Street Girl

18 | elliot

18

HAVING LUCY ALONE in my room was earth-shattering, so I'm relieved when we go downstairs. I can't believe I told her what happened last year. Okay—I definitely left out some crucial details, but still. She's probably gonna think I'm a freak now anyway, even with the lite version.

I flick on the basement light, and Lucy hops on the tile floor with a tiny thud. It's hard to be down here sometimes, because the ghosts of my ex-friends still live here. Back in the day, we'd play beer pong on the pool table after practice even though Dad got super pissed, and when we were too drunk to move, we'd talk about girls on the couch then pass out with cups in our hands. I'd be lying if I said I don't miss those days. It sucks not having guy friends. Or friends in general.

Lucy moves past t he L-shaped couch to the center of the room, and all those memories of me and the guys evaporate. What am I thinking about them for? I have this awesome girl with me, and I still can't believe it, but I think she actually likes me.

"Fancy." Lucy touches the green fabric of the pool table. "I can't believe you don't have a zillion friends. Or does everyone you know have a basement like this?"

I rub the back of my neck. With its stonework walls, dart board, and fireplace, this really is a chill hangout. "Lots of kids have nicer houses than me. Come on, this way."

She follows me to the music room, and I leave the door open behind us. Lucy runs her fingers along the surface of the keyboard, her eyes lingering on the string instruments on the wall. A dusty violin sits in the corner of the room.

"Here." I wipe it off. "I want you to have this."

Lucy's eyebrows furrow. "What? No."

"Huh? Why not?"

"Are you kidding? I can't take this. This thing is probably worth hundreds. Why would you give it to me?"

"Because it's Christmas and some bad people broke your only violin and you seem really bummed about it. We don't even use it. The only person who ever does is Charlotte, and she makes it sound like a harpooned whale."

Lucy crosses her arms. "No."

"If you're worried about the cost, then I won't give it to you for free. How about this: you can have it, but you have to play for me."

"That doesn't sound like a fair trade."

"It does to me. I wanna hear you play."

Her jaw tightens, and after a moment, she says, "I'll play for you, but I'm not keeping the violin."

I sit down on the keyboard stool. "Okay then. I'll take what I can get."

Lucy positions the instrument against her chin. She takes her time with it, her movements careful and slow as she holds it up. I brace myself—Charlotte is God awful at this thing, so really, I'd be more than happy to get rid of it. But when Lucy plays, the steel sound that emits is far from a shriek. It's smooth, long, and musical. The bow trails along the violin, and it weeps. And I can't believe what I'm hearing, that she's capable of creating something like this, and I had no idea about it.

Before my eyes, Lucy transforms. She no longer wears ripped jeans and socks with holes in them. She's in a dress, at a recital, in front of an audience, and I'm in the front row, under the spotlight, and she's looking at me when she plays, out of all the people here, me.

She ends her song and lifts the bow, her cheeks pink. "Wow, this is way better than my other one."

I stand. "Who taught you that?"

"I used to have a tutor."

"When? How? You're fantastic, Lucy. Like, wow."

"Thanks. I'm glad you liked it."

I storm up and grab her hands. "I mean, I don't understand, you're homeless but you know how to do that—God, there's so much I don't know about you."

She pulls away. "Don't be so intense."

"Sorry. I'm impulsive. At least, that's what my dad says. But seriously, I have so many questions."

"Because I know how to play the violin? It's really not a big deal, El. I had a teacher when I was a kid. End of story."

"But..." Okay, I'm overstepping my boundaries. "Sorry."

"It's okay. I'm glad you liked it."

Lucy takes my hands and pulls me to the stool. She sits so I'm standing over her, then nibbles on her bottom lip and parts her legs so her inner thighs brush my hips. I'm close enough to see every detail on her face, every paint splatter-like freckle on her cheeks, every fleck of gold in her coffee-brown eyes. She traces her hands up my arms to my chest and stops at the hem of my hoodie. With a tug of my shirt, she brings me down to her level. My mouth goes dry. I can't think. I can't breathe. Our lips are millimetres apart, so close that her breath brushes my lips and I can smell her.

Something bangs upstairs, and we both let go.

"Who is that?" Lucy says, her voice shaking. "I thought your parents were out."

"There's no way it's them," I say.

We go upstairs. The banging continues. I hurry to the living room and peek through the window.

It's Katie.