A Thousand Perfect Notes(24)

It’s nearly a nice pep talk. But his uncle? More mountainous expectations for him to fail? Great.

‘Play,’ she commands. ‘Play the Chopin. Play it right.’

So he does.

It comes back, with hesitating mistakes at first, and then he remembers. The chords wrap around his fingers as he kneads them out of the piano. He tries to play softly, because of Joey, but the Maestro raps her knuckles on his head, so he throws himself into the music.

Music is nothing unless it fills your soul with colour and passion and dreams.

But Beck can’t find it, can’t stitch that passion into this music that isn’t his own. He can hit every note right, but what’s the point? She’ll never say well done. She’ll never smile after he masters a difficult run. He plays like a boy trying too hard, with fingers that are tired to the bone.

Somehow he still wants her face to break into a smile, like it did when he was little, and her chin to tilt back with a tidal wave of laughter as she proclaims her son a prodigy.

Instead he plays the études.

Over and

over.

And over

once more.

The Maestro stands, nods, her foot taps to the music. ‘Play it every day, every single day, until you cannot forget it.’

‘Yes, Mutter,’ Beck says, beaten.

Is this punishment for having a friend? For finally doing something instead of wishing?

These eighty-eight keys are part of him, but do they have to be his whole life?

His jaw tightens until he thinks it’ll break off – and his fingers crash the étude finale. He looks at her, fiery and defiant for half a second, daring her to point out the wrong notes. Daring her to say he’s worthless.

The Maestro’s eyes are sad or wistful – or dead. He can’t tell. ‘You could be something, Schwachkopf. You could be.’

But he’s not, is he?

Is

he?

She leaves without saying he played badly.





There’s no torture like a song on repeat.

Beck can’t shake the étude, can’t shake the weariness after playing half the night, can’t shake the feeling that the Maestro has been different – weird – since she said he could be something. He doesn’t know what it means.

Does it mean anything?

Ugh, he’s tired.

But, congratulations to the universe, the Chopin is burned in his brain so fiercely that he wishes he could slam his head against a wall to quiet it.

Instead, he goes to school.

It’s been weeks since the cake escapade, but Beck still gets a pang when he sees August – what is it? Nerves? Anticipation? He knots up, hunches his shoulders and can’t think of anything to say. Until she gets talking. Until he defrosts. Until they find their pocket of comfortableness to stroll in.

It’s wet and cold when Beck and Joey exit the house for school. Joey wears a bright red raincoat and basically looks like a hazard sign. Beck has an oversized hoodie, but it’s hardly waterproof. And August, as usual, is entirely underdressed. She has on shoes, at least, with knee-high neon striped socks, but no jumper. Her flesh is a ripple of goosebumps as they walk in the misting rain.

‘I’m gonna jump in puddles!’ Joey warns and then dashes a few paces ahead.

‘You’ll get wet—’ Beck says, but Joey just swears at him in German and pounds the footpath. Oh, forget it. The preschool teacher can figure out what to do with a soaked five-year-old.

‘I finished the paper.’ August pats her satchel. ‘It’s downright inspired.’

‘What if they know I did nothing?’

‘You’ll get detention. Or expelled. And you kind of deserve both, but –’ she wiggles her eyebrows ‘– I am, fortunately, super nice. I wrote your section with my left hand so it looks crappy enough to pass for you.’

‘You are nice.’

‘“You” –’ August wraps it in air quotes ‘– are a horrific writer compared to my eloquent soliloquy. But I had to make myself look good. No offence.’

Beck shrugs.

‘You say a few dumb things,’ August adds. ‘But I’m not here to make you look intelligent. I’m not a miracle worker.’

‘I can live with that.’

‘You do have a fanboy moment.’ Her grin is evil. ‘It’s hilarious. You misuse the word incredulous, but your gist is that you adore this hardcore rock band. Who’d have thought quiet ol’ Beck could be so passionate about music?’

Ha. The irony.

August pauses to wrestle with her satchel and yank out her iPod. She peels wet hair off her face and tucks an earbud in, hands covering the iPod screen to protect it from the worst of the mist. Is this the end of the conversation? Beck isn’t sure if that’s a relief or a disappointment.

But August yanks the bud from her ear and shoves it at Beck. ‘Listen to this. You have to. Your existence depends on it.’

‘Meaning what? You’re going to kill me and toss me in some ditch if I don’t?’

‘Yes,’ says August sincerely. ‘Don’t turn me into a murderer. Just listen to it.’

Beck takes the extended iPod gingerly, like it’s going to combust. The last thing he feels like is listening to music. He craves silence.