The Book of Masks (Vol. 3)

The Piano Prodigy

Previously: "Possibilities That Surprise You" 

You wait almost twenty-four hours before telling Chelsea your decision. You want to be sure of it yourself. And, in truth, you're a little hesitant about what she'll think, for it seems like a goofball choice for goofball reasons.

But after an unhappy night practicing the viola, and getting no joy from it, you decide that this is something you do want. At least to try out. At least for a little while.

"I've picked my second," you tell her after school on Thursday, while you're up in the loft together.

Well, him. She's still in the Gary Chen mask, and you're wondering what if anything will dynamite her out of it. It's a little after five, and Chelsea's pet boyfriend has told his friends that he needs the loft, so you and Chelsea have it to yourselves. You're naked again, and spent, but Chen is still atop you and inside you, his frame trembling slightly as he burrows his teeth alternately into your neck and into the soft places just above your right breast. You clasp him more loosely, but squirm so as take his member in deeper and more firmly.

"Uh huh?" he mumbles. "Who?"

"Preston Spinks." You hold your breath.

It doesn't break his concentration, not for a moment, and he continues to kiss you. Twice, three times, five times, long and deep. Even when he raises his face, it's just long enough to speak before he plunges back down. "Spinks?"

"Uh huh."

Kiss. Kiss. "Kinda funny choice." Kiss. "How come?" Kiss. Kiss. Kiss. ...

"I wanna know what it's like to be musical."

Kiss. "You are musical. Isn't that you sitting next to me in Orchestra every day?" He puts his face in the crook of your neck and sighs.

"I mean, really musical. Like, Preston Spinks level. Boss level."

He snorts softly. "You really think it's that different for him?"

"I dunno. Shouldn't it be?"

"Why should it be different?" His voice is turning sleepy. "I can play'n ins'rumen'. Not a big deal."

You don't answer right away. You're searching for a metaphor or analogy.

You don't find one.

"Well, I'm not musical. I'm not, I mean. I don't play any instruments and I only listen to whatever I find online. It's gotta be different for someone like Preston."

"Howzit diff'rent for Yumi? She plays'n instrument."

"She scrapes her bow across one. Her parents make her play, the same way they make her study calculus and take AP classes. It's just a thing to do." You twist your head around to peer at your paramour, but you only see a lot of lank black hair. "What about you, Chelsea? Do you play an instrument?"

"Duzza kazoo count?" She's definitely losing consciousness, and Chen's body is starting to weigh heavily on you.

"No, and— Ungh!" You wriggle. "Can you pass out somewhere else please?"

With a groan he lifts up and pulls out and topples to the side. He smacks his mouth and scratches his scalp. "You can do whatever you like, babe." He yawns. "I just ain't fuckin' no Preston Spinks, is all."

"We don't know that he's gay. I don't, anyway. Does Chen know anything?"

"Stands to reason." He rubs his eye. "I know Charles likes to talk about him."

That could cause you to change your mind. "Does Charles say that he and Preston have—?"

"Nuh uh. I don't think Hartlein likes Spinks. Second hand, I hear he's always bad mouthing him. Prob'ly envy." His tone is turning soft and simpering. "Or he wants it bad from Preston and is pissed that Preston's giving it to some other guy in secret."

You're not interested in gossip. "Well, I want to try him out," you declare. "As a face."

You raise your hands and flex your fingers. "As a pair of hands," you add.

* * * * *

Your boyfriend doesn't argue any more even after he's awake and the two of you have moved on to eat dinner at the La Cocina Restaurant and Cantina. He's a little vexed, though, when you veto her plan for making the replacement. "It's how we got Gary," he points out.

"We can't do it that way," you insist. "The administration won't like it."

"So what? You'll be Spinks by then, and you'll come down from the loft and tell everyone you were fine with it and Gordon's one of your best friends."

"They won't let it get that far. Anyone sees Gordon with his mitts on Preston, and they'll stop it."

"What makes Spinks so special?"

You give him a look, and remind him of the photograph displayed near the school office. Then you have to explain it to her because neither Chen nor Chelsea know what you're talking about.

