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Schroeder jolts awake, the blue dress and soft, dark hair that haunts his dreams fading into the depths of his mind. He groans and rolls over onto his side, his twin bed creaking. In bright red, the clock on his desk reads 5:57 am.
This is the fourth time this week Lucy has appeared in his dreams.
He hates it.
He wants her to show up every night.
He feels ridiculous.
He craves the real thing.
After a dream with Lucy in it, he wakes with the same emotions rolling through him: yearning and self-hatred. Because he shouldn’t still be hung up on Lucy as though he lost something, because Lucy was never his to begin with. His past self made sure of it. And it’s too late to right those wrongs.
Schroeder digs into the space between his mattress and bedframe to retrieve the pen and dream journal he started keeping during his first year of undergrad at Julliard. He’d been homesick and wanted to remember the dreams of his old friends from back home. But, ever so slowly, the dreams started morphing to focus on one, single person.
He flips through all the entries in his journal with the same name popping up over and over again. Lucy, Lucy, Lucy, Lucy.
The voice inside his head is too loud for this early in the morning. It’s been five years, and you can’t get over a girl you actively pushed away?
Schroeder grits his teeth, popping the cap off the pen, turning to a clean page. Getting over someone is easier said than done. His heart refuses to listen despite every rational thought that’s ever crossed his mind: it’s been too long, she’s surely over her crush on him, it’s been five years since they’ve spoken. If he could “get over” Lucy van Pelt, he would. (Would he?).
He begins writing down the dream as best as he can remember. Lucy had sent him a letter to his apartment saying she still had feelings for him. He’d written back saying he did too, and they started sending letters back and forth, reminiscing about old times, planning to meet up whenever they were back in Minnesota.
It was a simple dream—surprisingly realistic—and that’s what makes it all the more awful to wake up to. He can ignore the dreams of Lucy transferring to Juilliard to take up opera singing, because that would never happen in real life. But a letter could very well show up in his mailbox written in Lucy’s ever-italicized cursive. (Would he actually respond to her letter if she did? He likes to think so).
Running a hand over his face and through his hair, he heaves himself into a sitting position, legs dangling off the side of his mattress. His eyes adjust to his room. It’s small—his desk, bed, and dresser just barely manage to fit—but he doesn’t mind. It has all he needs, and he doesn’t have to share with anybody.
Timothy and Winston share a bedroom while Anna and Michelle share the other. Schroeder was more than happy to be shoved in what was probably someone’s small office if it meant not having a roommate.
By the time Schroeder makes his way into the living room, it’s 6:30, which means Michelle is already out on her run and Timothy just left to go to the gym. He knows Winston slept over at his girlfriend’s, and Anna sleeps like the dead, so he doesn’t feel bad for sitting at the old keyboard he found someone selling for cheap and turning it on.
The first song his fingers begin to play is Beethoven’s Sonata Op. 27 No. 2. It starts quiet and slowly builds, snaking through the early morning drowsiness. His fingers know the keys to the first movement intimately, and he closes his eyes as the music envelops him and takes over his body.
He wonders, not for the first time, if Beethoven felt this lovesick when he realized he couldn’t ever pursue Julie Guicciardi due to being in different social classes. Did he fall asleep dreaming of her constantly? It’s clear she was on his mind since he wrote a sonata for her. But later, even after they had parted and Beethoven took new lovers, did he ever wish she was in his arms instead? Did he ever regret not going after her, social norms be damned? (If he were Beethoven, would he have made the same decisions?)
When Schroeder opens his eyes, Anna is leaning against the doorway between the living room and kitchen, her chestnut hair in a tangle, wearing a white tank top and green pajama shorts. Her grey eyes are still fuzzy with sleep, and she has a soft smile on her lips.
He wishes she were someone else come to listen to him play.
“Did I wake you?” he asks, hands slipping off the keys and onto his lap. The room is suddenly empty. He feels exposed, like he’s been caught doing something he’s not supposed to.
Anna waves her hand. “No, and don’t stop playing on account of me.” She points to the kitchen behind her. “Coffee?”
“Yes, please.” He picks up where he left off in the movement, although he doesn’t close his eyes again.
