“But you have to be serious about what you just said. I’m rebuffing you not because I’m not tempted, but because I have a daughter and a committed husband, to whom I made vows that I will honour for the rest of my life.”
Tempted, Quinn couldn’t get past that one word. Does that mean… fuck, no, don’t blow it again! he admonished himself. She’s the tuba player. She’s the fucking tuba player from now on.
“I understand completely,” he said out loud. “We will have nothing but a professional relationship going forward, and I will never, ever complicate things again.”
***Two years earlier***
Imaani had finished her cello lessons with Quinn a month back, but still came by the music academy to jam with him when he was free. At first she was afraid she was imposing on him, but then made a point to return at least once a week when he seemed sad to see her go after her initial visit.
“I always wanted to play this one,” she told him one day, starting up the opening phrase of Dead Leaves and the Dirty Ground by the White Stripes. Like magic, Quinn joined her in the next few bars, his eyes intently watching her fingers on the cello’s neck and fingerboard.
“Did you download the sheet music for that?” he asked afterwards.
“Um, no,” she replied.
“How’d you know what notes to play?”
“I just… I just heard it and I played it,” Imaani replied, a little confused. Quinn narrowed his eyes at her and tilted his head.
“Let’s try something,” he said. “Turn your chair right around. I’ll do the same so that we’re back to back.” They shuffled over and he made sure she was ready. “Play this,” he instructed, producing a pattern on his cello. Imaani watched the notes dance in her mind and they came out through her fingers and bow, imitating Quinn exactly. “Okay,” he said preparing something a little more challenging, “this one now.”
Imaani closed her eyes and let her hands slide up and down her cello’s neck, first practicing the difficult phrase without her bow. After a few seconds she reproduced it.
“How long have you been able to do that?” Ethan walked in chewing a granola bar. “You play better by ear than you do reading sheet music.”
“I… I don’t know,” Imaani hesitated, not sure if she’d been using an improper technique. “After a few months of lessons I started listening to songs on the radio and wondering if I could play them on the cello. Then I found I got most of the notes right when I was trying it out for the first time, and–” she stopped when she noticed Quinn staring at her incredulously.
He went to the computer nearby and looked up the notations for the White Stripes song.
“Son of a bitch,” he swore. Then he looked back at Ethan and smiled, a sparkle in his eye. “You know what we could do with this, huh?” They started a new game, each of them choosing a song–Quinn off downloadable sheet music and Imaani from the top of her head–and played them to each other.
Imaani found it interesting that Quinn picked songs on his turns that were inspired by Black American blues musicians, whereas she favoured what her husband called white boy rock. She’d argued with him often that she was into the instrumentation and rhythm guitars over anything else, whereas Clayton always annoyed her in saying it all sounded the same to him.
It was mere days after Quinn discovered Imaani had perfect pitch that they began playing entire songs together with Ethan adding a beat. It was a month later that Imaani found herself on stage with Quinn and Ethan at Natasha’s school, a set list of popular rock and R&B songs taped to the floor in front of her.
“I don’t know if I can do this,” she whispered to Quinn, her eyes frantic as she shook her head at him. The school’s music teacher was in the process of introducing them to the crowd, and they would be on in seconds.
“You’ve been jamming with me for months, and you’re brilliant,” he reassured her. “Remember, most of the audience won’t even know if you make a mistake as long as you get right back into it. Just watch the notes in your head like you always do.”
Imaani didn’t glance out at the audience even once, keeping her eyes on Quinn and her ears attuned to Ethan’s guiding rhythm. Quinn answered questions about his symphony career between songs, and Imaani was glad to not have to say anything.
“How long have you all been playing?” a little voice asked during one such break.
“Well, I’ve been playing the cello since I was about your age,” Quinn replied, “and Ethan behind me picked up his first sticks when he was in high school. But the really special one here is Imaani.” Imaani snapped her head toward her partner in surprise, as if to ask what he thought he was doing.
“She never even touched a cello up until a little over a year ago,” Quinn revealed. Murmurs hummed throughout the crowd among the students as well as their teachers. Imaani felt her ears burn. “But she practiced really hard and discovered her talent, and that’s why we decided to play here for you today. I didn’t have a cello partner before her.”
The music academy became so overwhelmed with calls from parents wanting to sign their kids up for lessons that Imaani didn’t drop by for weeks afterwards. Then she got a call from Quinn.
“Hey, I’ve missed you,” he said.
“I’ve missed you too, but you and Ethan have been busy boys,” she smiled at hearing his soft voice again.
“It’s died down a bit now; lots more lesson slots filled everyday but not as wild as it was right after the concert. Are you… are you done dropping by?” Quinn’s voice was low and hopeful.