Get Real by Betty Hicks Read Free Book Online Page A

mean?”
    â€œIt means her relationship with her mother may not turn out as well as you think.”
    â€œâ€˜And oft, though wisdom wake, suspicion sleeps at wisdom’s gate,’” muttered Dad, shaking his head.
    â€œLook. It’s fine. Honest. The Lewises are being supportive. I know. I saw Mrs. Lewis yesterday. She gave me a piano lesson and she wasn’t crying or anything. And Jane and Penny are cool.”
    â€œShe gave you another piano lesson?” said Mom, tossing the sauce- and milk-stained towel in the same corner as the coffee-stained towel and the berry-stained towel. Right next to the harder-than-a-board slice of American cheese that had been sitting out since yesterday.
    â€œYeah—she says I can come over as much as I want. I’m learning ‘Moonlight Sonata.’ By Beethoven. He’s an old dead guy, Dad. You’d love him.”
    â€œI know who Beethoven is,” Dad said, raising one eyebrow at me.
    â€œI don’t want you imposing on Mrs. Lewis,” said Mom.
    â€œOkay,” I answered brightly. “Can I have a piano, then? Please? I’ll pay for my own lessons.”
    â€œWith what?” they both asked at the same time.
    â€œI don’t know. I’ll earn it. Somehow. I will.”
    â€œDon’t bite off more than you can chew,” said Mom.
    â€œNeither a borrower nor a lender be,” said Dad.
    I wasn’t sure how either one of those particularly fit what we were talking about, so I just answered, “Red fish, Blue fish,” and went back to eating my spaghetti.
    Parents know nothing.

Chapter Eight
    I’ve given up “Moonlight Sonata” until further notice.
    I still love to play the opening tah-dah-dah s, but it’s way too hard a piece for a beginner like me. Mrs. Lewis makes me feel great about it, though.
    â€œDez,” she says. “I love to see how hard you’re working at this.”
    â€œThanks.”
    She sits next to me on the bench, so close I can smell her perfume. She holds my sweaty hands in her manicured ones and says, “You have a pianist’s hands—long and slender. It’s exciting to see someone your age so interested.”
    She stares across the room at an oil painting of a cottage with a beautiful flower garden, but I don’t think she sees it. I think she’s wishing that Jil liked the piano as much as I do, and that Jil were here instead of at her other mom’s. I also think I see tears floating in her eyes.
    Has Mrs. Lewis been supportive? Maybe.
    Is she sad? Definitely.
    Then she snaps out of it and continues. “But, Dez, I don’t think even Mozart began by playing a sonata.”
    â€œOh. Okay,” I answer. “What then?”
    â€œHow about scales and maybe one or two simple melodies?”
    *   *   *
    So, now I’m practicing scales to figure out how to make my fingers work, and Mrs. Lewis is teaching me “Jingle Bells” in time for Christmas.
    The Lewises always have this incredible party two days before Christmas and invite the whole neighborhood. Their entire house is decorated with tapered white candles and deep green garlands of fresh pine branches that make everything smell the way Christmas is supposed to. The tree is gigantic, covered with amazing ornaments of every shape and color. My favorite is a tiny black glass piano that looks so fragile I think my breath could break it if I stood too close.
    At the party, Mr. Lewis always opens his front door looking handsome and saying, “Welcome! Merry Christmas!” over and over, but sounding like he really means it, every single time. Then he asks each guest if he can take his or her coat, which makes me feel exceptional—and older. Not old enough for the adult eggnog though. That is completely off-limits because a fifth of whiskey has been dumped into it.
    Two years ago, when we were only eleven, Jil and I sneaked a taste. We