by Pam Godwin
“You guys, ordinary relations of tones are stereotypical.” She furrows her brow. “But you can still obtain an emotional thrill from the music.” She quickly backs up her points with valid examples in Schoenberg’s Concerto for Violin.
Not once does she reference the textbook. Not even as she cites ornamental compositions by opus number. The classroom listens quietly, and by the time the bell rings, she’s brilliantly persuaded the debate.
I find myself…impressed. She knows the material, almost as well as I do. If she plays piano with the same aptitude, I’ll have to punish her just for making me so goddamn enamored.
Her eyes catch mine as the classroom thins out. Five students remain, but I’m too focused on one to make note of the others. There’s something recognizable in her gaze. Distrust? Accusation? Abuse. Whatever she’s exposing is both offensive and haunting.
I harden my eyes, a silent reprimand. She looks away, her emollient-lathered lips rubbing together, as she surveys her peers.
Three boys and two girls make up the senior pianists at Le Moyne, including the hipster fuck, Sebastian Roth. He moved seats between classes, sitting closer to Ivory while leaving a row between them. I’ll let it go as long as he doesn’t look at her, not one fucking glance.
Since the student files didn’t land on my desk until lunchtime, I haven’t had a chance to read them. But I knew the final classes in my schedule would be an intimate group. The perquisites of forking out an expensive tuition are many, all illustrated in Le Moyne’s glossy brochure with an entire page dedicated to its 1:5 teacher-student ratio.
“So this is what Le Moyne’s top pianists look like?” I pitch my voice with doubt, making it clear they’ll have to prove themselves. “You think you have what it takes to become piano virtuosos, composers, professors…something other than privileged, snot-nosed brats?”
Except Ivory. Her tattered clothes and shoes, her inability to buy textbooks, nothing about her reeks of privilege. How does a girl from a poor neighborhood land a spot here? It’s bizarre. And distracting.
Forcing her out of my mind, I stroll along the rows, hands folded behind my back, and study each of the five students without registering individual features. I don’t give a shit what they look like. I’m searching for straight spines, parted lips, and alert gazes.
Five pairs of eyes lock on me, their bodies angled to follow my movements, breaths hitching, waiting, as I pass each desk. I have their attention.
“We’ll be spending three hours a day together, every day, for the rest of the year. Music Theory, Piano Seminar, Performance Master Class, and for some of you, private lessons… This is what Mommy and Daddy shelled out the big bucks for.” My leisurely walk ends at the front of the room, and I turn to face them. “Don’t waste my time, and I won’t waste your parents’ money. Don’t take me seriously, and I will seriously fuck up your prospective futures. Are we clear?”
I can almost smell the mix of trepidation and startled respect in the silence that follows.
“I’m not going to lecture or put you on a piano bench today.” I glance at the student files on my desk. “I’m going to use the next few hours in one-on-one conferences with each of you. Don’t think of it as an interview. Just a brief meeting to help me become acquainted with your backgrounds and academic goals.”
Unbidden, my thoughts dart to Ivory and all the ways I can’t become acquainted with her. I push a hand through my hair, avoiding the prick of her gaze. I’m itching to talk to her again, to learn how a girl from Treme affords one of the most expensive tuitions in the country.
Maybe I don’t want to know.
But I do know I need a moment to gather some damn self-control. “Mr. Roth, I’ll start with you.”
I’ll save the temptation for last.
I twirl a pencil between my fingers and try not to chew a hole in my lip. Sitting on the floor in the back corner of the L-shaped room, I watch Mr. Marceaux through the maze of chair legs while he conducts private meetings at his desk.
A huge space separates us, the length of two normal classrooms filled with desks and instruments. But when he glances my way, which he does unnervingly often, I can see him. I can also shift ever-so-slightly and obstruct the eye contact.
