Eternal Heat (Firework Girls #3) (6 page)

“What’s this?”

The voice that booms out in the living room is so deep and loud and carries so well it brings everything to a halt. My hands flinch off the keys and I look up to see Erik’s dad standing in the entryway to the living room, frowning at us.

Erik’s hand leaves my back and he puts his hands on his lap.

“Hi, Dad,” he says calmly. Like, crazy calm. I feel like I’ve been caught doing something horrible and cringe to think what would’ve happened if his dad had walked in ten minutes ago. My mind fumbles around trying to get a grasp on things. I vaguely wonder if it’s past dinner time or something, but it’s still light out and I know it’s maybe only five o’clock. I’ve been seeing Erik for almost two months now and his dad has never been home this early.

“This is my friend, Ashley,” Erik says in the same calm voice.

I smile and offer a weak, “Hello.”

Erik’s dad is still frowning at us.

“She’s a piano student too,” Erik says. “We’re just practicing.”

His dad offers a stiff, formal “Hello” that has ‘prosecuting attorney’ written all over it. He’s not frowning any more but he doesn’t exactly look friendly either. He comes into the living room and sits down on the big, fluffy armchair, still scrutinizing me. He pulls one ankle onto his opposite knee and settles into a position of authority. His dress shoe is a hard leather and shiny. And expensive looking. I’m in old jeans and a tee shirt. “Do you go to the Academy, Ashley?”

“No,” I say too soft.

“What’s that?” he says. Man alive, this guy has an intimidating voice.

“She goes to the high school, Dad,” Erik says.

Mr. Williams looks at Erik. “How’d you meet?”

“She lives in the area,” Erik says vaguely, but this only brings Mr. Williams’ gaze back to me.

“In Stonehaven?” he asks.

I find my voice then. I refuse to be ashamed of where I live. “No, in Brookside,” I say strongly.

“We met on the Greenbelt,” Erik says, “and found out we both play. We’ve been practicing together some.”

Mr. Williams looks at Erik. He seems composed, but I see a sharpness in his eyes.

“Just a few times,” Erik adds.

“Well, it’s nice to meet you, Ashley,” he says, though it hasn’t felt nice at all, “but it’s probably time to get on home.”

“Okay,” I say, getting off the bench and avoiding his eyes. I go to the couch to get my bag and feel like I’m intruding on his space even more. I slip on my Keds as unobtrusively as possible.

“I’ll walk you out,” Erik says and I give him a grateful look.

“She can see herself out,” his dad says authoritatively. “You need to go up and change for the banquet. Your mother will be home any minute and she’ll expect you to be ready to go.”

There’s a dawning look on Erik’s face and I realize he remembers now why his dad is home. He gives me an apologetic look and heads for the stairs.

“Nice to meet you,” I say to Erik’s dad as I leave, but he doesn’t reply. It’s possible I said it too softly for him to hear. It’s also possible he heard me just fine.

I step onto Erik’s back patio and cross his yard, feeling like I’m sneaking away from the scene of a crime. By the time I get to the Greenbelt, my hands are shaking. I hustle along, my legs feeling weak.

Well
that
was fun. God.

My phone dings and I pull it out to see a text from Erik:
I’m so sorry.

I stop on the Greenbelt and take a deep breath. I text him back:
I don’t think he likes me.

Erik:
That’s just how he is. Don’t take it personally.

I take another deep breath. A jogger is coming down the path so I step to the side to make room. I’m not shaking any more, but I’m really not sure what to think about what just happened.

Erik again:
Really. I told you before, he comes across hard at first.

Even after everything Erik’s told me about his dad, I’m still a little stunned. I mean, I know his parents aren’t exactly the warm and fuzzy type, but still. My parents would never be so rude to someone in their home.

Then again...

I think about how my dad might react if he came home to find me with a strange boy, never mind if he found us doing something indiscreet. I don’t know that
politeness
would necessarily be my dad’s first priority.

Maybe I shouldn’t judge Erik’s dad too harshly.

Me:
Okay.

Erik:
That’s my dad. It’s not me.

Me:
So says Michael Corleone
.

Erik:
Who?

Me:
Haven’t you ever seen The Godfather?

Erik:
No.

Me:
We really need to get you up to speed.

