SCENE II

THE SUMMER OF INCOMPLETE C-SCALES

The summer after Emma's death, Insley taught himself how to play the piano. Now I should mention that after Sylvester died, that any interest Insley might have had in classical music was ripped away from him, but he learnt it nonetheless. He didn't learn how to play because he wanted to, he could care less about the piano, he learnt how to play to get me out of my room. It's said that Mozart's mother used to play an incomplete C-scale to get him out of bed, because not hearing that final C would annoy him so much, he'd dash down the stairs and triumphantly press that C note, while she served him his porridge or whatever. This proved effective with me as well, when I wouldn't come down those modernistic stairs to eat breakfast, or lunch, or dinner, or whatever, Insley would pull out that incomplete C-scale and I'd come bounding down the stairs, in my pyjamas and all, and press that damn C note. He'd hand me my tea and breakfast, and we'd sit in front of the telly, watching CNN for no good reason. Afterwards my uncle Eros would come out, grab a cup of coffee, greet both Insley and I, and then leave. We'd told him Insley was hiding out in his basement that summer, and he didn't mind, just told Insley to call the Aulte's and to remember to go to school, even though Insley had technically already graduated. (He had prodigy perks, as we called them, just like I did, he could go to Uni at 17 and I didn't have to worry about math anymore because I went to a music school.) The summer of incomplete C-scales I saw Rose again, she appeared when Emma disappeared, I saw her at Emma's funeral, and after the Ashbury's had taken me to ice cream, she sent me a text, and told me that she was coming over. We spent the night in Eros' guest bedroom, binge watching reruns of Friends, and eating all of the Ben & Jerry's Eros had bought the week before. Then at three in the morning, she decided she wanted chocolate chip cookies, and we stole Eros' car, drove to the convenience store, and bought easy mix. At three a.m. Rose and I ate our delicious chocolate chip cookies and I smiled. After summer I went back to school, and people danced around me like I was going to fall apart all over again if they so much as mentioned Emma's name. I'd spent the summer playing Eros' Yamaha until it fell apart, and Insley threw me with one of his shoes because I was playing Chopin's Winter Wind too loud. He got me a keyboard for my birthday, and told me to play in my room, with my earphones on, so that he could sleep. Anyway, my senior year wasn't all that glamorous, I graduated with honours, and ended up applying for Julliard. The day of my audition was something I'd never forget though, she was supposed to be sitting in that crowd, cheering me on relentlessly with those scrutinizing eyes of hers, but instead Rose came along. She sat with my piano teacher, and when I came up, our eyes met, and my heart swelled. I started off the way I should have, with the Moonlight Sonata, but halfway through decided screw the judges, and screw Mozart, I was a Sinclair, and I wasn't a slave to the score. It wasn't a recital, it was like a competition, so obviously veering off the sheet music was like committing murder. One of the older judges snapped his pencil, but the younger one looked at me. I failed the audition, and walked out of there with a shrug, figuring if Julliard wouldn't have me, I was pretty much screwed, and that I could still apply to Cambridge for medicine. The younger judge stopped me on the way out.

"Wait!" He yelled, his satchel floundering behind him. I turned around, and faced him with Sylvester's eyes, "I know Tassiter snapped his pencil, but what you did up there... it was... amazing."

I didn't know what to say, so I just smiled.

"You're Sylvester Sinclair's son, right?" He asked. As usual I only nodded, not knowing what else to say. From there on, he babbled about how much he loved my father, and I listened but only for the sake of respecting the dead and what not, because if I didn't, Sylvester Sinclair would haunt my dreams. He became my mentor that day, told me he'd make sure I made it into Julliard. That night I sat on my bed, staring at the shadows reflecting on the ceiling, and I smiled, until I got a phone call from a hospital. Now here's where boring little Harry Sinclair gets interesting, as if having a famous composer as your father, who's not to mention dead, and being schizophrenic didn't give me enough depth, the universe decided screw Murphy's Law, and added a kid into the mix. On December 5th, 2005, I got a call from a hospital, asking whether it was Harry St. Clair speaking. I answered no because my last name was SIN-CLAIR not ST. CLAIR.

The nurse was frazzled, "there's a girl here, who keeps saying we should call you. She's in labour, her name's Cassidy Wembley." At this I almost screamed. Remember that college girl I happened to lose my virginity to? Yeah, that was her, having my CHILD. I stole Eros' car and drove to the hospital, in a total panic, reaching the delivery room just as my son crowned. Cassidy wept like a baby, and then practically attacked me for not answering on the first ring, or for supporting her in the delivery room. I wanted to tell her I forgot she existed but held back considering she just gave birth. The nurse handed the child to me, and in all his eminence, my first-born looked up at me, with my damn eyes, and I melted like an ice cream. Screw me for being a sap, I fell in love with him right then and there. Cassidy was out like a light from all the morphine they injected into her system, so the nurse asked me for a name, on the spot I had to think of a name for an actual human being. Eighteen-year-old-I'm-gonna-get-into-Julliard Harry Sinclair-not-St.-Clair-please. So, there I was, at a loss for words, when it came to me.

"Andrew Miles." I said quickly, and she smiled.

"Last name?" She asked, "will he be taking yours, or the mother's?"

"Sinclair." I said, taking charge because Cassidy Wembley was fast asleep, and wasn't in any state to be making decisions right then. Plus Andrew Miles Wembley didn't sound as good as Andrew Miles Sinclair did. Sue me.