Forgive Me, Leonard Peacock
Page 9

He seemed to grow tall in front of me.
And I understood why he didn’t need friends or to be accepted at our shitty racist high school, because he had his music, and that was so much better than anything we had to offer.
“You’re a genius,” I said when he exited the auditorium.
Baback just blinked the same way he did when he’d been struck between the eyes with the orange hockey ball. “Were you spying on me?”
“How did you learn to play like that?”
“I don’t want any trouble,” he said, and then walked away.
The next day I made sure to be there when the janitor let Baback in.
Baback said, “I need to practice.”
“I just want to listen. I’ll sit in the back and won’t interrupt.”
Baback sighed, took the stage, and began to play.
I sat in the last row, closed my eyes and was transported out of our terrible high school and into a new, better place.
When the music stopped, I opened my eyes and across the tops of so many rows of seats, I yelled, “Did you write that music?”
He blinked again and yelled back, “It’s Paganini. The violin concertos. Bits of the solos that I can’t get right—ever.”
“They were perfect! I love it. This is the greatest secret. Something miraculous happens every day at this high school, and I’m the only student who knows about it.”
“Don’t tell anyone, please!” Baback yelled back. “About my using the auditorium. I’m not supposed to let anyone know. My parents had to beg for permission. If other students ask to use the auditorium, I won’t be allowed to practice in here alone anymore. Please!”
I could tell that he was really worried about this, so I walked down the aisle and when I reached him I said, “Let me listen and I won’t tell a soul. I promise. Nor will I ever interrupt you. I’d never want to alter what happens here. Never. Think of me like a ghost.”
He nodded reluctantly.
And for the rest of the school year, I listened to him play.
It was kind of weird, because we never talked.
He didn’t seem interested in me at all.
I could tell he didn’t really want to be my friend—that he just wanted to be left alone with his music, and I respected that.
I mostly wanted to be left alone too—so we shared a large space and were alone together, if that makes any sense at all.
But on the last day of our sophomore year, I broke protocol, gave Baback a standing ovation, and yelled, “Bravo!” when he finished playing.
He smiled, but didn’t say anything.
“Until we meet again, maestro!” I yelled down over a sea of empty red seats, and then left.
When we began our junior year, Baback was changed.
He returned five inches taller and was ripped with so many bulging muscles. He’d grown out his thick black hair and began keeping it in a ponytail. And he had these fantastic cheekbones that all of the girls noticed. He no longer looked like a kid to pick on or pity.
When I went to the auditorium during lunch period, he broke the silence by saying, “I’ve been thinking about you, Leonard. Why do you come here every day to hear me play?”
“It’s the best thing that happens at this school on a daily basis. I wouldn’t miss it.”
“You should pay to listen,” he said. “I’m providing a service for you. Artists need to be compensated. If you give it away for free, people stop appreciating art. It loses its value.”
“What happened to you?”
“What do you mean?”
“You look different. You talk now. You seem confident.”
He laughed and said, “I spent the summer in Iran studying music. I grew up a little, I guess. Literally and metaphorically. But you’re either paying for the privilege of listening to me play, or you’re going to leave.”
“How much do you want?”
“I don’t know,” he said in a way that suggested he was expecting me to leave. “Maybe pay what you will? But something. I’m not playing for free anymore.”
“Why don’t you leave your violin case open and I’ll put something in it every day I come listen? I’ve seen musicians do that on the streets of Philly.”
“Okay,” he said, and then began to play.
When he was finished, I walked up to the stage and dropped a five-dollar bill into his violin case. He nodded, which I assumed meant he was okay with the amount.
So I gave him my lunch money every day for the rest of the year—except for a few times when either he or I was absent, or when the drama club was in the auditorium creating sets for plays and Baback didn’t practice.
My daily donations added up to more than eight hundred dollars by the end of the year. I know because Baback told me the exact number on the last day of classes junior year, saying, “I sent every penny to True Democracy in Iran, a nonprofit fighting for, well, true democracy in Iran.”
I thought it was a good cause to support, so I nodded.
I saw Baback in the hallway during finals and when I flagged him down, before I could explain what I wanted, he said, “Do you want to hang out sometime, Leonard? Maybe see a movie or something? We don’t really know each other, do we? It’s kind of odd, don’t you think?”
I thought about it and said, “I hope you won’t take this the wrong way, but listening to you play your violin is by far the best part of my day. And I think part of the magic is that I don’t really know you at all, but only as a performing musician. And I worry that if I got to know you as a friend or whatever, your music might not seem as magical. Did that ever happen to you? You think someone is really important and different, but then you get to know them and it ruins everything? Do you know what I’m talking about?”
He laughed and said, “No. Not really.”