Even though I’m still pretty shaken by my encounter with his father, it’s helping me to keep things light. Besides, I don’t want Erik to think I’m mad at him. He didn’t do anything wrong.

Erik:
Something to look forward to. :)

I smile.

Erik:
Gotta get ready.

Me:
K. Talk to you later.

I spend the evening lounging in the living room with my parents, instead of hanging out in my room like I might normally have done. It’s a pretty uneventful night. My mom’s reading, lifting her head from time to time to watch the news with my dad. I don’t say much, but I’m comforted just being there and letting things feel normal for a while.

I consider talking to my mom about stuff. She’s always been my confidant, but this is different. I don’t want to talk to her about how physical things are getting with Erik. It’s too private. I don’t want to talk about what happened with Erik’s dad, because then I’d have to fess up about how often we’re there alone. Hell, we’re
always
there alone.

Not for the first time, I think about what it must be like for Erik to be there by himself so much. My parents aren’t necessarily
doing
anything for me right now, but they’re here
.
It makes me sad to think how little of that Erik gets.

After dinner, I finally retreat to my room to do the bit of homework I have for history. Sitting cross-legged on my bed, I pull my binder out of my backpack. It’s then that I find a piece of paper I’ve never seen before. It’s an application for Music Fest.

I grab my phone and send off a text:
When did you put this in my bag?

He responds immediately:
When you went to the bathroom.

Me:
Sneaky brat.

Erik:
:) Fill it out.

I don’t respond. Part of me knows he’s right about all this. I say I’d love to be a pianist, but how can I do that if I never find the courage to get up on a stage?

Erik:
Please
.

I still don’t respond. I put down my phone and fiddle with the end of my braid, staring at the application. Maybe I do just need to try it. Even if I don’t do well, it’ll help me get over my fear of playing in public. If that’s all I accomplish, well, that’s something at least. Right?

Erik:
For me.

I sigh and grab my phone.

Me:
No. But I’ll do it for me.

Over the next week, Erik and I focus most of our energy on practicing for Music Fest. We cool our jets a bit in the making-out department, and I ask him frequently when his parents will be home to be sure he isn’t forgetting about anything. The last thing either one of us wants is another unpleasant surprise.

But by the time Music Fest rolls around, my bra gets undone with regularity and I’ve forgotten to be nervous about his dad. Instead I’m giving 100% of my nerves to the competition.

“Performance,” Erik corrects me, whenever I refer to it as a competition.

It
is
a competition, but for new players, like me, the focus is supposed to be on getting experience performing in a setting that’s more formal than teachers’ recitals tend to be. Not that I know anything about that either.

I don’t tell my parents about any of this, for a couple of reasons. One, it’ll just make the whole thing that much more scary. If they don’t know, then it’s not a big deal. It’s almost like playing just for Erik.

At least, that’s what I keep trying to tell myself to get over my nerves.

The second reason I don’t tell them is for less honorable reasons: Erik’s parents will be there. Of course, the one thing they take an interest in without fail is his “music career.” That’s how Erik and his parents talk about it: his music career.

Whereas I’m just a girl who’s screwing around, in the end.

But if my parents go and see Erik, they’ll want to talk to his parents and who knows what will get said. They think I see his folks all the time. They think Erik’s parents must be delightful people, since he’s “such a sweet boy”—my mom’s words. My mom has been pestering us about meeting his folks. The longer this goes on, the worse I feel about sneaking around. But Erik and I are enjoying our freedom too much to willingly give it up.

When the big day arrives, Erik picks me up and drives me to the big church downtown where Music Fest will be taking place. We’re there early for the preliminaries. Since I knew his parents wouldn’t arrive until closer to start time, I didn’t give the preliminaries much thought.

That was before I had to go into a little room and play in front of a panel of judges all by myself. I don’t realize until after they announce who’s going forward to the Honors Recital that I understand what the preliminaries were all about.

It seems so obvious in hindsight, and only demonstrates how out of my league I am. Yet, here I am, sitting with Erik in the rows of the nave reserved for the final performers. There’s only two steps leading up to the front part of the church, the stage area. A rather intimidating black grand sits in the center. I’m distracting myself with the church’s interior architecture and wondering how old the building is, because they don’t make churches like this anymore.

