Justin Kramon Read Online Free PDF Page B

dad.”
    “It’s okay,” Earl said. “I’ll tell him. But you’ll definitely come back, right?”
    “Of course,” Finny said. She hesitated. “But I was thinking. My parents might not like it if I’m coming over too much.”
    “Why not?”
    “It’s just how they are. They have to approve everything. But maybe there’s a way I can get over more.”
    “What were you thinking?”
    She told him her idea. It was as bold as she’d ever been with a boy, but something about Earl made her that way.
    When she was done, Earl said, “It sounds great.”
    Back at home Finny felt jittery from the coffee, and from the excitement of her afternoon, the plan she and Earl had hatched.
    “Where were you?” Laura asked her.
    “Just walking,” Finny said.

    Chapter 3
Lessons
    Stanley loved Bach. He’d been to the Tanglewood festival once and heard the Mass in B-Minor in a church, and since then he’d thought Bach was the greatest composer who ever lived. He had Bach records lined up in his study, a poster of the first page of the cello suites on his wall, and he talked about Glenn Gould, the Bach pianist, like he was a family friend. “Gould is tough,” he would say whenever the subject came up. “You have to take time to get to know him.” Sometimes he would play a brief recording for Sylvan and Finny, and they would have to sit there and pretend they were listening. Stanley would do a little conducting as the record played, working himself up feverishly in the crescendos. When the recording was done, Stanley would say “Bach” and nod.
    He’d wanted Sylvan and Finny to be musical. They’d obliged by joining chorus. But Finny hated singing. She thought her voice sounded like a creaky gate, and her high notes were enough to make Raskal whimper. She hated being stuck up there, in the white turtleneck and black slacks they made them wear, howling out her part. The boy next to her used to stick his finger in his ear on the side Finny was on. “Am I that awful?” she asked him. “It helps me hear myself,” he said.
    “I was wondering if maybe I could take piano lessons,” Finny said to her father at dinner on the evening she’d visited Earl’s house.
    “Of course,” Stanley said, and she thought she saw his mouth tremble with pleasure. Sylvan stopped eating.
    “If you practice enough,” Stanley said, “you might be able to play the Well-Tempered Clavier. Or at least the Inventions.”
    “That would be great,” Finny said.
    “Maybe the Goldberg Variations!”
    “There’s a teacher I heard was pretty good. He actually lives near here.”
    Sylvan was watching Finny, a little crease denting the skin between his eyes.
    “How did you hear about him?” Stanley said.
    “Through some people at school. He was in the Tchaikovsky competition.”
    “Tchaikovsky,” Stanley said.
    “I think he charges very reasonable prices, too.”
    “Money is no issue in art,” Stanley said.
    “It would be lovely if you learned to play a little for guests,” Laura said. “There is nothing in the world a party guest enjoys more than a recital.”
    “Are there any more potatoes?” Sylvan asked. He was shaking his head at Finny, like she had suddenly decided to perform a jig on top of the dining room table.
    “‘I don’t like to think much about my playing,’” Stanley began. “‘It would be like a centipede considering in which order to move its legs.’”
    Nobody knew quite what to make of this, and they all just watched Stanley. In the silence, Raskal let out a small fart.
    “Gould,” Stanley finally said, and for some reason this seemed to settle the matter.
    So Finny began a routine of piano lessons. She went to Mr. Henckel’s house twice a week because, she told Stanley, she needed to get a good grounding. The lessons were supposed to be an hour, though with all they had to cover, they often lasted longer than that.
    Usually the lessons began with a nap. Maybe five minutes or so. Finny sat at attention on