Total pages in book: 63
Estimated words: 60487 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 302(@200wpm)___ 242(@250wpm)___ 202(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 60487 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 302(@200wpm)___ 242(@250wpm)___ 202(@300wpm)
That seemed about right.
Carl shook his head and steered Leo instead towards the stage, where he’d left the bags that had held his bribes. Leo trailed his fingers over the ivory keys of the grand piano, and the bullies stacking chairs stopped to snicker.
Red plaits stared at the boys. “What’s funny?”
The boys said—loud enough for it to reach Leo’s ears, as was probably intended—“Getting that guy to speak is as close to playing the piano as he’ll ever get.”
“Yeah,” the other one said, “Can’t afford a piano, let alone a teacher.”
Further back, Grayson—who’d freed himself from his groupies—paused overhearing this and started a swift stride towards the boys. He wasn’t fast enough for Carl, though. The microphone was right there, and he made sure he was close enough to it when he said, “Hey, Leo, if you like that piano, you should check out mine at home.”
Leo’s miserable face transformed into a hopeful one, while the bullies returned glum-faced to stacking chairs. “Really?”
Carl silently cheered himself for his quick thinking, and then got slightly carried away with the rush. “Not only can you see it—” He spied Grayson shaking his head in warning, like he knew what was coming. But it was all too late—the words were tripping out of his mouth.
“I’ll teach you how to play it.”
The greatest loss I had known was the loss of my heart.
L. Frank Baum
The Wonderful Wizard of Oz
Chapter Eight
Carl was not eager to hear Grayson’s (probably very reasonable) response to his declaration he’d become Leo’s piano instructor, so he did what he did best.
He flashed Leo a wave, jumped off the stage, and ran away.
He came home to folded blankets, a washed teapot and cup, and a note to the end of his note that contained Grayson’s number and address. Carl stared at the numbers for a rather long time before he plugged them into his phone under ‘Berhampore’s Heartbreaker’. He stared again at the address. What did this mean? Did he want Carl to visit? Or was this for future reference so if Grayson passed out again, he could take him directly home?
Whatever the reason, seeing it sent a sharp shiver through Carl. It was a sign. He’d felt a little silly running away, especially on the heels of how mature Grayson had behaved the evening before. Addressing things with him face-to-face, apologising, generally communicating. And that, while he’d been sick.
Carl really should learn something from that . . .
So, of course, he got himself ready, popped on his jacket, and spent the next few hours taking Toto for a ride.
Grayson’s house was nestled at the end of a cul-de-sac—a pretty brick home with a chimney that was smoking and a stack of firewood along the fence at one side. Emerald green accented the windows and coloured the door. Carl straightened the button-up flannel he’d decided was safe to wear here, and knocked. Nervously.
Grayson opened the door fitted out in the fluffiest grey dressing gown Carl had ever seen. He took a moment to take it all in, from the hood framing the man’s face, to his matching bunny slippers.
“Oh my God, you’re adorable.”
Grayson rolled his eyes and noticed Carl’s comfy shirt, lingering on it.
Carl rolled off a wee shiver and lifted the container of soup he was carrying. “I was taught never to show up empty handed.”
“Come inside.”
He toed off his shoes and followed the grey fluffball down the hall. “You live in a dead end.”
“Dead ends are the best. Quiet; peaceful; cosy.”
A funny laugh burst out of Carl unprompted, causing Grayson to glance at him over his shoulder with a questioning brow.
Carl cleared his throat. “You won’t get it,” he said as they emerged into a stainless steel and wood kitchen, “but that is very nice to hear. Where should I put this?”
Grayson gestured to a corner of the bench against the wall, where five full Tupperware boxes were stacked. Carl glanced at his two-person air-tight container and back again. Of course. The groupies. They’d noticed Grayson was sickly at the assembly and got right to work.
Wait. What did this make Carl look like?
He groaned and sagged onto a stool, plopping the container before him. “I don’t mean it like they mean it.”
“They mean to help me feel better. How do you mean it?”
“Well . . . I mean . . . the same, but—”
Grayson nodded smugly.
“—oh whatever. I slaved away all afternoon and I’m hungry. Let’s eat together.”
Grayson nodded and went to take Carl’s soup but Carl pulled it out of reach. He jerked a thumb towards the other containers. “Heat up one of those.”
“I thought you slaved away?”
“I burned it and had to pick out all the charcoal.”
“You brought it anyway?”
“The empty-handed thing.”
“Such a gentleman.”
Grayson gave orders to put out placemats, salt and pepper, water glasses, while he microwaved the soup, ladled it into bowls, and watched Carl like he was holding back comments. Sure enough, when they were at the table breathing in steaming nutrition, Grayson cleared away a cough and pointed his spoon. “Did it feel good up on stage?”