The View from the Top (2 page)

“Fine!” he yelled after her as she sprinted for the stairs. “If that's how you want to be when we only have three months left in the same town!” But she kept running-past the kitchen, where the most notoriously out-of-tune Player was whining about her love life to Matt's mom. And past the living room, where Lexi was standing on the coffee table leading the rest of the group in a rendition of
Cabaret's
“Telephone Song.” Normally, this song would've made Anabelle laugh because down in the pit, Tobin Wood, the cellist, always lip-synched along when the Players attempted German accents. But Tobin wasn't here now—he never came to cast parties—and the accents only grated on her.

Anabelle hoped Lexi didn't notice her running past. Or, well, maybe part of her hoped that she did. That Lexi would ditch the party to comfort her. After all, Lexi was always telling Anabelle that she was her best friend. And isn't that what best friends did? Put helping each other over everything else?

By the time Anabelle got to the basement, she realized her hand was still all balled up. She spread her fingers, revealing four crescent-moon indentations along the bottom of her palm where her nails had been digging in.

The little upright piano looked out of place amid the sprawling wires, amps, and electric guitars. Matt was in something like four bands, but they rarely rehearsed. That was fine with Anabelle; it meant she could practice here, too.

She settled into the cushiony bench and positioned her hands on the keys, ready to drown out the singing upstairs. She had just figured out by ear a solo version of “'Round Midnight,” and as she played it she tried to hit the notes exactly like Thelonious Monk did in the recording. She savored each chord, the strange harmonies dissolving together like ice cubes in hot coffee. This piano had the most amazing sound: it was woody and warm and reminded her of what it felt like to have all her clothes smell like camp-fire. She didn't even mind that it was a little out of tune; the subtle warble gave it an old-timey feel. And that key with no top, the second-to-lowest C, helped her navigate the bottom register of the keyboard. The exposed rectangle of wood stood out like a missing tooth.

Playing this piece, she didn't have to think about Matt telling her what was wrong with her, telling her that she didn't hang out with his friends enough, or that when she did hang out with them, she was too quiet and kept him from being the outgoing guy he wanted to be. She didn't have to think about how to convince him that if he would just chill out, things would be fine next year, that they could totally handle a long-distance relationship. Right now, all that existed were trickling whole-tone scales, rhythmic bass notes, beats of silence that made her want to hold her breath—and, of course, if her interpretation was to sound authentically Monk, dissonant intervals.

When she hammered into those just right, she swore she could feel the backs of her eyeballs vibrate.

She'd gone through the piece probably nine times—no, maybe more like eleven or twelve?—when someone slid in beside her on the bench. Her hands slammed down on the keys, making a strange chord that could've easily fit in in a Monk tune.

She figured it was Matt coming to make up. But when she turned she saw that the bearded guy beside her was a rusty redhead, not a brunette. Actually, he wasn't all that bearded either. Just pleasantly scruffy.

“You bop when you play,” Jonah said, smiling the crooked half smile that always made Anabelle's ears warm.

She shrugged and pressed her foot nervously up and down on the sustain pedal.

“Keep playing,” he said. “I liked it.”

“Well, I can't with you sitting right here,” she told him, tapping the pedal faster.

Jonah was on the lighting crew for the show and, like Anabelle, he was decked out in all black. The fabric of his faded black jeans butted up against the baggy dress pants she'd borrowed from her mom. Anabelle knew she should probably scoot away from him. She took her foot off the pedal but for some dumb reason kept her leg where it was.

“You okay?” Jonah asked.

“Yeah, what do you mean?”
You should really move,
Anabelle told herself. If Matt came down here and saw them, he'd freak.

“Matt's sulking in his room,” Jonah said. “Smoking weed by himself.”

“Aren't there, like, a ton of girls up there for you to hit on?” she asked, pointing at the ceiling. The sing-along seemed to have stopped and was replaced by a general party din peppered with occasional shrieks of laughter.

Jonah shoved her teasingly. “You think I'm way more of a player than I actually am,” he said. “I mean, I'm definitely not a
Player
. But I'm also not a player.”

“Riiiight.”

“Seriously. I'd way rather be hanging out down here with a girl who's totally taken than a bunch of semidrunk girls in fishnets and leather.”

“You like the costumes, admit it.”

“Well, yeah, they do look good on some people. But their makeup is way overdone.”

Anabelle knew exactly which girls Jonah would think looked good in those getups. They were the same ones he gave his trying-not-to-look-like-I'm-staring stare when they wore low-cut tops and tight jeans. Stuff she could never pull off.

Jonah gently hit a high B-flat with his pinkie, then started walking his fingers down the keyboard in half steps. “I can talk to him if you want,” he said.

She knew by his somber tone that he meant Matt. But she pretended she didn't. “Talk to who?”

“Your boyfriend,” he answered in a tone that said,
Don't play dumb.

But still, she did. “About what?” she asked as innocently as possible.

His thumb hit middle C. “Tell him he's being a dick.”

The thought of Jonah defending her was kind of exciting. But she knew it would only cause trouble. “What do you mean?”