When Anna returns, she places his mug on the bureau next to him before settling into the old sofa across the room, slowly sipping her coffee that he knows has enough sugar to give someone a cavity at first sip. He knows she knows he likes his with milk.
Out of the four other people living in the apartment, Schroeder’s known Anna the longest. They met during undergrad since they were both piano majors. Now, they’re nearing the end of their first year of their Master of Music degree.
The third movement of the sonata draws to a close, and Anna gently lays down her empty coffee mug on the wooden table in front of her. She stands, crosses the room, and sits down on the piano bench, to the right of him. He scoots over to make room.
Anna places her left pinkie on A3 and her right thumb on A4.
He recognizes the placement and gets his own hands in position to play Beethoven’s Six Variations on 'Ich denke dein' WoO 74. It’s not something they performed for school; it’s a simple duet piece that’s light and airy that he asked her to learn. He asked Anna to learn all of Beethoven’s duets so he would be able to play them—so he could say he’s played all of Beethoven’s piano pieces.
Schroeder wonders if Lucy would have learned piano. Then he feels stupid for thinking about it. Because of course she would have. She pretended to like Beethoven because of him, celebrated his birthday because of him. She would have learned piano if it meant he would pay her a shred of attention.
And what did he give her in return? Nothing. He ignored her, shut her down.
When they finish the piece, he and Anna stay silent for two extra measures.
Then, “Schroeder.” Anna turns to face him.
Schroeder blinks over at her, suddenly realizing how close they are. He scootches further left a couple of inches, dangerously on the edge of the bench that’s really only meant for one.
“Schroeder,” she repeats, face smooth and serious. “I need to tell you something.”
“Okay.” He can’t imagine what it could be about.
Anna glances away for a split second before returning her gaze to his. “I like you. More than a friend. You’re passionate, kind, and you listen to me. I—” The words get caught in her throat. “—Can I kiss you?”
Schroeder’s heart thumps erratically. Oh. He suddenly has the urge to run out the front door. He wishes he had a time machine to go back to that morning to stop himself from leaving his bedroom.
Anna’s nice. They gravitated towards one another that first day of Juilliard because everybody seemed to already know someone else, and they were the quietest ones there. But that’s it. She’s nice. He likes that she shares his passion for music and piano, but nothing more.
Inexplicably (or not), his mind flits to Lucy. Fiery, temperamental Lucy. Who wore her heart on her sleeve and returned to his house day after day to listen to him play, trying to win him over. Who, even later on in middle and high school, would always send him a little message and gift on Beethoven’s birthday. She mellowed out as time passed but didn’t grow any less sharp and witty.
“I—” Schroeder sputters, and he quickly stands up, putting even more distance between him and Anna. “I’m sorry. I can’t.” He watches as Anna deflates, and he feels awful. But he knows that stringing her along, using her as some sort of replacement for Lucy, will only hurt her more. He can’t be in a relationship where, every time they kiss or hold hands, he’s thinking of someone else.
Pathetic, his brain hisses at him. She’s over you. Get it into your thick head. She probably has a California boyfriend. Someone who treats her right.
“I’m sorry!” Anna says, also abruptly standing. “I shouldn’t have—It’s—Let’s forget this conversation ever happened!” She laughs nervously, eyes not meeting his.
“It’s not you, it’s me,” Schroeder says, as he does to all the girls he leaves heartbroken. Because that’s the thing: he’s tried to get over Lucy van Pelt. He’s thrown caution to the wind and made out with girls in someone’s bathroom at a house party, has gone out with a girl from a class who slipped him her number at the end of the semester. But nothing has ever gone further. He’s learned that, in trying to get over Lucy, he just leaves behind more broken hearts. And the girls don’t deserve that. They shouldn’t feel hurt when they’re perfectly nice and kind and when it’s all his fault—his baggage and unrequited love towards a girl on the other side of the country who doesn’t think about him as much as he does her.
Anna gives him a little smile, although it’s more like a grimace, and she retreats back down the hallway to her and Michelle’s room.
His coffee is tepid when he picks it up off the bureau, although he drinks it anyway.
