Transcendence t-1 Read online

  “I’m sorry,” she says. Her voice sounds shaky and uncontrolled, not like her at all. “But no Chopin.”

  I look at her out of the corner of my eye. Veronique always agrees on my choice of music. “None?” I say. “No Polonaise?”

  “No,” she says. “I don’t … I can’t stand Chopin.” Veronique’s face is red, and she seems flustered. I’ve never seen her anything but cool and calm—what is it about a little piece of music that has her almost crawling out of her skin?

  “No problem,” I say, picking up the pages and sliding them under my seat. “I’m not a huge fan anyway.” Which is a complete lie; Chopin composed some of my favorite music, but she already looks embarrassed and I don’t want it to get any worse. As I sit back in my chair, my head begins to spin, and I try to tell myself that it’s just a head rush. I sat up too fast is all. The feelings of panic begin as the room feels like it’s receding around me. I can see Veronique speaking, but I can’t understand what she’s saying.

  I stand watching from the wings as Alessandra pulls the bow back and the last notes of Chopin resonate throughout the concert hall. Applause thunders through the building as she stands holding the neck of the cello, reaching with the other hand to pull her long, blond hair away from her face. Alessandra has been with the Young Masters Orchestra since she was my age, touring the world with her father as chaperone for the past four years. Now that she’s almost nineteen, she is so much better than I am, and between her beauty and skill I always feel inadequate around her.

  I sense him behind me well before he speaks. “Are you ready, Clarissa?” Paolo asks, his smile bright in the low lights of backstage, causing my heart to flutter like it always does whenever he’s around. His dark hair shines almost black in the flicker of the footlights as I look up at him and nod quickly. Paolo touches me lightly on the elbow as he guides me onstage, where my cello and chair have been placed next to Alessandra’s, and even though I should be nervous with so many people here to watch my first performance, all I can feel is the physical sensation of his skin on mine. With a slight bow, Paolo takes his position at the piano, and along with the other musicians, I put my head down, trying to concentrate on the opening notes of the next piece. Paolo belongs to Alessandra; they are so obviously in love that you often have to look away in the face of such fierce devotion. Everyone in the troupe knows that, and to even think anything different will cause an unimaginable amount of trouble.

  Veronique is looking at me with concern. “Is everything okay? You look pale.”

  I blink and look around the room. The bright lights of the stage are gone, replaced by the colored shades of the Tiffany lamps my mom loves so much. “Sure,” I say, my voice stronger than I thought it would be. “Just a little dizzy. I think it’s the jet lag still.”

  She looks relieved. “You’re probably right. Whenever I go to Italy with Giacomo it takes days to get back on the right schedule.” She glances at her delicate gold watch. “It’s getting late anyway. I should get going. We’re still on for Thursday, right?”

  “Right,” I say, hoping that she doesn’t notice how much my hand is shaking as I put the bow back in its case.

  I help Mom clear the dining room table after dinner, even though it’s just the two of us. No matter how many of us are home, she insists on setting the table and sitting down to a meal every night. I wonder if she’ll still do that when it’s just her in a few years. The thought of her sitting down here alone while Dad sits upstairs by himself is vaguely depressing.

  “I’m going up to see Dad,” I say once the dishwasher is loaded. I’d almost forgotten about my promise to look at the photos.

  “Okay,” she calls from the laundry room. “Did you finish your homework?”

  “I did some in school.”

  “How about your practice time? We can’t have you falling behind just because you went on vacation. Herr Steinberg mentioned that the little red-headed girl is just itching to challenge you for first chair.”

  “I’ll do another hour before bed,” I call back. “I won’t be long.”

  Dad has the classical music station blasting as I walk up the stairs. I find him at the computer, a half-eaten burrito on a plate next to him, along with some chocolate-chip cookies from my favorite bakery in the Mission.

  “Hey, there’s my girl,” he says, turning around and giving me a kiss on the cheek. “There are some great shots from the trip. Want to see?”

