She figured that Ian must have learned to live with negative reactions, and given his fashion choices — he invited those reactions. He took the same bus route as she did, but even then, they didn't have much to do with each other. The only time they sat together was when both of them happened to be staying late at school and there weren't other students crowding around. Lisa was also on that bus route, and more often than not, she and Ian would sit in serene isolation at the back of the bus.
It was during one of these late rides home that Ian told Kat some exciting news. "I've been chosen to do a piano solo for the Winter Concert."
"Piano?" asked Kat with surprise.
"Yes," said Ian, "And I'm playing Chopin's Ballade no 1."
"Chopin?"
Ian chuckled. "What were you expecting, Siouxie and the Banshees?"
Indeed, thought Kat.
"Anyway," he continued, "Lisa said she'd help me with the sound and light, but I was wondering if you'd do the set design for me?"
"The piano's in the pit, right?" asked Kat, considering.
"That's right," said Ian. "The piano pit is off to the far left side, and it's raised up a bit more than the orchestra pit."
"How quickly do you have to dismantle your set?"
"Fast," said Ian. "Less than a minute."
The challenge appealed to Kat. What could she do that would be simple, dramatic, and moveable within seconds? She also figured that it should be cheap.
"I'd love to help," she smiled. "Now tell me a bit about this Ballade to get my imagination running."
"Instead of telling you about it, why don't I play it for you?" Ian suggested. "Can you come to my house after school tomorrow night?"
"Sure," said Kat.
Kat was surprised the next day to find that Ian's house was only two bus stops past her own. She never saw him except at school, and so had expected him to live much further away.
As they stepped off the bus together, Kat saw Dylan Tomblin walking in the opposite direction on the other side of the street. She had known Dylan from when she was very young. They had gone to the same day camp together for a couple years running, and had even attended the same preschool before that. But Kat had gone to St. Sofia's and Dylan had gone to a public school, so they lost contact.
"Dylan!" she called, flailing her arms.
He turned around and gave a puzzled look at Ian and then at her. All at once, he recognized who she was. His face broke out into a broad grin and he waved back to her, his navy blue and grey football jacket billowing in the wind. Then continued on his journey.
"You know that jerk?" asked Ian.
"He's not a jerk," said Kat. "He was a friend of mine when we were kids."
Ian didn't reply and they walked the rest of the way to his house in silence.
His house was less than ten years old and was much bigger than Kat's family home. The lawn was manicured to perfection and the flowers in the garden were so healthy that they could have been plastic. Kat's grandfather spent hours working on their garden, yet it didn't look as good as this.
Ian led her to the back door and then opened it with his key, quickly scooting in to deactivate the alarm. As soon as the buzzing ended, Ian began to undo his knee-high black Doc Martens.
Kat stepped in behind him and kicked off her shoes. She wrinkled her nose at the faint smell of bleach. The first thing that she noticed was that the kitchen was just as perfect as the lawn and garden. It was so clean that it looked sterile. Kat shuddered. She always equated a perfect house with an empty mind.
"Want something to drink?" Ian asked, opening up the gigantic Sub-Zero refrigerator and pulling out a glass pitcher of orange juice.
"Sure," said Kat, still taking in her surroundings. The white ceramic floor tiles felt chilly through her stockinged feet.
Ian poured them each a glass of juice, then downed his own in one thirsty gulp. "Have it now," Ian said. "I'm not allowed to have any food or drink in the music room."
"Sure," said Kat again. She took a tentative sip of her juice. It was delicious. Tasted like fresh-squeezed. She drank it all down then handed Ian the empty glass. He rinsed them both and placed them in the dishwasher.
"Follow me," said Ian, and he walked out of the kitchen, through what Kat thought was a living room and through another room that to Kat also looked like a living room. Finally, they entered a room that was filled with lemony smelling dark wood, glass, and sunlight.
The floor gleamed of burnished dark oak and a glass-fronted dark oak bookcase soared practically to the ceiling. Not an easy feat, since the ceiling of this room was about a floor-and-a-half up. In the middle of the room was an intricately woven red Oriental carpet. And on top of that was a baby grand piano.
"If you sit over there, you'll get the best acoustics," said Ian, pointing towards a small red brocade-covered antique sofa at the end of the room.
Kat sank into the middle of the sofa and waited with anticipation. Ian, she discovered, was full of surprises.
Ian was still wearing his standard attire: the ragged black leather jacket held together with hundreds of safety pins, plus a black iridescent shirt that glittered like a snake underneath. His pants were tight black leather ripped at the heels, and he still wore a full complement of tarnished silver rings. In addition to his nose ring, he was wearing a single silver earring in the shape of a medieval crucifix. His hair was now a hot pink. Amazing that it didn't just fall out with all the colour changes, Kat thought. His socks, men's designer socks — obviously borrowed from his father's drawer — looked incongruous with the rest of the ensemble.
Ian pulled out the piano bench and then sat down without so much as looking at her. He did a few preliminary hand and finger stretches, then bent over the keyboard, hands hovering, trembling, above. He took a deep breath, and then the hands connected with the ivory keys.
Kat was mesmerized not only by the beautiful melody rising from the piano, but by the appearance of Ian's hands. His fingers seemed lithe and powerful. The ballade began with a gentle melancholy that soon built into a showy intensity. Kat watched Ian's fingers with fascination as they flew across the keyboard. The intensity was almost unbearable after a bit, and Kat tore her gaze away from Ian's fingers to watch his face. She was surprised to see that tears were streaming down his cheeks. Just when she thought she could stand it no more, the music mellowed and became quiet, almost gentle. It almost sounded like a traditional ballad for a minute or so. Then it built up again, trilling, luxuriating in the sheer intricateness of the melody. It became quieter then, and Kat had expected it to end, but instead it began to build up slowly and become more intense.
Kat gripped the brocade cushions with her hands as she could sense the intense anger in the music. She was shocked at the raw emotion that burst forth from the lean fingers. And then when the music became almost overwhelming, the anger diminished and the complexity increased. Now, the music was sheer cold showiness. Ian's face was composed — no tears now.
The rhythm built up again with the same power and intensity, and then, suddenly, it segued into utter abject sorrow. Listening to it made Kat's throat catch in grief. Anger. Grief. A death march. Despair.
Then the ballade ended.
Ian sat with his head down, his hands stretched over the keyboard as if he were calming it, comforting it.
Kat sat on the sofa feeling limp. The music had been so powerful that it was beyond her comprehension. She didn't know why, but it reminded her of her grandfather.
Ian looked up. His eyes were vulnerable. "What do you think?" he asked.