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“That’s delightful. See you then,” she says, and when she clicks off, I leap out of the bed, only remembering the violin as I practically throw it across the room as I toss off the duvet. I catch it, and pull the covers up over the sheets, laying the violin case once again on top of the bed.
It lays there like a throw pillow or a folded blanket. I stare at it, trying to tell myself I feel nothing. But it’s not nothing. The thudding in my chest isn’t only the surprise of waking up to a call from Wanda. There’s some of the excitement left over from last night. It feels related to hope.
Only after I run my fingers across the metal clasps do I realize I haven’t had time to worry about electrocution this morning. That’s a win. And, obviously, there was no electrocution. Another win.
When I see my reflection in the bathroom mirror, I wish I’d told Wanda I’d meet her in an hour. My hair looks just like it might if I’d been out in an electrical storm, suffered from some mid-level shock, and then had a restless night of not sleeping.
I knot it on top of my head and jump into the shower for a quick rinse.
Jeans and a sweater, a swipe of lip gloss, and my favorite beanie. It’s not like this is a job interview; I already have the job.
If I whisper goodbye to the violin case on my way out, nobody has to know.
13
SAGE
Ijog over to the Caf, and I’m a few minutes early, but Wanda beats me there. She’s sitting with her back to the door in one of the booths. Since it’s Friday morning, the Caf is mostly deserted except for a few students who study here on free periods.
I come around the booth and grin at her, but my smile stops before it has time to develop. Wanda has an oxygen tank on the floor next to her seat, and one of those plastic hoses in her hand. It’s not up her nose, but I bet it either just was or is about to be.
“Oh, my goodness. Wanda. Are you okay?” I ask. “What happened?”
As soon as I say it, I know it was rude and inappropriate and just exactly the wrong thing. She stiffens a bit, and I immediately backtrack.
“Please can I have a thirty-second do-over?” I ask.
She manages a polite smile. “You can,” she says, and drops the plastic tube into her lap.
I slide into the booth across from her. “It’s so nice to see you this morning,” I tell her, keeping my eyes on her eyes. “I’m so glad you called. It’s always wonderful to have an excuse to cross your path.”
She nods. “Much better.” She leans across the table and takes my hands in hers. “And I’m fine. Just need a little extra air sometimes these days.”
“I apologize.” I want to sink into the floor, but she’s sending me enough of a smile that I don’t think she’s offended.
“Forgiven. Absolutely. And I’m going to need to get used to people seeing this thing sooner or later,” she says, pointing to the tank. She does not tell me that I should have known better than to make a comment on her medical device. We are both very aware of that fact. It’s extremely generous of her to leave it unsaid.
“Can I order you something?” I ask.
She nods. “Tea, please. Val has a lovely cherry-berry blend.”
“Sounds great. I’ll be right back.”
When I return with two mugs of tea and a scone and a croissant, Wanda smiles like she’s pleased I understood the assignment. I slide both plates across the table toward her and she takes a knife from the table and slices each pastry in half, placing half a scone and half a croissant on each plate.
I slip her a mug and pull a plate toward me. I can’t wait to sit here and visit with Wanda. She is such a delight—like a bonus grandma. Just as I pinch a bite of scone and open my mouth, she says, “I’ve received a complaint about you.”
I drop the pastry and it rolls off the table and onto the floor. My mouth stays open in the least flattering way possible, and I can’t remember how to talk. Or breathe.
After too long, I brush my hands on my jeans and close my mouth. My core is being squeezed like play-dough in the fist of an angry toddler.
“Oh,” I say. Brilliant.
She takes a delicate sip of her tea and watches me, as if it’s still my turn to speak.
“What is the complaint?” I ask. But I don’t really want to know. I feel my stomach loosen and then tighten into horrible knots. That can’t end well.
If someone is upset with me, they should come tome. That’s basic adulting, right? Who goes around griping to the board?
