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“I didn’t sign up for this,” Steph said, arms crossed, chin firmly sunk into her chest.
“I didn’t sign up for you.” Jim flicked the window wipers on. “Christ, this traffic…”
“Yes you did,” Steph said. “You literally signed up for me. You filled out forms.”
Jim squinted at the grey, muddy road. “You’re right. And now you’re stuck with me, and you have to do what I say.”
“I still didn’t sign up for this.”
“Judge McNeil doesn’t care.”
Steph uncrossed her arms, inhaled, and sighed deeply, dramatically, and in a prolonged fashion. “So where are we going, dad?”
“It’s a surprise.”
Steph stiffened without meaning to. Her eyes darted over to Jim, in the driver’s seat, slouched and steering one-handed, the other resting on the driver-side window. He was…he seemed...
Relax, Steph told herself. Relax. It’s the Commish. Even Jason trusted him. And Jason hardly trusted anybody.
“Maybe I don’t like surprises,” she said. “You ever think about that?”
It was a red light, so Jim coasted into a gentle stop. “Well, no, I didn’t,” he said, and he sounded genuinely contrite. “I’m sorry. Do you like surprises?”
“No”, Steph said, firmly.
Jim put the blinkers on, and pulled the Fiat over into a loading zone. Illegally, she noted. Shit, he and Babs were really rubbing off on her. Jim put the car in park without turning off the engine. “I’m sorry, Stephanie. This was supposed to be a present,” he said. “Someone told me that you play the piano.”
Jason. Jason had told him. Or told Babs, and she had.
“Oh,” Steph said, in a tiny voice. “Yeah. I used to.”
She had played, back when they could afford the lessons. She’d cried like a stupid baby when they’d stopped, but the money had all dried up, and there wasn’t a piano to play anymore, and that was over.
There had been money, later, but there’d never been more piano.
Debussy. Steph could feel the sense-memory of keys dancing under her fingertips as she played En Bateau, its sweet melody spreading out around her. It was gentle, it was peaceful, it was a place for just Steph, and Steph alone—
“...Deborah Shan,” Jim was saying.
Crap, she’d whited out again. Steph bit her cheek until it hurt, trying to force herself to focus. This conversation might matter.
“I had a friend who pulled some strings for me,” Jim said. “This was going to be your first lesson with her.” He flexed his hands. “I can cancel it.”
Deborah Shan? Deborah Shan?
“Did you...did you say Deborah freaking Shan?”
“I asked a friend,” Jim said sheepishly.
“You asked Mr. Wayne, didn’t you?” Steph said, or she hoped she did, since her hand was clamped up over her mouth, and her head was somewhere in the vicinity of her knees.
“He wanted to help,” Jim said. “I’m sorry for jumping the gun, Stephanie.”
Steph managed to wave a hand up at him. Something like “it’s good” squeaked up from her knees.
It took her a couple of minutes, but she uncurled, and she gestured wildly at Jim. “C’mon, let’s go! We’re gonna be late,” she said, with a smile blooming on her face. “Deborah Shan, wow. I mean, just...thank you.”
Jim’s mustache twitched, and he put the car back in gear. “All right.”
It was all right, it was all right, it was...everything was fine. She was on top of things. Oh god, Steph was going to get the piano back. She’d thought that was done. But she was going to get lessons again. Lessons with the best, now; better than anything she’d had before. Deborah fucking Shan. It wasn’t like Steph had all her CDs and had listened to every one a million times. Oh god, when was the last time she’d even practiced—could she even play scales at this point—
Steph thought of Robin, making that face at her, grinning, full of pride, saying, I know you can, Stephie, and she felt like her mouth was full of glitter and pop-rocks, and she felt her fingers start to tap against her thighs, the way they used to, when she’d been able to play.
And Steph knew she could do anything.