~~~
The large, Steinway classic grand piano is a glossy black and nearly flawless in its appearance. It pairs well with the crystal chandelier, marble floor, tall windows, and white-and-gold walls of the wedding reception venue.
As he plays Beethoven’s Piano Sonata No. 15 in D major, Op. 28 off in the corner of the room, he glares daggers at the young woman getting her greasy fingerprints all over the end of the piano, leaning against it with her champagne glass in her other hand. She looks to be in her late 20s or early 30s, her auburn hair in a bob which is decorated with a pearl headband. The gauzy, light blue dress she’s wearing makes her look like a sea nymph, or what he thinks a sea nymph would look like. He wants the lid prop to fail; then, with her squished fingers, she’ll learn to keep her grubby hands to herself.
Schroeder’s played at multiple weddings, receptions, parties, and funerals, and the attendees usually give him a wide breadth of space. Sometimes, they’ll linger and stare at him before returning their focus to the event. A child might drag their fingers along the side of the piano before their parents yank them back, but never has a grown adult leaned their body and touched the piano while he was playing.
The woman’s talking to a guy around her own age, and they’re laughing about something. Schroeder doesn’t care. He wants them gone. Can they not have a conversation on the other side of the room? There’s plenty of space.
Every time he glances away from them, in his peripheral vision, all he sees is Lucy. Lucy at the end of his little, toy piano. Lounging there, one leg resting on the other, chattering to him about something, trying to get him to engage.
She interrupted his practicing, and he always wished he was playing alone. She did slowly phase out of it, instead involving herself in extracurricular activities like being on student council, joining the debate club and the yearbook club. Sometimes, she would still come over, listen to him play and chat his ear off like old times, but the occurrence was fewer and far between.
He found himself missing her presence, even though all he’d wanted for years was some peace and quiet. The end of his piano looked empty and, instead of having uninterrupted practice time like he wanted, his mind would wander and wonder where Lucy was, what she was doing instead of being here with him. And then his finger would slip, and he’d have to start over again. (He still refused to admit he missed her).
“You’re really planning to go to New York?” she asked him once, when she had some rare free time in eleventh grade. She fiddled with the hem of her dress as she spoke, and her voice held some heaviness to it.
“Yes.” His answer was instant. There was never a doubt in his mind that he wouldn’t get into Juilliard. There was no backup.
Lucy just sighed and didn’t say anything, which was so unlike her that Schroeder stopped playing his piano and asked, “What are you planning to do after graduation?” He was genuinely curious to know the answer. For all she discussed their married life once they were grown-ups, she never talked much about her own future separate from him.
The silence dragged on, and Schroeder couldn’t stand it. Lucy looked sad, her eyes downcast, her lips pursed together tightly.
“I’m sure you could do anything you wanted,” he told her, and he could see Lucy brightening just slightly. “You’re smart.” And, because he always had to kick himself in the foot, he added, “Except baseball. I don’t think you could go pro.”
Lucy rolled her eyes, “Oh, shove it.”
But she was smiling, and Schroeder couldn’t help but wonder what a future with her would be like. They’d have to do long distance, of course, and it would be hard. But they’d cherish those moments together, and they’d write letters and send packages back and forth, call often, and they’d see each other at Christmas and over the summer. And then, once they were finished with school, they’d live somewhere and find good jobs.
Schroeder glances up at the wedding reception happening around him. The bride and groom are in the center of the room with brilliant, white smiles—they’re practically glowing as they talk with those around them. As a kid, he was adamantly against marriage. Beethoven didn’t marry, so why should he? Besides, marriages just felt…exhausting. Almost performative.
But he’s seen upwards of twenty weddings now, and none are ever the same as the last. Chapel weddings, outdoors weddings, little weddings, large weddings, exorbitant weddings, simple weddings. And yet they work, and the bride and groom are happy, and Schroeder supposes that’s all that matters. That the two people getting married are ecstatic to spend the rest of their lives together.
He’s not quite sure what a future wedding of his would look like, what sorts of things he would want. If he was marrying Lucy, he’d leave everything up to her, because she would surely have opinions on the flower arrangements, on the location, on the font used for the RSVPs, on the type of cutlery used for the reception. And he’d be happy. Because, at the end of the day, they’d return to the comfort of their own home with the knowledge that they were now officially husband and wife.