“Can I listen to you practice sometime over the summer? I’ll pay you five dollars.”
“Well, I’m not sure that’s a great idea. It would probably weird out my parents if you were just sitting in my practice space staring at me. And I’m going to Iran at the end of the month to visit relatives and continue my musical training with my grandfather. So I won’t be around much,” he said, obviously backpedaling, maybe because he found my explanation weird.
“Okay, then. See you next year,” I said and handed him an envelope I had labeled TRUE DEMOCRACY IN IRAN!
I had talked Linda into donating five hundred bucks as a tax write-off. She needs those for her business and is always eager to buy me off/assuage her guilty absent-mom conscience with money. The check was inside, but I didn’t want him to open it in front of me, so I said, “That’s for later. I look forward to listening next year. Enjoy your time abroad.”
This year when I met him at the auditorium during senior lunch he was even taller and more confident-looking. Baback smiled and said, “I told my grandmother about you and your donation. She made you some tasbih beads. Persian prayer beads. But some people use them as worry beads. Here.”
He handed me this long looped string of reddish-brown wooden beads with a tassel on the end.
“Thanks,” I said, and put the beads around my neck.
He smiled and then said, “You don’t have to pay to listen to my music anymore. You can listen for free. My grandfather says that music is a gift you give to others when you can. I told him about you and the donations. He said I should play for you without charging money. So I will.”
I nodded and took my regular seat at the back of the auditorium.
Baback played his music.
I didn’t think it was possible, but he was better—more magical—than the year before.
I closed my eyes, listened, and disappeared.
FIFTEEN
Baback’s playing is one of the few things around here that actually makes me feel better, and since I’ve already made up my mind to shoot Asher Beal and off myself, I don’t want to risk listening to Baback work his violin. I’m afraid his music might seduce me, trick me into living for another day—like it has so many times before. So when I enter the auditorium, I say, “Baback, I won’t be listening to you play today.”
“What?” he says with a mock-horrified face. He’s wearing dark jeans, checkered Vans, and a Harold & Kumar T-shirt—and I think about how much he’s changed, been Americanized, even if he’s still unlike the other students here. “And just why are you breaking tradition, may I ask?”
Instead of answering his question, I pull out his present from my backpack—an envelope wrapped in pink paper—and I say, “This is for you.” My voice booms and echoes in the huge, empty auditorium.
He looks me in the eye and says, “What is it?”
“I just want you to know that I really, really enjoy listening to you play your violin and that the lunch periods I spend lost in your music—well, let’s just say you have no idea how much your violin music has saved me over the past few years. So many days I wouldn’t make it if I didn’t hear you play. You’re a really gifted musician. I hope you’ll never stop playing. I want to give you something to express my gratitude—to let you know that I value your playing more than you realize. It may just look like I’m sitting in the back of the room sleeping, but it’s so much more than that—your music gives me something to look forward to each day—and it’s like a friend to me. Maybe my best friend here at our high school. I just want to say thank you.”
I can feel my eyes welling up, so I look down at my feet and extend the pink rectangle toward Baback.
He takes the envelope and says, “Why are you telling me this today, Leonard?”
“I just needed to give this to you. It’s a present.”
“Why’s it wrapped in pink?”
“The color isn’t really significant.”
“Am I not getting something here?” he asks.
I sort of hope he’ll figure out it’s my birthday, but I’m not sure why. Still, I get excited thinking that he might guess it.
He peels off the wrapping paper, opens the envelope, reads the check I wrote out to True Democracy in Iran, and says, “Is this some sort of joke?”
“What? No. It’s a check to help aid the freedom fighters in your country.”
“You really expect me to believe this is real?”
“It’s my college fund. I’m not going to college. I didn’t even take the SAT.”
“Why are you messing around like this? Do you even know what it’s like for people living in Iran? This isn’t a joke, Leonard. Some things you can’t joke around about.”
“I know. That check is real. I swear to god. Send it to the cause. You’ll see. I hope the money helps the struggle. It’s my entire college fund. My grandparents left me a ton of cash.”
“What’s wrong with you?”
“I thought you’d be happy.”
He sighs and runs his hands through his hair, which is hanging freely to his shoulders today.
“Listen, I appreciate your sticking up for me when we were sophomores and I appreciate your—support. I get that you’re a little off. That you march to your own drummer or whatever. I’m okay with that. But I’ve never done anything to you—never been mean at all—and yet you walk in here and insult me with this fake six-figure check. My grandparents have endured innumerable—you have no idea how hard it was for my family and… you know what,” he says while putting his violin away, “I don’t think I’m going to play today. And I don’t think I want you listening to me anymore. Your being in the back of the auditorium—just sitting there every day—it’s really starting to creep me out.”