E E F G F E E A. I bashed my fingers against the piano, angry. How hard was it to play this piece? Aileen shook her head and wrote something down on my chart. I sighed and tried again. E E F G E. Stop. I looked hopefully at Aileen. "Can we play something else?"
She heaved and shook her head. "Jennifer, how hard is Ode to Joy? My kindergartens can play this." I pouted and looked at the black and white keys. Despite my frustration, I knew it wasn't her fault. I cracked my knuckles; a really bad habit of mine; toss my Caribbean hair back and played. E E F G.
"Jesus Christ child, you're making the piano cry." I immediately stiffened. Aileen stepped away from me and smiled.
"Hello Mr. Livingston. You are early today." She breathed. He is always early on Fridays. He needs to be. I stiffly turned around to face my father. Well... stepfather if you look at it. He was tall. Really tall. At six foot five, he was just barely brushing the ceiling. His hair is fully silver gray, even though he's only fifty something. But, for an old dude, I can tell why my mother fell for him. His gorgeous sky blue eyes stand stark against his silver head.
But, I know he is not my father for two reasons. Reason one... well, I'll talk about that later. Reason two, he's white, I'm Caribbean. My stepdad gave this amazing smile at Aileen and took her aside for the 'parent' talk.
I slowly packed my noteboard as I strained to listen. I hated how he always talked to her in her office. I heard them shuffle about in the office, almost playing about. Then he spoke. "I've been thinking about you all week."
"Timothy... please not now. Anyway were here to talk about your-" I heard the sudden intake of breath. I gripped my folder closer to my chest. "Timothy, I know, I l-"
"Don't talk." That's what he tells me. Don't talk and you don't get hurt. That you can go to that party if you turn a blind eye. That mom isn't enough.
Nothing is. I calmly walked out of the dusty old studio and sat in the car waiting. I looked up into the sky and tried to admire old of the last summer afternoons I'll have. Why should I let Stony get me down? It's beautiful around Rhode island this time of year...
I sighed to think this would be one of the last summers at home. This is my senior year. Before I get sentimental, I'm 15. So how am I with girls who douche and guys how shave?
I'm a (near) genius. I skipped fifth grade, seventh grade and tenth. My mom and Stony often say, I should go to one of the private genius schools like fifty miles from home. Why should I? Stony would pick me up if the distance is that much, and riding home with him for piano and violin lessons is torture enough. That or boarding school. Can you imagine a Caribbean (near) genius with jealous white girls and hormonal black boys? Hell, ya I'm racist, but you would be too if your mother is a whore at work and your father, excuse me, stepdad... cheats on your mom and beats you.
Ya, a teenage sob story is about to begin.