INTRODUCTION

“Amelie, Dear, there’s a letter waiting for you on the kitchen counter. I have a feeling you might want to see it!”

My mother’s voice echoed from the kitchen into the hallway as I walked into the foyer. It was March, and the first signs of spring had sprung, as the harsh winds carrying sand from the west left my bare legs stinging.

“Where is it, mom?” I called back, abandoning my school bag and shoes in the living room. Gliding into the kitchen, I hurried to the counter where a letter from the music school I had applied and auditioned for the previous semester, lay.

“Should I wait until Dad comes home?” I wondered aloud. Right on cue, the front door opened and heavy steps filled the hallway as he headed straight for his office.

“Dad! My letter came in!” He appeared at the kitchen entryway. “Well, what are you waiting for?” my mom’s cheery voice cut through the excitement that had begun to accumulate in the room.

Taking a knife from the drawer, I gingerly sliced the envelope. Skimming the lofty beginning paragraph, I raced to the end, where a large, “Congratulations on your acceptance, Amelie Lee” met my eyes. I screamed, throwing the letter on the table, spun around a few times as my parents caught me, enveloping me in a hug. Then they made me read the letter properly.

“Shall I order pizza? Or what would you like?” My mom began to put away the vegetables she had taken out to prepare.

“Actually, whatever you were going to make is fine. I’ll ask Sebastian to pick up a cake from the bakery. He said he’d stop by after dinnertime”, I paused. “And thanks Mom, you’re the best.”

“Hey Dad?” I called to my father as he reclined in his chair, watching the evening news. “Sebastian’s coming over this evening.”

My dad slowly looked over at me and narrowed his eyes. “So long as he doesn’t bring his hooligan friends.”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m sure he won’t”

After receiving no texts back, I finally called. “Hello?” my older brother’s voice was somewhat muffled against the background of what I assumed to be a noisy pub. I rolled my eyes. It was only Tuesday.

“Hey, I got my acceptance letter from the music school I’ve talking about, today! We’re celebrating tonight. Can you pick up a cake on your way over?” The noise suddenly died down, and I could hear my brother’s voice much more clearly.

“What’s that, Em? Sorry, I couldn’t hear you.” “Bring a cake home, please? And don’t be late. Dinner’s going to be ready in about an hour.” I said, slightly annoyed with his original answer.

“I don’t know if I’ll be able to make it over tonight, actually. I have some important things to take care, Sis.”

Sebastian did this often, but he wasn’t going down without a fight. “Please, Cee, it’s an important night for me.” He breathed a barely audible sigh out, “Fine. I’ll be there. With a cake, but I won’t be there for dinner.” “Thanks, brotato chip!” He let out a grunt before his line clicked.

“Is he bringing his hooligan friends?” my dad called out from his chair. “I don’t think so, but he said he wouldn’t be here for dinner.”

I skittered into the kitchen and continued helping my mom prepare dinner. Steaks, potatoes, stir fried vegetables, and fresh fruit were on tonight’s menu.

“I worry about your brother sometimes”, my mom sliced potatoes into a skillet.

I grabbed a few onions, “I know, so do I, but he’s like what…23 now? He’s not a baby, mom.”

She sighed. “You two will always be my babies. Even when you’ve got children of your own, you’ll be my babies.”

I groaned and she laughed.

Sebastian and I were five years apart, and some days I felt the age difference, but other days, people thought we were twins. His maturity level fluctuated like a pregnant woman’s cravings. We looked very much alike, except for the stark difference between our lips. He inherited my mother’s plump lips, and I loved to about wooing all the girls with his lips. He also had an affinity for blushing, so the more I teased, the more he turned red, the more I enjoyed myself. I, however, inherited my dad’s thin lips, and while Sebastian continues to tease me saying no guy would want to kiss me, I don’t really care. Not like I’ll be kissing anyone any time soon.

We attended a private school all our lives. When he began 4th grade, I began kindergarten. The first week, he knocked out some 2nd grader who tried to pull my braids during lunch. Needless to say, those were the telltale signs of the fact that he would be somewhat of a troublemaker. Which, when I think about it, is probably why he is going to be late tonight.

The “hooligan friends” as my father describes them to be, were sons of businessmen whom my father worked with. They, in my mother’s opinion and mine, were not bad boys. Just a little mischievous, and often pulled pranks in good fun, that my father did not find fitting for young men of higher social class. Sebastian and my father were never terribly close, but not every family is perfect.

As soon as I set the final plate on the table, an extra for Sebastian just in case, before my mother ordered me to “Go tell your father to eat.” I poked my head around the corner yelling, “Dad, mom says to come and eat.” I began to place the food down on the table in the dining room, while I heard the newspaper shuffling and the recliner return to its original position, when the lock also clicked on the front door. Grinning to myself, I hid behind the wall in an effort to attack my brother. I knew he’d show up for dinner. After all, I was his favorite sister.

I waited, but he didn’t come. Finally, peeking out behind the wall that hid me, his face appeared dangerously close to mine.

“Hi, Em”, he whispered, effectively scaring me. I screeched and punched his arm, but not before hearing a, “Be nice to your sister, Cee”, coming from the kitchen.

