rearranging the heavy bag of books on her shoulder, and she seemed
much smaller than I imagined, and very tired, very worn. “Of course,” I thought. “Elliot would have married a brainy girl,
the kind who travels with an entire bookshelf in a monogrammed L. L. Bean canvas tote.”
She came toward me.
“Cal,” I said. I stuck out my hand and she took it. Her fingers were cold.
“Helen.” Her smile was a slow curl of hope. She was delivered.
A MELIA
Stolen, Oregon
Saturday, October
5,
1996
For at least an hour, Amelia had been trying to play the violin. She had lifted the familiar amber-hued instrument out of
its velvet bed and tuned the strings until they sounded perfect. She’d swept the bow over its neat block of greenish resin
until a little white spray accompanied each pull across the strings. She’d produced notes, run up and down scales accurately,
but there was not a drop of music left in her. It had fled her fingers, her mind, her body. She ached to have it back. It
felt as if it had gone for good. She wanted to pick up the phone to call Lydia, but she knew her friend was out shooting hoops.
Afternoon light flooded the room.
Sometimes these days Amelia went through the Wes story as a series of points, like a plot outline for Calbert Fleecing’s English
class. It went like this:
Wes Hazzard was Sadie’s older brother.
Wes chose Amelia to be his second violin.
Wes let her borrow his own fabulous violin because he had two of them. The one she played had cost his parents thousands of
dollars. He laughed lightly when Amelia confessed it made her nervous to even touch. But when he encouraged her to play, she
forgot how scared she was, seduced by the sound of her own music. There was a big difference between a good violin and a great
one.
She sounded marginally talented as music welled up from every part of her mind and body to match Wes’s line of notes. While
they were inside the music, she and Wesstrode together, raced side by side, intersected, parted company, and met again.
Then they stopped playing and Wes turned toward her, leaned in, and kissed her. Warm, luscious. Close like music. That was
the good part, the wonderful part, and it made her hungry for more.
The next day she went to the office of her violin teacher, Jackson, to meet Wes for duet practice; she opened the door before
knocking—and yes, that was rude, but not as rude as what she had to see—Wes and Jackson Rice on the floor, kissing, kissing,
kissing. Clothes all around them. A flash of naked shoulder. Of leg. Of butt.
Even though she wanted to shut the door before they could see her, she couldn’t move, so they saw her and were totally cool
and matter-of-fact; they asked her to understand, to keep quiet, and on and on and…
Of course, she said yes, anything, she would do anything, she would keep quiet, but inside she was shaking and horrified and
ashamed of herself for being horrified, this was just sex and sex wasn’t bad, she was from the country, she knew about sex,
and it didn’t matter that they were both men, she didn’t care, but Wes? Wes? What have you done to me, Wes?
Later that day she met with Jackson Rice at his request in that very same office, and he was so kind, saying that he knew
it must have been a shock to see them like that, but how wonderful of Amelia, how mature of Amelia, how lib eral and kind
of Amelia, to realize that if she mentioned this to anyone, he, Jackson, would lose his job and Wes would probably be expelled,
and she didn’t really want that, did she? She was doing so well and showed such promise. He was sure he could write her some
wonderful recommenda tions when the time came to apply to conservatories.
Right outside Jackson Rice’s office, Wes grabbed her by the elbow and steered her into one of the empty practice rooms and
said, Hey, Amelia, don’t be pissed at me, I can’t help it, I think I like guys and I know I love Jackson and you have
much smaller than I imagined, and very tired, very worn. “Of course,” I thought. “Elliot would have married a brainy girl,
the kind who travels with an entire bookshelf in a monogrammed L. L. Bean canvas tote.”
She came toward me.
“Cal,” I said. I stuck out my hand and she took it. Her fingers were cold.
“Helen.” Her smile was a slow curl of hope. She was delivered.
A MELIA
Stolen, Oregon
Saturday, October
5,
1996
For at least an hour, Amelia had been trying to play the violin. She had lifted the familiar amber-hued instrument out of
its velvet bed and tuned the strings until they sounded perfect. She’d swept the bow over its neat block of greenish resin
until a little white spray accompanied each pull across the strings. She’d produced notes, run up and down scales accurately,
but there was not a drop of music left in her. It had fled her fingers, her mind, her body. She ached to have it back. It
felt as if it had gone for good. She wanted to pick up the phone to call Lydia, but she knew her friend was out shooting hoops.
Afternoon light flooded the room.
Sometimes these days Amelia went through the Wes story as a series of points, like a plot outline for Calbert Fleecing’s English
class. It went like this:
Wes Hazzard was Sadie’s older brother.
Wes chose Amelia to be his second violin.
Wes let her borrow his own fabulous violin because he had two of them. The one she played had cost his parents thousands of
dollars. He laughed lightly when Amelia confessed it made her nervous to even touch. But when he encouraged her to play, she
forgot how scared she was, seduced by the sound of her own music. There was a big difference between a good violin and a great
one.
She sounded marginally talented as music welled up from every part of her mind and body to match Wes’s line of notes. While
they were inside the music, she and Wesstrode together, raced side by side, intersected, parted company, and met again.
Then they stopped playing and Wes turned toward her, leaned in, and kissed her. Warm, luscious. Close like music. That was
the good part, the wonderful part, and it made her hungry for more.
The next day she went to the office of her violin teacher, Jackson, to meet Wes for duet practice; she opened the door before
knocking—and yes, that was rude, but not as rude as what she had to see—Wes and Jackson Rice on the floor, kissing, kissing,
kissing. Clothes all around them. A flash of naked shoulder. Of leg. Of butt.
Even though she wanted to shut the door before they could see her, she couldn’t move, so they saw her and were totally cool
and matter-of-fact; they asked her to understand, to keep quiet, and on and on and…
Of course, she said yes, anything, she would do anything, she would keep quiet, but inside she was shaking and horrified and
ashamed of herself for being horrified, this was just sex and sex wasn’t bad, she was from the country, she knew about sex,
and it didn’t matter that they were both men, she didn’t care, but Wes? Wes? What have you done to me, Wes?
Later that day she met with Jackson Rice at his request in that very same office, and he was so kind, saying that he knew
it must have been a shock to see them like that, but how wonderful of Amelia, how mature of Amelia, how lib eral and kind
of Amelia, to realize that if she mentioned this to anyone, he, Jackson, would lose his job and Wes would probably be expelled,
and she didn’t really want that, did she? She was doing so well and showed such promise. He was sure he could write her some
wonderful recommenda tions when the time came to apply to conservatories.
Right outside Jackson Rice’s office, Wes grabbed her by the elbow and steered her into one of the empty practice rooms and
said, Hey, Amelia, don’t be pissed at me, I can’t help it, I think I like guys and I know I love Jackson and you have
Similar Books
