Silent Echo (4 page)

Class began before Portia could eke out another written message. She was grateful for the distraction—she wasn’t sure what she would say next to this mystery guy who had invaded her thoughts in a way that could only be described as viral.

Halfway through class, though, he tapped her subtly and motioned to his own notebook. His handwriting was a bit erratic, a reflection of his mood swings, perhaps? Nonetheless she read through his words three times before daring to meet his eyes.

If Delacroix were the only thing

That caused in me that need to sing,

My songs, I swear, they would remain

Lost in pleasure—no more pain.

And I think my solo act’s run dry,

Alone can stifle, too.

Maybe sometime I’ll ask you “why?”

And find the truth in you…

Portia’s heart was pounding as she managed to level her eyes with his. There was no point in trying to mask her reaction—it would be impossible to be feeling something so intensely and not have it reflected in her face. And what she was feeling was an absolute, unmitigated desire to spend the rest of her life dissecting every provocative word that he had written.

“I was thinking something in B minor—I can kind of already hear it in my head,” he scribbled underneath the lyrics.

Portia didn’t know what to say, what to do. A storm of questions and unspoken words rained down on her mind, but she couldn’t grab hold of any one in particular. She was overwhelmed by his honesty and began to write something in her own notebook but found that her hand was shaking, and she couldn’t control her pen.

Suddenly his hand was over hers, stilling it.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured. “Please don’t think I’m a freak or anything—”

“Monsieur Hunter, was there something you wanted to share with the class?”

He allowed his hand to linger on hers for a moment, their eyes caught in a deadlock, before addressing the teacher.

“Pardon, Madame…”

Portia didn’t hear anything else he said. She focused instead on steadying her breath, which was coming in heady spurts.

When the bell rang, he stood up and finally looked at her again. Or through her. She wasn’t sure how to classify what exactly it was that Max Hunter’s eyes had the ability to do.

After a moment or two, he ripped the page from his notebook and handed it to her.

“Pour vous, mademoiselle,” he said with a bit of a flourish.

And then he walked away.

She looked down at the paper. He had given the song a title.

It was called simply “Portia.”

♪

On the bus ride going home, Portia listened to Enya. She never understood a word the Irish singer was saying, which made for perfect background music when she needed to think.

She was exhausted from the day’s events. First the choking fit that had landed her in the nurse’s office, followed by the disturbing dream and then the encounters with Max Hunter.

Max. Hunter.

She took out the sheet of paper that she had carefully folded and stowed in her pocket. Looking at it again for the first time since French class, she was amazed to see that he had added another verse before giving it to her.

You have a way, you charge the air,

With cobalt eyes and chestnut hair.

And though your lips don’t make a sound,

They speak of being pleasure bound.

Can one moment produce this draw?

And do you feel it, too?

A current filled with shock and awe.

I’ll search for truth in you…

Portia read and reread the lyrics over and over again, the paper itself becoming a magnet from which she could not pry her quivering fingertips.

He’s wondering if
I
felt it? I feel like I’ve been hit by a bus.

She smoothed out the creases in the paper and placed it carefully inside the oversized bird book that was weighing down her backpack. The book happened to open to the white bird, and she was relieved to cover the image with Max’s beautiful words.

What was it about this boy that was so damned magnetic? The fact was that before he had even dashed off a love song about her while he should have been busy with verb conjugation, she had already been smitten. Was it his looks? They were extraordinary, no question. But there were lots of good-looking boys in school. Was it the voice? Deprived of one herself, Portia always measured people’s voices carefully, the inflection of their words, the ease with which they turned a phrase. Max’s had been throaty and smooth at the same time. His words poured out like warm caramel sprinkled with coarse sea salt—a recent favorite delicacy of Helena’s.

After Portia’s second exchange with him, she was also certain that, as she had suspected, his speech did hold vestiges of a British accent. That would explain why he was new to the school. But what was his story? What had landed Max Hunter on the shores of Ridgewood of all places?

