A Thousand Perfect Notes(30)

‘Oh, sorry. Ms Keverich – that Beck is seriously gloomy and needs kicking out of his misery.’

Joey starts kissing the pears.

‘So,’ August says, ‘I was wondering, Ms Keverich, if Beck could come over for dinner some time?’

She’s dug his grave, blissfully unaware.

The Maestro looks at Beck, long and calculating. He feels the ice, but not the burn of fury – more puzzlement, or is that shock? That he would do something so defiant like make a friend.

‘Bee – Beck,’ the Maestro says, unused to his nickname, ‘is very busy studying.’

‘Oh?’ Thankfully August doesn’t scoff. She probably is on the inside.

‘He is a pianist,’ the Maestro says, the first time she’s admitted it. Usually it’s he is a worthless moron bashing my piano. ‘He has an important recital to prepare for.’

August’s eyes widen with delight. ‘Beck! You should’ve told me. This is incredibly exciting. I want to hear you play.’

‘No,’ says Beck.

‘I’ll take that enthusiastic response as a yes!’ August grins. ‘I’d only steal him for a few hours, Ms Keverich. I live just around the corner, and my dad could drop him home so he doesn’t walk in the dark.’ She pauses. ‘Are you allergic to dogs, Beck?’

‘No, but—’

‘Great. Because there are two or twelve inside at any given time. So what do you say, Ms Keverich?’

Would she say no? Would she yell? Would she show August who she really is?

The thing about the Maestro is her ability to be purely professional around other people. In a ball gown with jewels at her throat, you’d never know there is something … broken about this woman. She is tall and powerful and glorious.

The Maestro graciously says, ‘He’s facing a very taxing performance, as I said, so I will think on it.’

Beck grabs August’s elbow and drags her towards the front door.

August waves over her shoulder. ‘Nice meeting you, Ms Keverich.’

Beck gets her outside before he remembers how to breathe again. He wants to yell at her – he really, really does. But it’s not like he warned her. Sure, there have been bruises – but he always says he gets into fights, accidents. Maybe she thinks that’s the truth? Maybe August Frey is so full of sickening brightness that she can’t fathom a parent throwing their own kid into the wall.

Beck shuts the door behind him and digs his hands through his hair. He’s trying not to hyperventilate.

‘Wow, Beck,’ August says. ‘Meeting your mum wasn’t that traumatic for me. Do you want to sit down?’

He does want to sit down. Or lie down. And never get back up.

‘I’m sorry,’ he mumbles.

‘Why?’ August says. ‘Your mum seems, well, fierce but not too bad. I get that she’s strict though. Wow.’

‘No,’ Beck whispers, ‘I’m sorry for this.’ He sucks in air, strength, and then looks her in the eyes. ‘We’re done, OK? We did the paper, so you don’t need to come around any more.’

August looks at him steadily.

‘I don’t need a friend,’ Beck says. ‘I actually don’t want one.’ Life was less painful when he didn’t know what he was missing. ‘So – so leave me alone, OK?’ Please.

Will she demand an answer? Slink off like he kicked her? Lash out because he’s unfair?

There’s a stagnant pause and then –

She laughs and punches his shoulder. ‘You’re messed up, kid. But, you’re also stuck with me, and a super-scary mum isn’t going to send me screaming.’

He groans. ‘August, I’m not kidding around—’

‘Neither am I, but I do have to go.’ She backs away, thumbs tucked in her pockets. ‘I meant it when I said I want to hear you play!’

‘Absolutely not,’ Beck yells after her.

She turns, ready to sprint off her excess energy. ‘That’s how you can repay me! Write me a song. Then we’ll be even.’

Write her a song? What – no –

She takes off down the road, the twilight swallowing her before he can reply and he’s left standing in the cold with a mouthful of words he can’t say.

He doesn’t want to go inside, but –

The Maestro is waiting, her eyes cold, calm. Beck shuts the door and leans on it, ready but not ready, angry but tired.

The Maestro looks at him, really looks, like she hasn’t in a long time. Then she shakes her head and laughs.

It’s a terrible sound.

‘It won’t last long,’ she says. ‘Especially after you leave for Deutschland.’





The unfortunate thing about being fifteen is growing taller. Beck tries to stop, for the sake of fitting his clothes, but his body doesn’t listen.

He attempts to disappear behind the $10 clothes racks while the Maestro flips through and scrutinises the colours. Joey is impersonating a tornado and has knocked hangers off shelves, dismantled the shoe aisle and is currently clomping around in men’s gumboots that come to her thighs while wearing a straw hat.

‘We should just go,’ Beck whispers to no one who cares.

The Maestro yanks a black and yellow striped polo shirt off the rack. Everything she does is fast and angry and vicious, like the clothing has particularly insulted her. ‘What about this?’