I set the cello down gently, watching as Steinberg finishes the piece, feeling every note as it fades into the woodwork. Even more than our house in the Haight, this is home to me, and I feel a physical tug inside from being away so long.
As if he can sense me in the room, Herr Steinberg turns and gives me a welcoming smile. I take my place in the empty chair next to him, eager to get back to the one thing in my life I can always depend on.
On our front porch, I shift the cello case to my other shoulder as I lean over to put my key in the lock. “Mom, I’m home!” I call out as the door swings open, taking my key with it and refusing to let go. I jiggle it in the rusty old lock until it finally surrenders, swearing at my parents for not wanting to change any of the original features of our drafty old Victorian house. Sure, the wavy glass windows are originals, but they leak like crazy, and sometimes we have to wear jackets indoors during the wintertime.
“Ma?” I call again, dropping my things by the doorway and heading into the empty kitchen. She knows I have a lesson today. Mom and Dad don’t let me give lessons unless somebody’s home, and if she forgot again I don’t know what I’ll tell Oscar’s parents.
I think about just grabbing the phone, but Dad hates it when I call him from downstairs. Swiping an apple from the bowl on the island, I trudge back through our front door, cross the porch, and let myself in his front door. “Dad?” I call up the stairs. After their divorce, Mom and Dad bought this duplex so that Kat and I wouldn’t have to shuttle between houses. He has the flat above ours, which means that right inside his front door are about a million stairs. Yelling is easier than climbing.
“In my office,” he calls down.
“Just wanted to tell you I’m home. I have a lesson in a few minutes.”
“Come up and give your old dad a hug,” he says, his head appearing over the upstairs railing. “I downloaded the photos from our trip. There’s some great stuff in there.”
“I really don’t have time,” I say. “How about I come up after dinner?”
His eyes look a little sad, but he manages a smile. “Okay. I’ll save dessert for you, so don’t forget.”
I shut his door behind me and walk back into our flat. I suppose that having him right upstairs from us is a lot better than having him in some faraway city, but I feel bad when he’s up there all by himself and we’re down here. Neither Mom or Dad has really dated much since the divorce—or at least I haven’t seen it—and I sometimes think I wouldn’t feel so guilty if Dad would at least get a steady girlfriend.
Kat isn’t home yet, but that’s not a surprise. She has an after-school job at a boutique on Union Street, and when she isn’t selling clothes, she’s out somewhere buying them. To her, our house in the Haight is slumming it, so she spends as much time as she can in the “better” neighborhoods. She’s going to fashion design school in September, which is just about killing Dad, who’s had visions of her going to Stanford since before she could talk.
Just as I toss the rest of my apple into the compost bin, our doorbell rings. I can see the watery shadows of Oscar and his mom through the glass in the front door.
“Hi, Mrs. Garcia,” I say, opening the door wide. “Hey, Oscar.”
Oscar pushes by me with barely a grunt, half dragging, half carrying his cello. This is going to be a very long lesson.
Oscar’s mom shakes her head. “I don’t know what I’m going to do with that boy,” she says. “He doesn’t appreciate all that we’re doing for him. Trying to broaden his horizons.” She perches on the wing chair that Mom has set up for parents, although it’s a lot easier for me when the chair is empty. If it’s just me and the student I can relax a little bit, maybe show them some things that might be more interesting than the classical fingerings and scales that their parents feel they’re paying for.
Mrs. Garcia puts her handbag in her lap and watches Oscar unpack his cello in the living room. I glance at her bag, hoping that she’ll get my telepathic message that it’s the first lesson of the month. Payday. I don’t mind teaching—sometimes it’s even fun—but I hate chasing the money. And it’s the parents with the most money that forget to pay me most often.
“Did you practice while I was gone?” I ask Oscar, getting my cello ready. These are things I have to ask while the parents are sitting within earshot. They like it that their kids are taught by an actual child prodigy, but they still expect me to act like a teacher.
He shrugs, which means he probably hasn’t touched it since he was here last. His bow bounces across the strings, making a grating sound that sets my teeth on edge. Some kids, no matter how much their parents want them to, are just never going to be into playing an instrument.
I set my cello against my shoulder and play a few bars of a song I’ve been trying to teach him for the past three lessons, and Oscar does his best to copy my motions. After twenty-eight excruciating minutes, I let him put the bow down and pack up the instrument. As he gathers up his things, his mom motions me over.
“I think he’s sounding so much better,” she gushes, making me wonder if she’s actually been sitting in the same room. “That last song was crisp and clear. You really have a gift—we were so lucky to get a place with you.”
I smile a tight smile and nod, because that’s what they want me to do. I hesitate before opening my mouth. “Um, Mrs. Garcia? It … um … it
She claps her hands together. “Oh, yes!” she says, and rummages through her bag. “I seem to have forgotten my checkbook.” She smiles up at me. “I’m sure you don’t mind if I bring a check next time.”
“Of course not,” I say, managing a tight smile. “No problem.” I mentally cross off those two new books I’d wanted to order from Books Inc.
Mom meets them at the door just as they’re leaving, causing a flurry of
“How was the lesson?” Mom asks over her shoulder as I follow her into the kitchen. She puts the bags down on the counter and I start poking through them.
“Fine,” I say. “Are there more in the car?”
“No,” she says. “This is it.”
I find one of my favorite protein bars at the bottom of a bag and unwrap it.
“Don’t eat too much,” Mom says. “I’m making dinner early because I have an online meeting.” She closes the fridge and pulls a note off the front. “Did you get this?”
“No,” I say, reaching for the scrap of paper.
“Well, I’m sorry,” she says. “I put it where I thought you would see it.”
“That’s so weird,” I say, glancing at the paper again. “I just saw her. In Peet’s.”
“When were you at Peet’s?”
“I wasn’t,” I say. “I was on the bus. Never mind. It’s not important.”
“Well, she’s coming around six.”
I look at the clock—she’s due here any minute. “You should have called me.”
“Sorry,” Mom says. “You know I’m not crazy about you spending all this time on lessons in any case. Especially if it’s going to cut into your schoolwork and your own practice time.”
“You guys won’t give me extra money, so what else am I supposed to do? It’s better than working at McDonalds,” I say. “Or at the O’Farrell Theater.” Kat actually knows someone who works as a topless dancer, and she really does make good money. We both know I’d rather die than take my clothes off in front of strangers, but still, point made.
“Don’t try to be funny,” she says. “We get you everything you need, and there’s nothing funny about you wasting your gift teaching untalented beginners how to mutilate a cello instead of taking extra classes at the conservatory like we’d planned.”
“Nothing funny about increasing my allowance,” I mutter, making sure I’m out of earshot first. Ever since I picked up a bow for the first time when I was four, the cello has been my destiny, and Mom hates anything that might interfere with that in the tiniest way. I sometimes wonder how different my life would be if we hadn’t gone to Aunt Karen’s house that day. Not really my aunt, but my mom’s best friend from college, Karen had an old cello sitting in her living room, and according to family legend, I climbed up on the chair, grabbed the bow, and started playing perfect notes right from the start. I’m not sure how much of that is actually true, but what is true is that
