocked, my mouth superglued.
“You know what I love though?” She looks up and waits for my answer.
Damnit. Heart speeding. Mouth still not working. I shake my head.
She swallows and scrunches up her nose. “You’ll probably think this is so random and that I’m a weirdo, but…” Her voice trails off, and she swings her gaze.
If anyone in this room is a weirdo, it is not Jacque Beaufort.
She says, “I love when someone doesn’t care what other people think and they just are who they are.”
Why is she telling me this? Is she describing what she thinks of my brother? Is she going to ask me to put in a good word for her with Vance?
“My mom is like that. She’s got this quiet confidence, this pride. She just believes in herself. God, I want to be like that. She’s the polar opposite of my dad. He’s not a jerk or anything. Just intense.” She lowers the cover on the piano keys and laughs. “Sorry. Wow. That was a total TMI moment.”
Vance is back and standing in front of the piano. He’s blocking my view of her. “What are you still doing here, Beaufort?”
“I was on my way out when the music filled the dead silence,” she says. Vance must make a face because she fumbles, “Oh right. Bad word choice, Irving. I shouldn’t have said ‘dead’ silence.”
“Whatever, Beaufort. Don’t sweat it.” He thumps the top of the piano with his fist.
I hate how a lot of the athletes at school address each other by their last names. It seems impersonal. Looking someone in the eye, saying their first name—really seeing them—is how human interaction should be done.
Does Jacque really see me?
As Vance passes—without looking at me—he says, “They’re done with Dad, and they want to say good-bye. Let’s go.”
I get up and look toward the piano. Jacque’s gone. Of course she is.
Vance doesn’t wait for me to walk with him so I don’t even try to catch up. I’m ten steps behind. When I walk into the room, he’s already shaking Joey’s hand. Billy wipes his cheeks with the heels of his hands.
Joey extends his hand to me, and I take it. “We’re real sorry, Oscar. You know that me and Bill will do anything for you guys. All you have to do is ask. He loved you guys. I know he did. He really did.” He turns to Bill. “Right, Bill?”
Bill stops patting Vance’s back and nods. “You two were the best part about him, and he knew it.”
He loved me? I was the best part about him? These statements are surprising to hear. Are they true?
Joey gives my hand one more squeeze and then lets me go. “On the days when you guys weren’t working, he’d tell customers about his boys, that he liked how different the two of you were. Such strong personalities. You, Vance, with your ball-busting and your lacrosse, and you, Oscar, with your music and art stuff. You both made him proud. I know it. Got to where everyone felt like they were a part of your lives.”
“We’re family at the Blue Mountain,” Bill says.
I don’t want the Blue Mountain family. I want impossible things. My parents to be happily married again and alive and—
My thoughts stop abruptly as piercing new questions form. Why would my father only talk about us when we weren’t there? Why couldn’t he tell us we were “the best part about him” to our faces? Why are we hearing this from Joey and Bill, the bartenders?
I look at my father’s mouth, wide open in a silent scream. Talk, Dad. Please. Tell me everything. Were you ever proud of me? My father discussed my art? What did he say?
I’ll never be able to ask him these questions. That reality is incredibly jagged. The cut will never be clean; it will never heal properly.
There will always be a scar.
I want to scream.