Edward had passed the window full of its glittering treasures too many times for him to count. He passed it on his daily field trip down to the water, on his way to sit and watch the toy ships and talk to the circling seagulls in their own, barking laugh. He passed the window again on the way back up the big hill, at the point where his legs were burning and telling him to stop.
Today, he passed the window, and something was different. Today, something stopped him. Today, he stepped inside for the first time. A friendly chime greeted him, and he looked up to watch the jingle bells above the door dancing merrily. It wasn't even Christmas yet.
A nice man emerged from some hidden doorway and stepped up to the counter.
"Can I help you?"
Edward smiled at the nice man, focusing on his mouth until he noticed the little bits of metal dotting the man's lip, eyebrow, and ears.
"I said," the nice man repeated, "can I help you?"
Edward snapped his focus away from the shiny metal embedded in the soft skin with effort.
"Yes," he said.
For a while, the man didn't say anything. Edward waited patiently for the man to speak because it was his turn. Maybe the man was just slow, like him. While he waited, Edward looked curiously at the man's thick, strong arms, which had dark writing and pictures all over them, like a messy chalkboard.
"Is there something particular you're looking for?" the nice man finally said. He sounded like he was in a hurry, as though he needed to go somewhere.
Fortunately, that was the question Edward needed. "Yes, a music maker."
"A music maker," the man repeated with a frown.
"Yeah."
"You're going to need to be a little more specific than that. I've got all kinds of things that make music, from eight-tracks to cymbals to…"
Edward could not follow the rest, but he stood and smiled politely as he always did when people started using big words he couldn't understand. He knew from experience that they would eventually slow down, would use the littler words that he could grab onto with two hands.
"Or maybe you're talking about something that will make the music of the spheres," the man said with a twisted smile, and he made some kind of pinching motion with his fingers. Edward finally recognized it as the movement made by people who smoke cigarettes.
"No," he said. He didn't like the smell of smoke. "I want that." He pointed to the music maker sitting by itself in a back corner—the same music maker that he had shown Miss Bella so long ago.
Turning his head to follow the direction of Edward's point, the man frowned. "Why didn't you just say so in the first place?"
Edward didn't know how to answer the question, so he didn't respond. If the man really needed an answer, he would ask again. They always did. Edward watched as the man pulled the keyboard from its lonely spot in the corner.
"Does it make pretty music?" Edward said, staring down at the gleaming white and black keys. His hands twitched, itching to touch them, but he closed his fingers into fists at his side. His mama had taught him to look but not touch. The music maker didn't belong to him. Not yet.
The nice man plugged the little black cord into a nearby wall. Edward watched carefully. He would have to do this himself next time. Next, the man pushed a big button at the top, and a little red light blinked on. The music maker had finally woken up after a long winter's nap.
"How much do I need to pay?" Edward asked.
"How much you got?"
Edward pulled out his wallet and counted down the bills carefully. He'd emptied out his piggy bank just this morning.
The nice man looked down at the money and said that he had just enough. Edward smiled and pushed the stack of twenties toward the man so that he would know he could take them. The bills were gone from the counter before Edward could even blink.
"Let me get you a box," the nice man said helpfully. He tucked the music maker carefully into the box, just like how Edward's mama used to tuck him into bed. He held the door of the shop open for Edward.
"Come back any time," the nice man said with a laugh. "You ever need anything, I will help you get it." When the door jingled shut, the man was still laughing.
Carrying the music maker was more difficult than Edward had expected. It was hard to walk and carry the box at the same time. It was not too heavy, but it was wide and long and didn't seem to want to sit still on his hip. Edward made his way home slowly, proud that he only dropped the box a couple of times. And one of those times didn't count, because it was knocked from his hands by someone else.
It took longer than usual for him to get on the bus because he had to figure out how to fit the box through the door.
"Stand it up straight, like a soldier," Mister Ben told him, the old black man who drove this bus. Mister Ben was his friend. Edward did what Mister Ben said.
The people on the bus looked at him and his music maker.
"I am going to make pretty music," he told them, and many of them laughed in delight.
But Mister Ben didn't laugh. Mister Ben looked sad, although he was looking in his big mirror at the other people, not at Edward. Edward had never understood why laughter made some people sad. Laughter followed him everywhere he went, and he was not sad.
Edward wrestled the box in through the narrow door of his apartment, this time remembering to stand it up straight like a proud little soldier.
He stood looking down at his little music-making machine. It sat in its new house, the new centerpiece of his living room, the bestest thing that he owned. He looked down at the music maker but, strangely, he thought of Miss Bella. Miss Bella had said that she would like to hear him play someday. He had not seen Miss Bella in a long time.
Frowning at the thought, Edward plugged in the music maker's black cord. He pushed the big button at the top, just like the nice man at the store had shown him. He moved his eating chair from the kitchen and set it right in front of the music maker.
