Read Online The Sky Is Everywhere by Jandy Nelson - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Jandy Nelson
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don’t—”
He starts to laugh. “God, I feel like I’m pressuring you to have sex or something.” Every ounce of blood in a ten-mile radius rushes to my cheeks. “C’mon. I know you want to . . .” he jokes, raising his eyebrows like a total dork. What I want is to hide under the porch, but his giant loopy grin makes me laugh. “Bet you like Mozart,” he says, squatting to open his case. “All clarinetists do. Or maybe you’re a Bach’s Sacred Music devotee?” He squints up at me. “Nah, don’t seem like one of those.” He takes the guitar out, then sits on the edge of the coffee table, swinging it over his knee. “I’ve got it. No clarinet player with blood in her veins can resist Gypsy jazz.” He plays a few sizzling chords. “Am I right? Or I know!” He starts beating a rhythm on his guitar with his hand, his foot pounding the floor. “Dixieland!”
The guy’s life-drunk, I think, makes Candide look like a sourpuss. Does he even know that death exists?
“So, whose idea was it?” I ask him.
He stops finger-drumming. “What idea?”
“That we play together. You said—”
“Oh, that. Marguerite St. Denis is an old friend of the family—the one I blame actually for my exile up here. She might’ve mentioned something about how Lennie Walker joue de la clarinette comme un reve.” He twirls his hand in the air like Marguerite. “Elle joue a ravir, de merveille. ”
I feel a rush of something, everything, panic, pride, guilt, nausea—it’s so strong I have to hold on to the railing. I wonder what else she told him.
“Quel catastrophe,” he continues. “You see, I thought I was her only student who played like a dream.” I must look confused, because he explains, “In France. She taught at the conservatory, most summers.
As I take in the fact that my Marguerite is also Joe’s Marguerite, I see Big barreling past the window, back at it, broom overhead, looking for creatures to resurrect. Joe doesn’t seem to notice, probably a good thing. He adds, “I’m joking, about me, clarinet’s never been my thing.”
“Not what I heard,” I say. “Heard you were fabulous.”
“Rachel doesn’t have much of an ear,” he replies matter-offactly, without insult. Her name falls too easily from his lips, like he says it all the time, probably right before he kisses her. I feel my face flush again. I look down, start examining my shoes. What’s with me? I mean really. He just wants to play music together like normal musicians do.
Then I hear, “I thought about you . . .”
I don’t dare look up for fear I imagined the words, the sweet tentative tone. But if I did, I’m imagining more of them. “I thought about how crazy sad you are, and . . .”
He’s stopped talking. And what? I lift my head to see that he’s examining my shoes too. “Okay,” he says, meeting my gaze. “I had this image of us holding hands, like up at The Great Meadow or somewhere, and then taking off into the air.”
Whoa—I wasn’t expecting that, but I like it. “A la St. Joseph?”
He nods. “Got into the idea.”
“What kind of launch?” I ask. “Like rockets?”
“No way, an effortless takeoff, Superman-style.” He raises one arm up and crosses his guitar with the other to demonstrate. “You know.”
I do know I know I’m smiling just to look at him. I know that what he just said is making something unfurl inside. I know that all around the porch, a thick curtain of fog hides us from the world.
I want to tell him.
“It’s not that I don’t want to play with you,” I say quickly so I don’t lose my nerve. “It’s that, I don’t know, it’s different, playing is.” I force out the rest. “I didn’t want to be first chair, didn’t want to do the solos, didn’t want to do any of it. I blew it, the chair audition ... on purpose.” It’s the first time I’ve said it aloud, to anyone, and the relief is the size of a planet. I go on. “I hate soloing, not that you’d
He starts to laugh. “God, I feel like I’m pressuring you to have sex or something.” Every ounce of blood in a ten-mile radius rushes to my cheeks. “C’mon. I know you want to . . .” he jokes, raising his eyebrows like a total dork. What I want is to hide under the porch, but his giant loopy grin makes me laugh. “Bet you like Mozart,” he says, squatting to open his case. “All clarinetists do. Or maybe you’re a Bach’s Sacred Music devotee?” He squints up at me. “Nah, don’t seem like one of those.” He takes the guitar out, then sits on the edge of the coffee table, swinging it over his knee. “I’ve got it. No clarinet player with blood in her veins can resist Gypsy jazz.” He plays a few sizzling chords. “Am I right? Or I know!” He starts beating a rhythm on his guitar with his hand, his foot pounding the floor. “Dixieland!”
The guy’s life-drunk, I think, makes Candide look like a sourpuss. Does he even know that death exists?
“So, whose idea was it?” I ask him.
He stops finger-drumming. “What idea?”
“That we play together. You said—”
“Oh, that. Marguerite St. Denis is an old friend of the family—the one I blame actually for my exile up here. She might’ve mentioned something about how Lennie Walker joue de la clarinette comme un reve.” He twirls his hand in the air like Marguerite. “Elle joue a ravir, de merveille. ”
I feel a rush of something, everything, panic, pride, guilt, nausea—it’s so strong I have to hold on to the railing. I wonder what else she told him.
“Quel catastrophe,” he continues. “You see, I thought I was her only student who played like a dream.” I must look confused, because he explains, “In France. She taught at the conservatory, most summers.
As I take in the fact that my Marguerite is also Joe’s Marguerite, I see Big barreling past the window, back at it, broom overhead, looking for creatures to resurrect. Joe doesn’t seem to notice, probably a good thing. He adds, “I’m joking, about me, clarinet’s never been my thing.”
“Not what I heard,” I say. “Heard you were fabulous.”
“Rachel doesn’t have much of an ear,” he replies matter-offactly, without insult. Her name falls too easily from his lips, like he says it all the time, probably right before he kisses her. I feel my face flush again. I look down, start examining my shoes. What’s with me? I mean really. He just wants to play music together like normal musicians do.
Then I hear, “I thought about you . . .”
I don’t dare look up for fear I imagined the words, the sweet tentative tone. But if I did, I’m imagining more of them. “I thought about how crazy sad you are, and . . .”
He’s stopped talking. And what? I lift my head to see that he’s examining my shoes too. “Okay,” he says, meeting my gaze. “I had this image of us holding hands, like up at The Great Meadow or somewhere, and then taking off into the air.”
Whoa—I wasn’t expecting that, but I like it. “A la St. Joseph?”
He nods. “Got into the idea.”
“What kind of launch?” I ask. “Like rockets?”
“No way, an effortless takeoff, Superman-style.” He raises one arm up and crosses his guitar with the other to demonstrate. “You know.”
I do know I know I’m smiling just to look at him. I know that what he just said is making something unfurl inside. I know that all around the porch, a thick curtain of fog hides us from the world.
I want to tell him.
“It’s not that I don’t want to play with you,” I say quickly so I don’t lose my nerve. “It’s that, I don’t know, it’s different, playing is.” I force out the rest. “I didn’t want to be first chair, didn’t want to do the solos, didn’t want to do any of it. I blew it, the chair audition ... on purpose.” It’s the first time I’ve said it aloud, to anyone, and the relief is the size of a planet. I go on. “I hate soloing, not that you’d
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