Dark Notes

“So this is what Le Moyne’s top pianists look like?” I pitch my voice with doubt, making it clear they’ll have to prove themselves. “You think you have what it takes to become piano virtuosos, composers, professors…something other than privileged, snot-nosed brats?”

Except Ivory. Her tattered clothes and shoes, her inability to buy textbooks, nothing about her reeks of privilege. How does a girl from a poor neighborhood land a spot here? It’s bizarre. And distracting.

Forcing her out of my mind, I stroll along the rows, hands folded behind my back, and study each of the five students without registering individual features. I don’t give a shit what they look like. I’m searching for straight spines, parted lips, and alert gazes.

Five pairs of eyes lock on me, their bodies angled to follow my movements, breaths hitching, waiting, as I pass each desk. I have their attention.

“We’ll be spending three hours a day together, every day, for the rest of the year. Music Theory, Piano Seminar, Performance Master Class, and for some of you, private lessons… This is what Mommy and Daddy shelled out the big bucks for.” My leisurely walk ends at the front of the room, and I turn to face them. “Don’t waste my time, and I won’t waste your parents’ money. Don’t take me seriously, and I will seriously fuck up your prospective futures. Are we clear?”

I can almost smell the mix of trepidation and startled respect in the silence that follows.

“I’m not going to lecture or put you on a piano bench today.” I glance at the student files on my desk. “I’m going to use the next few hours in one-on-one conferences with each of you. Don’t think of it as an interview. Just a brief meeting to help me become acquainted with your backgrounds and academic goals.”

Unbidden, my thoughts dart to Ivory and all the ways I can’t become acquainted with her. I push a hand through my hair, avoiding the prick of her gaze. I’m itching to talk to her again, to learn how a girl from Treme affords one of the most expensive tuitions in the country.

Maybe I don’t want to know.

But I do know I need a moment to gather some damn self-control. “Mr. Roth, I’ll start with you.”

I’ll save the temptation for last.

I twirl a pencil between my fingers and try not to chew a hole in my lip. Sitting on the floor in the back corner of the L-shaped room, I watch Mr. Marceaux through the maze of chair legs while he conducts private meetings at his desk.

A huge space separates us, the length of two normal classrooms filled with desks and instruments. But when he glances my way, which he does unnervingly often, I can see him. I can also shift ever-so-slightly and obstruct the eye contact.

Sometimes I don’t move, my gaze paralyzed under the force of his. Why? It’s the strangest thing, this preoccupation I have with him. I want to learn more about him—what he eats, the music he listens to, and where he goes when he’s not here. I want to study his calculated movements, watch the path of his fingers along his jaw, stare at the hard angles of his face, and memorize the way his slacks outline the shape of him. He’s enchanting, distracting, and positively terrifying.

Why can’t I just focus on something else? This has nothing to do with my ambitions for college and his role in it. Good lord, I haven’t even thought of that. I just want… What? For him to look at me? I hate his eyes¸ yet I watch them, wait for them to shift my way. That’s so fucked up.

He told us we could use the free block of time to study, but I can’t concentrate. I can’t think about anything except the enigma in the front of the room.

Two of the students, Sebastian and Lester, left after their meetings. Sarah chose to hang out after hers, and Chris is up there now, perched stiffly on the edge of his chair, nodding at whatever Mr. Marceaux is saying.

That leaves me, and the wait for my turn is flaying my insides.

“Psst. Ivory.”

I turn toward Sarah, who mirrors my cross-legged position—our loose skirts stretched over knees for modesty—at the other end of the back wall.

“C’mere,” she whispers.

I shake my head, unwillingly to give up my view.

With a sigh, she sets her textbook down and crawls toward me.

This should be interesting. I think she’s talked to me twice in the last three years. I gave up trying to be friends with her when she said the hamburger I was eating was made of greed, lies, and murder. I don’t have the luxury to choose food that saves farm animals and boycotts political agendas.

Her brown, stick-straight hair is so long it drags along the floor as she edges toward me on hands and knees. She has an old-school hippie look about her, with ropes of multi-colored beads dangling from her neck, a long flowing dress that she hitches up her thighs, and a mischievous twinkle in her eyes. I’m pretty sure she’s not wearing a bra, but she has the kind of svelte build that doesn’t require one.