Blue Notes Page 5

  I don’t dare turn my eyes to the glare of the spotlight. Instead I do as I always do. I whisper a breathless apology to the poor, abused upright. It held up under the pressure of my performance, but I may not. I wait to breathe, wait to hear anything after the lingering D minor and the drop dead quiet that followed.

  I finally raise my head and turn. The spotlight is overwhelming. White. Glaring. I fight my reflexive squint. There’s no way to grab a smidge of reaction, not by sight.

  But then . . .

  The applause is a hurricane loud enough to overwhelm my own. It hits me like a concussive wave, an earthquake, a tsunami—all those forces of nature. That applause is a match for my energy, with that energy pumped up two- and three- and fourfold. I finally have permission to breathe, but I can’t. I inhale like sucking in salt water. I’m drowning in the unexpected. I’m sinking between the slats of the wooden floorboards and off on a long journey to the gulf.

  Is that scary or thrilling?

  Both.

  Until right then, I hadn’t thought about the plaster cast I’ve wrapped around myself since Mom’s murder. I haven’t just kept myself small—a girl hiding behind a recliner under a makeshift blanket fort. No, I’ve kept myself wound tight as a spring. Each nightmarish memory twisted the spring tighter, and tighter still. It’s ready to snap.

  What will I be if it does?

  I rise to my feet. I offer a quivery bow, but there’s a surprising part of me that isn’t shaking at all. Down deep, it’s like someone pulled that scared girl out from her fort, hauled her into an open field, handed her a pair of cymbals, and gave her permission to be loud.

  The cheers keep coming. So does rush after rush of a single word.

  Success.

  I begin to walk toward the steps leading offstage when my treacherous, really should be replaced knees prove that I’m dissolving. Or snapping. Or being the bravest I’ve ever been. I must be a little bit brave, at least, because I’m not completely numb. I want to find a piece of paper and scribble notes—at the very least, the motif that sparked this whirlwind.

  But my mind and my body have parted ways. I sort of . . . sag. The lights are bright and the handrail is hard to see.

  He’s there to make sure I don’t fall.

  What does it mean that I was hoping he would be? Jude tucks an arm under one of mine and supports my lower back. My mental protest says I don’t want him to touch me, now that I’m all sweaty goo and raw, exposed nerves. My body fights back, insisting he’s just what I need—strong and steady. I grip one wrist, which is surprisingly solid but soft to the touch because of a dusting of hair. He’s wearing a wristwatch. In the age of smartphones, I can’t remember the last time I saw a guy wearing a watch.

  Won’t falter. Won’t let me go.

  Only, he does. He really does. What had I been thinking? That he’d sweep me into his arms and kiss me in front of the whole club? In front of Adelaide? Get off it, overactive imagination. He finds a quiet corner that doesn’t stay quiet for long as a jazzy trumpet quartet takes my place in front of the charged-up audience. I slouch against the cool wall. He’s gone before I can protest.

  Is that it? He did his good deed by bringing me into the spotlight. Now he’s calling it a day?

  It had been a good deed. As my breath returns, I’m still lightheaded. Exhilarated. I did that . . . that . . . thing. It felt amazing. Even the blue notes—those half steps between the half steps—rang true. Not sharps or flats, they exist like the vacuum of space, challenging musicians to push boundaries. Like I just did. And for the first time in a very long time, I didn’t need anyone’s approval. Not my music tutors’ or professors’. Not my foster parents’. Not even the deafening din offered up by the clubgoers.

  I take that back as Jude returns with two bottles of water.

  I want his approval.

  I’m sick. Deranged. Seriously desperate.

  He doesn’t say anything when he cracks the seal of one bottle and puts it into my hand. He even curls my fingers around the frigid plastic. I don’t want to look down at my tank top. I don’t want to see what damage my performance has done to my clothes. I’m still shaking, so I chalk it up to cold. Or shock. I briefly hand the bottle back, slip on my linen shirt, then take a long, unladylike swig.

