One of Us is Lying(15)
“Only one way to find out.” Maeve’s voice is annoyingly singsongy, and she ignores the dirty look I give her as I stand up.
My heart thumps all the way downstairs. Nate and I have talked more at school this week than we have since fifth grade, which admittedly still isn’t much. Every time I see him I get the impression he can’t wait to be someplace else. But I keep running into him.
Opening the front door triggers a floodlight in front of our garage that makes Nate look as though he’s on center stage. As I walk toward him my nerves are jangling, and I’m acutely conscious of the fact that I’m in my usual hanging-out-with-Maeve ensemble: flip-flops, a hoodie, and athletic shorts. Not that he’s making an effort. I’ve seen that Guinness T-shirt at least twice this week.
“Hi, Nate,” I say. “What’s up?”
Nate takes his helmet off, and his dark-blue eyes flick past me to our front door. “Hey.” He doesn’t say anything else for an uncomfortably long time. I cross my arms and wait him out. Finally he meets my gaze with a wry smile that makes my stomach do a slow somersault. “I don’t have a good reason for being here.”
“Do you want to come in?” I blurt out.
He hesitates. “I bet your parents would love that.”
He doesn’t know the half of it. Dad’s least favorite stereotype is that of the Colombian drug dealer, and he wouldn’t appreciate even a hint of association from me. But I find myself saying, “They’re not home.” Then I hastily add, “I’m hanging out with my sister,” before he thinks that was some sort of come-on.
“Yeah, okay.” Nate gets off his bike and follows me like it’s no big deal, so I try to act equally nonchalant. Maeve’s leaning against the kitchen counter when we get inside, even though I’m sure she was staring out her bedroom window ten seconds ago. “Have you met my sister, Maeve?”
Nate shakes his head. “No. How’s it going?”
“All right,” Maeve answers, eyeing him with frank interest.
I have no idea what to do next as he shrugs off his jacket and tosses it over a kitchen chair. How am I supposed to … entertain Nate Macauley? It’s not even my responsibility, right? He’s the one who showed up out of the blue. I should do what I normally do. Except that’s sit in my sister’s room and watch retro vampire shows while half reading Ulysses.
I’m completely out of my depth here.
Nate doesn’t notice my discomfort, wandering past the french doors that open into our living room. Maeve elbows me as we follow him and murmurs, “Que boca tan hermosa.”
“Shut up,” I hiss. Dad encourages us to speak Spanish around the house, but I doubt this is what he had in mind. Besides, for all we know, Nate’s fluent.
He stops at the grand piano and looks back at us. “Who plays?”
“Bronwyn,” Maeve says before I can even open my mouth. I stay near the doorway, arms folded, as she settles into Dad’s favorite leather armchair in front of the sliding door leading to our deck. “She’s really good.”
“Oh yeah?” Nate asks at the same time I say, “No, I’m not.”
“You are,” Maeve insists. I narrow my eyes and she widens hers in fake innocence.
Nate crosses to the large walnut bookcase covering one wall, picking up a picture of Maeve and me with identical gap-toothed smiles in front of Cinderella’s castle at Disneyland. It was taken six months before Maeve was diagnosed, and for a long time it was the only vacation picture we had. He studies it, then glances my way with a small smile. Maeve was right about his mouth—it is sexy. “You should play something.”
Well, it’s easier than talking to him.
I shuffle to the bench and sit, adjusting the sheet music in front of me. It’s “Variations on the Canon,” which I’ve been practicing for months now. I’ve taken lessons since I was eight and I’m pretty competent, technically. But I’ve never made people feel anything. “Variations on the Canon” is the first piece that made me want to try. There’s something about the way it builds, starting soft and sweet but gaining in volume and intensity until it’s almost angry. That’s the hard part, because at a certain point the notes grow harsh, verging on discordant, and I can’t muster the force to pull it off.
I haven’t played it in over a week. The last time I tried I hit so many wrong notes, even Maeve winced. She seems to remember, glancing toward Nate and saying, “This is a really hard song.” As if she suddenly regrets setting me up for embarrassment. But what the hell. This whole situation is too surreal to take seriously. If I woke up tomorrow and Maeve told me I’d dreamed it all, I’d fully accept that.
So I start, and right away it feels different. Looser and less of a reach for the harder parts. For a few minutes I forget anyone’s in the room, and enjoy how notes that usually trip me up flow easily. Even the crescendo—I don’t attack it as hard as I need to, but I’m faster and surer than I normally am, and don’t hit a single wrong note. When I finish I smile triumphantly at Maeve, and it’s only when her eyes drift toward Nate that I remember I have an audience of two.
He’s leaning against our bookcase, arms crossed, and for once he doesn’t look bored or about to make fun of me. “That’s the best thing I’ve ever heard,” he says.