Side Effects May Vary

“Can I talk to you, Mom?” I asked as we rolled out of the parking lot and toward home. With my driving test coming up in one month at the end of October, I was careful to use my blinkers and look both ways.

“Harvey, you don’t have to ask me if we can talk.” She paused. “Of course we can.”

“I’m thinking that maybe when I turn sixteen, I’m going to get an after-school job. I could pay for my car insurance and gas, you know?” I tried my best to sound casual, like it didn’t matter either way. But it did matter. Big-time.

“Harvey, you don’t really have time for that. I appreciate you wanting to help out, but it’s not necessary. We’re doing okay. What about piano?” The minute the question left her mouth, she seemed to have answered it herself. “Oh.”

We drove in silence for several minutes before either of us uttered a word.

“I don’t really enjoy it, Mom.” I idled at a stoplight, waiting for it to turn green.

“And you’ve always felt this way?”

“I don’t know. I guess I want a break.” The older I got, the more aware I became of time and how I was wasting mine. I didn’t want to fill my time with a new hobby—at least not right away. I wanted to fill my time with something that fifteen-year-old Harvey chose to do, not something five-year-old Harvey did because his mother told him to.

I was a pretty decent pianist. I had these long, slender fingers, perfect for playing, and it came naturally to me, but I wasn’t a prodigy or anything. If you’re going to dedicate your life to something like music, it had to be an all-consuming thing. It had to be the reason your body got out of bed every morning. Maybe it would have been different if I had stumbled upon piano on my own, I didn’t know.

I knew this would be hard for her to accept. Mom had always known she would be a ballerina. I wondered if this whole thing would be easier for her if I said I was quitting piano in favor of theater or art or something like that. Maybe she just wanted a talented son, but my talent for the arts was mediocre. Maybe I wanted the chance to find the thing I loved, like she had with ballet. And, yeah, I didn’t want to be that guy in high school who hung out at the ballet studio every day after school.

My mom thought for a moment, then said, “You’ll get a job when you turn sixteen and have passed the state driving exam. Until then you’ll continue playing the piano for classes. I’ll cancel your lessons with Mrs. Ferguson.”

I was a little shocked that she had agreed to this so easily. “Thanks, Mom.”

“I’m not your captor, Harvey. We’re not a traveling circus. If you’re not happy with the piano, then there’s no point in you doing it.” I pulled into the parking lot of our apartment complex and she added quietly, “But it would really mean a lot if you continued to help out at recitals.”

I placed my hand on her knee. “Yeah, Mom. I can do that. No problem.”

She was sad, I could tell.

Piano had always tied me to her, almost in the same way ballet tied my mom to Alice. When Alice quit ballet the summer before freshman year, my mom was heartbroken. Dancers had this secret language that you couldn’t understand unless you were a dancer too. But playing the piano for my mom and Alice let me in on their secret, if only for a moment. The two of them were alike in so many ways. When I played piano for them it felt like I was in on it. Like, for a few minutes, I could be a part of this world that was outside of mine. In that world, though, where I was only a guest, I was their accompaniment. And I was tired of being everyone’s damn accessory.

It tied me to my dad too. I couldn’t picture what he looked like, but I could picture his fingers—close-trimmed nails, with knobby knuckles, dry with use—and I thought if all I got out of piano was having it in common with my dad, then it was worth it. But he’d left us, so I shouldn’t have to stay for him.

Harvey. Then.

I watched Alice from across the cafeteria as she walked to the trash line to dump her leftovers. It’d been a few days since telling my mom I wanted to quit piano. I wondered what Alice would have to say about that, if anything at all. It didn’t matter, though, because we never really talked much anymore, not since starting high school. I saw her every once in a while when my mom dragged me over to Bernie and Martin’s. The three of them would sit around the table drinking wine while Alice and I would sat on the couch watching TV in silence—and not the comfortable kind. There was none of the easy laughter we’d grown up on. Lately, though, I’d started making excuses. Homework, plans with Dennis, job interviews—all reasons why I couldn’t go.