Her thoughts were interrupted by Charlotte Trotter, who came slumping down the center aisle to get off the bus. She was angrily swiping away tears that were clearly freshly shed. Portia’s heart went out to her, to her sunken cheeks streaked black from tear-laden mascara. She reached out and tapped her from behind.

Charlotte snapped her head around—there was fire in her eyes, but her voice was meek. “Portia, just leave me alone, OK? We’re not four years old anymore…”

Portia didn’t know what to say. She took her phone out, but before she could type anything, Charlotte was gone. All that remained was the sight of Mr. Trotter opening the door and ushering his stepdaughter inside.

The pain between her shoulder blades reemerged at the sight of Harold Trotter’s cold face. She reached a hand to her neck to massage her sore muscles.

I better not let Helena see me like this…

She closed her eyes and once more conjured a detailed image of Max Hunter’s face. The throbbing receded, replaced by the delicious warmth, just in time for her to hop off the bus in front of her own house.

♪

Helena was home, as always, when Portia walked in. She was chopping up some fresh herbs from the garden and stuffing a butterflied trout with thin lemon slices and roasted garlic. Portia loved watching her mother cook. The kitchen was Helena’s studio, every dish a blank canvas upon which she painted exquisite combinations of ingredients. Sometimes Portia had the privilege of being her mother’s sous chef, but after a long school day, she was happy to just sample the fare that was being offered.

Dousing the trout with some Greek olive oil, Helena deftly placed the stuffed fish into a grilling basket. It was the kind of dish that could have been featured on the cover of
Gourmet
magazine, a meal reserved for a special occasion. But at the Griffin house, every meal was a special occasion.

Closing the door behind her, Portia walked into the kitchen and dropped her bag, startling her mother, who then, without hesitation, charged her daughter for a hug that was instantly thwarted.

“Your hands smell like trout,” Portia signed.

“Oh, for God’s sake,” grumbled her jilted mother. She hurriedly washed her hands off and pulled her daughter in, planting several kisses on Portia’s forehead.

“How was the first day? I want to know every detail.”

Portia popped a piece of roasted cauliflower in her mouth. “It was interesting,” she signed as she chewed. She had already decided that she would keep the day’s health scare under the parental radar and was relieved and a little surprised that Helena had seemingly not been contacted by Ms. Leucosia. “Mr. Rathi is just as good as everybody says. And then there was this new kid in class…a boy, actually—” Her hands stopped abruptly when she realized Helena was gaping at her.

“Yeah, go on!” her mother urged.

But Portia knew that if she mentioned Max’s name, she’d never hear the end of it. For years she had begged her parents to have more kids, desperate for the company, but more importantly so that she wouldn’t be the sole source of familial gossip. But her parents insisted that Portia was the perfect finishing touch to their little family. (Though secretly she suspected that her handicap was challenging enough without her parents having to deal with more children.)

And so she resorted to her most oft used method of distraction before she got roped into any Max discussion.

“I will tell you everything, Mom,” she signed, “but right now I’m starving. What are you whipping up here?”

Helena immediately took the bait.

“Oh, well, the fish at Whole Foods this morning was irresistible and I felt like grilling…”

Her mother’s voice trailed off into a land of epicurean adventures while Portia reminded her that the grill was going to overheat. When Helena hurried for the terrace, Portia made a hasty retreat toward her own room. Kicking her shoes off, she flopped down on her bed and nestled into her quilt, inhaling its familiar fragrance.

Instinctively she opened her laptop, logging in her password, “stevejobs.” Her iChat icon was already flashing. A couple of quick clicks revealed Felix’s face on the screen.

“Hey, how are you feeling?”

Before she could type out a response he continued:

“Get this—my parents are flipping out! Wendy just told them that she is deferring college so that she can waitress at Café on the Ridge. My dad was freaking! She swore that it would only be for one year—she thinks that should be long enough to launch her musical career, not that my parents found that at all comforting.

