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"You drove that truck?' he asked, nodding at it. "It didn't drive me," I replied.
He smiled and nodded.
"I know your farm. My father's bank carries the mortgage."
I knew his father was a bank president, of course. but I had no idea where Grandad Forman had his business affairs. I didn't reply. I went to the truck, opened the door, and put the violin on the seat.
"You are good," he said, stepping closer to me. "I trusted Mr. Wengrow not to waste my time, but he sometimes exaggerates to make the parents of his students feel good about their so-called prodigies."
"My parents don't think I'm a prodigy. Is that what yours think you are?" I shot back at him. "Is that why you play the piano?"
He shrugged.
"I don't know, Maybe. I play because it pleases me and seems to please people who hear me do it. Why do you play the violin?" he countered.
I thought a moment.
"An uncle of mine once said I don't play it."
"Huh?"
"He said. 'It plays you.'"
"It plays you?"
"Exactly," I said, getting into the truck and looking out the window at him. 'If you can find a way to understand that, you might find a way to understand yourself"
"Who says I don't understand myself?"
"No one. Who else can know if you do or not but you?" I started the engine. He drew closer.
"What are you, full of riddles?"
"Not any more or less than anyone else. I suppose. I enjoyed playing my violin with your accompaniment, Chandler. You don't play the piano. It plays you," I said, smiling, and put the truck in reverse.
I backed out of the driveway and took one last look at him. He was still standing there, watching me. I waved and then drove off. My heart thumping so hard, I thought I would have a rush of blood to my head and pass out.
He has beautiful eyes, I admitted to myself. He didn't turn them to me as much as I would have liked. but on the other hand, if he looked at me too much. I would probably have a harder time concentrating on my music. Still, it was nice to think of them now. It brought a smile to my face. and that smile remained there like a soft impression in newly fallen snow.
"You look like you had a good time," Daddy said when I entered the house. He and Mommy were in the kitchen. talking. Grandad had fallen asleep in his chair in front of the television set. He was snoring at a volume that was almost as loud as the program.
"What? Oh. Yes, it was very good. Daddy."
I'm glad," he said. "Maybe you really should think of a career in music."
"Maybe," I said, and went up to my room.
I sat at my vanity table and stared at my image in the mirror, wondering if I was at all attractive. Was my nose too small, my lips too thin, my eyes too close together?
I stood up and began to undress, gazing at myself as I stripped down to bare skin. I had a figure people called perky, cute. Would I ever be beautiful? It seemed to me that boys didn't take cute girls seriously enough, only the girls who were beautiful. I'd always look too young.
When I once voiced such a complaint. Mommy told me to just wait twenty years. I'd love being considered too young then; but who wanted to wait so long to be happy about herself? Not me. I wanted to be happy about myself now.
I realized I was standing nude in front of my mirror and judging my breasts, my curves, and my waist. Was this sinful? Would I be punished for my vanity? Grandad would certainly say so. I thought. and I almost expected to hear a boom of thunder and see the sizzle of God's displeasure light up my bedroom windows.
I heard the phone ring and a moment later Mommy called up to me. "There's a phone call for you. Honey."
"Me?" I scooped up my robe and hurriedly put it on as I went to the foot of the stairs. Mommy was standing at the bottom. 'Who is it?"
