Nicholas Sparks - The Last Song

“Were you able to get any sleep at all?” her mom asked.

“Until you hit that pothole. Thanks for that, by the way. My head practically went through the glass.”

Her mom’s gaze remained fixed on the road. “I’m glad to see your nap put you in a better mood.”

Ronnie snapped her gum. Her mom hated that, which was the main reason she’d done it pretty much nonstop as they’d driven down I-95. The interstate, in her humble opinion, was just about the most boring stretch of roadway ever conceived. Unless someone was particularly fond of greasy fast food, disgusting rest-stop bathrooms, and zillions of pine trees, it could lull a person to sleep with its hypnotically ugly monotony.

She’d said those exact words to her mother in Delaware, Maryland, and Virginia, but Mom had ignored the comments every time. Aside from trying to make nice on the trip since it was the last time they’d see each other for a while, Mom wasn’t one for conversation in the car. She wasn’t all that comfortable driving, which wasn’t surprising since they either rode the subways or took cabs when they needed to get somewhere. In the apartment, though… that was a different story. Mom had no qualms about getting into things there, and the building super had come by twice in the last couple of months to ask them to keep it down. Mom probably believed that the louder she yelled about Ronnie’s grades, or Ronnie’s friends, or the fact that Ronnie continually ignored her curfew, or the Incident-especially the Incident-the more likely it would be that Ronnie would care.

Okay, she wasn’t the worst mom. She really wasn’t. And when she was feeling generous, Ronnie might even admit that she was pretty good as far as moms went. It was just that her mom was stuck in some weird time warp in which kids never grew up, and Ronnie wished for the hundredth time that she’d been born in May instead of August. That was when she’d turn eighteen, and her mom wouldn’t be able to force her to do anything. Legally, she’d be old enough to make her own decisions, and let’s just say that coming down here wasn’t on her to-do list.

But right now, Ronnie had no choice in the matter. Because she was still seventeen. Because of a trick of the calendar. Because Mom conceived three months earlier than she should have. What was that about? No matter how fiercely Ronnie had begged or complained or screamed or whined about the summer plans, it hadn’t made the tiniest bit of difference. Ronnie and Jonah were spending the summer with their dad, and that was final. No if, ands, or buts about it, was the way her mom had phrased it. Ronnie had learned to despise that expression.

Just off the bridge, summer traffic had slowed the line of cars to a crawl. Off to the side, between the houses, Ronnie caught glimpses of the ocean. Yippee. Like she was supposed to care.

“Why again are you making us do this?” Ronnie groaned.

“We’ve already been through this,” her mom answered. “You need to spend time with your dad. He misses you.”

“But why all summer? Couldn’t it just be for a couple of weeks?”

“You need more than a couple of weeks together. You haven’t seen him in three years.”

“That’s not my fault. He’s the one who left.”

“Yes, but you haven’t taken his calls. And every time he came to New York to see you and Jonah, you ignored him and hung out with your friends.”

Ronnie snapped her gum again. From the corner of her eye, she saw her mother wince.

“I don’t want to see or talk to him,” Ronnie said.

“Just try to make the best of it, okay? Your father is a good man and he loves you.”

“Is that why he walked out on us?”

Instead of answering, her mom glanced up into the rearview mirror.

“You’ve been looking forward to this, haven’t you, Jonah?”

“Are you kidding? This is going to be great!”

“I’m glad you have a good attitude. Maybe you could teach your sister.”

He snorted. “Yeah, right.”

“I just don’t see why I can’t spend the summer with my friends,” Ronnie whined, cutting back in. She wasn’t done yet. Though she knew the odds were slim to none, she still harbored the fantasy that she could convince her mom to turn the car around.

“Don’t you mean you’d rather spend all night at the clubs? I’m not naive, Ronnie. I know what goes on in those kinds of places.”

“I don’t do anything wrong, Mom.”

“What about your grades? And your curfew? And-”

“Can we talk about something else?” Ronnie cut in. “Like why it’s so imperative that I spend time with my dad?”

Her mother ignored her. Then again, Ronnie knew she had every reason to. She’d already answered the question a million times, even if Ronnie didn’t want to accept it.