Maybe if he started to play, Miss Bella would hear him.
Edward sat down on his chair and started to play.
Edward's playing did not sound anything like the music he heard on car radios. It sounded nothing like the wonderful medley of the street musicians lining the main road to the Fish Market.
He tried everything.
He pushed the keys, one-by-one, starting at the left and going all the way to the right. He started at the right and went back left. He pushed only the black keys. He pushed only the white keys. He pushed them both together. He pushed clumps of keys with his fist. He mashed an entire row with his forearm.
But the music maker would not make music like any he had ever heard. Instead, it screamed, it moaned, it cried. He was hurting it. He was killing it.
Miss Bella would not want to hear this music.
Frantically, he punched every button on the console, twisting knobs until the music maker screamed so loud he was sure his ears would start bleeding. Depending on which button he pushed, the music maker sounded like a different type of music, first drums, then guitars, then a harp.
No matter what he did, he could not make the music, that mysterious music that was tickling the edges of his brain, like the flies in his apartment that he could hear but could never seem to find.
He tried for hours, until the darkness outside his little house started turning again to light. Until he could no longer ignore the pounding at his walls and ceiling, that caused the cracks to deepen and the plaster to crumble onto his floor.
"Shut up and let us sleep already!" a nice lady screeched from somewhere up above, and Edward finally did.
He lay down on his mattress and fell asleep, his fingers still twitching, like a puppy frolicking in its dreams.
For the first time since he'd started working at the library, Edward did not go to work the next day. The moment he opened his eyes, his gaze was owned by the little music maker on the far wall. It was staring at him, pleading with him to come and play.
He watched it while he hunched over and ate his typical breakfast of stale Cheerios. He watched it so carefully that more milk and little round O's spilled out of his overfull bowl than usual. But he kept shoveling the cereal in his mouth until it was all gone, and then he picked up the bowl and slurped every drop of his milk. His mama had taught him to clean his plate. And his bowls.
Then again, his mama had also told him not to play the music.
But his mama wasn't here anymore.
After Edward had carefully cleaned his bowl and his spoon so they would be ready for him to use tomorrow, he started toward the music maker. Just as he sat down, however, there was a knock at his door.
He sat frozen for a moment. No one ever knocked on his door unless it was time to pay the rent. And he'd just recently paid the rent. But if he started playing his music now, the person on the other side of the door would know that he was here anyway, so he should probably just open the door.
Mister Marcus was standing on the other side of the door. Mister Marcus was his landlord, the person who came to take the rent each month and who helped him when his toilet overflowed.
"Eduardo," Mister Marcus said, "why you play the piano last night, eh?"
Sometimes Edward had a harder time than usual understanding Mister Marcus. He was not from America; he was from a place far away called Italy. But as long as Edward paid his rent on time, Mister Marcus was happy. Oddly, Mister Marcus didn't seem happy now, even though Edward had just paid his rent.
"I wasn't. I couldn't play the music," Edward said sadly. Maybe that was the reason why Mister Marcus was also unhappy.
"Yes, I'm thinking everyone in the neighborhood knows this," Mister Marcus said, his mouth firm and hard. "Maybe you play softer. And maybe only during the day, eh?"
Edward felt troubled. He wasn't sure that the music would leave him alone at night. But he nodded automatically, as he always did when someone asked him to do something. Even when sometimes the things they asked him to do were uncomfortable.
"And Eduardo," Mister Marcus said, more softly this time. Mister Marcus always called him Eduardo, even though that was not really his name. "Maybe you should get a teacher, no?"
Edward's face brightened. "I will! Thanks, Mister Marcus."
Mister Marcus looked like he was going to say something else, but Edward had already started closing the door.
A teacher.
Yes, what he needed was a music teacher. Miss Bella and the doctor had not been able to make him smart. But maybe a music teacher could help him find the music.
And he knew exactly where he could find one.
Jasper Hale hated the sun.
It was the bane of any street performer's existence, baking down on skin and instrument alike, making it uncomfortable to both sit and play or stand and watch. The keys of Jasper's keyboard always started to stick in the heat. That was one of the reasons why he'd left the South, why he'd traveled to the cooler Emerald City to continue practicing his trade.
Today was one of those rare sunny days in Seattle. Seattle natives had fled the city for the nearest body of water like rats abandoning a sinking ship. The decrease in normal pedestrian flow made each passerby all the more special to the street musicians; they turned up the juice whenever a new target was in range, their hands a-flying, mouths a-blowing, feet a-stomping.
Unlike his fellow musicians, Jasper did not have to go into overdrive for every person who passed. With a quick glance at a person's face, he could usually tell whether they were the type to part with their hard-earned money for something as frivolous as five minutes of even the finest music. He could tell if the person was more of a maybe or a must not, more of a major or a minor key, more mocking or mercy.
