Finding Troy

3. Music

My dad had moved out when I was only 7 years old. He had drinking problems, and my mother just dismissed it as that every time I brought it up.
But I remembered. I had flashbacks. I couldn't tell whether it was my imagination or vague memory, either way I knew that there was more to it than just his 'drinking'. And my mother hated him for it, making me despise his behaviour too.
The only good thing my dad had done was to enrol me in music lessons when I was growing up. I was still taking cello lessons now. The instrument had always spoken to me, and I was still in awe of it even now every time I picked the bow and touched the strings.
They say you use music as an escape, to to escape reality, and through my parents' divorce, I did.
"Rosie, it's time to go." my mother called from the bottom of the stairs. She was the only one I let call me Rosie. It seemed right coming from her mouth, but patronising and wrong coming from anyone else's. I wasn't a fan of nicknames.
I packed up my cello books and ran down to slide on my boots.
"Mrs Guillard texted me earlier to say she has to cut your cello lesson short 15 minutes today. She's trying out a new pupil."
"Okay, that's fine." I smiled and headed out of the house, getting in the car. I turned the radio on, what I would do is I would flick through all the pop music stations and if a song I liked wasn't playing I'd click on a classical music station. I liked both. The debate on which was better - pop or classical - was tiresome. One of my music teachers at school had once buried her head in her hands after hearing a brass band play Take That in a School concert. It wasn't shocking, she just hated the idea of classical musicians 'succumbing' to pop in her opinion. Both sides needed to be more accepting. I settled on a pop music station, playing a classic 80s ballad.
Once my cello lesson had finished - a relaxed affair where I played a couple of pieces and a couple of dreaded scales - I was about to get up to pack my cello away, but Mrs Guillard started to talk.
"You know, my next student. He's a new one of mine. His teacher stopped teaching cello, retired." she said in a hushed tone, although he obviously wasn't in the house to eavesdrop.
"Oh, really."
"He's already working towards his Grade 7. And he's a nice boy, very friendly, I think you two would get along."
The door bell rang. She got up to answer, leaving the room.
I packed my cello away, holding my breath. I know it was foolish to hope, but what if it was Troy? For all I knew, he could play the cello, he did go to classical music concert. I glanced in the mirror to check whether my hair was alright. My eyes looked tinier than ever, hidden behind my dark-green rimmed glasses, and my hair was looking flat and dull. I made a silent resolution to eat healthier and sleep more. I could feel and psychologically visualise the spots appearing on my face.
Just as I placed my bow in the cello case, someone entered the room behind me. I spun round to see... Lennie. Standing there, with his half-sized cello. Of course it was. Lennie can play anything, of course. He looked even smaller, if that was possible, behind a cello, closeup, than he had in front of a piano. It seemed to swallow his body and leave his head looking as if it wasn't in proportion to his body. He was much smaller than Troy in general, which was understandable because his age, being 6 years younger, but seemed so entirely different. His features didn't match Troy's at all. Troy had a darker skin tone and greater defined eyes.
Lennie just grinned at me. Boy, had he whipped his cello out fast.
I said a simple 'hi' before exiting the room, not in the mood for a chat.
Dragging my cello with me, I caught the sound of voices coming from the other room.
"Mrs Guillard, I'll be leaving now. Thank you!"
"Come, and say a quick hello to Troy and Charlotte Davies, Lennie's brother and mother."
I was suddenly very flustered.
Not knowing what to do with the cello in it's case, I placed it on the floor in the corridor and, ironing out my skirt, walked through to the living room.
Him and his mother stood there, looking awkward, as if there were imposing on Mrs Guillard's hospitality. Although Troy was there physically, he looked like his mind was elsewhere, shifting on his heels, glancing at his watch, and looking down at the red carpeted floor. He'd barely even looked up at my approach. He gave me a sheepish smile as Mrs Guillard introduced me to both of them. His mother was overly-chirpy, eager to make my acquaintance, but I got nothing from Troy. The sheepish smile was not enough. What had happened to the cheeky, playful boy who had spoken - briefly - to me in the shop?
I noticed he was standing considerably further away from his mother than Mrs Guillard. He seemed distant, and I received strange vibes from the whole situation, as if him and his mother were in disagreement about something.
I left quickly, claiming my mother was being kept waiting, although I knew she would be late anyway. 
I stepped out into the pale, dusk light, shivering slightly at the drop in temperature. My cello beside me, I waited on the pavement for my mother to arrive, thoughts whirling around my head.
I didn't understand why I was so obsessed with Troy. I was weirdly disappointed with the evening so far. Why was he acting so strange, what was wrong?
Sometimes people just have bad days.
That wasn't it, there was something off about the whole situation, and I couldn't pinpoint it.