Side Effects May Vary

Okay, so Beth had these nails. Not fake nails. Real nails. Long nails coated in chipped red nail polish. Everything about her smelled of smoke, like, she was the source of the smoky haze. She was one of those ladies who could have been fifty-two or ninety-four and you’d never know. Her jeans were high-waisted and too tight and her boobs spilled out of her yellow V-neck shirt. Beth, with her boobs and her nails and her fake red hair, scared the shit out of me.

“What can I get ya, sweetcheeks?”

I twisted my hands together in my lap. “I, uh.” I cleared my throat. “Gin and tonic.”

She made this nasally noise like a buzzer going off. “Try again.”

“Uh, I’ll have a Sprite.”

“One Sprite!” she called to no one in particular.

I opened the next note.

SUCKER!

Rolling my eyes, I reached for the fourth note.

i got you good. it should be almost four. sit tight and enjoy your nonalcoholic beverage. open the next note when the music starts.

When the music starts? Where was Alice? The anxiety twisting in my chest had faded and now I just wanted to see her. Beth brought me my drink and left me alone after that. I was surprised when she didn’t ask any questions about me or what I was doing here. But this struck me as the type of place where people didn’t ask questions.

The customers were mostly men, although there were a few women. Every one of them was over the age of forty and looked like they hadn’t slept in years. A lady with a cat sweatshirt on and purple pants. A man with a fedora and a tracksuit. A balding man with a holey T-shirt and jeans with a cigarette box imprint in his back pocket, but no cigarettes. The only person who seemed out of place was an old man wearing tan slacks, a cream polo shirt, and a maroon sweater vest. He carried a well-used leather portfolio and wore an old baseball cap with a mesh back, but took it off when he came inside to reveal a thinning white head of hair. Age spots covered his face, and on his feet were spotless white orthopedic sneakers. This guy was someone’s grandfather who’d probably gotten lost on the way to the pharmacy.

When he walked past the bar, Beth called to him, “Evenin’, Porter. Usual?”

He nodded and gave her a faraway smile. Him I felt bad for most of all. Because, of everyone in this bar, he seemed to be the one who had lost the most.

I checked the time on my phone. Four thirty-five. I shoved my hand in my pocket and pulled out the rest of the notes. Frustrated and sure that Alice had sent me on a fool’s errand, I held number five in my hand ready to open. This was bullshit. I didn’t know what kind of kick Alice was getting out of this, but it made no sense. She was probably off with some guy while I was sitting here like a total jackass. I stood up to leave and slid my wallet out from my back pocket.

Then the music began. I sat down. I didn’t know the song, but it sounded familiar. It wasn’t typical ballet music, of course, but it felt like I should’ve known it. My eyes followed every note to the sad piano in the corner of the room. It wasn’t a grand piano, just a plain, old, light wood piano. I never paid much attention to piano makes. I only played whatever was put in front of me. If I really thought about it, though, I always felt most comfortable with the piano at my mom’s studio—a 1973 Baldwin Concert Grand.

Behind the piano was the old man with the sweater vest. I listened as each note fit together seamlessly, like he’d played this song a thousand times. If I closed my eyes, I could feel the touch of ivory beneath my fingers.

Porter’s eyes crinkled a little as he focused in on Beth. She mouthed something for him to lip-read. Out of gin. He leaned forward and she moved her lips once more. Porter nodded and returned his attention to the keys.

My lips twitched, thinking about that day before freshman year, when Alice had mouthed to me to meet her in the front yard.

The note. Shit, I almost forgot about the notes.