Free Consent by Nancy Ohlin Page A

crowd roars. Theo finishes off the rest of his beer, sets it down on the table with a loud thunk, and gets up. He saunters toward the front door.
    â€œWait! Aren’t we going to watch the rest of the game?” I call out.
    â€œI’ve gotta head back. Thanks for the snackage.”
    â€œDo you want to stay for dinner? I can text Dad and tell him you’re here.”
    For a second Theo hesitates, and I feel a sliver of hope.
    â€œNah, don’t bother. Wouldn’t want to tear him away from saving criminals.”
    He gives me a little salute, scoops up his leather jacket, and takes off.
    The sliver of hope vanishes.
    The halftime show blares on the TV: a row of smiling, spray-tanned cheerleaders and a marching band lined up like toy soldiers. I stare at the carnage of beer bottles, pizza crusts, and wilting nachos on the coffee table.
    I feel tired all of a sudden. Tired and sad.
    The rest of the afternoon looms like a black cloud. Maybe I should check my e-mail again. Maybe I should walk over to Café Tintoretto and see if Dane is doing more lesson planning. Maybe I should go back to Plum’s house.
    Whatever. I can’t just sit around and wallow in how much the men in my family hate me.
    Especially since they have a good reason to.

S IXTEEN
    Dane is avoiding me.
    Monday in music history, I sit in the back and doodle in my notebook per usual. Today it’s Batman battling the Joker on the roof of Café Tintoretto. Outside, the pale September sky swirls with storm clouds. The day is already depressing, so why not rain?
    I keep sneaking Dane looks, wondering. But he is angling his face in the other direction, toward the burnouts and football players and senior sluts, as though my side of the room doesn’t even exist.
    â€œCounterpoint is the interaction of multiple voices to create harmony,” he lectures at them as he flips through a pile of index cards. “But we’re not talking about notes that match or mirror each other. We’re talking about notes that feel as though they are in opposition, out of sync. In fact, the term ‘counterpoint’comes from the Latin phrase pontus contra punctum, which means ‘point against point.’ ”
    â€œ Habeamus coitus. That’s Latin for ‘Let’s hook up,’ ” Nelson whispers to me.
    I don’t even bother with a scathing reply. This is why I don’t date boys my age. Now that I know Dane’s background, it makes sense why he teaches this class like it’s a college-level course. Most of this material is way over the heads of the A-Jax kids. He’s obviously used to hanging out with the music geniuses at Juilliard, not to mention the music geniuses in his family.
    â€œAside from Bach, which composers are known for their use of counterpoint?” Dane asks. “Anyone?”
    I raise my hand in the air. Dane does not even twitch my way. After a moment Aziza raises her hand also.
    Dane turns ever so slightly, managing to include Aziza in the periphery of his visual field while leaving me, just one desk behind and one desk over, out.
    â€œBach!” Aziza says, looking pleased with herself.
    â€œAside from Bach.”
    â€œUm . . .”
    Laughter ripples through the room. I raise my hand again, but Dane doesn’t call on me. Instead, he turns to the blackboard and starts writing:
    Beethoven (late pieces)
    Schumann
    Franck
    Shostakovich
    Stravinsky (neoclassical pieces)
    Hindemith
    Bartók
    â€œIn his later years Beethoven was obsessed with the fugue, which is a kind of contrapuntal, or counterpoint-based, piece that introduces and develops a specific phrase throughout in a complex, interwoven way. Schumann used heavy counterpoint in everything. . . .”
    I slide down in my chair and draw a big X through Batman and the Joker. And Café Tintoretto. Stupid Beethoven, stupid Schumann, stupid all of them. I don’t know what’s going on. Or