If You Only Knew
Page 52
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“Now, Leo,” Hungry Mom says, “it’s not really fair of you to tell Renley that she’s not as good as—”
“But she’s not,” Leo says. “Renley, you will never, ever be as good as Evander. I could lie to you and say you have talent and you just need to keep at it, but the truth is, you don’t. Evander, on the other hand, can already play Bach and Chopin and Debussy, and you’re still hacking your way through ‘Ragtime Raggler’ after three months. So show some respect, or find another teacher.”
Well, if there was any doubt I was half in love with Leo, it’s gone now. Evander’s eyes are wide.
Renley looks at Evander. “I’m sorry.” She sounds as if she means it.
“You can’t talk to my daughter like that!” Hungry Mom yelps.
“I just did,” Leo says.
“We’re done here,” she says frostily. “Renley, let’s go!”
“Yay! Thank you, Mr. Killian! No offense, but I only took piano because my mom said I had to. Bye, Evander!”
Evander looks confused.
They leave, the mother hissing, Renley skipping. “There goes dinner,” Leo says. “Well. Want to play some more, kid? Miss Jenny and I have a dog ramp to build.”
“Can I help?” the boy asks.
“Sure,” I say. “You can make sure Leo doesn’t cut off any important parts.”
Leo has left the supplies where they are. The pieces of wood are equal and make sense: four two-by-fours for the frame, a piece of plywood and four strips of lighter wood so Loki won’t slide. A gangplank.
“Who cut these for you?” I ask.
“The woman at the hardware store,” Leo says.
“I could tell it wasn’t you.” He smiles. “Evander, hold on to this, honey,” I say, handing him a strip of wood and picking up the hammer. “I’m going to nail this one in, and then you can have a turn.”
The boy is just beautiful, ridiculously curly lashes, the green eyes of Derek Jeter. He’ll be a heartbreaker someday. All that and a prodigy, too.
“How come you know how to do this and Mr. Killian doesn’t?” he asks.
“Some of us are geniuses in other ways, Evander,” Leo says, sitting in his lounge chair and stretching out his long legs. “Cut me some slack.” Loki collapses beside him. I check to make sure his furry chest is still moving.
“My job is all about putting things together,” I tell Evander. “I’m a dress designer. Wedding dresses, mostly.”
Evander flicks a look at me. He’s still very shy, even though I’ve seen him four or five times now. I hammer in the nail, then hold the hammer out. “Your turn.”
He takes the hammer carefully and gives the nail a tentative tap, then another. “Doing great,” I confirm. Tap tap tap. He seems unwilling to give the nail a good smack. Fifty or so taps later, the nail is in. “Good job.”
“Thank you,” he says, a little smile lifting his lips.
“Can I ask you a question?”
“No, I’m sorry, I won’t marry you,” Leo says. “And Evander’s a little young yet, right, pal?”
This gets a full-fledged smile from the boy. I give Leo a tolerant look, then hammer in another nail. “What does it feel like to be able to play the way you do?”
Evander doesn’t say anything for a minute, just looks at the ground. Then he lifts his eyes to me. “I can feel the music inside me,” he says in such a soft voice I can hardly hear him. “It gets bigger and bigger, and then it comes into my chest and down my arms and it gets out through my fingers.”
I glance at Leo, who’s listening closely.
“Does it hurt?” I ask.
Evander laughs. “No. It’s my friend. My best friend.”
“Do you play a lot?”
“Not really,” he says. “Maybe five or six hours a day. I wish I didn’t have to go to school, because the music quiets down then.”
There were days for me like that, when I was learning design, days when I opted to stay up till four in the morning rather than stop sewing, when my back would audibly creak when I stood up.
Lately, not so much. Maybe it’s just that I’ve been at it awhile and the thrill isn’t new anymore.
I take the hammer again and show Evander the next step.
A half hour later, Evander’s mom pulls up in a battered Honda, a dent in the front fender, a few rust spots near the wheels. “Hey, there, baby,” she says, and Evander’s face lights up. He runs inside to get his stuff, and Leo unfolds from the chair—the man is tall—and goes to speak to her. I don’t hear what they say, but Mrs. James smiles and when Evander flies past me with a “Bye, Miss Jenny,” I can’t help the familiar ache of love and envy and longing.
Yes, I want a child. A little boy like Evander, shy and a little strange and solitary and lovely. A girl like serious, smart Grace, or ebullient Rose, or gentle Charlotte. Even a girl like Renley. I could whip her into shape in a matter of days, I think. Teach her manners and kindness. I’d be a loving, firm, fun mom. I’d teach my kids that of course they’re special, but no more special than any other child. My kids would go to bed early. They’d eat vegetables. We’d cuddle and read together, right in the second bedroom where the light comes in each morning like a blessing and my husband would bring me a cup of coffee, and he’d—
“But she’s not,” Leo says. “Renley, you will never, ever be as good as Evander. I could lie to you and say you have talent and you just need to keep at it, but the truth is, you don’t. Evander, on the other hand, can already play Bach and Chopin and Debussy, and you’re still hacking your way through ‘Ragtime Raggler’ after three months. So show some respect, or find another teacher.”