  “Sure,” I say, grabbing a cookie. I always forget to take pictures, and Kat’s camera is filled with the ones I took of her and various guards and Beefeaters. I know she took a couple of Owen in front of the Crown Jewels building, and I kick myself for not having her sneak a picture of Griffon. Despite the pang I get in my chest whenever I think of him, his image is already fading in my memory, and I’m not sure if I’d even recognize him again. Not that it matters.

  Dad, on the other hand, takes pictures like he’s terrified of short-term memory loss. Every moment has to be documented so that nothing is forgotten. “There’s you and your sister on the plane, all sleepy,” he says as the slide show starts on the computer.

  I wince at the huge image of myself with my hair sticking out of a messy bun and bags under my eyes. “It was like three o’clock in the morning, our time,” I say defensively. I’ll have to sneak in later and delete all the unflattering shots.

  “Oh, you look beautiful, as always. Look, here’s one of that place we ate dinner that first night. The one in the theater district.”

  Dad has a comment for every photo. The doorman at our hotel, a series of big red buses, us in front of the nearest tube station. “These are from the walk we took to Piccadilly Circus that evening, remember? Here’s the two of you in front of that statue.”

  I glance at the photo of me and Kat on the cement steps, but something in the background makes me gasp. “Wait, stop.” I look closer, a chill running up my spine. “When did you take this one?”

  Dad puts the slide show on pause. “Well, they’re in order, so that would have made it the second day of the trip.” He looks at the photo up on the screen. “That is a nice sunset, isn’t it? See how the sky is all pink behind the buildings? It almost matches the neon of the signs on the other side.”

  But I’m not looking at the sunset or the signs. I’m staring at a guy about five feet behind us, casually leaning against the statue, but staring right into Dad’s camera. If that was taken on the second day, then it was a full four days before I actually met him at the Tower. I’d thought I might not recognize him, but my heart races as I look at the random stranger with the curly hair and sharp brown eyes lounging in the background of the photo. Griffon.

  Four

  “I don’t know where the camera is,” Kat says. “It’s probably still in my carry-on bag—like most normal people, I don’t unpack my suitcase the second I get home.” She shoots me a look as she heads toward her room, but I don’t want to get into it with her right then. I’ve waited up late for her to come in, alternately glad that I have a photo of Griffon and totally freaked out that he’s there at all. Maybe it is just a coincidence. After all, lots of people go to the tourist spots in London. Happens all the time. And then we met him at the Tower because that’s where he was staying. I’m just going to tell myself that over and over until I believe it.

  I follow her to the back of the house, lowering my voice so as not to wake Mom. “Well, can I see it?”

  “What’s the hurry?” Kat kicks her shoes off and flops down on her bed.

  “I … I just want to compare your shots with some that Dad took, that’s all,” I say.

  She studies me for a second. “All right,” she says, hauling herself back off the bed. “Let me see if it’s in here.” She rummages through her bag and tosses the camera case to me. “But don’t delete any. I’ve got some good shots of Owen in there that I want to put up as a screen saver.”

  Owen. “Have you talked to him?”

  “He’s been messaging me.�
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  “So he knows how to get ahold of you?”

  She looks at me funny. “Yeah. Why? He’s a totally hot guy. A totally hot Scottish guy. You never know when he’ll end up on this side of the world.”

  Of course she’d be in touch with him. Why haven’t I thought about that before? There’s a glimmer of hope stirring somewhere down deep. Owen is only one step removed from Griffon. I hesitate, but I have to ask. “Does he ever talk about Griffon?”

  “Sometimes. I know that they’ve been friends forever. I guess Griffon went home right after we did, but he gets to go back during the summer.” Kat smiles. “I wish we could go back this summer. Do you think Dad can get another business trip to London? That would be so cool.” I can see that she’s already imagining herself with Owen in a chic London flat along with two impeccably dressed blond children sporting adorable British accents.

  I turn the camera on and try to sound like I don’t really care. “Do you think he ever talks about me?”