  When I finish, I undo my rubber band and go about trying to put my hair back into a ponytail, if not the neat bun I’d started with.

  “Give me a minute.” He runs his fingers through my hair. He even unsnarls a few of the inevitable tangles.

  “A minute to . . . ?”

  “Take it in.”

  “What, my hair?”

  “Yes,” he says soberly, softly. “And . . . all of you. I bet you don’t have any idea how intense you look right now.”

  For a moment I don’t move. I can’t move. There’s no defending against something so earnest, especially from a man who’s teased and tested me all night; it doesn’t fit with the pigeonhole I made for him just to keep sane. That pigeonhole is labeled “Player,” which may or may not be an upgrade from “Arrogant Asshole.”

  “Quit.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t need that fake stuff.”

  “Compliments? Attention?”

  “All of that.”

  “I’ve never met a person who didn’t secretly crave a little of both.” He coils one long strand around his forefinger and gives it a little tug. His mouth is right beside my ear when he speaks again. “And life’s too short to give attention to people who don’t deserve it.”

  I snatch my hair free. Something snaps inside me. I’ve just come off a huge triumph, but it was goaded to life by this man and now it’s being ruined by this man—mostly because he’s saying all the right things . . . to the wrong girl.

  “You walk around with so much . . . so much confidence. I bet everybody here wants you. I don’t know why you’re playing around with me, but I wish you’d stop.”

  “I’m not playing around. I’m talking. I happen to like talking to extraordinary women.”

  “Then go talk to Adelaide.”

  “I plan to,” he says with a grin that makes me eager to eat out his heart. “But I have a confession.”

  Here it comes. He’ll admit he’s with Adelaide and the whole night has been a practical joke that’ll splinter me into shards.

  “Then confess.”

  “I wanted to see you play—what I missed earlier today, when all I could do was listen. But I also wanted to see you come down.”

  “Down?”

  “Down from the sky.”

  The sky. Yeah, I was that high up. Saying so might have affirmed his near whimsical choice of words. I can’t give that much away. I can’t be that open. Not so soon. Not even when I suddenly imagine kissing his nape, right where his messy but not messy hair would meet the hot skin of his neck.

  “Composing is like climbing until I can’t see the ground anymore,” I say, almost to myself, betrayed by my thoughts. My heart is beating so hard that it hurts. I want him to go. To stay. To kiss Adelaide right in front of me, to put me out of my misery.

  Or to kiss me, which would be misery and ecstasy combined.

  “Wait. Composing?” Apparently his features don’t scrunch together when he’s confused. They go placid and calm, with smooth lips and eyes shining like sapphires lit from within. “You threw that out to us on the fly?”

  “Yeah.”

  He makes a noncommittal noise and doesn’t take his eyes off me until I’m fidgety. I feel like a child who’s been promoted to the grown-up table too early.

  I want to scream: What did you think?

  I don’t scream, and he doesn’t volunteer his opinion. He only urges me to take another drink.

  “Adelaide knows when she’s giving a good performance,” he says, almost contemplative. I shake away a rush
of envy at how much soft affection he gives her name. “You can see it on her smirking face when she finishes. She practically mocks the crowd for adoring her. It’s a blessing or a failing. I haven’t decided, and I’ve had years to try.”

  “You smirk too. I don’t like it.”

  “Then maybe I’ll make an effort not to. If . . .”

  “What now? If I get onstage again?”

  “No, if you leave your hair down for the rest of the night.” He crosses his arms, cupping both elbows. I almost prefer his teasing to this deep assessment. “You’re a lot to take in all at once, Keeley.”

  “Me? Go find a woman who can keep a rational thought in her head around you.”

  He only smiles. “I’d rather have another hour with you instead.”

  I pull my hair back and snap the rubber band into place. My ponytail is all that stands between me and the pull of his magnetic orbit.

  “Then you shouldn’t have started with me in the first place.” I retrieve my water bottle. “I’m not someone you can learn in an hour. I’m surprised you think any woman is.”

