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Let me tell you about the worst thing I've ever done.
I hated getting piano lessons. Rather be skateboarding but mom said 'Nevaeh it wasn't ladylike.' Yes that's heaven spelled backwards. It's because she had me in her forties, so I'm an extra special gift from heaven. No one but Mom calls me Nevaeh. I get Nev which is heaps better. I like to think its short for Neville.
I get my piano lessons at the Bradley siblings' house. Haley Bradley the younger sister teaches kids dance classes and has all her medals and trophies in the main room, the first thing you see when you walk in. Says she would have made it big if she hadn't broken her ankle when she was nineteen. I hate her just like I hate everyone. She dresses in pink tracksuits and has blond hair and has a loud voice. Randy the older brother is my school librarian who teaches piano as a second job. He's harder to hate, but I manage. He's very mild-mannered and gentle and reminds me of Rabbit from Winnie the Pooh but if you act up at the library he'll give you the look of death to put the fear of god in you.
The second thing you see in the front room apart from the trophies and medals is the piano where he takes his lessons. He sits at the end of the piano stool and asks me to play the piece he'd set for me to learn. In the kitchen Ms Bradley is making a smoothie, talking on the phone at the top of her lungs. He swivels, sends her the look of death.
"Haley!" he snaps. "Can you shut up?"
She turns around in a flounce.
"I'm just talking to Mom, she wants to know if we're coming over for Sunday lunch..."
"This conversation can wait for after my lesson please and thank you," he tells her tersely. She smacks her teeth in reply.
"He's got in his knickers in a twist again, Mom," said Ms Bradley, putting a straw in her smoothie, rolling her eyes. Still, she walks off to take the conversation elsewhere.
Back to the stupid lesson. I play like crap and Mr Bradley winces slightly at each off note. I end and glower, not the least been ashamed for not learning it properly. This is just a massive waste of time. I hate every second of it. Want to throw the sheet music at the floor or rip it up into little pieces.
"You've not been practicing," he chided. I fight the urge to kick him in the shins.
"I don't think you're very interested in piano lessons," he said. "It's difficult to teach someone who doesn't want to be here."
I fight the urge to slam the piano lid on his hands. It's like being set on fire, the anger, hot all through me, so mad, so mad want to spit, want to scream.
"Have you ever told your mother you don't want to play?"
How the heck am I supposed to tell mom that? I'm only twelve. I have to do whatever she wants. I have to wear pink and have bows in my hair and play piano. I can't do anything I want.
"It can be very scary standing up to stronger personalities especially if they're your parents. But I find it's worth it in the end. This is your life after all not your mother's and you have to live it how you want to."
How would he know? He's just talking crap.
"Can I go to the toilet please?" I asked, interrupting his idiot lecture.
"Of course," he says with a smile. Off I go. I always take a long toilet break to try to make the hour long lesson go by faster. I do look forward to seeing the giraffe themed towels in the bathroom though. Mr Bradley collects giraffe knickknacks, they're all over the house. I feel an urge to break one on my way back from the bathroom.
He's on the phone when I open up the door to return to the lesson. I stop when I hear my name. Listen in. He's talking with my mom.
"Nev seems actually rather upset just being here. I do think you should reconsider these lessons. I recommend you talk to her about participating in an extracurricular activity she'll actually enjoy."
I taste blood in my mouth. I'm biting my lip, trying not to scream. He's telling on me. I'm gonna get in trouble with mom now. This is so unfair. I hate him, I hate him, I hate him!
That's when I did the horrible, terrible thing. The bathroom is near what I assume is Mr Bradley's bedroom. On his bedside table was a laptop. It had a USB stick with a giraffe sticker on it. I sneak in as quickly as I could, yanked it out, stuffed it in my pocket. Sneak out again. It felt good to steal, to hurt.
The rest of the lesson goes by. Afterwards I walk around the corner back home. I borrow Mom's laptop, and put some headphones in to search through my stolen treasure. I'm a bit disappointed. There's only one video file, titled 'Beloved BB.' I click and a low quality image pops up, buffering. Looks like it's been filmed on an old camera or something. A fumbling image of a shaky room for a second. Then it stabilizes. Someone asleep with their back to the camera. Bare shoulders and messy brown hair that's long in the back, shaved short at the sides.
"We filmin' a porno now?"
I jump at the unfamiliar voice. Low, gruff with a hint of a Southern twang to it.
"No...its just..."
"What baby?"
"I want... I just don't want...to ever forget how you look, how you sound."
This person behind the camera sounds familiar. But it's much younger, more unsure and shy. Mr Bradley?
There's a soft laughing sound.
"Why would you?"
I see the stranger turn around. Nope. Still don't recognize him. He's rubbing sleep from his eyes with hands that had scabbed over knuckles. He has very dark long eyelashes.
"What if we get caught? What if the cops gun you down?"
He's getting out a cigarette, lighting up.
"Crossing those bridges again Randy..." the stranger murmurs, breathing out smoke. My stomach shifts a bit uncomfortably. So it was Mr Bradley. I kinda feel...like I'm sticking my nose in something grown up. Even though a blanket is around the stranger, it looks like he doesn't have his clothes on. What if they start kissing or...doing it or something?
"I know. I just...I want to do this though. As a precaution. Just in case."
"Alright...whatever you want, angel."
"I love you."
"You shouldn't," he replied at once with a half smile. "I love you too. C'mon you sure you don't want make this a more interestin' video?"
Then laughter and the video ends. I've never heard Mr Bradley laugh before.
I take the USB stick out. I feel like...my skin is itchy, the pit of my stomach quivery. I think this is the worst thing I've ever done in my life. I feel sick at myself. What was wrong with me? Mr Bradley hadn't done anything wrong to me. He was nice. Everyone loved him. He was special. I've stolen something private from him. He's probably worried out of his head about where it's gone. I've probably ruined his whole day. His whole life. I'm horrible, horrible, horrible.
