for Violin and Piano no. 35. I close my eyes and practice my part. The first movement I know well. The second I know expertly. The third I know, but it can be better. I make mental Post-its to review with my music teacher. When I’m done, I feel centered, relaxed, connected. I feel as if I could play all night and not grow tired. So I go back to my standby, to “Ode to Joy.”
As my middle finger presses down on E, I hear it playing
that night
and I’m back in time.
“Mmm…,” a voice whispers near my ear. Or in my mouth. I’m not really sure. It’s probably in my mouth, Ireason. Because his tongue is there too. His tongue is pressed into my mouth, touching my tongue. I’ve never liked deep kissing. I like lip kissing, sweet kisses, soft lips like Daniel’s, not tongues with minds of their own. “Let’s go back to my room,” he says.
Something sounds very reasonable about that idea. It sounds like a plan, a well thought-out plan. He stands up and reaches for my hand. I stumble a bit when I stand, so he holds my hand tighter, then leads me out of the room, down the hall, and to the back stairs.
“It’s late, so we have to be careful,” he says.
“Right. Careful,” I agree, holding tight to the railing as I walk down the stairs.
Then we’re outside behind Richardson Hall. At least I think it’s Richardson Hall. Anyway, it’s dark, and it’s night, and the air is clear, and for a second my head is clear. I breathe deeply, breathing in the clear air. And when I do, I know I don’t want to go to his room. I don’t want to go at all. I want to go to my bed and crash forever.
“Um, I’m going to go back to my room,” I manage. The words are sticky in my throat. It doesn’t seem like he hears them.
“Carter, I want to go back,” I say louder.
But he still doesn’t respond. Instead, he holds my hand tighter, gripping it hard, and my knuckles feel like putty under his big hands. I feel like a dog on a leash, pulling her head back, resisting, but the owner pulls forward, insisting.
The dog doesn’t win. The dog never wins. The owner drags him along. I wish I could bark. Or bite.
“You’ll like my room,” he says, ignoring my request. “I have ‘Ode to Joy.’ ”
I play faster, harder, like “Ode to Joy” is a phone I want to throw against the wall. I play it like my mom just told me I’m grounded for a month and I’m so mad at her I take the phone and throw it against the wall in my bedroom. And the battery pops out and the phone goes dead. And my mom says she’ll take it out of my allowance, the money for a new phone, because this one can’t be fixed. But I don’t care because it felt good to throw it, felt good to break it.
It feels so good to play hard and calloused and fierce because now I’m angry, angry at things that happened while I was sleeping. And I’m angry at Beethoven. Because now my music is infected. Because my last great escape is tainted. It’s one thing for a memory to rear its head when T.S. just happens to mention Beethoven’s name, like she did on the way to the Captains’ Room. But it’s another thing entirely for Carter to invade my piano, my music, my home.
I slam the cover over the keys; the notes sound a faint cry as they’re tucked in violently for the night. But that’s not enough for me right now. It’s not enough at all. Nothing is mine anymore. I have nothing separate from
that night
.
I lift the lid again, clench my jaw, and dare the first note—E—to fuck with me. I press it hard with my index finger.
Take that.
But the memories stay silent.
Afraid, are you, piano? Think I can’t handle it? Let’s do it again, then.
I jam harder on the E, pressing with a fury that borders on a hurricane.
Still nothing but the note.
Bring it on. Show me more. Show me all of that night.
I slam my hand on the piano, then I make a fist and smash it into the keys. I do it again and again and again. I can own this piano. I can teach this piano not
As my middle finger presses down on E, I hear it playing
that night
and I’m back in time.
“Mmm…,” a voice whispers near my ear. Or in my mouth. I’m not really sure. It’s probably in my mouth, Ireason. Because his tongue is there too. His tongue is pressed into my mouth, touching my tongue. I’ve never liked deep kissing. I like lip kissing, sweet kisses, soft lips like Daniel’s, not tongues with minds of their own. “Let’s go back to my room,” he says.
Something sounds very reasonable about that idea. It sounds like a plan, a well thought-out plan. He stands up and reaches for my hand. I stumble a bit when I stand, so he holds my hand tighter, then leads me out of the room, down the hall, and to the back stairs.
“It’s late, so we have to be careful,” he says.
“Right. Careful,” I agree, holding tight to the railing as I walk down the stairs.
Then we’re outside behind Richardson Hall. At least I think it’s Richardson Hall. Anyway, it’s dark, and it’s night, and the air is clear, and for a second my head is clear. I breathe deeply, breathing in the clear air. And when I do, I know I don’t want to go to his room. I don’t want to go at all. I want to go to my bed and crash forever.
“Um, I’m going to go back to my room,” I manage. The words are sticky in my throat. It doesn’t seem like he hears them.
“Carter, I want to go back,” I say louder.
But he still doesn’t respond. Instead, he holds my hand tighter, gripping it hard, and my knuckles feel like putty under his big hands. I feel like a dog on a leash, pulling her head back, resisting, but the owner pulls forward, insisting.
The dog doesn’t win. The dog never wins. The owner drags him along. I wish I could bark. Or bite.
“You’ll like my room,” he says, ignoring my request. “I have ‘Ode to Joy.’ ”
I play faster, harder, like “Ode to Joy” is a phone I want to throw against the wall. I play it like my mom just told me I’m grounded for a month and I’m so mad at her I take the phone and throw it against the wall in my bedroom. And the battery pops out and the phone goes dead. And my mom says she’ll take it out of my allowance, the money for a new phone, because this one can’t be fixed. But I don’t care because it felt good to throw it, felt good to break it.
It feels so good to play hard and calloused and fierce because now I’m angry, angry at things that happened while I was sleeping. And I’m angry at Beethoven. Because now my music is infected. Because my last great escape is tainted. It’s one thing for a memory to rear its head when T.S. just happens to mention Beethoven’s name, like she did on the way to the Captains’ Room. But it’s another thing entirely for Carter to invade my piano, my music, my home.
I slam the cover over the keys; the notes sound a faint cry as they’re tucked in violently for the night. But that’s not enough for me right now. It’s not enough at all. Nothing is mine anymore. I have nothing separate from
that night
.
I lift the lid again, clench my jaw, and dare the first note—E—to fuck with me. I press it hard with my index finger.
Take that.
But the memories stay silent.
Afraid, are you, piano? Think I can’t handle it? Let’s do it again, then.
I jam harder on the E, pressing with a fury that borders on a hurricane.
Still nothing but the note.
Bring it on. Show me more. Show me all of that night.
I slam my hand on the piano, then I make a fist and smash it into the keys. I do it again and again and again. I can own this piano. I can teach this piano not
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