Erik’s keeping an eye out for his parents, and goes to say hello when he sees them arrive. I stay put. We both know the day is coming that he needs to introduce me to them more formally, but today is not that day. Some other time we’ll let them know Erik and I have moved beyond the “friend” stage they think we’re in. I have enough going on to make me nervous without worrying about that.

I’m curling the ends of my hair around and around my finger. I’ve styled the hair on top in a braided crown with a slender braid that hangs down the back, but the rest of my hair is loose and wavy and kind of in the way. I’m wearing an orange summer skirt that looks fancier with the white heels I swiped from my mom’s closet, and a plain white top. I’m pretty sure it’s too late in the year for these light colors, but it was the best I could do. We don’t have a whole lot of dress-wearing occasions in the Morrison household.

When Erik rejoins me, he takes my hand and exclaims, “Hey, look at what you’re doing to your finger!”

He unwraps my hair to reveal deep red marks around my left index finger.

“Keep that up and you’ll cut off the circulation and won’t be able to play.”

“A valid excuse,” I say, considering.

He takes my hand firmly in his. “You’ll be fine.”

I’d protest about him holding my hand knowing his parents are here, but I also know they can’t see our hands from where they are. Besides, holding his hand is helping.

“Just remember to smile, bow, and don’t look at the audience directly,” he instructs me. He’s already told me the trick to making it seem like you’re looking at an audience even when you’re not. You look just above the head of the person in the last row. That way, you don’t have to see them looking back at you with expressions that say,
We think you’re a big idiot
.

Which is exactly how I feel right now. How did I let him talk me into this?

I look around at the other performers. They’re all different ages, and all wearing their Sunday best. Some of the male performers have button-down shirts and ties but a few, Erik included, are wearing suit coats.

That’s something I didn’t know about Erik before today: he’s impossibly handsome in a suit coat. I wish we could skip the whole thing and just go make out somewhere, but since that’s not an option...

“Hey, cut that out,” he says softly, pulling my hand down from my mouth.

I didn’t realize I’d started chewing on the end of my hair. Good lord, I haven’t done that since I was a kid. I take a deep breath. I need to pull myself together.

“Ashley.” His soft but firm tone draws my eyes to him. “You know your piece. Just play what you know.”

“Okay,” I say nodding. I take another deep breath and force myself to settle my nerves. I’m in this now, I may as well try to get through it the best that I can.

I scan the program again. Erik is about a quarter of the way down the list. I’m about a third of the way from the end. A thin man with balding hair but a distinguished presence goes up on the stage to welcome the audience and performers. After a surprisingly long acknowledgement of sponsors and helpers, the first performer is introduced and away we go.

There’s no getting out now.

The first player is an adorable little girl I’d noticed during the preliminaries. She’s wearing a pink poufy dress and a big bow in her hair. She can’t be more than nine. She plays a surprisingly simple rendition and the audience claps when she’s done. I don’t know why I was expecting something more, but then, she’s only nine.

The next performer is young, too, around twelve I’d guess, and he plays a more complicated number, but I suppose he’s still showing his age. The third pianist looks to be closer to our age, and I straighten in my seat expectantly. It’s time to hear what the people my own age can do. His piece is certainly the most complex I’ve heard yet, but not near as complicated as I would have expected. Okay. So maybe I’m not the only seventeen-year-old beginner here after all.

The player right before Erik is also our age, and plays a piece closer to the complexity I expected to hear going into this. It’s at least as complicated as the pieces we’re playing, and truly sounds lovely. When he finishes, I lean over to Erik during the applause and whisper, “He’s not as good as you.”

Erik gives me a self-effacing grin, but it’s true. I think he probably knows it. He’s more than once accused me of not knowing my own talents, but whether that’s true or not, I could never make the same accusation to Erik. His ear is too good for him to have any doubts about the quality of the music he creates.

It’s his turn at last, and as he gets on stage and settles in, I feel a swoop of nerves on his behalf. When he begins to play, I’m reminded of the first time I spied him through the windows of his house. He sounds brilliant, as he always does, but viewing him on stage adds an aura to the magic, just like watching him from afar did that day.

After listening to the other performers, and now listening to him, I know for certain what I’ve long suspected: Erik is in a class all his own.

Far, far above the rest of us.

It’s the thing I love best about him.

