Page 17 of Sins (The Sins Trilogy 1)
Half a beat later, he says, “I’m not certain.”
Jonas is lying through his teeth, even though his expression is placid and pleasant. He knows everything that happens under this roof.
I know it’s no use calling him on it. Time for a different tactic.
I start to play Schubert extra loud. When only one part is being played, I always find it a bit disturbing—like looking at an unglazed donut. If Tony’s in the house, he’s going to hear it and come down to perform the secondo.
After only a couple of minutes, Jonas appears and stops me, saying that Aunt Margot has a headache. Foiled, I go to the digital piano in the other room, put on a headset and practice Liszt’s Liebestraum instead.
Morning is normally my best time to work, but it’s hard to focus today. I keep thinking about what Tatiana said about the music—the poem that inspired one of the sweetest and most poignant compositions ever.
O love, as long as love you can,
O love, as long as love you may,
The time will come, the time will come
When you will stand at the grave and mourn!
I can recite the rest, both in English and the original German. Tatiana says the poem is about mature, unconditional love, but it makes me think of my parents from time to time, and today is just that kind of day.
I hug myself. I’ll never get to feel their arms around me or hear their voices again. And they were so young…
My parents’ untimely death taught me that counting on tomorrow for something you want to do today is a terrible idea. But at the same time… I cast a brief glance at the ceiling. It’s almost like Tony doesn’t want to see me. And it’s upsetting and puzzling.
I give up after a couple of hours. I’m not getting anything done when my head’s not in the right space. I go to the kitchen for an early lunch of a turkey sandwich and a glass of pink lemonade, which I devour methodically one bite at a time, sitting at the marble counter.
Studying music taught me that any problem can be solved, any skill acquired, as long as you break it down into manageable chunks. Nobody masters Chopin overnight. You do it one note, one chord at a time, until you have your phrasing down, your interpretation down, your tempo perfect. And the mystery of Tony is no different. I’m probably just fascinated by him because he’s tough to fathom—a challenge.
Yeah, right. It has absolutely nothing to do with how warm you were or how fast your heart was beating yesterday playing Schubert with him.
My phone buzzes on the countertop. It’s a text from Yuna, who wants to Skype. I move to one of the reading rooms on the first floor and close the door behind me.
Yuna’s small face fills the screen. Although we’re the same age, she doesn’t look a day over fifteen—large, wide-set eyes and a small, pert nose with a thin bridge. Her Cupid’s bow mouth is naturally red, arresting against her pale skin and jet-black hair. Her long mane was dyed auburn when she first came to Curtis, but she got tired of dealing with dark roots and let it return to its natural black. She refuses to expose her skin to the sun, so she’s always wearing long-sleeve tops, long pants and wide-brimmed hats together with vampire-level sunblock.
She and I are studying together with Tatiana, and there’s nothing we haven’t done in our attempt to “live” like Tatiana suggests, liberally interpreted to include sampling different types of scotch and watching porn in our two-bedroom apartment with a huge bowl of popcorn.
“You look great,” I say.
“You look free,” she says glumly. “My mom’s trying to fatten me up, but also telling me I gained weight in the States! You should come join me so I have someone to talk to and hide behind!”
I smother a laugh. The nonsensical ways Yuna and her mom argue and show love to each other never fail to make me warm inside, even though a small part is envious of their close relationship. What would it be like to have my mom alive? She’d probably text me at random times reminding me to eat, shower, sleep, don’t hang out with the wrong boys and so on. Like Yuna’s mom does.
“You know you like it when she fusses,” I say.
“It isn’t just fussing. It’s the whole showing off ‘my sweet little daughter who’s studying in America’ that’s driving me nuts. She took me to a party tonight, right? I was the only person there under forty. It was unbelievably dull, and I hated the way people asked me to play stuff they wanted to hear. I’m not a jukebox!”
I can’t blame her mom for being proud, but I’m Yuna’s best friend, so I owe her my support. “Shoulda asked them to feed you quarters.”
“We don’t use quarters in Korea, although asking for payment isn’t a bad idea. So how’s Louisiana? What are you working on?”
“Liszt’s Liebestraum at the moment. You?”
“Nothing! Haven’t touched a piano in two days, and I sound like dead dog poop.” She seethes visibly. “I wanted to work on ‘Mazeppa,’ but when can I find the time? Mom’s doing everything to show me on the social circuit. And Dad thinks if I get a boyfriend here, I won’t go back to Curtis.”
“Seriously? Who gives up Curtis for a boy?”
“I know, right?” Her face tightens with outrage. “But he never wanted me to go in the first place. He just got me the best teachers money could buy to humor me. He only let me audition at Curtis because he was sure I wouldn’t get in. And it was the only conservatory I could apply to, because my parents weren’t going to pay the tuition, not even a penny, and Curtis is the only place that teaches for free.”
