A Thousand Perfect Notes(46)

‘Really?’ August nestles her head next to his. ‘Can I hear it?’

‘It’s awful.’

‘I know it’s not.’

‘You’ve never heard me play.’

She snorts, which sort of breaks the electric brilliance of the sky and the stars and the quietness. Beck relaxes into the hammock with a half smile.

‘You think you’re a mystery,’ she says, ‘but I’ve figured out a lot. I’m a sleuth like that.’

‘Oh really?’

‘Yes. I know you breathe music, but it embarrasses you and maybe you even hate it a little. Which is confusing,’ she adds. ‘I know your home sucks—’ She cuts off his mumbled protest. ‘But despite that, you’re a marshmallow and a fantastic big brother, because Joey is proof of that.’

‘You mean the kid who’s been suspended from preschool?’

‘Joey is incredible.’ August gives the hammock an energised push. ‘I also know what you dream of.’

How much does she think about him?

As much as he thinks about her?

‘Escape,’ she says, like she’s plucked the word from between the rusty piano strings that bind his heart together.

He feels hollow without his secret.

‘But,’ she says, slowly, ‘you’re trapped.’

He wants to tell her about Germany – about staying or going. Not that it’s his choice, it never will be, but no matter which direction the Maestro binds him to, it’ll be the wrong one. Leaving Joey? Leaving August? Unthinkable. Staying? He’s going to snap someday.

‘You like me because I’m pathetic,’ he says suddenly. ‘Like your dogs.’

He wishes he could take it back. Did he just splinter their night with his poisoned self-loathing?

‘You’re not as cute as my dogs,’ she says.

He should’ve known she couldn’t take anything seriously. It stabs him, a little, because he can’t joke all the time. He should go, unravel and collapse somewhere in private.

‘Although, for the record,’ she says, stern now, the joke vanished, ‘you’re not pathetic. Why do you even think that? You’re actually funny and protective and kind. You could’ve let me limp home when I was an idiot and busted my foot. Did you? Nope. And even though Joey stands there swearing like a trooper, I’ve never heard you get riled up. Like I said, you’re a marshmallow with burnt skin, but I see you, Beck.’

She hooks her fingers through his, fast, like she thinks he’s going to make a break for it. His fingers close around hers – it’s not awkward, it never could be.

‘You’re not a puppy to be rescued,’ she says softly. ‘You’re a boy I frequently feel intensely about.’

‘Intensely?’

‘It’s very distracting,’ August adds. She lets out a small giggle.

‘What?’ Beck says.

‘I’m just thinking of your reaction.’

‘To what?’

She pushes herself up on her elbow. ‘To this.’ And she kisses him, very gently, very cautiously, on his broken lip.





The Maestro smells of hospital and cinnamon tea. She huddles in bed, her ancient laptop groaning as she emails music theory corrections to her students at the university. Beck has a spatula in his hand, still coated in batter from the pancakes he’s making Joey for dinner.

She called him and he came. He’s obedient like that.

It’s been three days since her outrage, since his beating, since August’s kiss. The Maestro hasn’t really left her bed and hasn’t spoken to him, no apology, of course, and no explanation for what happened at the hospital. Clearly they swallowed whatever lie she concocted. Beck’s decided not to care. He doesn’t care.

‘Shut the door,’ the Maestro says.

Beck looks at her heavily bandaged hands that struggle to keep a mug of tea upright.

‘I want it open.’ Beck leans against the doorframe and folds his arms, spatula in the crook of his elbow. ‘I have the pan on. For Joey’s dinner, considering you don’t cook for her.’

The Maestro’s lips thin. ‘Your attitude is unacceptable.’

Beck shrugs. Bruises still linger on his face. Her artwork.

‘But,’ the Maestro says, ‘you are under pressure, Junge. I see that.’

‘I don’t want to play for my uncle.’

The Maestro leans back in her pillows. ‘I did not ask if you wanted to. You will.’ Her tone goes crisp. ‘But it would be a miracle if your uncle saw potential in you, so do not fret over moving to Deutschland any time soon.’

Is it relief or a slap? Beck can’t even sort through the jumble of his pain to figure it out.

‘But you will still play,’ she says. ‘And as rude as you are, Sohn, I will reward you for a good performance.’

This is surprising. Although her idea of a ‘reward’ is probably more scales.

‘That girl,’ the Maestro begins, and Beck’s heart thuds. ‘That party. You may go.’

‘Really?’ It pops out, desperate and unbelieving, before Beck can be cautious.

‘Ja.’ The Maestro’s lips twist, sour at his excitement. ‘Mayhap this will encourage you to work harder before the concert. Hard work might even cover up your lack of talent.’