A Thousand Perfect Notes(26)

‘Be careful!’ Joey screeches and leaps over the puddle after him. Except she misses and ends up in the middle. She wades out scowling. ‘No pushing, August, or I’ll—’

August raises her hands. ‘Sorry! Sorry! I didn’t think. But Beck has incredible balance, don’t you, Beck?’

‘Absolutely.’ He tries to turn the spaceship around so Joey doesn’t see it’s totally dented on one side.

They resume walking, more docile now. But August is practically glowing with I told you so.

‘Which song is your favourite?’ she says. ‘“The Agony of Two Freed Souls in a Green Land”? Or “Morning in the Lonely Space”?’

‘That one called “Grill”?’

August smacks her hand against her thigh. ‘Oh, yes. “Grill”. I love “Grill”. I love how it doesn’t even fit with the other songs, but it’s still amazing.’

Beck wants to scoff, but he can’t. If he let himself, if he slipped up for just two seconds, he could fall in love with that music and talk about it for years.

‘It’s inspired,’ August says. ‘Twice Burgundy fling us into space and stars and galaxies and show us how to breathe.’

He shrugs. ‘They’re OK.’

Her glare is nearly formidable. ‘Stop it, Keverich. Stop pretending. You ran off with my iPod, which means you’re about to marry all the Burgundies like I am.’

Joey, elbows out, shoves between them. ‘Who’s marrying a burger? I want to marry a burger.’

‘I want to marry a burger too, Jo,’ Beck says. ‘But right now, August and I are talking about – a harem?’

‘Polygamy. Shared custody of our true loves,’ August says. ‘Because Beck finally understands what real music is. Not your heavy clashing rock stuff.’

Wouldn’t it be nice to tell her? Right now? To just open his mouth and let it tumble out – about the music in his head that burns to be played, how the Chopin études are ruining his life, how the Maestro hates him because he’s not good enough.

How he’s suffocating between piano keys.

But he says, ‘My music is awesome, thank you very much,’ and a little bit of him dies.

‘What?’ August tilts her head. ‘I can’t hear you over the sound of my music being abso-freaking-lutely better than yours.’

They’re in sight of the house now and Joey dashes ahead to open the door so Beck can get her precious creation inside.

Beck pauses to check the mail – or is he just delaying the goodbye to August?

‘You don’t listen to a lot of music, do you?’ she says.

‘Not this kind,’ Beck says.

‘Well, I’m glad I could introduce you to paradise.’ August gives him a salute with her sock-covered arms. ‘But careful, Beck. You’ve started acting like a nice person.’ She turns and runs down the wet road, her hyena laugh flying behind her.

Beck knows. He should do something about it. Should …

… but.

He follows Joey inside, peels off wet shoes and socks and gently sets Joey’s creation in the kitchen. Then he disappears while she shrieks at him in German because of the dint.

He’s nearly smiling, nearly happy – or something – until the Maestro appears in his doorway.

He’s got a clean, dry shirt half over his head and a sudden sick feeling in his stomach.

The Maestro holds a stack of graded theory sheets. Is it just Beck or has the red pen grown wilder, the handwriting more unreadable? Maybe her hand tremors are getting worse.

‘Remember how I said mein Bruder is coming out from Deutschland? It’s happening now. Arrangements are being finalised for his tour next month.’

Ah, his uncle-she-curses-because-he’s-still-a-successful-pianist-and-she’s-not.

Beck tugs the collar of his polo shirt. Is he supposed to say something here?

‘He’s agreed to hear you.’

Oh.

‘But – but that doesn’t, I mean – what does it mean?’ Beck says.

‘It means everything,’ she snaps, like he’s being ungrateful.

He’s not allowed to be confused? She’s throwing the bombshells.

‘If you impress him, he’ll give you lessons to correct your sloppy technique.’

‘Like, one lesson?’ Beck says and hesitates. ‘Because then he’s going back to Germany?’

The Maestro’s lips thin. ‘Unless a miracle happens and he is impressed by your playing.’ Her eyes say that’s unlikely. ‘If so, you can return to Germany with him and work hard and make the Keverich name proud.’

Wait.

Did she – she didn’t.

‘Mum,’ he says, forgetting German, forgetting to paint his voice with respect. ‘Mum, I’m fifteen. I’m not even finished with school. You can’t just toss me into another country. I—’

‘If your uncle takes you,’ the Maestro says, ‘you go.’ Like that’s the end of it. Like nothing else matters.

‘What if I mess up again?’ It’s out before he thinks. Why is he always so stupid? He says it like a challenge, like a threat, and his face is hot with preparation to be slapped.

What if I purposefully mess up?