When he finishes I leap to my feet, clapping enthusiastically. I’m not the only one. The audience rises in spurts. Maybe we’re not supposed to give standing ovations at competitions, but I don’t care. He faces the audience with a handsome smile, bows elegantly, and leaves a stage that feels far, far too small for the music he just played.

When he joins me, he’s just Erik again, but that aura of greatness is still lingering about a bit. I’m in awe of him and want to give him a kiss right here in front of everybody, but I settle for smiling at him and saying, “That was fantastic!”

He smiles and takes my hand in his, giving it a squeeze.

As the program marches on—ever closer to my own name on the page—my nerves are growing, but I’m a little distracted by what I’m hearing. With only a few exceptions, the pianists our age aren’t playing pieces nearly as advanced as what Erik and I chose.

After the latest such performance, I lean into him and say, “These songs aren’t as hard as I thought they’d be.”

He looks at me, a half smile on his face. “You’re starting to see where you fit into the bigger picture, aren’t you?”

I look back to the stage. I don’t know about this. If I could’ve played a simpler piece I would have. I’m regretting playing something so complicated. Doesn’t that just give me more opportunities to mess up? Why did he pick this? He should’ve known I could get away with something less demanding.

But before I know it, the time for thinking and worrying is past. The man in charge calls my name with ringing finality.

“Good luck,” Erik whispers.

I rise from my seat, feeling like every eye in the house is on me. I climb the steps to the stage, but don’t remember until I’m almost all the way to the piano to hitch a smile on my face. I get to the bench and turn to face the audience. I fix my eyes on the back wall and bow.

I sit down and look at the keys. It’s the same as any other piano, when you get right down to it, but of course it’s not the same. The sight of the black and ivory doesn’t give me the same friendly feeling it usually does.

God. I just want to get this over with.

I just need to get through it,
I tell myself firmly
.
That’s what Erik’s been telling me. That’s all I have to do.

I put my hands on the keys and begin to play. I go measure to measure, watching my fingers as I go, and am kind of freaking out because I’m perfectly aware that I’m still here on the stage. I was counting on at least being able to slip down the rabbit hole and just lose myself in the music once I got started, but that’s not happening. I have to think about every chord. I’m aware of every eye. But I keep going, because what the hell else am I going to do?

A third of the way through my piece, the music starts to rise and it’s here that it finally, finally takes over. It’s not me sitting at a piano performing anymore. I’m not just going through the motions. The music knocks its way through my nerves at last and my will surrenders.

Ah, here it is,
I sigh as I allow the music to take me away. I escape the scrutiny of the audience gladly. This is my music now. It belongs to me. And I give it all the love and care it deserves.

I had doubted for a moment there, but now I know for sure: the music will always be there to save me.

I fly through the rest, carried on wings only I can see. When I finish, I smile at the keys. My old friends.

A burst of applause claps over me like thunder and I look up abruptly. I forget to look at the back wall and instead look right at a sea of faces. My eyes land on a woman with an emerald green scarf around her neck, and I see it on her face. She’s got that glow about her. She felt the music, just like I did.

How amazing,
I think, still taking in this unexpected development.

I smile, stand, and bow. I see another face that wears an expression of being touched by music. And another.

The applause follows me off the stage. I’m not required to smile anymore, but I can’t
stop
smiling.

Erik meets me and gives me an enthusiastic hug. “That was so great!” he says.

“That
was!”
I say, but I’m not talking about how I played. I’m talking about playing
up there.
In front of people. “I made them feel the music,” I say. “
I
did that!”

He laughs and nods, like he understands. Of course, he does. I feel like I’ve been let into some sort of exclusive club. I had no idea how good this would feel.

We settle back in our seats and even though my heart’s still pounding, my body starts to relax. It’s over. I did it. Erik takes my hand and I smile at him.

“Are you glad you came?” he asks.

I nod. “Thank you.”

He smiles. “Don’t thank me. You did it for you, remember?”

I grin. “I know, but I wouldn’t have done it without you.”

“Hmm,” he says with a devilish look, turning back to the stage and squeezing my hand. “On to the next.”

“What do you mean?”

The next performer starts to play and he puts his finger to his lips, still smiling.

When it comes time for the medallions to be presented to the winners, the emcee explains there are awards for each level.