It was all in the eyes. Eyes could look but not see, could look and slide, or could never look at all.
Today, one of the pedestrians caught Jasper's eye. Even from a distance, Jasper pegged him as a mercy, maybe, and minor. Something about the kid was different, was special, from the skewed way that he moved to the wool jacket he sported despite the warmer weather.
The kid was also clearly pinballing between each musician lining either side of the street. He walked with single-minded intensity to stand peering at each person's instrument, listening closely as if conducting some sort of test, a test that each musician he inspected seemed to fail. The kid lingered longest at the street organ a couple of musicians down from Jasper, even stepping into the organist's personal space for a moment to watch his hands.
At the unexpected attention, One-Eyed Pete showed off, reaching for impossible chords and fanning his fingers out across keys on both levels of his organ so that none of them would feel left out. He spewed a cyclone of sound.
The kid smiled at the display, but then shook his head. One-Eyed Pete had failed.
Jasper had to look down at his hands for a while to execute the chord bridge to a new song—in a minor key, of course. When he looked up, the kid was standing right in front of him, appraising Jasper's hands from behind hair that had fallen into his face.
"Hello," the kid said, not quite meeting his eyes, but not exactly in the way that Jasper was used to. Oddly, his eyes were saying one thing—that he would rather be anywhere but here—but his body language was saying the opposite. He was standing way too close to the keyboard, the hip of his high-water khakis almost brushing the far edge. Jasper tensed, uncomfortable to have others so close to his baby.
"Hiya," Jasper said as amiably as he could, hoping that he could still transition this maybe into a must. Sometimes, the weird ones like this were good tippers. He didn't want to scare this one off.
"Hello," the kid repeated. "I'm Edward Cullen. I need a music teacher."
Jasper smiled, and his fingers continued automatically across the keys. "You ever heard the saying 'Those who can't do, teach'?"
The kid continued smiling a bleary smile. Jasper didn't think he'd heard the saying.
"Clearly," Jasper said, waving an unoccupied hand at his keyboard. "I do. Therefore, I do not teach."
The kid's smile faltered for the first time. Then he looked down and held out a veritable fistful of money.
"I can pay you."
When Jasper looked down and saw that the fist was full of twenties, he stopped playing mid-song, something that he never, ever did. It was bad for business.
"Five hundred dollars?" he said in a low voice, counting quickly. "What, did you break the bank?"
The kid nodded, as though he'd actually taken a hammer to a little pink piggy bank just that morning. Jasper considered himself pretty good at reading people—he wouldn't be playing so close to the Fish Market if he wasn't—but he couldn't tell if this kid was for real or not.
"You want to pay me five hundred dollars for one piano lesson?"
At the sarcasm in his tone, the kid's face fell, and Jasper could sense nothing but sincerity in the expression.
"Yeah, I want that very much. But if you can't help me, I can find somebody else—"
Jasper's hand shot out and grabbed the kid by his slender wrist—the wrist that was holding enough money to pay Jasper's street fees plus keep him well-supplied with his drug of choice for at least the next month. Maybe two, if he was careful.
"No, I would be happy to help you," Jasper said, prying the money easily from the kid's unresisting fingers. He tucked the bills smoothly into his pants, wanting to get the money out of sight before the kid changed his mind. Or before someone else saw.
His fellow street musicians were looking around dangerously, like sharks just beginning to smell bones in the water. Five hundred bones, to be exact. Even the corner policeman was looking in their direction curiously, eager for an excuse to leave his post—any excuse—on this less than exciting day.
Jasper needed to end this, before Officer McBeef (as Jasper had dubbed him due to his thick neck and even thicker waist) stepped in their direction to find out what the "problem" was.
"Here's the deal," Jasper said, and the kid watched his mouth intently. "For that price, I'll give you piano lessons twice a week for the next month."
The kid's eyes sparkled, as though Jasper had just announced that they would be celebrating Christmas every day from now on.
"But only in the evenings. Meet me back here later today, at five."
The kid just stood smiling at him, as though the words took a while to percolate down to his brain's center of understanding. Clearly, he was several keys short of a full keyboard. But he had money, and that's all that mattered.
"Five o'clock," the kid repeated slowly. Jasper wouldn't have been surprised if the kid spit into his hand and wanted to shake on it. Instead, he smiled his weird little smile again—a smile that warmed Jasper's chest in a weird little way. "See you soon."
The kid nearly sprinted off with a lopsided lope, as though one of his legs was longer than the other.
While Jasper played his full repertoire to uncaring passersby over the course of the rest of the day, he thought about Edward Cullen's guileless face, his innocent eyes. He thought about what would have happened if the kid had held out his money to any other performer on this street.
