“Do you have agirlfriend?”
He shook hishead.
“Then are you saying youdon’t want . . .” Her voice choked halfway, but she managed tocontinue, “You don’t want to go out with me?”
Her question was so directthat this time, it felt like he was the one who had taken a bullet.He looked away and said nothing.
Between them, the silencechurned, eventually broken by Tara’s SUV humming into a stop infront of them.
“I’ll take a cab,” saidCaleb.
“Don’t be silly.” Tarahopped off the pavement, avoiding his eyes. “I promised yourmom.”
During the ride home, therain finally fell.
Chapter 10: AscendingScales
Frederic Francois Chopindisliked having nicknames for his compositions. This was why hefrowned upon the alternate title, Raindrop, for his prelude, whichhe had christened Opus 28, Number 15.
Caleb learned this overthe weekend when he was surfing clips of pianists performing thepiece. One of the videos, shot in a large music hall that hadceiling-high drapes, featured a bespectacled, grim-faced mandelivering the anecdote of how Raindrop was composed.
According to him, Chopin,while battling with tuberculosis, had decided to take refuge in oneof the abandoned monasteries in Spain. With him was his lover,George Sand, a French female author, who had used a masculine penname to gain readership. Apparently, the 1800s might have been thegolden age for classical music, but not for genderequality.
Once, when Sand leftChopin to do some errands, she returned to find her lover in afevered state, playing a haunting melody on the piano. This was howChopin’s longest prelude came into being. Sand nicknamed itRaindrop because the music reminded her ofthunderstorms. Throughout centuries, the name had stuck, despiteits composer’s protests.
* * *
“That was a considerablybetter performance.”
At those words, Calebremembered to breathe.
“An improvement in termsof expression. I could see that you were feeling something while you played.”Sir Carreon continued, rewarding him with a rare smile. “You mademe feel it, too.”
Discreetly, Caleb pinchedthe soft skin under his arm. It hurt. He wasn’t dreaming. A nervoussmile broke across his face. “Thank you, sir.”
“I still felt yourhesitation in moments. You will need to work on that.” His teacherpaused, glancing at the ceiling as if searching for the rightwords. “Beethoven, Chopin, Mozart—they may have meticulously mappedout their compositions’ musical notations, but these are still opento your interpretation. You should allow yourself to be playful. Beopen to improvisation.” He held up three fingers, long and slimcandlesticks fit for a candelabra. “Remember these three things:courage, spontaneity and freedom. They are a musicians’ bestallies.”
It was the longest piece ofadvice his teacher had ever given. “Yes, sir. I’ll keep that inmind.”
“I expect an even betterperformance next time.” Sir Carreon got to his feet with the helpof his umbrella. “I suggest you revisit the Mozart piece you playedon our first meeting. In contrast toChopin’s prelude, Mozart’s TwelveVariations on Ah vous dirai-je,Maman are full of joy and playfulness. Asa musician, you must learn to express a whole range ofemotions.”
“Yes,sir,” Caleb hastily stood up, resisting the urge to snap his handinto a salute as his teacher went out the room. Exhausted, he sankback into his chair. He felt like he was a contestant on one ofthose reality TV shows that dished out one challenge afteranother.
At least Sir Carreonappreciated his performance. While rehearsing, Caleb had imaginedhis mom as a young girl listening to his lola play the piano. He saw his momwalking out the church after SimbangGabi, tiny hand clasped in her mother’s,watching the twinkling Christmas lights in awe.
But when he had played itfor Sir Carreon, what had seared into his mind was the image ofTara that night after the concert, her back turned to him as shelooked out the window smeared with rain. Guilt was the reason whyhe was able to play Chopin’s masterpiece withauthenticity.
Now he needed to muster upthe joy to perform Mozart’s piece. How the hell was he going to dothat? He took out his phone to text Ginny. Remembering that she wasat the Wordplay meeting, he canceled his message. Sighing, Calebhoisted his backpack on his shoulders, feeling as if it were theheaviest thing in the world.
Outside, he began to walktoward the waiting shed then stopped. He didn’t feel like goinghome yet.
Instead, his feet took himto the football field. It wasn’t as quiet as the last time he washere with Ginny. Today, there was a game. Against the sun’s dyinglight, Caleb squinted at the field. It looked like it was RedShirts versus . . .
He blinked once beforejerking his head away. The other team was shirtless.
The field exploded withshouts and cheers. Still, Caleb didn’t look. Instead, his eyesstrayed to a gaggle of girls at the fringe of the field, screamingtheir hearts out. As he watched them whisper among themselves whileeyeing the players, Caleb felt a twinge of envy.
Out of nowhere, SirCarreon’s words rang in his head. Courage,spontaneity, freedom. Be the musician—theperson—that took chances. Scenes flashed through his mind: Francoperforming in front of the crowd. Sir Carreon walking with his headhigh, the tip of his umbrella tapping the pavement. Ginny coloringher hair however she wanted. Tara looking at him in the eye andasking him without fear: You don’t want togo out with me?
Caleb walked toward anempty bench at the edge of the field. The sun felt warm on his backas he sat down. Heart pummeling in his chest, he forced himself tolook in front of him. Just this once, bespontaneous.
For a while, he watchedthe game without seeing it. It took a while for his muscles torelax, and when they did, Caleb allowed his gaze to rest on theplayers. On the muscled contours of their torsos and legs, on theirsweat-stained shirts and bodies. The weekend rain had softened theearth, causing mud to splatter on their clothes andskin.
Then Caleb gave himselfpermission to look at their faces—boyish, rugged, cropped hair,longish hair tied back in a ponytail. The self-consciousness beganto melt away, allowing him to enjoy the game. Soon, he was keepingtrack of the score, groaning over a lousy pass, cheering over agoal.
“Wait for me!”
Heads whirled toward thedirection of the frantic voice behind Caleb. Automatically, Caleb’shead swiveled, too. The guy who had