You’re embarrassing. The voice inside his head is sharp and cutting.
He can feel that a foul mood is approaching. Schroeder’s glad to be finished the sonata, glad to be able to take a short break before the reception moves onto the dinner segment of the evening. He shoots one last scowl at the back of the woman’s head before stalking off in the direction of the kitchen to where the bride and groom told him to get a quick bite to eat from the catering company they hired.
Before he can exit the reception room, someone behind him reaches out and grabs his shoulder. “Excuse me!”
Schroeder plasters a smile onto his face before he turns around.
It’s the fingerprint woman. Up close, her skin is dewy, her lips a rosy pink, and her blush is a little too heavy on the apples of her cheeks. She looks younger than he assumed, maybe around his own age. The hairs on the back of his neck prickle.
“I just have to tell you that you’re an incredibly talented pianist,” she tells him, her green eyes glittering.
“Er, thank you,” he says politely with a nod of his head, wondering how many champagne flutes she’s drunk. He wants nothing more than to escape to the kitchen, and he starts to exit the conversation with a tilt of his body.
But the woman continues, undeterred. “My father would play the piano every morning; it was like our family’s version of an alarm clock. I’ve always wanted my own house to be filled with music, but I’m hopeless at it. Do you do lessons? My kid’s turning five soon.”
Schroeder’s thrown by the fact that the woman has a child. She can’t be more than 25. It puts in perspective where he is in life. He’s still in school, has never had a girlfriend. (He’s never had sex). And yet, this woman is responsible for a whole human life.
Quickly, he collects himself and shakes his head. “I don’t exactly have the space for it,” he says. He only owns one keyboard, and he also doesn’t have any experience in dealing with children.
“We have my father’s piano in our living room just collecting dust,” the woman says quickly. “You could come over instead.” And then she lists an hourly rate which momentarily stalls his brain. She must be related to the bride in some way—the two of them seem to have a habit of throwing around an absurd amount of money like it’s nothing. It’s the kind of money that would be stupid to refuse, especially as a grad student.
He sees it in the woman’s eyes when she knows she’s convinced him. She grins, her mouth slightly lopsided, and sticks out her hand. “Bonnie,” she says.
Schroeder takes her hand and shakes it. “Schroeder.” He wonders if it’s wrong to still want the piano lid to snap closed on her fingers.
~~~
The bar is packed to the brim with people, and usually he would feel overwhelmed, but all Schroeder feels is floaty and light from the drinks he’s consumed over the course of the evening. It’s karaoke night, and up on the stage—which is more like a slightly lifted platform—Michelle and Timothy are belting out Billy Joel’s “Piano Man.” Timothy certainly doesn’t sound like he’s about to graduate with a Bachelor of Music in voice.
The two of them have been trying to get Schroeder up on stage for most of the night since he’s the only one who hasn’t yet and, every time they get to the lyric, “Sing us a song, you're the piano man,” they point to him with unfettered glee. Michelle tried to physically pull him up and out of his seat. They’ve both drunk significantly more than him.
When the song comes to a close, Michelle and Timothy return to their table and order another round for themselves and Winston—Schroeder stopped a half an hour ago, and Anna’s the designated driver.
“I’m going to miss all of you,” Timothy says with a sigh, tipping his chair back at a dangerous angle.
“We’ll never find a roommate as good as you,” Winston says as the next group of singers take the stage, the beginning of “Sweet Caroline” by Neil Diamond starting to blast from the speakers. “Whoever we find next will probably snore.”
“They won’t volunteer to do the dishes!” Michelle pipes up.
“Who’ll harmonize with the hum of the vacuum cleaner now?” Anna asks.
Schroeder feels obligated to contribute, so he says, “Their shortbread cookies won’t taste nearly as good.”
Timothy tears up, his nose going pink. “Aw, guys, I’ll just be a state away.” He uses his sleeve to wipe his eyes, but his chin still trembles. “You’ll find someone else, surely. Soon, I’ll just be some guy you once knew.”