He gave her an “Oh, please” look.

“I mean, yeah, things are a little weird,” she conceded. “But I can handle it.”

Jonah's fingers crept into the lower register. He leaned over her lap, playing every note until he reached the missing-tooth key. When he hit that one, he looked up at her and raised an eyebrow. Did that mean something? No, she told herself.
Of course it didn't.
And even if it did, it wouldn't matter. She was with Matt. She would be with Matt forever.

Still, she couldn't help feeling let down when Jonah took his hand off the piano and sat back up.

“I've gotta ask you something,” he said. “Something personal.”

“Yeah, okay.” Anabelle had this uncomfortable sense that he was about to ask her something that would throw her relationship with Matt into turmoil.

“Matt's my best friend and all,” he said, “but I keep wondering...”

Oh God, was he hitting on her?

“... why do you stay with him? Why don't you just dump him? I mean, you're leaving. Going far, far away. And there'll be plenty of cool guys at Oberlin, I'm sure.”

Not a come-on. Anabelle was surprised by how disappointed she was that the question hadn't been something like “Why wasn't it you and me instead?” or “Haven't you always felt like there was something between us?” She'd heard stories about seniors confessing their secret love for each other at the end of the year and she couldn't help but wonder if that might happen with her and Jonah.

“Sorry,” Jonah said. “It's none of my business.”

“No, no,” she said. “I get what you're saying. But I don't know. It's like this. Matt's the first boy who ever wanted to date me. And I can't imagine being with anyone else. Or, at least, I can't picture another guy falling for me like he did.”

“If you were single, the guys would flock,” Jonah said. “They'd be all over you.”

Wait, did he mean
he
would? Anabelle wanted to find out. She wanted to be able to get herself to return that longing—was it longing?—look he was giving her. She wanted the awkward silence to continue. But instead she started talking a mile a minute, not really sure what was going to come out. “I fell in love with Matt,” she blathered, “because he seemed like the saddest person in the world. He wrote me a poem. And he drew a face on the bottom. It was like this egg head with a frown. And somehow that piece of paper, with the drawing and the poem, it was pure sorrow. I've never seen anyone our age capture sadness so perfectly. For some reason, that was irresistible to me. I guess it still is.”

Jonah got an amused smile on his face that just grew and grew.

“What's that look for?” Man, why did she just tell him all of that?

“No, it's just, I never pegged you as a sucker for a sad sack. You seem so happy-go-lucky.”

Anabelle wasn't sure if she should take that as a compliment or an insult. “Happy-go-lucky” made her think of a girl in pigtails licking a giant lollipop, running around with a duck-shaped floatie around her waist.

“Hey,” he said, nudging her leg with his.

“What?”

His irises glowed yellowish like that tiger's-eye stone she had when she was a kid. “Stay out of my dreams,” he said, suddenly serious.

“Stay out of what?”

“My dreams.”

Maybe this really was going in
that
direction. “You dreamed about me?”

“You're quick.”

“What'd you dream?”

“If you think I'm telling you, you're out of your mind.”

“Okay, I'm out of my mind.”

“I never should've brought it up.” Now
his
foot was tapping the sustain pedal. The piano shook slightly every time he pressed down on it.

“But you did,” she said, wiping her sweaty palms on her pants. “You must want to tell me.”

“Trust me, I don't.”

“If you're trying to make me beg, I'm not gonna.”

“Good. I don't want you to.”

Anabelle felt her heart rate rising as Jonah increased the speed of his foot tapping. She grabbed his knee. “You're driving me crazy,” she told him.

His foot froze.

“Please tell me,” she said, her hand still clutching his knee.

“No,” he insisted.

“Why not?”

“Because,” he said. “It was disturbing.”

Anabelle didn't get to hear exactly what was so disturbing because just as she was about to ask, there were footsteps running down the basement stairs. Footsteps too light to be Matt's. Still, she jumped up off the piano bench, trying to breathe deeply to stop the redness that she was sure was rushing to her face.

And then there was humming—a girl's voice humming “Don't Tell Mama,” another hit from
Cabaret
. Thank God, it was just Lexi. She pranced into the basement doing her dance routine, her high blond ponytail bouncing with each fishnet-legged kick. When she saw Anabelle and Jonah, she halted, her arm midair. “Um, am I, like, interrupting something?” she asked.

“No, of course not,” Anabelle said, rushing up to Lexi. “I was actually just about to come find you. I haven't seen you all night!” She plopped down on the threadbare carpeted steps and pulled Lexi into the spot next to her.

“Where's my brother?” Lexi asked, still looking suspicious. Her vinyl bustier creaked with every movement.

“In his room,” Jonah answered quickly, swinging around on the piano bench to face them. “Probably passed out by now.”

“Good,” Lexi said. “I'm not in the mood for his mopeyness right now. It's enough to have to deal with the play being over. It's like giving up your baby for adoption. Only worse, because there's no chance you'll ever get to see it again. Plus, I can't believe how many seniors there are. Way more than last year. We're losing like half our actors.”