“Anyway, I, of course, was looking for the selfish angle in all of this, and Wendy told me she would hook us up with free food and drinks whenever we want. She told me she’d secure me a VIP spot for Open Mic Night and I told her that she better make it a spot for two. What do you think?”

Portia loved being drawn into the drama of Felix’s home life. She knew it wasn’t easy for him to be surrounded by women all the time, but she envied the constant bustle that came along with having a big family.

“Why would you care about Open Mic Night?” she chided him. “You can’t even hear anything!”

His reply caught her off guard.

“True, Portia, but I might get to dance with you again.”

Portia looked away from the webcam. She had deliberately avoided discussing the events of the last time they had been at Café on the Ridge. But now that he had brought it up, she remembered every detail of that night.

In high def.

Right before Felix left for his annual summer with Dean and his grandparents, he had convinced Portia to go out on the town with him. Of course, “out on the town” in Ridgewood did not offer many choices. They decided on Café on the Ridge, a comfortable café that transformed itself into something of a nightclub when dining hours were over.

It was noisy when they got there. The lights had been dimmed and Justin Timberlake’s falsetto filled the room. They greeted some familiar faces from school and Portia was suddenly happy that they had decided to come. The music wound its way through her body, relaxing her, prompting her stride to keep time with the beat. She looked over at Felix, eager to share the moment.

He looked lost.

“Explain it to me.” He signed in earnest, a rare admission of his desire to experience the sound, to know the music.

Portia brought him over to one of the many speakers in the café and placed one of his hands on the black mesh fabric, his other on her hip. His hand was so big, her hip so slender, that she could feel the press of his thumb and fingertips at the front and back pockets of her jeans.

The music thrummed to that rhythm that only Timbaland seemed able to fully master as she began to move her hips to the music. Felix’s grip tightened, an earnest plea for her to stay with him, to not get carried away by the music without him. His other hand was tapping on the speaker, picking up on the vibrations that met his fingertips.

Felix held Portia’s gaze as he kept one hand on the speaker and allowed his other hand to travel up her back and rest on her shoulder. He held her an arm’s length away, taking in the full measure of her movements. Her gestures gained momentum, intensifying to the beat of the music.

She wondered if he could detect the range in Timberlake’s vocals, if a vibration at his fingertips could relay the sultriness of the music.

He moved in a little closer and she could feel his breath on her neck. A delicious chill traveled up and down her spine as she boldly took his hands in her own. Their fingers interlaced instinctively, and she pulled him in even closer. As always, the warmth of his frame made her feel safe. But suddenly also not so safe. The air around them had become thick. Balmy with a mist of unfamiliar sensations, foreign emotions.

The music segued into something or other by Sean Paul. She wasn’t sure what—all of his songs sounded the same anyway. It didn’t matter to them, though. Felix and Portia had created an invisible force field around themselves, caught in a moment where nothing and no one existed besides them. Portia, daring to look up at Felix, searched for that assurance that whatever it was she was feeling was mutual.

He was hard to read.

Over the years Felix had perfected what Portia nicknamed his “Zorro Mask”—a blank face that combined bravado and indifference. This was definitely one of those Zorro moments. And she couldn’t help but wonder: was he enjoying dancing or was he enjoying dancing
with her
?

Her insecurities got the best of her, and abruptly she begged off the dance floor. She signed to Felix that she was starving and made a dash for the coffee counter, trying, without much success, to slow her racing heart. He tried following her but was hindered by Wendy, who insisted that her brother give her a turn on the dance floor.

As they walked home later that night, the tension hung heavily around them. When Felix suddenly grabbed her hand and held it all the way home, Portia tried acting as though this was completely normal for them, walking hand in hand together. When they reached her house, though, he drew her hand up to his lips, kissing her fingertips.