Well, if there was any doubt I was half in love with Leo, it’s gone now. Evander’s eyes are wide.
Renley looks at Evander. “I’m sorry.” She sounds as if she means it.
“You can’t talk to my daughter like that!” Hungry Mom yelps.
“I just did,” Leo says.
“We’re done here,” she says frostily. “Renley, let’s go!”
“Yay! Thank you, Mr. Killian! No offense, but I only took piano because my mom said I had to. Bye, Evander!”
Evander looks confused.
They leave, the mother hissing, Renley skipping. “There goes dinner,” Leo says. “Well. Want to play some more, kid? Miss Jenny and I have a dog ramp to build.”
“Can I help?” the boy asks.
“Sure,” I say. “You can make sure Leo doesn’t cut off any important parts.”
Leo has left the supplies where they are. The pieces of wood are equal and make sense: four two-by-fours for the frame, a piece of plywood and four strips of lighter wood so Loki won’t slide. A gangplank.
“Who cut these for you?” I ask.
“The woman at the hardware store,” Leo says.
“I could tell it wasn’t you.” He smiles. “Evander, hold on to this, honey,” I say, handing him a strip of wood and picking up the hammer. “I’m going to nail this one in, and then you can have a turn.”
The boy is just beautiful, ridiculously curly lashes, the green eyes of Derek Jeter. He’ll be a heartbreaker someday. All that and a prodigy, too.
“How come you know how to do this and Mr. Killian doesn’t?” he asks.
“Some of us are geniuses in other ways, Evander,” Leo says, sitting in his lounge chair and stretching out his long legs. “Cut me some slack.” Loki collapses beside him. I check to make sure his furry chest is still moving.
“My job is all about putting things together,” I tell Evander. “I’m a dress designer. Wedding dresses, mostly.”
Evander flicks a look at me. He’s still very shy, even though I’ve seen him four or five times now. I hammer in the nail, then hold the hammer out. “Your turn.”
He takes the hammer carefully and gives the nail a tentative tap, then another. “Doing great,” I confirm. Tap tap tap. He seems unwilling to give the nail a good smack. Fifty or so taps later, the nail is in. “Good job.”
“Thank you,” he says, a little smile lifting his lips.
“Can I ask you a question?”
“No, I’m sorry, I won’t marry you,” Leo says. “And Evander’s a little young yet, right, pal?”
This gets a full-fledged smile from the boy. I give Leo a tolerant look, then hammer in another nail. “What does it feel like to be able to play the way you do?”
Evander doesn’t say anything for a minute, just looks at the ground. Then he lifts his eyes to me. “I can feel the music inside me,” he says in such a soft voice I can hardly hear him. “It gets bigger and bigger, and then it comes into my chest and down my arms and it gets out through my fingers.”
I glance at Leo, who’s listening closely.
“Does it hurt?” I ask.
Evander laughs. “No. It’s my friend. My best friend.”
“Do you play a lot?”
“Not really,” he says. “Maybe five or six hours a day. I wish I didn’t have to go to school, because the music quiets down then.”
There were days for me like that, when I was learning design, days when I opted to stay up till four in the morning rather than stop sewing, when my back would audibly creak when I stood up.
Lately, not so much. Maybe it’s just that I’ve been at it awhile and the thrill isn’t new anymore.
I take the hammer again and show Evander the next step.
A half hour later, Evander’s mom pulls up in a battered Honda, a dent in the front fender, a few rust spots near the wheels. “Hey, there, baby,” she says, and Evander’s face lights up. He runs inside to get his stuff, and Leo unfolds from the chair—the man is tall—and goes to speak to her. I don’t hear what they say, but Mrs. James smiles and when Evander flies past me with a “Bye, Miss Jenny,” I can’t help the familiar ache of love and envy and longing.
Yes, I want a child. A little boy like Evander, shy and a little strange and solitary and lovely. A girl like serious, smart Grace, or ebullient Rose, or gentle Charlotte. Even a girl like Renley. I could whip her into shape in a matter of days, I think. Teach her manners and kindness. I’d be a loving, firm, fun mom. I’d teach my kids that of course they’re special, but no more special than any other child. My kids would go to bed early. They’d eat vegetables. We’d cuddle and read together, right in the second bedroom where the light comes in each morning like a blessing and my husband would bring me a cup of coffee, and he’d—