Sometimes I don’t move, my gaze paralyzed under the force of his. Why? It’s the strangest thing, this preoccupation I have with him. I want to learn more about him—what he eats, the music he listens to, and where he goes when he’s not here. I want to study his calculated movements, watch the path of his fingers along his jaw, stare at the hard angles of his face, and memorize the way his slacks outline the shape of him. He’s enchanting, distracting, and positively terrifying.
Why can’t I just focus on something else? This has nothing to do with my ambitions for college and his role in it. Good lord, I haven’t even thought of that. I just want… What? For him to look at me? I hate his eyes¸ yet I watch them, wait for them to shift my way. That’s so fucked up.
He told us we could use the free block of time to study, but I can’t concentrate. I can’t think about anything except the enigma in the front of the room.
Two of the students, Sebastian and Lester, left after their meetings. Sarah chose to hang out after hers, and Chris is up there now, perched stiffly on the edge of his chair, nodding at whatever Mr. Marceaux is saying.
That leaves me, and the wait for my turn is flaying my insides.
“Psst. Ivory.”
I turn toward Sarah, who mirrors my cross-legged position—our loose skirts stretched over knees for modesty—at the other end of the back wall.
“C’mere,” she whispers.
I shake my head, unwillingly to give up my view.
With a sigh, she sets her textbook down and crawls toward me.
This should be interesting. I think she’s talked to me twice in the last three years. I gave up trying to be friends with her when she said the hamburger I was eating was made of greed, lies, and murder. I don’t have the luxury to choose food that saves farm animals and boycotts political agendas.
Her brown, stick-straight hair is so long it drags along the floor as she edges toward me on hands and knees. She has an old-school hippie look about her, with ropes of multi-colored beads dangling from her neck, a long flowing dress that she hitches up her thighs, and a mischievous twinkle in her eyes. I’m pretty sure she’s not wearing a bra, but she has the kind of svelte build that doesn’t require one.
She tumbles into a sprawl beside me, all arms and legs and smiles. What is she up to?
In a volume too low to be heard beyond our huddle, she asks, “What do you think of him?”
Kill me now. I’m not going there with her. “He’s stern.”
She glances at Mr. Marceaux, and lines form in her forehead. “Not him. I mean, yeah, he’s stern and sexy and… hello? Didn’t you hear about his other uses for his belt?”
His belt? I shake my head. “What do you mean?”
“It’s just hearsay. I want to talk about Chris Stevens.”
I don’t have an opinion on Chris, other than he tried to sleep with me sophomore year, and I’ve been avoiding him since. “What about him?”
“Have you fucked him?”
My cheeks burn. “What!”
Mr. Marceaux cuts his splintery eyes at me.
Shit. I lower my voice, clipping the words. “I haven’t done anything with him.”
“Sorry, sorry. It’s just….” She separates a lock of her hair and proceeds to plait it into a skinny braid. “I know you’ve been with Prescott and Sebastian and…others. They don’t shut up about it, and well, never mind. It was rude to assume.” She drops the braid and flashes me a pair of dimples. “Are we gravy?”
“Yeah, we’re good.” I guess?
“Cool, because I need some advice.” She lowers her chin, whispering, “On sex. And since you’re…um…”
A slut? A tramp? A dirty whore? I fight my shoulders into a relaxed position. “I’m what?”
; “Experienced.”
I grit my teeth.
She doesn’t seem to notice. “Chris and I are kind of a thing. Like, we’ve made out and stuff, and I’ve been…I don’t know, saving my V-card for something special, you know?”
No, I don’t know. I can’t imagine anyone or anything being special enough to go through that for.
She puts her face so close to mine all I see is freckles. “What’s it like?”
I tilt back, growing increasingly uncomfortable by the second. “What? Sex?”
“Yeah.” She licks her lips. “That.”
Just the thought of sex makes my stomach swarm with a thousand bees. Enduring it is worse than licking an oozing cold sore covered in dead skin and pus. But I don’t know if it’s like that for everyone—people act like girls are supposed to like it—so I shrug.
She cocks her head. “Does it hurt? The first time?”
“Yeah.” My voice cracks, and I clear it. “It hurts.” It never stops hurting.