Michelle smacks his arm. “Don’t say that!” she exclaims. “We’ll call. When you make it big in Philly, we’ll come see your first show. You better not forget about us. Our apartment won’t be the same without you.”
Schroeder grips his glass of Sprite tighter. His knuckles turn white. Lucy’s voice echoes in his head: “Minnesota won’t be the same without you.” It was the last thing she ever said to him—the day before his flight to New York City.
When he told Lucy about his acceptance to Juilliard, a smile broke out over her face, and she flung her arms around him in a hug. Schroeder let her, although his own arms hung uselessly at his side as his mind went blank with surprise. It was nice to be wrapped in her arms, and he wanted the hug to last longer. But she pulled away, suddenly bashful, and congratulated him.
She didn’t tell him she got accepted to UC Berkeley. Charlie told Schroeder a couple days after she got the letter. A sense of betrayal hit him, although it was stupid to feel so slighted. Lucy didn’t have to share aspects of her life with her (even if she always did when they were younger). But still, he had hoped she would tell him, especially since he had shared his own good news.
“That’s far away,” he said after Charlie told him, feeling strangely cold. “What’s she planning to do over there?”
“Psychology,” Charlie said.
After a moment of silence, Schroeder nodded. “That makes sense.” It was the only thing he could think to say; his brain was frozen, trying to wrap his head around how far she would be. They would practically be on opposite sides of the country. But why was he freaking out so much about it? It wasn’t as though he and Lucy were all that close. She had stopped coming over altogether to listen to him play once she joined Model UN at the start of the school year. They hardly interacted with one another anymore.
“Schroeder?” Anna asks, and he blinks back to reality to where his roommates are staring at him. “You okay?” Her eyebrows are furrowed. She starts to reach out a hand to touch his, although she seems to remember herself and quickly uses the momentum to tuck a piece of hair behind her ear.
“You look kinda pale,” Winston says.
Schroeder forces a smile on his face. “Sorry. Just got lost in thought.” He pauses. “What were you talking about?”
“All the stuff I wish I’d done,” Timothy says, and now he’s tipping his chair back and forth like it’s a rocking chair. “You think you have all the time in the world to do all the things you want, and then you blink, and you suddenly have no time at all. I wanted to buy front-row seats to A Little Night Music but kept putting it off, and now I’m moving away in two days.”
“I wish I hadn’t been so intense about high school,” Winston says thoughtfully. “It felt like the end of the world when I forgot to do my homework.” He chuckles. “Getting an 85 on a test felt like a failing grade. Now I practically do a jig if I get an 80.” He turns to look at Michelle. “What about you?”
“I wish I kept speaking Spanish,” Michelle eventually says with a little nod, her eyes far off in the distance. “I always thought it was unimportant when I was younger—we always spoke English at home, anyway. But when we go to Peru to visit family, I feel like an outsider among my aunts and uncles and cousins who still know the language.” Her smile gradually brightens as she adds, “But I’m going to become fluent again; it’ll just take time. How about you, Anna?”
Anna sits silently for a moment, chewing her bottom lip as she thinks. She’s been more quiet lately, and Schroeder wonders if it has to do with him. He’s been careful, tries not to be alone with her—not for his sake, but for her’s. But it’s hard when they have the same classes together.
It’s clear she still has feelings for him.
It scares him.
He’s not afraid of Anna’s feelings, but the fact that he rejected her, and she still clearly likes him in that way.
Because what does that mean for him? He was always under the impression that his feelings for Lucy were the result of a lack of closure. Lucy never rejected him—in fact, he rejected her. If only she had, then Schroeder wouldn’t be in his current situation. But if that lack of closure doesn’t matter, then he has nothing to blame his feelings on.
At least Anna has some excuse—she’s forced to see him at home and school, day in, day out. A reminder of his rejection, of her heartbreak. Schroeder can't say the same. He thought that his feelings for Lucy would fade after he moved away, although clearly it makes no difference.
He considers the question that constantly runs through his head: does he actually like Lucy, or is he obsessed with the idea of her—what could have been? The missed opportunities and all the things he left unsaid.
