the sofa. She roused herself and touched Carmen on the elbow as Carmen stomped to the door. “It’s okay,” Lena said gently.
“
Nena,
it was a
mad
house,” Christina erupted as soon as Carmen opened the car door. “I am so sorry.”
Christina’s face was too happy and excited to look as if she were so sorry or really cared very much at all.
“Carmen, I feel bad. I apologize,” David said earnestly.
Then why are you smiling like that?
Carmen felt like asking.
She slammed the car door and sat in silence.
Christina and David whispered things to each other as they pulled up in front of the apartment building. Carmen made no effort to hear what they were saying. She leaped out of the car so she didn’t have to watch the good-night kiss.
Carmen didn’t try to hold the elevator doors, so her mother had to run to make it. In the close confines of the elevator car, Carmen perceived with disgust that her mom’s breath smelled of beer.
“Sweetheart, really,” Christina said. “I know we were late, but if you had seen the traffic . . . The game was sold out, and . . . well, you’ve never minded having extra time at Lena’s house. . . .”
Her eyes had a bright and tipsy look. She badly wanted Carmen to let this one go and leave her in her happy world.
Carmen walked ahead of her mother down the hall and used her keys to open the door. She wasn’t going to let it go.
“I hate you,” she told her mother, filled with shame and desperation as she stomped off to bed.
That night, Tibby stayed in with Brian. She could have sneaked him into the cafeteria, but she rejected the idea. Instead, they ordered a pizza and had it delivered to the room.
Afterward they both lay on the floor with paper and pens and pencils. Brian had the radio tuned to a classical station.
“What’s that?” he asked, looking at the path of squares she was making over two large sheets of paper.
“It’s kind of a . . . a storyboard, I guess.”
He nodded, interested.
He too was hard at work. He was drawing a comic, Tibby guessed. His people had large heads and eyes. They weren’t very good. They reminded her of those cheesy shiny-eyed sad-children paintings. He bit the inside of his cheek when he concentrated. He moved his lips around when he shaded with his pencil.
Tibby was considering her frames when she noticed the music. It was some sort of symphony, maybe. She realized that Brian was whistling. The crazy thing was, he was whistling along with the music. Hundreds of notes, and he seemed to hit all of them.
She stopped and looked at him. He didn’t notice her. He was shading and whistling.
The music was beautiful, whatever it was. How did Brian know it so well? How did he know it note for note? Tibby lifted her hands from her papers. She rested her chin in her hand. Had he always been such an in-tune whistler?
She didn’t want to say anything. She was worried that if she did, he might stop, and she didn’t want him to.
She laid her head on the floor. She closed her eyes. A chill fluttered up her scalp. She felt like crying, and she had no idea why. Her papers wrinkled under her cheek.
Shading and whistling. The violins screeched and soared. The cellos sucked at the bottom of her stomach. The piano pounded away, unaccompanied by anything but whistling for a while.
Then it was over. Tibby was unaccountably sad. It felt like she had lived in the world of the music, warm and jubilant, and now she’d been cast out of it. It was cold out here.
She gazed at Brian. He was quietly drawing. He still hadn’t looked up. “What was that?” she asked finally.
“What?”
“That music?”
“Uh . . . Beethoven, I think.”
“Do you know what the thing is called?”
“It’s a piano concerto. The fifth one, maybe.”
“How many are there?”
Brian looked up at her, a little surprised by her intensity. “Piano concertos? That Beethoven wrote? Uh, I’m not sure. Maybe just five.”
“How do you know it?”
He
“
Nena,
it was a
mad
house,” Christina erupted as soon as Carmen opened the car door. “I am so sorry.”
Christina’s face was too happy and excited to look as if she were so sorry or really cared very much at all.
“Carmen, I feel bad. I apologize,” David said earnestly.
Then why are you smiling like that?
Carmen felt like asking.
She slammed the car door and sat in silence.
Christina and David whispered things to each other as they pulled up in front of the apartment building. Carmen made no effort to hear what they were saying. She leaped out of the car so she didn’t have to watch the good-night kiss.
Carmen didn’t try to hold the elevator doors, so her mother had to run to make it. In the close confines of the elevator car, Carmen perceived with disgust that her mom’s breath smelled of beer.
“Sweetheart, really,” Christina said. “I know we were late, but if you had seen the traffic . . . The game was sold out, and . . . well, you’ve never minded having extra time at Lena’s house. . . .”
Her eyes had a bright and tipsy look. She badly wanted Carmen to let this one go and leave her in her happy world.
Carmen walked ahead of her mother down the hall and used her keys to open the door. She wasn’t going to let it go.
“I hate you,” she told her mother, filled with shame and desperation as she stomped off to bed.
That night, Tibby stayed in with Brian. She could have sneaked him into the cafeteria, but she rejected the idea. Instead, they ordered a pizza and had it delivered to the room.
Afterward they both lay on the floor with paper and pens and pencils. Brian had the radio tuned to a classical station.
“What’s that?” he asked, looking at the path of squares she was making over two large sheets of paper.
“It’s kind of a . . . a storyboard, I guess.”
He nodded, interested.
He too was hard at work. He was drawing a comic, Tibby guessed. His people had large heads and eyes. They weren’t very good. They reminded her of those cheesy shiny-eyed sad-children paintings. He bit the inside of his cheek when he concentrated. He moved his lips around when he shaded with his pencil.
Tibby was considering her frames when she noticed the music. It was some sort of symphony, maybe. She realized that Brian was whistling. The crazy thing was, he was whistling along with the music. Hundreds of notes, and he seemed to hit all of them.
She stopped and looked at him. He didn’t notice her. He was shading and whistling.
The music was beautiful, whatever it was. How did Brian know it so well? How did he know it note for note? Tibby lifted her hands from her papers. She rested her chin in her hand. Had he always been such an in-tune whistler?
She didn’t want to say anything. She was worried that if she did, he might stop, and she didn’t want him to.
She laid her head on the floor. She closed her eyes. A chill fluttered up her scalp. She felt like crying, and she had no idea why. Her papers wrinkled under her cheek.
Shading and whistling. The violins screeched and soared. The cellos sucked at the bottom of her stomach. The piano pounded away, unaccompanied by anything but whistling for a while.
Then it was over. Tibby was unaccountably sad. It felt like she had lived in the world of the music, warm and jubilant, and now she’d been cast out of it. It was cold out here.
She gazed at Brian. He was quietly drawing. He still hadn’t looked up. “What was that?” she asked finally.
“What?”
“That music?”
“Uh . . . Beethoven, I think.”
“Do you know what the thing is called?”
“It’s a piano concerto. The fifth one, maybe.”
“How many are there?”
Brian looked up at her, a little surprised by her intensity. “Piano concertos? That Beethoven wrote? Uh, I’m not sure. Maybe just five.”
“How do you know it?”
He
Similar Books