“How old were you?”
I don’t want to talk about this, but at the same time, my chest aches with an overwhelming need to share. No one has ever asked me about my sexual experiences. Definitely not my mom, and I’ve never had a close friend. Isn’t this what I’ve always wanted? Girl talk without judgment?
I search her face for signs of cruelty and find only bright-eyed curiosity. It produces a warm sensation deep in my core. She’s interested, maybe even envious. Because I have something she doesn’t. Experience.
Stretching my legs out, I rest my head against the wall. “I was thirteen.”
“Wow.” Her face glows with wonderment. “Who? How? Tell me everything.”
The words come easily, pouring from a memory that’s tattooed on every cell of my body. “My brother had just come home after serving time in the Marine Corps, and he brought one of the guys from his squad with him. His best friend.”
I was so taken with Lorenzo then, so giddy over his good looks, battle-honed muscles, and rugged charm. And he looked at me like I was the most beautiful girl he’d ever seen.
He still looks at me, and I dread it down to the marrow of my bones.
Sarah covers her mouth, her smile escaping around her fingers. “You gave your virginity to your brother’s best friend?”
Prickles race up my spine. “He was staying with us until he could get his own place. I woke one night, couldn’t fall back asleep, so I stepped outside to sit on the back deck.”
Daddy had only been gone a month, and the loss was still so very painful, a constant constriction in my chest. He used to say, Nothing is inconceivable, and everything is possible. The proof is in the magic of music. So there I was, humming his favorite Herbie Hancock song, wishing for the inconceivable, and willing him to come back.
Sarah crowds in, her expression radiating far more enthusiasm than the reality of that night deserves. “What happened?”
“My brother’s friend came outside and pinned me on the stairs. He was so big. Big everywhere. And strong. He knew what he wanted, and I couldn’t stop him from taking it.”
Couldn’t stop the concrete steps from scraping my chest and legs as he took me from behind. The hand on my mouth muffling my screams. The ripping sound of my nightie. The smell of his breath rotting the air. And the hurt between my legs…the tearing, the blood, the soreness for days after when he took me again and again.
“Dude.” Sarah slouches against the wall. “That sounds so hot.”
It does?
“You’re so lucky.” She plays with the ends of her hair. “You have boobs and experience and guys like that falling all over you. I want that. I guess I’ve been scared, but I’m definitely ready to…you know…with Chris.”
There must be something wrong with me, because boobs and sex and everything she just said makes me want to puke my guts out. “Sarah, don’t—”
“Between you and me, the girls around here are only mean to you because they’re jealous. I mean, look at you. Guys want that.” She waves a hand to indicate my body. “No wonder you’ve slept with half the school.”
Bile hits the back of my throat, and I swallow repeatedly to keep it down.
“Oh, look. He’s done.” Sarah jumps to her feet, grabs her books, and rushes through the room, making a beeline for Chris.
Part of me wants to tackle her to the floor and beg her to stay away from him. But the other part, the selfish part, craves her acceptance. If she has sex with Chris, she’ll be just like me. Maybe she’ll talk to me more, confide in me. Maybe I can share other things, scarier things, about men and their needs.
“Miss Westbrook.” Mr. Marceaux stands from his chair, fists on his hips and a chill in his eyes. “Don’t keep me waiting.”
I attempt to read through her student file, but the words run together. I’m too distracted, my every thought funneling toward the girl on the other side of my desk. I sent the other students home, and now it’s just Ivory and me and this inconvenient attraction.
Her slender fingers fold together in her lap, her back straight and dark hair falling around the graceful lines of her neck. A smile anchors her lips, an expression that seems to come naturally to her, but this one is smaller than its predecessors. Shakier. The kind of smile little girls wear when they’re scared.
I drop the file on the desk and lean forward, breaching her invisible bubble of tension. “What are you worried about?”
I know the answer, but I want to hear what it sounds like on her lips.
“Nothing.” She brushes a finger against her nose. A tiny, telling gesture. She’s lying.