Lucy’s changed since they last saw each other. He’s changed. They aren’t the same people they once were. Does he just like the version of her in his head? If they were to meet again, would he still feel the same way towards her? (He wants to believe that he would, but he can’t guarantee it.)
The thing about all these considerations is that it assumes Lucy still feels the same way about him.
Because surely Lucy’s moved on.
He hasn’t heard much about her life. Charlie told him she’s doing her master’s in psychology—is planning to go all the way to a doctorate—but that’s all. The times he goes home to Minnesota, she’s not there, and the times he hears that Lucy’s there, he’s in New York City. She might have a boyfriend. Maybe she’s picked up karate or surfing. Schroeder doesn’t know. (Does he want to know?)
Finally, Anna says, “I wish I’d treated Bobby better when we were younger. I wasn’t the best sister.”
“Really?” Michelle asks, her eyebrows rising.
Anna squirms slightly in her seat, and her cheeks flush. “I really wanted a baby sister, and I was upset when it turned out Bobby wasn’t a girl.” She refuses to look anyone in the eye.
Schroeder feels the urge to save her from her discomfort, so he says, “I wish I’d focussed more on friendships when I was in grade school.” Instantly, he regrets his words and the bare truth laid out before him, and he blames the drinks for making his lips loose. Why couldn’t he have shared light-hearted regrets like Timothy and Winston?
“Yeah?” Timothy prompts.
He’s having an out-of-body experience, he’s sure of it, because his mouth has a mind of its own as it continues, “I was mean and standoffish when I was in grade school—too focussed on becoming the next Beethoven—and didn’t really cultivate the friendships I had like I should have.”
“You aren’t in contact with any of them anymore?” Anna asks.
“Well, Charlie and I spend time together whenever I’m in Minnesota, but that’s all, really.” It would be nice to still be in contact with Lucy, even just platonically, to get to know her for real.
But the idea of reaching out first is daunting. He was a coward back then, and nothing has changed.
~~~
Bonnie’s house never gets less impressive. Overlooking Lower New York Bay, it’s a sandy coloured, geometric building with a cylindrical tower attached. The stone slab driveway is particularly impressive, and it slopes downwards towards a lower-level garage. Large, brown windows let plenty of natural light in.
He was correct in assuming she was related to the bride. They’re sisters and, while he’s sure there’s some sort of generational wealth going on, their parents are both surgeons. Bonnie herself is a nurse anesthetist.
When he enters through the front door, Bonnie appears at the end of the hall where the kitchen is. She smiles when she sees him, and she yells up the stairwell, “Jamie!”
Schroeder hears a door creak open on the second floor and then the light sound of pattering footsteps. When he appears, Jamie’s mouth is in its usual frown, and his dark hair bounces as he ambles down the stairs. When Schroeder first started teaching him, he thought the kid was just constantly in a bad mood, but now he knows that that’s just Jamie’s resting face.
“Hi, Mr. Schroeder,” Jamie says, although he has a slight speech impediment, and it always sounds more like “shoulder.” He begins making his way to the living room, off to the right of the entryway.
“Hey. How are you today?” Schroeder asks, following him. The Steinway salon grand greets him, and it’s painful to see all the greasy fingerprints on its glossy, black surface. It makes his left eye twitch every week.
“Good.” Jamie jumps up on the piano bench, little legs swinging, and he looks up at Schroeder expectantly with his big, green eyes.
Schroeder bends to push in the bench, careful not to scratch the hardwood flooring. “Comfortable?”
Jamie nods.
“What are you in the mood for today?” Schroeder asks, although he has an inkling, and walks over to the bay window where there’s a basket full of music books with scales and easy songs. He likes to start and end their lessons with something Jamie wants to do to make sure he enjoys himself.
“‘Jingle Bells,’” Jamie calls out, which is the fourth time in a row now. It’s the middle of June.
Schroeder picks up the red-spiralled music book, flips open to “Jingle Bells,” and places it on the music shelf. He doesn’t offer to count him in or ask if he needs help finding middle C, just lets Jamie inspect the piano as he always does before playing anything.