“But Mom! Em punched me. I even brought her cake, and this is how she treats me.” He held the bag high above his head, so I couldn’t even begin to try to reach it. Oh, there was the other difference between my brother and I. He was ridiculously tall, and I was a complete short-stack.

“Amelie, don’t punch your brother. He doesn’t need another injury.” I looked up at him, examining his face a bit more closely.

“Where did you-”

“-get this cake?” He cut my question off about the obvious, just-clotted-scratch on his chin, cheekily grinning at me.

“Yes, Cee, the cake, I suppose it shall then be.” I conceded.

“Sassy.”

“Sebastian, we both see it. There’s no hiding it from us.” Leave it to my mother to be so matter-of-factly.

“I just had a bit of an altercation getting here. Another man wanted this cake for his sister too, so we had to fight for it. I, being the best brother, obviously won.”

I rolled my eyes, “Another man? Pfft. Are you calling yourself a man then, too?” I burst out laughing.

His eyes turned into slits, “Mom, you need to rein her in. She’s gotten mouthy since I’ve been here last.”

“Maybe you should come around more often, and lead by example.” She smoothly replied, placing the finishing touches on the plate of meat.

“That’s right, Sebastian. Good to see you around here son.” My father entered, stiffly placing his arm on my brother. Sebastian shrunk into himself a little and I tried not to guffaw.

“Come on, let’s eat.” I announced.

The dinner table was quiet, as it often was, and even more so when Cee was away. “Children are to be seen and not heard”- my father’s famous policy that somehow still applied even though I was 18 years old. We waited for our cue that the conversation was open to us as well.

“Amelie received a letter from the university she applied to last year.” My mother spoke up.

“Did she now? Is that why I brought a cake?” Sebastian raised an eyebrow at me, a smile playing on his lips.

“Yes, Cee. I made it!” I made a little victory pose with my knife, nearly slicing my opposite hand open.

He laughed, “Careful, don’t ruin those piano hands of yours. Here let me cut your meat for you.”

I pouted, “I’m not a kid”.

“Never said you were.”

“So let me cut my own meat.”

“You’re just a legal adult who apparently still can’t use a knife properly.” He shot back. My dad cracked a smile, and since those were rare, I let it slide.

“So, since I brought a cake, you’re providing the free dinner show right?” my brother asked me.

“I would, but I’m needing an accompanist for my latest piece. It’d be great if I knew someone.” I pointedly stared at him.

“We don’t have two pianos, Em.” He pointedly stared back.

“You should come around more often.” I announced, knowing I won.

“What a wonderful idea, Sebastian. Amelie’s been playing these lovely Schubert miniature pieces, and I haven’t heard you play in awhile. Why don’t you both treat us? I think we can manage to find an extra piano for you” my mother backed me up.

“I haven’t played in like two years, Mom.”

“They’re not too bad. I’m sure you can sight-read them. We’ll warm up with Mozart like old times, and then give it a try?” I asked a little too hopefully.

“Just for you.” He grumbled. Such a softy, Sebastian was.

When I was 4, and Sebastian was 9, my mom enrolled both of us in private piano lessons, saying she wanted us to be “cultured”, and while I flourished under the tutelage of my teacher, Sebastian seemed to much rather prefer instruments bearing strings, such as the electric guitar. He would claim he was practicing “percussionistic instruments combined with those of the stringed variety, like a piano”, and also took up the drums. I would point out every time that “percussionistic” was not a word, to which he would glare at me, and tell me to go play my dainty songs. I always happily obliged him with something like Stalin-hate music, as my father called it.

Sebastian had impeccable rhythm and did a semester of marching band before he decided it too, was not of his taste and while not as dainty, was an art left for the flower boys. So, he formed a rock duo with his best friend Jacque, and they played secret gigs all over the metro area and beyond. To this day, I still don’t think my parents know, but we both have our fair share of secrets, so I remain an awesome sister and continue to hold my tongue.

Plus, there was the fact that because of Sebastian’s rhythmic style, he always preferred to play Baroque music. When he thought I was sleeping or not home, he’d go crazy with Bach’s Well-Tempered Clavier and last I knew, could play most of it. Why do I mention this? They called their duo, “J.S. Rach.” Jacque…Sebastian…Rock…Yeah. Cringe-worthy, I know, but Sebastian loved music through-and-through. And I secretly believed my parents named him after J.S. Bach.

Dinner ceased. “When did you get this piano?” his eyes skimmed the glossy surface of the new Yamaha baby grand my parents bought me as an early graduation gift. His fingers brushed over my name, inscribed on a plate on the side.

“About a month ago?” I pulled out the bench, motioned him over, and opened a book of 4 hands Mozart Sonatas. “Do you remember these?” I softly asked.

“If I ever find a girl who plays piano, we’re going to practice these.” A look of mischief crossed his face, and his eyes twinkled.

“You have to find a girl first. Forget about trying to find one who plays piano.” I whispered back under my breath as I heard my parents coming down the stairs to the family room. He glared for a second at me.

“Oh I’m so excited! It’s been so long.” My mother squealed.

“Too long, I probably forgot how