If the kid was always so liberal with his cash, it's a wonder he hadn't already starved to death. Although with those gaunt cheekbones, perhaps he was well on his way.
When it came to Edward's piano-playing, Jasper had no great expectations. In fact, he would be lucky if the kid could even learn. He had delicate hands, sure, but Jasper wasn't sure that his mind could direct those hands to do what they needed to do.
In their first session together, Jasper's suspicions were confirmed.
As Jasper had been packing up his equipment and carefully storing his meager tips, Edward had sidled up to him for the second time that day, looking down at him expectantly. Jasper did not remember him being so tall. Jasper stood up straighter and swung his arms through the hiker's backpack that he had customized to hold his keyboard. Without a word, he started off on the hike for home, Edward following obligingly at his heels like a waddling duckling.
Jasper led Edward to a small, forgotten parking garage deep in the bowels of the city. It had been condemned long ago, and other buildings had built up around it, obscuring an entrance that you could only find now if you knew how. Only Jasper, his family, and a few of their trusted colleagues and suppliers knew how.
He took Edward down stairs that sunk them even lower into the earth. For a moment, the gloom was complete, and Jasper could hear Edward's breath hitch in fear. He seemed like the kind of kid to be afraid of the dark. As their eyes adjusted, however, Jasper could already see the first flicker of fire.
Rounding a crumbling concrete corner, they entered into a makeshift gypsy camp of boxes and fire barrels scattered cheerfully across a floor filled with leaves and other debris that had become forever trapped down here under the earth.
As always, Jasper made his rounds, chatting briefly with each of his fellow denizens to ensure that they had what they needed for the evening, checking that no one had bothered them during their day. These people were his family, and he protected his family. Only after he was satisfied that everyone was doing as well as expected did he turn back to Edward, who he had left standing at the fringes of the warmth, his hands in his pockets, his shoulders hunched into his brown jacket to ward off the creeping cold.
"C'mere," he said, gesturing that Edward step closer to one of the outlying fire barrels. Jasper erected the stand for his keyboard once again, near enough to the flames that he could still see the keys by the warm, flickering light.
He grasped Edward on the shoulder, and although the kid tensed, he did allow Jasper to direct him to the three-legged stool in front of the keyboard. Only after Edward had seated himself carefully and looked up at him with bright eyes dancing with flame did Jasper realize that he had absolutely no idea how to teach anyone else to play the piano. Piano had always been as easy to him as breathing. He was a natural, his mother had said, right before the alcohol finally killed her.
Edward, however, was the complete opposite of natural.
For one, Edward seemed to be tone deaf. Jasper could hum a note, any note, and Edward would not be able to find it on the keyboard, no matter how many keys he plucked. Edward's hands, which could softly and carefully brush the hair out of his eyes, became rigor-mortis claws when Jasper directed them into an approximation of the fingering required for even the most simple of songs.
And Edward could not play a single note over and over again to match any pattern that Jasper clapped.
This might be the longest month of Jasper's life. He consoled himself with the thought that he would at least have an ample supply of mind-dulling substances to help him get through it.
Two evenings later, Jasper again led Edward back to the hidey-hole.
"I've been practicing!" Edward said.
Jasper couldn't tell.
He tried everything he could think of to get Edward to play some semblance of music, any music. It got to the point where he would place his own hands over Edward's, trying to direct those clawed digits to the appropriate notes. But even with Jasper manipulating Edward's limp limbs like he was a crash test dummy, the resulting sounds were often too garbled by Edward's fingers slipping over the keys to be recognizable as music.
By the end of their sessions, they were both often breathing hard and sweating under the heat of the fire. By the end, Jasper was always ready to pull his hair out and curl up in his makeshift cardboard tent with a good bottle. By the end, however, Edward's face was always blazing with its own fire.
"Good job!" he would say. "We made pretty music."
Edward seemed to have a bountiful supply of optimism. If Jasper could bottle it and sell it, he could at last be a wealthy man.
"I'm getting better," Edward would say. "One day, I'm going to be as good as you."
Jasper doubted it.
When Edward met him back on his street corner the Thursday after their month of scheduled sessions was up, Jasper didn't even comment. He merely packed up his things and listened to Edward babble all the way home, sweet home. He told himself that he was letting Edward again follow him home like a stray puppy because it was Christmas Eve and Edward clearly didn't have anyone else to spend the holiday with.
Jasper spent the evening playing rousing Christmas carols to the light of an open fire, Jack Frost nipping at his nose and his family nipping at their brown paper packages. As was their tradition, he and his family substituted inappropriate lyrics to the songs, and Edward encouraged them by clapping enthusiastically off-beat and occasionally belting out an off-key word here and there.
Jasper would never have admitted this, but the kid was growing on him.