Monday, Monday, Monday.
Calypso told me not to come again, but I didn’t listen. If she insists I leave, I will. But if not…
The strong sounds of the piano pool beneath the door to the theater room, and I linger outside, identifying the song is “Daring” moments before it softens and merges, transforming into a gentler rendition. Something warmer. Without missing a beat, she’s thrown a song she only just received the ability to practice last week into a minor key.
This girl.
Wincing, I knock.
The piano fizzles. Birds sing into the emptiness.
I crack the door open, finding my sugar glider poised at the piano, her gaze fixed on her intruder. I watch the harsh edge in her eyes melt away as she registers me, and I’m not sure I’ve everseen anything quite so beautiful.
“Oh, it’s you,” she notes, like it’s the most natural thing, and there’s something warm and soft in that understanding. Something warmer and softer in the way she doesn’t hesitate to continue playing as soon as I’ve closed the door behind me. Eyes closed, head tilted back, shebecomesmusic. Free and real yet untouchable.
“You owe me an explanation,” she states beneath the song.
I find my way to the desk behind her, intrigued as I sit and let my satchel rest beside me on the dark wood. “Oh? About what?”
“Why your friend called me your sugar glider. What does that even mean?”
A laugh spills from my lips. “I was hoping you’d forget that.”
“I’m waiting.” Her fingers soar across the keys, picking up pace, dancing into a new tune. She doesn’t evenhavesheet music today. “I better not be the butt of your inside joke, or I’m going to have to seriously reconsider my opinion of you.”
Her opinion of me is something I am suddenly quite interested in. “What is it presently?”
“What is what presently?”
“Your opinion of me.” I lift my hand to my chin in a casual sort of ponder while the music turns off, and she whirls around to face me.
As that gentle blush rises to her cheeks, she states, “I asked my questions first.”
“But what if my answer changes yours?”
“Then all the more reason for me not to provide you with an incomplete assessment.”
I watch her, unable to hold back my smile. Finally, I say, “You stopped playing. Don’t you know I come here to listen to you play?”
Calypso takes a breath and holds it, giving me her back once more. Her braids swing, but she doesn’t play a note. “I don’trecall when you became my private audience.”
“It was last Friday,” I remind.
“Ah.”
“I’m still waiting on an answer.”
“Funny.” There’s a touch of humor in her tone. “So am I.”
A battle of will won’t end well for me against a girl who can go from adamantly shy to belting a song about being brave in front of her entire class at the drop of a dime.
Folding my arms, I taunt, “I promise to answer your question after you answer mine. Otherwise, neither of us may ever know.”
“Bargaining is a good color on you,Alexander.” Her fingers return to the keys. “Very well. Here’s my opinion of you.” A symphony erupts at her beckoning, an array of notes coming together in a way that’s bright and distant. It touches the edges of wonder then pulls back too soon. The song has an odd note every so often and delves into something obnoxiously refined before landing surely in between calm and chaotic.
It doesn’t last more than thirty seconds.
But I’ve heard every detail I need to.
