You'll Miss Me When I'm Gone

“Ze lo fair,” I say quietly.

“I know it’s not fair.”

“And I’m still angry. Sometimes . . . I think I’m angry at you.” I allow myself to look at her after I say this. Her deep dark eyes are stormy with guilt.

“It’s okay to be angry. I am too,” she says. Soft. Gentle. “I feel responsible. If only I had gotten tested. If only I had k

nown earlier . . . But I didn’t. Adina’le, I’m so sorry this is happening . . . but we’re all here for you. You know that.”

My head is heavy as I nod. I wish I had an ounce of my mother’s strength, wish she had passed that along to me too. The two should go together, this disease and that strength.

“Aba and I have been trying to figure out how to talk to you about this, but we know you’ve been skipping classes.”

“Oh.”

“The school has called several times, and we’ve told them we would talk to you about it.” She sighs. “You can’t keep skipping classes. You have to graduate. You have to go to conservatory.”

“Am I not going to graduate?” I ask, suddenly worried.

“Your principal said that if you maintain perfect attendance through the rest of the year and make up the work you’ve missed, they will allow you to graduate. We explained . . . your situation.”

I squeeze my eyes shut. I wonder how many times this will be used as an excuse. I vow not to let it happen again. “Okay. I’ll make everything up, and I’ll stop skipping. I promise.”

“And then you won’t have to deal with Hemingway ever again.” She smiles. “If you’re not busy right now, will you play for me? I haven’t heard you in so long.”

“I play all the time,” I say, though in the past couple weeks, I have not played very much. When I left Arjun’s, it was clear I was no longer his student in addition to whatever else I’d been to him, and I have no desire to begin with a new teacher I’d work with for only a few months. I told my parents I quit private lessons because I want spending money once I’m at Peabody.

“But it’s in your room. With the door closed. Like the music is private.” She touches my arm. “I love hearing you play. I always have.”

“Okay.” So I set up my music stand in the living room and pick a piece she loves.

I hold my breath as I unpack my viola, patting its scar. I’m still unsure if I’ll fix it. There is no way to fix me, so perhaps I should let my dearest possession remain unfixed too.

I let myself collide with the music, unable to stop thinking about my mother, my future. Aba gets home from work and sits beside my mother on the couch, sliding an arm around her shoulders as they listen together. This tragedy has done so many things, but it hasn’t affected their love for each other.

I play, and play, and play.

This is still who I am.

This is who I will always be, even when I lose it.

Thirty-six

Tovah

ONCE AGAIN, BEING A GOOD kid pays off. I persuade the art teacher to let me into the classroom early Monday morning, so I’m there waiting to startle Zack when he flips on the lights.

“Shit, you scared me,” he says when he spots me at his table.

“Sorry. We should probably talk.”

He drops his bag on the table and leans against it. “We should.” When I don’t immediately initiate the aforementioned talking, he says, “Feels almost ridiculous to ask this, but how are you doing?”

Lately we’ve seen each other only at school. I’ve invented excuses for not seeing him on weekends, but I’ve missed his floppy hair and paint-stained jackets and the space between his teeth. I’ve missed the way he looks at me like he can’t be disappointed with me.

“I’ve been better, to be honest.” I think of Adina and say the only thing I can manage. “Things are difficult at home right now.”

“I won’t pretend to understand what that’s like, but I wish I could have been there for you.”