Starry-Eyed Read Online Free Page B

you.”
    â€œTrust me, you really don’t.”
    â€œWhat’s that supposed to mean?”
    How can I explain my Swiss cheese soul to Henry? “It’s just, when I play in front of people, I feel like I lose myself, piece by piece.” I keep the part about feeling like a member of Barnum’s Freak Show to myself.
    Henry studies my face, and I hope I’m not still blushing.
    â€œWhen was the last time you played for an audience?”
    â€œWhen I was nine,” I admit.
    â€œSo? It’s been so long, how do you know you’ll still feel the same way?” He puts his hand on my arm. “Try it. Just with me, like an experiment. Play Kreisleriana . From the beginning.”
    He doesn’t know what he’s asking. The first movement is wild, uncontrolled passion.
    When I don’t answer, he sits next to me on the bench. There’s barely enough room and our hips touch, but both of us pretend not to notice.
    â€œPlease.”
    How many more ways can I say no? But the truth is, I kind of want to do it. Maybe Henry’s right. Maybe it’ll be different now.
    There’s a ball of ice in my stomach as I push the pages from left to right. Page one: ausserst bewegt . Extremely moving. Agitatissimo . Very agitated.
    â€œWait,” Henry says, his expression a new and totally unfamiliar mixture of shyness and need. “I want to know what it feels like.” He reaches his hands toward mine. “Can I? I mean, would you be able to play if I . . .”
    I understand what he’s trying to say. Can he hold my hands while I play Kreisleriana ? The idea is terrifying and irresistible.
    â€œIt won’t work like that,” I say.
    â€œOf course not. I understand. I’m sorry,” he says, looking completely mortified, another unfamiliar expression.
    â€œNo, I mean I can’t play if you’re leaning across me,” I say. “You’d need to sit behind me.”
    â€œOh,” he says. “Okay.”
    Henry gets up and I shift forward on the bench. Then he sits behind me, straddling me. “You mean like this?” he says. His mouth is just above my ear.
    I have to tell myself to breathe. Henry’s body is so warm. “Yes,” I say. I put my hands on the keyboard, and Henry puts his hands on top of mine.
    You know what it’s like when you go to the beach in June on a hotday when the water is only about fifty-five degrees, and you’re standing at the shoreline with the sun boiling your scalp and your toes numb in the frigid sand? That’s how I feel right now.
    I think about the rooms full of strangers at my auditions. I think about my mother’s meat mallet. And then I push it all out of my head and think about Henry’s thighs, which are currently sandwiching mine, and how the poor lonely tree falling in the forest with no one to hear it has always seemed so pathetic to me and I really don’t want that to be the metaphor of my life.
    One-two-three-go!
    There’s no introduction to the first movement of Kreisleriana , no way to get ready for the tidal wave of sound that overwhelms you from the first instant. My hands are like life rafts in a tumultuous sea of music. They fly to the extremes of the keyboard and Henry leans against me, following my body’s movements to keep his hands from slipping off mine.
    I can feel Henry’s heart beating against my back, feel him breathing in fits and starts. I’m breathing hard, too, but it’s okay. I’m okay. I’m playing Kreisleriana and Henry’s here listening— more than listening—and I don’t want to die.
    The movement is building toward its final crescendo, the chords climbing higher and higher. It ends sforzando , as loud as I can make it, and while the blast of sound decays around us, Henry squeezes my hands and I feel the rise and fall of his chest on my back, his breath heavy in my ear. I turn my head, but before I can