Running Barefoot by Amy Harmon Page A

before I got there.
    “I can see why you are enamored,” Samuel teased. He was relaxed and his mouth was curved in pleasure. “Now play me something you’ve written.”
    I froze in discomfort. “I am not a composer, Samuel,” I said stiffly.
    “You mean you haven’t made up any songs? Mozart was…how old did you say? Four or five...when he started making up…what are they called?”
    “Minuets,” I supplied.
    “You haven’t even tried to compose a little?” He prodded.
    “A little,” I admitted, embarrassed.
    “So...let me hear something.”
    I remained unmoving, my hands in my lap.
    “Josie....all I know about music, I’ve learned from you. You could play something by Beethoven, say it was yours, and I wouldn’t know better. I will think whatever you play is wonderful. You know that, right?” He urged me gently.
    I had been working on something. A few months back, a melody had shivered its way into my subconscious, and I hadn’t been able to place it. It had lurked, pestering me, until finally I had hummed it for Sonja, fingering it on the piano, creating chords out of the single notes and embellishing the melody line. She had listened silently and then asked me to play it again and again. Each time I added more, layering and building until she stopped me, touching my shoulder softly. When I looked up at her from the piano, there was awe in her face, almost a spiritual glow.
    “This is yours, Josie,” she had said.
    “What do you mean?” I had asked, confused.
    “I’ve never heard this music. This isn’t something you heard…this is something you created.” She had beamed, joyfully.
    I thought of the music now as Samuel sat next to me, waiting patiently, hoping I’d concede. The music had come to me after we’d quarreled about Heathcliffe and the meaning of true love. When I thought of the music, I thought of Samuel.
    I brought my hands to the keys and exhaled slowly, letting the music seep into my fingers. I played intently - there was a yearning in the melody that I recognized as my own loneliness. The music never became powerful, but moved me in its simplicity and in its clarity. I brushed the keys gently, coaxing the song from my timid soul. It was a humble offering, not nearly worthy yet of Mozart even at a young age, but it echoed with the passion of a sincere heart. When the last note faded and Samuel had still not spoken, I peered up at him apprehensively.
    “What is it called?” He whispered, bringing his ebony eyes to hold mine.
    “Samuel’s Song,” I whispered back, staring at him, suddenly brave and unapologetic.
    He turned his face away from me abruptly, and he seemed unable to speak. He stood and walked to the door. He paused there, with his hand on the doorknob, his head bowed.
    “I need to go now.” Samuel looked at me then, and there was a battle being waged in his eyes, turmoil on his face. “Your song…that is the nicest thing anyone’s ever done for me.” His voice was filled with emotion. And with that, he opened the door and walked out into the icy stillness, shutting the door softly behind him.

7. Dissonance
     
    The last week in February, Samuel didn’t come to school. On Monday, I thought maybe he was sick or something, but after a few days I was worried about him. By Thursday, I couldn’t stand it anymore, so I came up with a plan to see him. Nettie Yates had given me a recipe for chocolate chip zucchini bread when we were canning the summer before. She’d shredded the zucchini into freezer bags and taped the laminated recipe to the pouches so that I could “just whip some up whenever I wanted to!” I had yet to make it. Zucchini and chocolate chips seemed like an odd combination.
    I was grateful now for an excuse to go see her and hopefully find out what was up with Samuel. I pulled some shredded zucchini out of the freezer, made up a couple loaves of the chocolate chip zucchini bread, and headed out into the icy February evening, a loaf of the hot