Allegra by Shelley Hrdlitschka Page A

anything.”
    â€œOkay, well, I’ll start at the beginning and you stop me if you already know what I’m teaching you.”
    He turns back to the computer screen and shows me how my music scrolls across it. It almost looks like a hospital heart monitor. Each additional instrument and rhythm that I add will show up on the screen as a new track, either beneath or above the ones already recorded. I can even assign each one a different color to distinguish it from the others. I can record multiple tracks and adjust each one individually without affecting the others. I can raise the volume of the flute or soften the beat of a drum.
    â€œWhat do you think?” he asks.
    â€œIt’s pretty cool. I didn’t know you could do all that.”
    â€œNow you know.”
    â€œIt looks complicated.”
    â€œJust play with it for a while. You’ll get the hang of it.”
    I shrug, not convinced.
    â€œYou’ve got a whole year to finish the project, you know.”
    â€œHow often can I use the sound room?” I ask.
    â€œIt’s all yours during music-theory classes. And there”— he points at the wall—“is a sign-up sheet for other hours. I’ve blocked off the times that the composition class meets, and we have some eager recording-studio-engineer types in this school, but you’ll have plenty of time to get the project done.”
    â€œI don’t know about that.”
    He tilts his head to regard me.
    â€œYou said you wanted a masterpiece. How long did it take Beethoven to write the Fifth Symphony?”
    He smiles but doesn’t laugh. He’s studying me a little too closely, and I feel the urge to move back, get some space, but there’s no room.
    â€œThat was a joke,” I tell him.
    â€œI know.” He gets up, and his hand squeezes my arm as he directs me into the chair he’s just vacated. “Have a seat,” he says. “Let’s try adding a trumpet track to your composition.”
    I sit down, still aware of where his hand was on my arm. It felt nice. Gentle but firm. Just enough pressure to guide me, the way a perfect dance partner can guide you around the dance floor without being aggressive.
    â€œOkay, now find the trumpet under the Options menu,” he instructs.
    I scroll through the list of instruments, distracted by his presence as he stands close behind me, bent over and peering at the computer screen.
    We spend the next half hour playing with the composition program. Occasionally his arm brushes against mine as he reaches to point at something on the screen. I can feel his body heat through his shirt, and his breath is warm where it hits the back of my neck. The scent of his spicy aftershave wafts past me. I have trouble concentrating on his instructions.
    Eventually he stretches and steps toward the door. “I need to eat something before the next block,” he says. “But you go ahead; keep playing with the program. We can schedule another lesson once you’ve had a chance to experiment a little.”
    I should be relieved that he’s no longer right behind me, but I’m not, and I’m bothered by the fact that I actually enjoyed having him so close.
    My stomach growls. I slap my hand to it, embarrassed.
    He smiles. “There’s only one rule,” he says. “No eating or drinking in here. You can’t damage anything by clicking on the wrong icon, but a spilled drink…” He leaves the sound room, and through the glass I see him walking toward his desk. I save the work we’ve done and put my flash drive in my pack. I give him a little wave as I walk across the classroom toward the door. “Thanks!”
    â€œAllegra,” he calls.
    I spin around. “Yes?”
    â€œYou’re not a perfectionist, are you?”
    I’m not sure what he’s getting at. “Of course I am.” I smile.
    â€œI’m serious,” he says. “When I said I