A Thousand Perfect Notes(43)

‘Wait, I didn’t – I didn’t do anything to her.’ He says it too fast, too guilty. ‘And Joey’s with her but she’s … she’s fine.’

August relaxes back into her cushions. ‘OK. That’s good, I guess. Are the police involved?’

‘No.’

‘Should they be?’

‘No,’ he says dully. ‘It’s OK. All families have – bumps.’ Or moments when you seriously fear for your life. ‘It’s not that bad, really. I’m stupid for coming.’

‘Stop saying you’re stupid.’

A cat curls around Beck’s legs, purring. He’s not sure whether to pat it or move away, but the soft, cuddly warmth makes him understand why people like animals.

‘This isn’t OK, you know.’ Her voice is suddenly fierce. ‘And it makes me, argh, so angry to think of you getting—’

‘It’s fine.’ It’s really not. ‘Honest, August. I’d do something if it … got too bad.’ He wouldn’t.

‘Dinner!’ Tammy hollers from the kitchen.

August sighs. ‘Don’t freak out now.’ She’s on her feet, brushing close as she passes. ‘I won’t let them eat you. We’ll just devour lasagne and then I have to show you something spectacular outside before you dash off.’

For once there is no rush. No Maestro at home. No one cares where he is. No one would come looking. But it doesn’t feel free. It feels forgotten.





Beck isn’t sure how dinner at the Freys’ will unfold. Do they pray to a tree? Do they even sit at a table? Is the lasagne actual real lasagne? He’s never seen August eat meat, so is the lasagne pinned together with dreams of animal freedom and air?

It smells divine, though, and his stomach knots with anticipation. When was the last time he ate food that wasn’t cereal?

Turns out the Freys do have a table and they cluster around it like any average family. It’s squished in a corner, so wedging another chair in for Beck is an art form. When seated, everyone’s elbows nearly touch, and the dishes of food take up so much space, Beck’s plate is nearly in his lap. Tiny hand-painted daisies decorate the plates and the cutlery is mismatched. It’s cramped but, somehow, cosy.

‘We have a larger table,’ Shane says. ‘Around here somewhere.’ He turns to Tammy, who’s slicing an orange into the salad. ‘Did we lose the big table?’

‘How do you lose a table, Dad?’ says August.

‘Well,’ Shane says defensively, ‘your mother lost a horse before.’

‘It had legs.’ Tammy shuffles the huge dish of lasagne, the basket of garlic bread, the salt and pepper shakers, to try and squeeze the salad on to the table.

‘Tables have legs,’ Shane says.

August helps herself to bread and pesto. ‘But they don’t run away. That horse ran.’

‘She should know,’ Tammy agrees. ‘She was riding it.’

‘Which kind of bothers me –’ August reaches for the salad and digs around for oranges and olives ‘– because you still refer to that escapade as “the time you lost the horse”. Not “the time you lost your nine-year-old daughter”.’

‘But you’re like a pigeon, darling. You’d find your way home eventually.’ Tammy procures a massive knife from nowhere and cuts the lasagne. It explodes with melting pasta sheets, vegetables and rosemary tomato sauce. Beck keeps his mouth shut in case he drools on his plate.

‘Or we could just adopt another child and buy another horse.’ Shane passes Tammy his plate. ‘Maybe we would’ve gotten a discount?’

Tammy pauses, red-smeared knife raised disturbingly high. ‘Oh, Shane. That’s so true. Why didn’t we think of that instead of chasing them across the state?’

‘I think you liked my face,’ August says.

She notices Beck isn’t moving, so she plucks his plate and passes it to her mother. He can’t function properly with the smell of food drugging his addled brain. Plus the Freys are terrifying him with banter. They don’t seem real.

Tammy cuts a massive slice and slaps it on to his plate with a plop. ‘Presentation isn’t my forte,’ she says, ‘but I didn’t make it so it’ll definitely taste delicious.’

‘That is such a comforting fact.’ Shane leans to kiss her cheek.

‘Dad,’ August says, warningly, ‘she’s still got a knife.’

‘Too true.’ He retracts. ‘Careful with that, honey. Remember the echidna.’

‘Oh, I remember Goliath.’

‘I try not to,’ August mutters.

Beck decides to let the confusion wash over him and give full attention to the feast on his plate. A quick poke with his fork reveals the lasagne is meatless. But the pasta sheets are gooey with sauce and the vegetables have bathed in a heaven of olive oil and herbs. He can’t shovel it in fast enough.

It’s easier to think of food than the fact the Freys love each other.

‘So,’ Shane says, pleasantly. ‘No personal questions, I understand. But your favourite colour is an allowable topic, right, Beck?’

‘Don’t ask about his full name either.’ August grins wickedly around the salad dressing at Beck.