“Heard of him,” I muttered.
“Anyone in the music business has. He’s given vocal lessons to some of the most famous musicians in the world. Very prestigious. And he happened to be only an hour away. I was ecstatic.”
“They figured music was just a phase, huh?”
She shrugged. “Probably. We were pretty well off, so they could afford it, but still, it was superexpensive. I remember hearing them argue about it, one night. My dad was like, I could buy a Corvette for what I’m paying that guy, but Mom reminded him that I was so happy, that I’d been serious about this for two years, blah, blah, blah. So, I was thirteen—the same age as Taylor when she got discovered, and I figured I had it made. If she could do it, I could do it, too.” A pause. “The first lesson was amazing. He had me sing a bunch of songs and play the guitar for him, and was like, oh yes, you have a natural gift. I can work with you and help you. If he didn’t think you had the talent, he’d tell your parents it wasn’t worth his time or their money. Lessons with him were ultraexclusive. So, because I had the talent, the lessons began. I had a second lesson, then a third, and soon a month had gone by. Mom would drive me down to New York for my lesson each week and after that first month I really felt I was learning a lot. I practiced all the time at home, and I just loved it.”
I said nothing as she paused again. Summoning her courage.
“Shit, this is hard.” She propped her foot on the chair and picked old flaking toenail polish off her toes. “He gave lessons out of his house, a walk-up brownstone. He had a formal waiting room right off the front door; you know how those old brownstones were built—sitting room on one side and dining room on the other, kitchen behind, and bedrooms upstairs. Well, the sitting room was his waiting room. It had dark brown floors polished so you could see your reflection in them. Busts of famous composers sat on the mantel of the fireplace. There was a giant cage with a blue-and-gold macaw in it—Bob Dylan was its name. Antique furniture, the kind that’s impossible to sit on. Across the hall from the front door was the music room—what in most houses of the type was the dining room. He had a full grand piano in there, several guitars, a harpsichord, and an accordion. He could play like ten instruments, and taught them all. A rare musical genius, I guess. There were window seats in the sitting room and music room, with gauzy white lace curtains. The place seemed like it hadn’t changed in a hundred years, or more. Even the electrical outlets were old. So, I’d sit in the waiting room and wait for my lesson as the previous student finished. Sometimes, there wouldn’t be anyone there, and I’d start right away, other times I’d have to wait twenty minutes or more for my lesson. I had to be on time, but the lessons always started when he felt like it. If a student needed extra drills on something, he’d drill them until they got it right, and everyone else’s lesson would be thrown off schedule. It used to drive my mom crazy.”
Lexie was silent for a few minutes and I knew she was working up to the real story.
“I didn’t notice this until much, much later, but within a month or so of beginning lessons with him, he never scheduled anyone right before or after me. I’d walk in and he’d be ready for our lesson. Our time would be over, and Mom might be running late, and we’d play a song together or just talk. He was easy to talk to, Mr. Henley.” I heard her swallow. “Six months went by. I was getting really, really good. I could play some pretty advanced classical pieces on the guitar, and some modern stuff. My voice was getting stronger, and my technique and breathing and all that, my throat voice instead of my head voice. And…and one day, I had to pee during our lesson. That was a big no-no. Students weren’t allowed any distractions. I held it as long as I could, but I had to go. So he let me—and the only bathrooms were upstairs. He told me the best bathroom to use was in his bedroom. I just had to pee, so I didn’t think about it. When I came out, he was in the bedroom and the door was closed.”
My heart clenched. “Fuck.”
Her voice was tiny and soft—like the girl she’d been. “I wasn’t sure what was going on or what he was doing. But he was there, and in front of the door, and said maybe the lesson could wait. He had something else he wanted to show me. He said—he said I was a special student, and…and there were things we could do that would help him teach me even better. I was wearing a little skirt, knee-length, denim. A T-shirt. Nothing special, nothing revealing. I’d never even held a boy’s hand. He…he put his hand under my skirt and touched me over my underwear. I didn’t know what to do. I was too scared and confused to speak, and he was so close all I could smell was his cologne and his wool sweater. He touched me, and I said nothing, did nothing. And…and then he put his finger inside me. And I could