I can't leave to return it, cause my older sister Mackenzie, comes over for dinner. She's older by a lot, in her early twenties. I was the miracle child after all. I hate her cause she's always trying to keep up with internet slang like she's sixteen instead of twenty-two and calls me a Gen Alpha iPad baby. She calls herself Mac.
"Hi Nev, dissect any pet animals lately?" she says breezily when she walks in. I just scowl as usual. That's her new joke that I'm a budding serial killer. Normally we don't eat dinner together but because Mac is here Mom wants us all at the dinner table, even though it's just take out, nothing special.
"I'm very disappointed with what Mr Bradley told me today," Mom said. "It's a very elegant ladylike hobby, playing piano. And I didn't raise no quitter. I think perhaps I should lock up your skateboard until your lessons improve."
"And ban Fortnite," said Mac with a smirk. I've never played Fortnite in my life.
"I don't want to play piano," I told her, voice rising. "I never wanted to play piano. I'll never want to play piano!"
She sighed, rolled her eyes.
"The dramatics Nevaeh..."
"Nev!"
"That sounds like something an old man would be called! I gave both of my children beautiful names yet you insist on those ugly manly nicknames!"
"Mr Bradley says I should live my life how I want to..."
"I'm certain he didn't..."
"I'm not a liar!"
"Are you talking about Randy Bradley?" Mac suddenly interrupted in a pleasant voice. Even though I hate her, she is good at calming mom down. Mom beamed.
"Oh yes, sweet lovely Randy Bradley, he's such a doll, isn't he? A pity he's..." she flops her hand. Mac winces.
"All the best men are!" Mom laughs, not noticing.
"Sweet Randy Bradley," said Mac and her face went soft. "He's gone through it that poor man. Some gun wielding maniac took him hostage for a week. That was years and years ago now. Then fucki...pardon my French sorry. Anthony Barone made up those disgusting rumors about him. Well...when you get older Nev, you'll realise people tend to look sideways at unmarried men who work with children. Randy won the defamation case. Anthony was targeting him because said maniac shot his son for bullying Randy at work. So those rumors were his revenge tactic. Piece of shit. I don't think anyone ever believed the rumors but still, what a horrible thing to have hanging over your head."
Mom loved a good gossip. Normally I'd be switched off by now but for once, I'm listening to them carefully.
"He doesn't seem interested in anyone," Mom said. "I reckon he's...what you call it? Asexual?"
Mac winces again.
"I dont really want to speculate..." she tried to say.
"What happened to the maniac?"
They both looked surprised I'd asked. I don't normally join in with their gossiping.
"Oh uh...got shot by police when the week was out. Poor Randy Bradley. Imagine seeing that!"
Mom suddenly went a bit pink. Had the faraway look in her eyes. Meant she was going down memory lane.
"I had a crush on Benson Boudreaux at school. In a different life where I wasn't so shy he could've been your daddy."
Mac put her loaded fork down, about to take a bite but changing her mind last second. Pushed her plate away.
"You sure do know how to pick 'em dontcha?"
Mom shrugged with a girlish smile.
"I never claimed to have good taste."
I tune out of the rest of their discussion. Eat my dinner in silence. It had clicked the second I heard the name.
Beloved Benson Boudreaux.
When you turn into his street, you often hear him playing his favourite songs on piano, a lot of eighties stuff. If he's not playing, then he's probably in the garden. I hoped he'd be out back gardening. Just my luck he isn't. Dread swishes around like acid in my gut. The theme from the Phantom of the Opera is floating through the window. Ms Bradley's yapping loudly on the phone, both siblings in a passive aggressive fight to drown the other out.
I push the envelope with the USB inside underneath the door. I think I'm going to be a coward and run instead of my original plan to ring the doorbell to own up. I just stand there on the step, trying to decide on whether to do the right thing or not when the door opens. Mr Bradley looking more like Rabbit from Winnie the Pooh then ever in a big quilted dressing gown, slippers and a mug of tea. He has a fresh cigarette between his fingers. I didn't know he smoked. He didn't smell like it.
"I'm sorry for taking it," I say at once. Humiliated at the feeling of tears bubbling down my face
"It's alright," he said at once. "I've got...many more copies of it. Backed it up about five times."
"Oh..." I said, snivelling.
"You did it because you were angry," he said sympathetically. "But you were very brave to come back and return it and apologize."
I nod. He's a very soothing presence. Like a dad I've never had.
"I think I can convince your mom to stop the piano lessons," he said. "I feel it's doing more harm then good. What would you rather be doing Nev?"
"Probably...skateboarding, listening to Rob Zombie...mom doesn't like that I listen to metal though."
Mr Bradley shrugged.
"Your life not hers," he said. "Well...maybe not now but when you're a little older I've got some heavy metal CDs I can lend you. Moistboyz might not be appropriate for someone your age. Do kids still listen to CDs? Probably obsolete."
"You like heavy metal?" I asked incredulously. Something funny happened in his eyes, like he'd just felt a jolt of pain and was trying not to show it.
"No...a friend of mine did though. I still have all his CDs."
I don't say it. But I think it. Beloved Benson Boudreaux. Mr Bradley seems to read my thoughts. Coughs a bit awkwardly. He hadn't smoked his cigarette. I wonder if he just lights it for the smell, doesn't actually smoke at all.
"Thank you, Nev," he said, not looking at me. "I'll be seeing you around."
He shuts the door.
As I walk up the garden path to head back home, I hear he's changed songs on the piano.
Now he's playing Memory from Cats.