  Kat puts her arm around me, but it feels more condescending than sisterly. “You really liked him, didn’t you? Those curls were amazing. Made you want to run your fingers all through them.” She looks over my shoulder at the camera display. “No. I don’t think he mentioned you. At least, Owen didn’t say anything.”

  Something about the way she glances away from me tells me she’s lying. Maybe Griffon did mention me, but not in a way she’d be in a rush to talk about. I shrug. “Not like I really knew him or anything,” I say. “We only hung out for a little while.”

  “Yeah,” Kat says. “You didn’t exactly meet him on your best day.”

  I don’t answer, just start flicking through the photos, searching the backgrounds for any sign of Griffon. There’s Kat at Buckingham Palace, Kat on the London Bridge, me at the symphony, and the pictures of Owen at the Tower, but nobody in the background that looks even a little bit like Griffon, at least as far as I can see. I’m relieved. Mostly.

  “Did you find what you were looking for?” Kat asks.

  “No,” I say, handing the camera back to her. “But that’s a good thing.”

  “So you have no idea where he lives?” Rayne asks. “Not the city or the state, or anything? I thought I trained you better than that.”

  I smile at her. Rayne is always trying to pull me back from the edge of Loserville. I’ve spent so much time with the cello the past few years that it’s like I’ve been dating it instead of boys. Rayne’s trying her best to help me make up for the time I’ve lost.

  “No. He could find out my info through Owen and Kat, but it looks like he hasn’t bothered. It’s … awkward. I mean, I fainted right into him. He was just being nice by getting me something to drink. Nothing more to it.”

  Rayne shakes her head and takes a sip of her extra-hot soy latte. “I don’t know. If you’re talking about him at all, that means you’re thinking about him. A lot.” She looks over at me. “You are, aren’t you?”

  I don’t want to have this conversation, but it feels like if I don’t share just a little of the feelings swirling inside I’ll go crazy. I printed out the picture from Dad’s camera and have it in my folder, but I’m not ready to show anyone. Not even Rayne. As much as I don’t want to admit that I think about Griffon so much, I can’t lie to her. “Yeah,” I say. “I guess I do.”

  “Then you should totally tell your sister to have that other guy give Griffon your number,” she says, the excitement building in her voice. “Maybe you two are destined for each other. Ooh, can you imagine how romantic it would be to tell your grandchildren how you met? The Tower of London—where he rescued you.”

  “Come on, Rayne,” I say, looking around to make sure nobody else in the café is paying attention. “Settle down. For all I know he lives all the way out in New Jersey and is a total creep.” Rayne’s mom has pumped her head full of hippie ideas about destiny and auras and ridiculous things like that, and she’s always making a big deal about every little coincidence. Nothing is allowed to just happen. Everything has a hidden meaning.

  Rayne reaches up and unties her necklace, handing it to me. “Here,” she says. “You need this more than I do.”

  I look at the light pink stone that hangs on a black cord. “Thanks, but pink isn’t really my color.” I never wear necklaces. The feeling of weight around my neck is always a little suffocating.

  Rayne stands up and ties the cord around my neck. “Like it or not, you need it,” she says. “It’s rose quartz—the symbol of universal love. It attracts positive energy, and that’s what you need right now, I can feel it.”

  I lift the stone and feel it thunk back against my chest. Despite its pinkness, it is pretty, and I don’t want to hurt her feelings. “Thanks,” I say. “Let’s hope it works.”

  “Some people are just meant to be together,” she says. “Their spirits search the world for their match, and when they find it, everything else melts away until they’re united.”

  I nod. “Right. I’m sure that’s what’s going on.” Even though I think she’s completely nuts most of the time, she is my best friend. My phone chimes, and I reach over to read the text.

  “That’s weird,” I say, reading it again. “Kat wants me to meet her at the shop after work.” Except for vacations when she has no choice, the two of us don’t exactly hang out.

  Rayne downs the rest of her coffee. “That is weird. Maybe she needs money. Or maybe she’s in some kind of trouble that she doesn’t want your parents to know about. That’s why she wants you to meet her out of the house.”

