A Thousand Perfect Notes(37)

‘Ugh.’

‘You’ll love it.’ She punches his arm. ‘And you’ll love my parents and also my nine dogs.’

‘Wait. Nine?’

‘I told you we run a shelter.’ August shrugs. ‘We don’t put down animals, we rescue them. And if they don’t find homes, I home them. I work weekends to pay for their food, but saving animals is the most incredible gift I can give this universe.’

Beck wishes he could work weekends and give Joey the chocolates and sparkly hairclips she craves. He taps the envelope against his thigh and envisions the Maestro laughing as she tears it up.

‘There will be epic music,’ August says, ‘and star gazing. You don’t even have to stay long. Like, just an hour. Or even just thirty minutes. I’ll make you up a little doggy bag of cake.’

An hour without the Maestro knowing where he is? Never going to happen.

They’re at his house now, and he’s not sure if he wants to run inside and bolt the door, or procrastinate as long as possible. Everything to do with August is complicated.

‘I’ll try,’ Beck says. He won’t.

‘Great!’ August spins around him. ‘And we’re good now, right? No more of this awkward silence?’

Are they OK? Does it matter what she thinks of him? Does it matter that she isn’t bashful about mentioning a kiss? Does it matter if August does exactly the opposite of everything he thinks she’ll do?

Her impossible eyes are on him now, waiting, wanting to understand something she never can.

She dances in a world of possibilities, and he drowns in music.

‘I d-do like, um, girls. I like you.’ It’s coming out so completely mashed; he’s mortified. Why is he even talking? Shut up and go inside. ‘Um, but – not – I just mean. I like you but normally. Friends. Yeah, like friends. Not … more.’ Verdammt, he’s so embarrassed.

August puts a hand on her hip. ‘Hmm. I see how it is. I’ll need to work on this.’ She turns to leave and then, her eyes blazing with inspiration, she dashes back to him, rises on tiptoes and whispers in his ear, ‘I like you too, Beethoven.’ Then she runs down the road and he swears he hears her laugh again.

She enjoys this, doesn’t she?

He tells himself he does not enjoy it. And, by the way, Beck, there is no way you’re going to a party after the Maestro’s recent analysis of August.

Still, he breaks open the envelope as he enters his house, and skims the details. Celebrate August Frey’s 16th. Starts at 6 p.m. Don’t bring anything except your happy self. He clearly shouldn’t be invited.

Still reading, he kicks the front door shut and walks smack into the Maestro.

She plucks the letter from his hand. Beck winces. Being stuck in the house all day with Joey is not improving her temperament. ‘What is this?’

‘It’s just a party,’ Beck says, feebly. ‘I-I don’t have to go.’ But I want to.

‘August.’ The Maestro rolls her eyes and slaps the invitation back in his hand. ‘Didn’t we talk about this, Schwachkopf? Throw it out and go practise. No dinner until the Chopin is acceptable.’

Beck doesn’t answer. He crumples the invitation in his fist and reminds himself she didn’t say no. And that’s a positive, right?

The piano glares at him. He tosses his school bag, changes clothes, and begins scales.

He’s ready to play for his uncle. He’s ready. But still he goes over and over and over the études, trying to focus and ignore his own music in his head begging to be played. He only considers stopping to stretch his fingers for the briefest second when—

He hears Joey shriek.

Beck breaks off the piece abruptly, frowning. Is it just a tantrum about the TV or Joey unleashing her energy after being home with her mother for three days? It’s dark outside, past when they should’ve eaten dinner – obviously he’s not playing ‘acceptably’ yet – so maybe Joey’s having a hungry meltdown.

Still.

He hates to hear his sister cry.

Beck nudges his bedroom door open and creeps into the hall. He can smell bratwurst sausage and garlic and caraway. So clearly dinner is happening, just not for him.

‘I DON’T WANT TO,’ Joey hollers.

Beck strolls into the kitchen, trying to look nonchalant. He gets a glass from the cupboard and pours himself water.

‘Mind your tone with me, G?re,’ the Maestro snaps.

Brat? What happened to darling and sweetie, her usual terms of endearment for her favourite child? This scares Beck.

She sits at her table before a plate of sausage, mashed potato and sauerkraut, her arms folded. At first Beck thinks she must be whingeing about the food. But then the Maestro points towards Beck’s open bedroom door and the corner of the shiny Steinway piano.

‘It is a privilege to play the piano,’ the Maestro says.

Beck clutches his glass and forgets to drink.

‘And to be a Keverich is to play,’ she says. ‘To play music is to learn discipline and have direction and purpose. You are no kleines Kind any more.’

Joey’s face is as red as the Maestro’s. ‘No!’ she shouts. ‘I hate it. I don’t wanna play all day, I want to be a chef and a mermaid and—’

‘Nein. You will learn.’ The Maestro stabs at her sausage. She sees Beck and her furious eyes land on him. ‘Have you finished your practice?’ Her tone is sharper than the sauerkraut.