As Jamie begins the carol, Schroeder migrates to the other end of the piano, pulling a cloth out of his pocket to start the Sisyphean task of wiping away the fingerprints from its surface.
“I don’t like you watching me,” Jamie had told him after a couple of lessons passed. It was the most forward he’d ever been. “It makes my hands sweat.”
To remedy the issue, Schroeder busies himself with the piano or flipping through the music books as Jamie plays. Other times, he’ll just stare out the window. If Jamie has a question about a note or rhythm, he’s never been afraid to ask.
Of course, it’s important to watch his hand placement, but Schroeder always goes over it before Jamie starts playing, adding little marks on the sheet music to indicate which finger should be used. Otherwise, the main thing is trying to get Jamie to like playing the piano. There will be plenty of time to hone in on technique once he’s a little older and more comfortable playing. But he doesn’t want Jamie to end up hating the lessons.
It’s strange being on the other end of the piano, and he wonders how Lucy felt hearing him play day after day. It’s strangely calming, and Jamie isn’t exactly a prodigy, but it’s satisfying when he gets an entire phrase right without mistake or interruption. He’s proud of how far Jamie’s come.
He likes the kid, and he reminds Schroeder of himself. Jamie’s quiet and serious, but he’s caught moments of playfulness on occasion when Jamie lets himself have fun. He’d enjoy having a child like Jamie, although Schroeder knows that that’s not how that works.
He wonders what he’d be like as a dad. The role is nowhere in his near future, but spending time with Jamie has him thinking about it often. If he and Lucy ever had a child, he thinks they’d balance each other out well.
Abruptly, he forces himself out of his thoughts and back to “Jingle Bells.” There’s no point in thinking about a hypothetical scenario where he and Lucy have a child. Bonnie’s around his age and has a five-year-old. Maybe Lucy has a child, and he doesn’t know it. (What would he think if Charlie called him one day to tell him so? Would he feel happy for her? Jealous?)
Schroeder shakes himself, and he manages not to think about Lucy for the rest of the lesson.
He hears the front door open as Jamie’s playing “Jingle Bells” to end the hour. A young woman and, presumably, her daughter enter, and Bonnie embraces the other woman who has bright, blonde hair and is wearing a pink shirt and high-waisted jeans.
The little girl with her has curly blonde hair, and her dress is the brightest orange Schroeder’s ever seen. She lights up upon seeing Jamie, and her eyes are wide as she watches him play.
The three of them whisper in the hallway for a moment, and then the two women disappear down the hall, although the girl stays in the doorway, silent and still as a statue.
When Jamie finishes, he glances towards the girl, and a bright smile grows on his face, the largest Schroeder’s ever seen on him. “Rachel!” he exclaims.
“That was amazing!” Rachel says, rushing up to the piano bench. “How did you do that?” She thumps on a couple of the bass keys with her right hand. Her nails are painted the same orange as her dress.
Jamie instantly scoots over on the bench, and Rachel hops up. “Mr. Schroeder has been teaching me,” he says, pointing to him, and Rachel glances over in his direction. “Music has a weird alphabet,” Jamie tells her, pressing C4, and the two of them bend their heads over the keys. “It’s like the normal one, but it starts with C. And it ends with G and goes back around to A.”
“I don’t get it,” Rachel says, instantly, in that frank way that only a child who doesn’t know judgement or shame does.
“This is C,” and Jamie presses the key again. His voice is patient and quiet, his frown of concentration back. “And that’s D.” He presses the next one.
Look how easy that is, his brain says derisively. How they get along just fine, how they’re comfortable with one another. That could have been you. But you didn’t allow it. And for what? What did you gain from pushing Lucy away?
Goosebumps break out over Schroeder’s skin, and he just rubs even more fiercely at the fingerprints, like he’s trying to wipe away all these emotions and feelings rolling through him. He’s sick of this—thinking about Lucy all the time. It’s exhausting, and God, he’d love to be able to stop this madness, sever himself from his feelings for Lucy, but he can do absolutely nothing about it. No matter what he does, no matter how hard he tries or wants, he still loves Lucy van Pelt.
“C, D, E, F, G…H?” Rachel tries, but then corrects herself. “A!”