  “I doubt it,” I say. But I can’t think of a more logical reason.

  The glass door is already locked and the CLOSED sign is in the window when I get to the store, so I knock as loudly as I can. Kat has worked at the shop for over a year, but I’ve only been here a couple of times. It’s one of those places that doesn’t have much on display, but you know that the few pieces that are here cost way more than you can afford. The owner designs everything from shoes and bags to dresses and scarves, and everything is laid out and lit with tiny little ceiling lights like you’re at an art exhibit. I never come into places like this if I can help it.

  “Sorry,” Kat says as she turns the key in the lock on her side and swings the door open. “I’m cleaning up in the back. Come on in, I’ll just be a minute.”

  The store smells like flowers, and thumping music is playing softly in the background. A woman with long, wavy dark hair is bending over a glass jewelry case, rearranging some necklaces in a velvet-lined tray. She’s thin, and has on one of the flowing, sleeveless tops that hang on a wall rack along with dark blue skinny jeans and high-heeled red shoes. Every finger holds a ring that is larger and more colorful than the last one, but she wears almost no makeup that I can see. She’s one of those women who can leave the house wearing only a paper bag and make it look like the height of fashion, and because Kat talks about her incessantly, I know it’s Francesca, the owner.

  “How old is she?” I whisper just loud enough to be heard over the music.

  “Twenty or twenty-one,” Kat says. “Somewhere in there. She was still going to design school when her father gave her the money for the store.” Her eyes soften, and I can tell that Kat practically worships her boss. “She’ll make it to the top of the fashion world before she’s thirty, guaranteed.”

  Francesca smiles and walks over to us. “Katherine, you should be done here,” she says with an accent that is vaguely European but impossible to place. She smiles at me. “Go and have a marvelous evening with your friend.”

  “My sister,” Kat corrects. “This is Cole.”

  “So glad you came to see our store,” Francesca says, giving me an air kiss on both cheeks.

  “Thanks,” I say glancing around. “It’s really nice.”

  Francesca puts both hands on my shoulders and looks me up and down. “She has a fantastic figure,” she says to Kat, as if I’m not even in the room. “That new tunic would look amazing on her. With some leggings
and that new necklace Drew just finished, the one with all of the gears. Ooh! And those gold heels we just got in.”

  Kat laughs. “Those aren’t really Cole’s style,” she says. “Besides, didn’t you sell the Clockwork necklace this morning?”

  Francesca puts a finger to her lips and smiles. “That’s right, I almost forgot. Got a great price for it, too.”

  As they look me over, the bell on the front door rings and a guy comes in carrying a white paper sack. It’s obvious from the casual way he walks across the showroom floor that he isn’t a customer, and after depositing the bag on the front counter, he approaches Francesca from behind and grabs her around the waist. He looks like he’d be right at home on one of those fifty-foot-tall Calvin Klein billboards in Union Square.

  “So what are you two looking so happy about?” he says, nuzzling Francesca’s neck. He has a smooth Australian accent that goes perfectly with his short blond hair and white teeth.

  Francesca squeals and pretends to swat him on the arm. “Only that I sold one of your most expensive pieces,” she says, turning to kiss him on the mouth.

  “Oooh, nice,” he says, pulling back to look at her. “Good thing I stopped at the cupcake shop after I picked up your salad. You deserve an extra commission today.”

  “If you two are done…” Kat steps in. She’s smiling like she’s only joking, but I can tell that there’s more going on here.

  Francesca kisses him hard on the mouth. “Mmm. Yes. So sorry. Drew, this is Kat’s little sister. Cole, is it?”

  I nod. Drew smiles at us, his bright blue eyes crinkling at the edges. “Good to meet you. Francesca would be lost without your sister.”

  “Not true,” Kat says. She looks away and smiles, but the red that creeps up the back of her neck says volumes, and suddenly I know what’s up, although it’s so obvious I can’t believe I didn’t figure it out before. She totally has a crush on him.

  “We should go,” I say, apparently the only one uncomfortable in the slightly awkward silence that has descended on the room.