  Seven

  Have you ever had a crush on someone you’ve never talked to, but then you see that person in a crowd, and although he barely knows you exist, he smiles anyway? Maybe he’s just being polite. Simple recognition. A shared humanity. I did that once with a cute librarian intern at the community college in Baton Rouge. He was tall and a bit hippie, but he had an incredibly inviting personality. I got the impression he was never unhappy. Probably untrue. Still, some people give off that vibe.

  I saw him last summer at a little farmer’s market. Just a glimpse. He smiled. I smiled back. I don’t think he saw it when morning veggie shoppers swallowed him up.

  I spent the next two hours shopping and talking to Clair, and I scarfed a heavenly cinnamon roll. My eyes, however . . . I kept a lookout for the librarian. Someday, I thought, I’ll learn his name.

  I never did. And I didn’t see him again, at the market or the library.

  Now . . . This is worse. I know a man named Jude. I know the strong power of his grip. I know that I wouldn’t have performed at Yamatam’s without his goading.

  And now I’ll never be the same.

  It’s an unnerving experience to know something so completely, but it’s true. I performed for more than a hundred strangers in an unfamiliar club. I opened up a vein and let my lifeblood pour out. And they rewarded me with so much applause and appreciation that I almost felt like doing it again would be worth it.

  Only, how much lifeblood do I have to give?

  Forget glimpses. Forget fleeting thoughts of seeing Jude again. He was right all along. I’ve walked away from him, now standing at the bar, but I watch him until my eyes burn. He’s flitting through the club, making the rounds. He seems to know everyone. I don’t put it past him. He’s charming and obviously knows how to make an impression.

  I still can’t believe he got me onstage. Was that really me? I like knowing where my impulses and emotions come from, but right now, my impulses are absorbing energy from Jude, from watching him, and my emotions come from feeling unbelievably stupid. I’m clueless as hell when it comes to guys. I have no idea how to dodge and weave when in their sights, which hasn’t been often.

  So I have no idea what to do with this universe-shattering flirt. That nameless librarian had set off a few pleasant imaginings. Jude, by comparison, is an entire symphony that hasn’t been written. He’s a frustrating masterpiece. Is that why I’m waiting around, as if he might come back to me? Please don’t let that be the truth.

  “Are you Keeley?”

  I turn to see Adelaide Deschamps standing beside me.

  “That’s me. And you’re Adelaide?”

  “Yup.” She’s holding something frothy and pink. At the moment, I don’t care so much about her connection to Jude. I’m just grateful to remember why I came to Yamatam’s in the first place. It wasn’t to hope Jude’s spotlight would shine on me again. “So, what was all that up there?”

  “What do you mean?” She’s a good four inches shorter than me, but I’m immediately on the defensive—my exhausting default reaction to strangers.

  I remind myself she’s only eighteen. She could’ve been raised in a sad old trailer park, but that’s really unlikely considering that, along with her bohemian clothes, she’s wearing a diamond solitaire pendant. With her Blonde Ambition hair and effortless cool, she’s unfairly chic. Her eyes are perfectly hazel. She looks priceless. No wonder Jude hasn’t been able to keep his eyes off her—between bouts of turning my life inside out in a matter of hours.

  “You think it sucked?” I add, when she doesn’t reply right away.

  The club didn’t think so, but Adelaide’s opinion will go a long way to defining our mentoring situation.

  She twists her hair in an effortless curly messy but not messy style. Bright eyes narrow. She lifts onto her toes and pokes her face within inches of mine. I’m reminded briefly of how close Jude and I sat together, but this is entirely different. Adelaide wears her smirk with an edge of canny humor. She’s not that different from the flawless, curtsying megawatt beam of light she’d been onstage. Despite her more petite stature, she stands with the poise of a goddess. She has bearing.

  “It was great and I think you know it,” she says with that syrup-sweet drawl. Between her and Jude, I’m being given a crash course in the sound of N’awlins suave. “You saw mine, yeah?”