You wouldn't either, except that Yumi has noticed it.

It's part of the "Shiny Wall" that runs between the administrative offices and the library. That's what most people call it, on account of the trophies and framed photographs inside the glass cases. The trophies that the basketball, football, soccer, lacrosse, swim, track ... and so fucking on and on ... squads have brought home since the 1960s. Photographs of the honored teams, and of the marching bands, orchestras, or choral groups that have triumphed in competitions over the years. Photographs of teams who have won top honors at regional science fairs, and the like.

But in the entire display, there is only one photograph that honors a single individual, and it wasn't even for an academic function. On his own steam, Preston Spinks last year entered and ascended the serried ranks of the local, state, regional and national competitions for the Maybole International Piano Prize until, at the final round in Taos, New Mexico ("Twice as pretentious as San Francisco," Yumi heard him remark afterward, "with half the oxygen"), he took the top honors in the Young Artists category against competitors from around the world. He kept the fifteen thousand dollar prize, but donated the commemorative medal to the school and sat for a small black-and-white portrait. Yumi has studied it a couple of times.

It shows a handsome young man with a grave expression. His chin is strong and his nose and mouth straight. His hair (a very light chestnut in person) sweeps back from his forehead and clears his ears in loose, close-trimmed curls. He's dressed in a suit and tie, but he's sitting behind a table (or maybe it's a piano), relaxing with all his weight on his elbows. He cradles the side of his head in one hand.

His gaze is very direct, but his features are taut, as though his concentration has been focused entirely elsewhere, and only at the instant the shutter clicked did he notice where he is and what is happening.

It's a look Yumi has often seen on his face, in the German IV class they share, or the few times he has joined the Orchestra to play a muted continuo for a baroque piece. In Yumi's experience he is very reserved, but he doesn't seem like a snob. Shy, perhaps. Or maybe just preoccupied.

With a private music, perhaps?

Anyway, if the school is going to honor Preston Spinks with the sole individual portrait on the Shiny Wall, for a performance that had nothing to do with the school itself, you hardly think they will watch unmoved if a gorilla like Gordon Black locks a meaty arm around his neck and drags him, heels flailing, into the gym and up the stairs into the smelly loft.

"So how are going to get him?" Chen asks when you point all this out.

You don't have an answer until long after you've parted for the evening, when you text him the idea just before going to bed. He is skeptical, and notes that if he's to help he'll have to skip work.

* * * * *

Friday afternoon, fourth period, German. You're very nervous, both for what the conversation portends, and because Yumi herself has never been forward enough to barge up to Preston this way. But after he's slipped into his seat, you walk over to confront him.

"Hey," you say with your best smile. Preston only raises his eyebrows, and smiles faintly back. "Can I ask you a favor?" He blinks, but in a way that signifies "Yes."

"I'm, uh, supposed to give a recital. Just a little thing," you hurriedly add. "My mother's idea. Anyway, we're looking for venues," you continue as he continues to regard you with soft gravity, "and the one my mom's settled on, I don't think it'll work. I think the acoustics are bad, but her attitude is, like, what do I know?" You swallow. "So, I was wondering, could you, like, check them out and tell her that they're bad and we have to find someplace else? Because she'll trust you."

"Sure," Preston says without hesitation. His voice is very soft. "Tell her I checked it out with you, and the acoustics suck and you need to find someplace else." His smile widens just a fraction, and a little light of mischief comes into his eyes.

You grimace. "Could you actually check them out with me? Because, I don't know, maybe they're fine."

"You can probably tell," he says. "Better than your mom."

You persist: "She'd like to hear it from you."

His shoulders sag, but he doesn't lose the smile. "Okay, so where is this place?"

"The old elementary school in Acheson. Can we meet there tonight?"

"Okay. I'll get Nathan to come too, so you can get a string player's opinion."

Uh oh.

Next: "Sonata for Six Hands and Two Faces" 

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"Table of Contents (Vol. 3)" 
"The Book of Masks (Vol. 3)"