“Exactly!” Jamie exclaims, and Schroeder can hear the smile on his face.
Schroeder pockets the cloth before straightening. His hour is up. He glances at the two kids at the piano before quietly walking to the hallway, trying to desperately ignore the yearning in his heart. This is what he and Lucy could have had had Schroeder been kinder.
In the hallway, Bonnie and Rachel’s mom are just getting to the kitchen. Bonnie notices and ushers him over. “Schroeder, this is my long-time friend, Wendy. Wendy, Schroeder.”
Wendy shakes his hand enthusiastically and, when she smiles, there’s a gap between her two front teeth. “Pleasure! Bonnie’s been absolutely raving about you. Said you’re some type of prodigy.”
Schroeder doesn’t know how Bonnie would be able to tell he’s a prodigy after only hearing him play at her sister’s wedding reception, but it’s a kind compliment. “Thank you, but—”
There are peals of laughter from the living room, and Jamie starts to play “Jingle Bells” again. Occasionally, some rouge bass notes are played, giving the carol a discordant and hellish feel.
Wendy doesn’t let Schroeder continue, and she says, “I’ve been hesitant in putting Rachel in music lessons—had bad past experiences, y’know?—but Bonnie says you’ve done amazing work with Jamie. It took him half a year to finally acknowledge my existence; the way he really likes you goes to show how great of a teacher you are.”
Schroeder just blinks at the woman, a little thrown off. “I wouldn’t say Jamie really—”
But, this time, he’s cut off by Bonnie. “Are you kidding me? He talks about you. All. The. Time. He’s invited himself to your next birthday party. And when he doesn’t want to eat his veggies, I say that you’ll be disappointed in him because broccoli helps your fingers stay limber, and it’s important to have healthy fingers to play piano. And then he eats his veggies!”
Schroeder doesn’t know what to think about being used as some sort of tactic to get Jamie to eat his veggies, but there’s a sort of joy in his chest in knowing that Jamie likes him. He supposes he’ll have to organize a birthday party for himself; usually, he stays at home and acts like it’s just another day. “I’m flattered,” he says. “I don’t think I’m all that special of a teacher, though”—it’s probably just this unique case—“Jamie reminds me of when I was a kid, and I remember my childhood a little too well.”
Both Bonnie and Wendy titter. Wendy cocks her head to the side. “What do you think about teaching Rachel piano, too?” She gestures to the living room where Jamie and Rachel are still talking and playing the piano together. “It sounds like she’d enjoy it.”
“And then they could play duets!” Bonnie interjects with an excited flap of her hands.
Schroeder pauses for a second. Rachel seems very different to Jamie. He’s grown comfortable with his and Jamie’s rapport, is unsure what it might be like teaching Rachel. What if he’s not as great of a teacher as the women say he is? If this is all a fluke? Eventually, though, he nods. He likes helping Jamie become a better pianist—it’s satisfying to hear him getting better—and he’s certainly not awful with children. Besides, the money from it definitely won’t hurt. “Of course.”
Wendy smiles and promises to pay him the same amount Bonnie is and, as if to really hit home the different tax brackets they’re in, she says, “I suppose I’ll have to buy a piano now. But we’ll make it fit; I’ve been meaning to re-do the living room for a while, anyway. This’ll finally give me an excuse to.”
As Schroeder walks down the hallway to leave, he peers into the living room to see Jamie and Rachel still at the piano talking and giggling, their little legs swinging, their heads bent together.
He blinks and, suddenly, he sees his younger self and Lucy at the piano bench instead, in some sort of alternate reality where they got along, where Schroeder didn’t push her away, where everything turned out right.
The vision fades, and Schroeder steps out into the bright, summer’s day. His shoulders feel like they weigh a thousand pounds, and he squints up at the blue sky. At this point, he should be used to this—used to seeing Lucy in every dark-haired girl, used to falling asleep dreaming about her, used to associating her with every piano piece he plays.
But he’s not.
It surprises him every time Lucy manages to worm her way into his head, just how much he cares, and hopes, and wants.
It’s stupid. It’s pathetic.
And, unfortunately, Schroeder has no one to blame but himself.