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Authors: Miranda Beverly-Whittemore
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make her do what he wanted—Amelia could have told Lydia everything.
She could have sat in this little restaurant in Stolen and told her best friend about the Bach Double, and the thrilling rush
when Wes hastened the pace in the Vivace movement and Amelia, naturally, followed, feeling the music entering her not as a
series of memorized notes and corresponding motions but as risky joy, and how, as a result, she’d played better than ever
before. She could have told Lydia how it had felt to hold Wes’s still-warm violin under her chin, to feel the vibrato in her
fingers turning the notes to honey, to feel the beautiful resonance of darkened wood. She would have told Lydia about the
kiss.
But she didn’t want to tell Lydia any of this, and she didn’t haveto, because here was the truth: the world of Benson never had to collide with the world of Ponderosa. Lydia would never meet
Wes or Sadie; Sadie would never get to feel superior to Lydia. Now that Amelia was home, she didn’t have to think about them
either. Even if she wanted to, Amelia knew she couldn’t talk about any of this; it was way too soon.
Lydia sat across the table, waiting for reassurance, for a measure of their friendship. Amelia knew the one way to make Lydia
feel right, come fully home again, was to tell Lydia something
big.
She had a whole range of not quite big things, but if she picked the one that felt the furthest away from her, maybe she
could make it big enough, maybe Lydia would buy it, and maybe it could explain everything.
“You know why I left? Really? Why I came home?” She saw warmth creeping into Lydia’s eyes; noticed her jaw softening. “It’s
sort of creepy. Not just because of the thing itself but because I can’t tell my dad. Ever. He can’t ever know.”
Lydia was poised, alert. She reached her hand across the table, toward Amelia. “You can tell me. You know that. I won’t ever
tell.”
Amelia nodded. And blurted, “It’s about sex.”
“Oh my God, Amelia, you didn’t, did you?”
“Oh no, it’s not about me. It’s about my teacher. Jackson Rice. You know, he’s the guy I auditioned for to go there in the
first place. He was going to change my life.” Amelia held her breath for a moment, then went on quietly. “He fucked one of
the students and they fired him. But not the way my dad would have fired someone. They didn’t even act like what he did was
bad. They acted like he was just young and it was some stupid mistake. Like if he hadn’t gotten caught, it would have been
okay. He went someplace else to teach, and we were all supposed to cope.” She was shredding her napkin as she spoke. “I felt
really stupid, Lydia. Like I was the worst musician there. I just couldn’t be there anymore. I mean, he was the whole reason
I went, and…”
Lydia looked at Amelia with concern and said,“God, that’s horrible.What a creepy thing.” Then she cocked her head to the side. “But honest? This Jackson guy was so important that you had to
come all the way home?”
“You know me.” Amelia smiled. “That oversensitive-artistic-temperament thing. It’s just so far away. When I think about it
now, I think I hated it there. I needed to come home, you know?” She realized what she needed to say. It was the truth: “I
missed you. I didn’t know how to deal with that shit alone.”
“Absolutely.” Lydia smiled broadly at her friend. “So is the girl okay?” Amelia didn’t answer. “You know, the ‘victim’ of
harassment? She okay?”
Amelia dropped her smile. “It wasn’t a she.” She sighed. And nodded as Lydia caught on. “You’ve got to promise not to tell
anyone.”
That was the way Amelia and Lydia became best friends once again. Lydia believed she knew the truth, even as a single hundred-dollar
bill lay curled tight in Amelia’s jeans pocket. She had intended to share it somehow with Lydia but realized that the money
represented a truth
She could have sat in this little restaurant in Stolen and told her best friend about the Bach Double, and the thrilling rush
when Wes hastened the pace in the Vivace movement and Amelia, naturally, followed, feeling the music entering her not as a
series of memorized notes and corresponding motions but as risky joy, and how, as a result, she’d played better than ever
before. She could have told Lydia how it had felt to hold Wes’s still-warm violin under her chin, to feel the vibrato in her
fingers turning the notes to honey, to feel the beautiful resonance of darkened wood. She would have told Lydia about the
kiss.
But she didn’t want to tell Lydia any of this, and she didn’t haveto, because here was the truth: the world of Benson never had to collide with the world of Ponderosa. Lydia would never meet
Wes or Sadie; Sadie would never get to feel superior to Lydia. Now that Amelia was home, she didn’t have to think about them
either. Even if she wanted to, Amelia knew she couldn’t talk about any of this; it was way too soon.
Lydia sat across the table, waiting for reassurance, for a measure of their friendship. Amelia knew the one way to make Lydia
feel right, come fully home again, was to tell Lydia something
big.
She had a whole range of not quite big things, but if she picked the one that felt the furthest away from her, maybe she
could make it big enough, maybe Lydia would buy it, and maybe it could explain everything.
“You know why I left? Really? Why I came home?” She saw warmth creeping into Lydia’s eyes; noticed her jaw softening. “It’s
sort of creepy. Not just because of the thing itself but because I can’t tell my dad. Ever. He can’t ever know.”
Lydia was poised, alert. She reached her hand across the table, toward Amelia. “You can tell me. You know that. I won’t ever
tell.”
Amelia nodded. And blurted, “It’s about sex.”
“Oh my God, Amelia, you didn’t, did you?”
“Oh no, it’s not about me. It’s about my teacher. Jackson Rice. You know, he’s the guy I auditioned for to go there in the
first place. He was going to change my life.” Amelia held her breath for a moment, then went on quietly. “He fucked one of
the students and they fired him. But not the way my dad would have fired someone. They didn’t even act like what he did was
bad. They acted like he was just young and it was some stupid mistake. Like if he hadn’t gotten caught, it would have been
okay. He went someplace else to teach, and we were all supposed to cope.” She was shredding her napkin as she spoke. “I felt
really stupid, Lydia. Like I was the worst musician there. I just couldn’t be there anymore. I mean, he was the whole reason
I went, and…”
Lydia looked at Amelia with concern and said,“God, that’s horrible.What a creepy thing.” Then she cocked her head to the side. “But honest? This Jackson guy was so important that you had to
come all the way home?”
“You know me.” Amelia smiled. “That oversensitive-artistic-temperament thing. It’s just so far away. When I think about it
now, I think I hated it there. I needed to come home, you know?” She realized what she needed to say. It was the truth: “I
missed you. I didn’t know how to deal with that shit alone.”
“Absolutely.” Lydia smiled broadly at her friend. “So is the girl okay?” Amelia didn’t answer. “You know, the ‘victim’ of
harassment? She okay?”
Amelia dropped her smile. “It wasn’t a she.” She sighed. And nodded as Lydia caught on. “You’ve got to promise not to tell
anyone.”
That was the way Amelia and Lydia became best friends once again. Lydia believed she knew the truth, even as a single hundred-dollar
bill lay curled tight in Amelia’s jeans pocket. She had intended to share it somehow with Lydia but realized that the money
represented a truth
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