  “Yeah.”

  “And?”

  For seeming so composed, her confidence isn’t as bulletproof as I would’ve guessed.

  She probably expects dormouse, after how I slunk away from the stage rather than gather unexpected applause with both arms stretched wide. It’s unexpected and reassuring to think she might harbor doubts too.

  “You had everyone in your palm until you decided to let them go.”

  “But my playing? It’s . . . I have flaws.”

  “You want the truth?”

  “You’re gonna be my mentor, right?”

  I nod. But what right do I have to give criticism, when I know how much emotion people put into their art? It seems this girl Adelaide actually wants honest feedback. She’s stronger in that regard than me.

  “Okay, you’re right,” I say. “You perform better than you play.”

  She shakes her head. “I know that’s how it is, so don’t worry about hurting my feelings or anything. I know that,” she says again, then takes a sip of her frothy drink.

  I want to ask her all sorts of questions. When did you start? Where did you study? Who’s your favorite composer? That’s the sort of thing a mentor would save for later, over nachos in the student union, maybe. Am I supposed to take the lead on arranging things like that? Crap.

  “I wish I could play like you,” she adds, setting down the empty glass. “You just know the piano, don’t you? Up and down and sideways. God, if I practiced more I could be like that, but I guess I get distracted. Too many other things to do. Bartender?”

  She signals for another drink to match the other, and the guy hops over to her like he’s been summoned by a queen. I don’t know how to deal with her. I hate being so unsettled, even though it was freeing to break that plaster mold.

  Down from the sky, he’d said.

  Because for a few unforgettable moments, I’d been flying.

  “You were incredible,” I say, sorta lamely.

  Adelaide shakes her head. “Jude says that a lot. It’s hard to believe sometimes, though. You know?”

  She waves across the rectangular bar at the center of Yamatam’s and catches the eye of my now familiar stranger. He joins us in a minute. Already, mere hours into the most bizarre night of my college life—because, really, I’d made it through way worse—I recognize Jude’s shining hair and easy, lanky yet intent way of moving. A lithe wildcat. In gentleman�
�s clothing. Seeing him isn’t necessary, not really, when I feel him moving closer, then closer still. He’s a force at my back, like the clouds parting and the sun rising, hot and unrelenting.

  I shiver and work to find some calm. It’s down in the soles of my shoes. I have to dredge it up and hold on tight.

  He hugs Adelaide with an arm around her lower back, then kisses her temple. “Enthralling as always, Addie.”

  I knew it. It stabs needles under my skin, but I knew it.

  Adelaide smiles, but she looks at me with an expression that says, Toldja.

  Self-preservation isn’t about putting up shields to protect one’s possessions. It’s about having few possessions in the first place. Let the marauders take what they want; they won’t find much. Emotions are like that too. So I work on that dissociative thing the court shrinks talked about when I was a teen. Forget about pigeonholing Jude as a player. I lock him in a box and bury it deep.

  “So here I find one little cozy duo,” he says, eyeing me while leaning his shoulder against hers. “You can teach Addie some discipline, and she can teach you how to get onstage without needing a crowbar.”

  “Is that it?” Adelaide asks. “You get stage fright? No way.”

  I shrug.

  “Oh, good! I mean, not good, but good that I can do something for you in return. I’ve never had a problem with the performance part.”

  Jude rolls his eyes toward the bright lights that line the top rails of the bar. “That’s putting it lightly.”

  “You know.” She pushes away from Jude and starts talking a mile a minute. Her hands move as if she’s still playing piano. “Franz Liszt used to perform so wildly and with such gusto that he was banned in some cities. He was considered obscene. Women threw underwear at him. Probably big Victorian bloomers. He’d work himself so hard that he only stopped when dehydration got the better of him. That’s what we call making an impact.” She smiles. “After seeing you tonight, how many people are really going to remember me?”

  “Enough so that you leave your lessons aside,” Jude says. “The lights are your flame, and you are a moth.”