Traffic eventually started to move again, and the car moved forward for half a block before coming to another halt. Her mother rolled down the window and tried to peer around the cars in front of her.

“I wonder what’s going on,” she muttered. “It’s really packed down here.”

“It’s the beach,” Jonah volunteered. “It’s always crowded at the beach.”

“It’s three o’clock on a Sunday. It shouldn’t be this crowded.”

Ronnie tucked her legs up, hating her life. Hating everything about this.

“Hey, Mom?” Jonah asked. “Does Dad know Ronnie was arrested?”

“Yeah. He knows,” she answered.

“What’s he going to do?”

This time, Ronnie answered. “He won’t do anything. All he ever cared about was the piano.”

Ronnie hated the piano and swore she’d never play again, a decision even some of her oldest friends thought was strange, since it had been a major part of her life for as long as she’d known them. Her dad, once a teacher at Juilliard, had been her teacher as well, and for a long time, she’d been consumed by the desire not only to play, but to compose original music with her father.

She was good, too. Very good, actually, and because of her father’s connection to Juilliard, the administration and teachers there were well aware of her ability. Word slowly began to spread in the obscure “classical music is all-important” grapevine that constituted her father’s life. A couple of articles in classical music magazines followed, and a moderately long piece in The New York Times that focused on the father-daughter connection came next, all of which eventually led to a coveted appearance in the Young Performers series at Carnegie Hall four years ago. That, she supposed, was the highlight of her career. And it was a highlight; she wasn’t naive about what she’d accomplished. She knew how rare an opportunity like that was, but lately she’d found herself wondering whether the sacrifices had been worth it. No one besides her parents probably even remembered the performance, after all. Or even cared. Ronnie had learned that unless you had a popular video on YouTube or could perform shows in front of thousands, musical ability meant nothing.

Sometimes she wished her father had started her on the electric guitar. Or at the very least, singing lessons. What was she supposed to do with an ability to play the piano? Teach music at the local school? Or play in some hotel lobby while people were checking in? Or chase the hard life her father had? Look where the piano had gotten him. He’d ended up quitting Juilliard so he could hit the road as a concert pianist and found himself playing in rinky-dink venues to audiences that barely filled the first couple of rows. He traveled forty weeks a year, long enough to put a strain on the marriage. Next thing she knew, Mom was yelling all the time and Dad was retreating into his shell like he usually did, until one day he simply didn’t return from an extended southern tour. As far as she knew, he wasn’t working at all these days. He wasn’t even giving private lessons.

How did that work out for you, Dad?

She shook her head. She really didn’t want to be here. God knows she wanted nothing to do with any of this.

“Hey, Mom!” Jonah called out. He leaned forward. “What’s over there? Is that a Ferris wheel?”

Her mom craned her neck, trying to see around the minivan in the lane beside her. “I think it is, honey,” she answered. “There must be a carnival in town.”

“Can we go? After we all have dinner together?”

“You’ll have to ask your dad.”

“Yeah, and maybe afterward, we’ll all sit around the campfire and roast marshmallows,” Ronnie interjected. “Like we’re one big, happy family.”

This time, both of them ignored her.

“Do you think they have other rides?” Jonah asked.

“I’m sure they do. And if your dad doesn’t want to ride them, I’m sure your sister will go with you.”

“Awesome!”

Ronnie sagged in her seat. It figured her mom would suggest something like that. The whole thing was too depressing to believe.

Steve Miller played the piano with keyed-up intensity, anticipating his children’s arrival at any minute.

The piano was located in a small alcove off the small living room of the beachside bungalow he now called home. Behind him were items that represented his personal history. It wasn’t much. Aside from the piano, Kim had been able to pack his belongings into a single box, and it had taken less than half an hour to put everything in place. There was a snapshot of him with his father and mother when he was young, another photo of him playing the piano as a teen. They were mounted between both of the degrees he’d received, one from Chapel Hill and the other from Boston University, and below it was a certificate of appreciation from Juilliard after he’d taught for fifteen years. Near the window were three framed schedules outlining his tour dates. Most important, though, were half a dozen photographs of Jonah and Ronnie, some tacked to the walls or framed and sitting atop the piano, and whenever he looked at them, he was reminded of the fact that despite his best intentions, nothing had turned out the way he’d expected.