It seemed almost absurd. Yet I was ready to grasp at the most fragile straws. For as I stood in my bedroom listening to my father’s late-night shower, recalling the desire I’d still felt in the wake of my nightmare, and considering the increasing number of things that I couldn’t—or perhaps wouldn’t—remember, I was convinced suddenly that if salvation didn’t lie within a box I hadn’t even seen yet, I was doomed.
Chapter 12
Jill
I MOVED MY EASEL closer to the living room window, trying to catch what was left of the daylight. I was kind of stalling, too. The self-portrait that I was trying to paint was the year’s biggest assignment and would count for almost 20 percent of my grade.
Holding up my junior year school picture, which I was using as my model, I stepped back, assessing the canvas from a different angle, comparing it to the photo. What was wrong with my face as I’d painted it? Was it my smile? My eyes?
My art teacher, Miss Lampley, agreed that something wasn’t right. “As always, your work is technically accurate,” she’d mused, standing next to me in the classroom, tapping her index finger against her cheek. “And yet you’re not capturing the essence of Jill Jekel. There’s something missing.”
I looked into my eyes rendered in oil paint. I’d worked hard to recreate their tricky green-brown color, even though I didn’t like it. But getting the color right hadn’t been enough.
What was my “essence”?
With a frustrated sigh, I started to clip the photo to the canvas—but dropped it when my hand jerked at the unexpected sound of a loud knock at the front door.
I spun toward the foyer, surprised and more than a little on guard.
Don’t answer it, I told myself. It was getting dark outside, and I’d promised Mom. No unauthorized visitors while she was at work.
The knock came again, though, louder, and I crept to the foyer, thinking I should check the dead bolt just to make sure it was locked. But as I reached out to spin the latch, the person on the porch called, “Jill? Are you there?”
I hesitated another second at the sound of the familiar voice. “No visitors” definitely meant “no boys.”
“Jill, I know you’re there. I heard you,” he said. “So just open up, huh?”
What could I do at that point but listen not to Mom but to Tristen Hyde, who stood on the porch, messenger bag slung over his shoulder, arms crossed, waiting? I stared up at his tall, imposing silhouette. “Um, I’m not supposed to have—”
But Tristen stepped over the threshold, announcing, “I’ve reconsidered the contest, Jill. I think we should do it.” Although I still sort of blocked his way, he sidestepped me and strode into the living room. “Let’s talk.”
“Tristen, wait.” I trailed after him. “My mom’s not home and . . .”
But Tristen was oblivious to my concerns, maybe because his attention had been caught by something in the living room.
At first I thought he was looking at my painting, and my heart sank. “I’m still working on that,” I blurted, defending my art against criticism that hadn’t even been offered yet. “I know there’s something wrong with the expression!”
But when Tristen turned to face me, I realized that he wasn’t looking at my portrait. Instead he pointed past the easel toward a far corner of the room and asked, with a hint of eagerness in his voice, “Jill—is that what I think it is?”
Chapter 13
Jill
EVEN THOUGH I wanted to talk about the contest and in spite of the fact that I told Tristen our old piano was out of tune, he couldn’t seem to keep himself from moving toward it, walking right past my easel without seeming even to notice my painting. It was almost like he was drawn to the instrument, which Mom and I used as a catchall for all kinds of junk.
“This is a vintage Steinway, Jill,” he said, ditching his messenger bag on the floor and moving a stack of magazines off the bench.
“Is that good?” I asked, following him. As I passed the easel, I turned it so the portrait faced the wall, hiding my work.
“Oh yes.” Tristen lifted a lid to reveal keys that hadn’t seen light in years. “I have a Steinway at home. A baby grand. But there’s something about these antiques . . .”
He looked to me, questioning, one finger already tapping a key. “Do you mind?”
“No,” I said, sort of forgetting about Mom’s rules as I recalled the beautiful song I’d heard on my computer. “I’d like to hear you play again.”
Tristen arched his eyebrows. “Again?”
My face got hot as I realized my mistake. “I heard you play on your MySpace page,” I admitted.
“Really?” A hint of a smile crossed his lips. The same smile I’d seen on the first day of school in Mr. Messerschmidt’s class, when Tristen thought I’d been checking him out. “You did?”
“I . . . I mean, Becca was surfing around and found your page,” I backtracked, cheeks getting warmer.
“Ah, yes. Becca.” His smile faded, and he turned away from me, facing the piano.
I remembered suddenly what Becca had said about seeing Tristen over the summer. The story she hadn’t finished. What had happened between them?
“Well, let’s see how this neglected instrument performs,” Tristen said, changing the subject, stepping over the bench and taking a seat.
I stood in the middle of the room, an awkward audience of one, waiting to hear Tristen make the beautiful music I’d heard before. But what I didn’t expect was the way Tristen himself seemed to transform before my eyes.
He closed his eyes and poised his hands over the keyboard, fingers arched high, assuming a position that was obviously familiar to him. And when he actually played, his fingers lightly striking the keys, creating a sweet, soft melody like he was greeting the piano, making friends, right away I knew that I was watching somebody special doing something that was like . . . magic.
The