I slam a fist down on the desk, hard enough to make her gasp.
“That was the last time you will ever lie to me.” I’ll whip the godforsaken truth out of her if I have to. “Tell me you understand.”
A vein bulges and flutters in her throat. “Yes, I understand.”
“Good.” My gaze dips to the V of her shirt, the deep line of cleavage, and the safety pin precariously holding it all together. Just as quick, I avert my eyes, training them on her face. “Now answer the question.”
She rubs her palms on her thighs and holds my gaze. “You, Mr. Marceaux. You worry me.”
Ahh, much better. I want her to spoon-feed her honesty to me, breath by trembling breath. “Explain what you mean.”
She nods to herself, as if summoning her courage. “You’re smart and strict like other teachers, but you have the approach and temperament of a barbaric di—” She clamps her lips together.
“Language is permissible in my classroom, Miss Westbrook.” I narrow my eyes. “As long as it’s used in a constructive manner.”
She narrows her eyes right back. “I was going to say dickhead, but I’m not sure that’s constructive.”
At least she’s thinking about a dick.
“Give me an example of my alleged behavior, and I’ll decide how constructive it is.”
Her mouth falls open, as if flabbergasted by my response. “How about when we were out in the hall? When I told you my financial situation, and you…you smiled?”
Fuck, she saw that?
I can’t tell her I smiled because her vulnerability made me high on lust and hard as a fucking rock. But I can give her sincerity.
“You’re right. I was wrong, and I apologize.” I pick up the file and flip through the printouts. “Let’s talk about your circumstances.”
I scan the bio page and confirm her Treme address. Skipping over the summary of her exceptional GPA and SAT scores, I latch onto the facts I care most about.
Date of birth?
She’ll be eighteen in the spring.
Parents?
William Westbrook. Deceased.
Lisa Westbrook. Unemployed.
That explains her shortage of funds, but not how she pays for private school. Wait…
I jump back to her father’s name. “William Westbrook?”
Her eyes drift closed. I look back at the page, trying to connect the details. Wes
tbrook, dead, from Treme, daughter plays piano…
Jesus, I can’t believe I didn’t place her name earlier. “You’re Willy Westbrook’s daughter?”
Her eyes flash open, bright and hopeful like her smile. “You’ve heard of him?”
“I grew up in New Orleans, sweetheart. Everyone around here’s heard of Willy’s Piano Bar.”
Her gaze turns inward, her smile softening. “I hear it’s a cool place. Tourists love it.”
She says this as though she’s never been, which contradicts the image I have of her sitting behind Willy’s famous piano after-hours and dreaming of filling his talented shoes.
I rest my elbows on the desk, angling closer. “Don’t you live down the street from there? You’ve never been?”
She raised her eyebrows. “It’s an eighteen-and-over bar. I can’t get in.”
My brain chugs through a cloud of confusion. “You don’t go there when it’s closed to help run the business? It’s still in your family, right?”
Except her file says her mother’s unemployed?
Her stare falls to her lap. “Daddy sold the bar when I was ten.”
I hate when I can’t see her eyes. “Look at me when you’re talking.”
She snaps her head up, her voice quiet, flat. “The new owner kept the name and let Daddy continue to play piano there until…”
Until a fight broke out in the bar, shots were fired, and Willy caught one in the chest while trying to subdue the brawlers.
My familiarity with the story must be written on my face, because she says, “You know what happened then.”
“It was all over the news.”
She nods, swallows.
Willy’s death garnered a shitload of attention. Not only was he a white jazz pianist in a black neighborhood, he was also adored and respected by the community. His bar brings a great deal of tourist dollars into Treme, and from what I hear, its popularity has kept the surrounding businesses afloat for years.
I specifically remember watching the televised reports of his murder while visiting New Orleans—that particular visit back home had been a pivotal point in my life. It was…four years ago? I’d just received my master’s from Leopold and was waffling on whether to keep my teaching job in New York City or look for work closer to my hometown.