"You know... Debussy?" The French minstrel's name rolled off his tongue with equal amounts of surprise and suspicion.134
"Not well," I lied. "My mother Rénee plays a lot of classical music around the house—I only know my favorites." Little did Fredward know, I actually preferred several other French Impressionists to Debussy. Honestly, I thought "Clair de Lune" was a little overdone in modern circles.
"It's one of my favorites, too," He stared out through the windshield, lost in the swirling melancholy of music and rain. I wondered if he would cry.
I listened to the music, the rolling chords arpeggiating upwards and such.
"Ooh!" I shrieked, loudly. He was surprised, again. "Don't you just love how Debussy sets the triplets against the straight eighths here? It's almost as though time stands still," I was almost whispering now. "It's almost as if time stands still because it doesn't know what else to do!" It was impossible not to respond to the familiar, soothing melody. The rain blurred everything outside the window into gray-green smudges, like the imprecise strokes of an Impressionist painting. I began to realize we were driving very fast; the car moved so steadily, so evenly, though I didn't feel the speed. Only the town flashing by gave it away.
"What is your mother like?" he asked me suddenly.
I glanced over to see him studying me with curious eyes, like he was trying to figure out where the music ended and I began.
"She looks a lot like me, but she's prettier," I said. He raised his eyebrows. "I have too much Charlie in me. She's more outgoing than I am, and braver. She's irresponsible and slightly eccentric, and she's a very unpredictable cook. She's my best friend." I stopped. Lying about how my mom was my best friend and how much better she was than me was making me depressed. I felt ashamed for lying to Fredward and cupped my face in my hand.
"How old are you, Bella?" His voice sounded frustrated for some reason I couldn't imagine, but had a feeling I would understand sooner or later. He'd stopped the car, and I realized we were at Charlie's house already. The rain was so heavy that I could barely see the house at all. It was like the car was submerged under a river of Impressionist paintings.
"I'm seventeen," I responded, a little confused.
"You don't look seventeen."
"What is that supposed to mean?" Was he fantasizing about my mom?
134. If Bella did in fact know Claude Debussy, she would have to be over 100 years old.