Night Music

by Jenn Marie Thorne

  “Is that . . . late?”

  “Um.” He straightened, perching to stand. “How long do you think it’ll take to get home?”

  I got up, looking out to the street. “We can grab a taxi. What do you need to be back for?”

  “An interview.” He brushed off his shorts as he stood. “It’s not till one fifteen, but Ms. Visser said she wanted to prep me.” He laughed uneasily. “Whatever that means?”

  “For the alumni magazine, or . . . ?”

  “I actually have no idea.”

  I stepped onto the sidewalk, feeling my posture cement as the wall of city noise rose around me like the roar of an oncoming army. I went funny like this every time I left my house, skin hardening into armor. I’d often wondered if every New Yorker felt this way. Oscar sure looked tense as we rode silently in the back of a taxi, but that was probably more to do with this mystery interview.

  As we got to the stoop, Oscar’s phone started to ring. The Farzone theme song—TJ calling from his gamer chair.

  We both smiled, then I reached idly for Oscar’s pocket. It wasn’t until I’d handed him the phone, watching him press the button to mute it, that I realized how familiar a gesture it was—the kind of thing a girlfriend would do. Not whatever I was.

  I peered up at Oscar, testing this teeny-tiny boundary, hoping I hadn’t made him uncomfortable. There was surprise shining in his eyes—but warmth drowning it out. He stepped closer.

  The front door swung open. I jumped back, surprised to see Nora welcoming us like we’d teleported to her house in Gramercy Park.

  She looked thrown too. Her eyes darted between the two of us, widened, sparked, narrowed, all in the space it took me to squeak, “Nora! Hey!”

  “Hello, my angel,” Nora said, stepping onto her tiptoes for an air kiss. “How was the Met?” The question felt teasing, like she knew exactly what that night had led to. She gave my elbow a playful tweak—the universal mom-gesture for we’ll talk later. Then she let go to reach past me with both arms. “Oscar, our renegade!”

  That was her kind way of saying he’d shown up massively late. As she craned her neck into the room behind her, I looked back to see Oscar peering past me with an expression as cheery as hers. No one could possibly tell how frantic he’d been hailing a taxi a few minutes ago.

  “He has arrived!” Nora sing-called, steering us both inside.

  I latched the door behind us, adjusting blink by blink to the fact that my house was full of people. Dad sat in the dining area, in lively debate with a small middle-aged man I didn’t recognize. Bill Rustig perched stiffly on the edge of the velvet armchair that filled the nook facing the stairwell, looking like he really was rusting, and assistants filled all other available corners, leaning on walls, typing on cell phones.

  Nora ushered Oscar all the way back to the dining room, hand glued to his back as if he were her son. I bit back a laugh, imagining teensy ginger Nora producing tall, brown, elegant Oscar.

  Nora can’t have kids, I remembered. Mom told me that.

  I looked at my feet, chastened. Only a few days ago, Nora had pressed her hand to my back, guiding me through a party. And it was nice, wasn’t it? Comforting.

  “This is our wonder boy,” she said proudly.

  I leaned on the wall, desperately curious, despite all efforts not to be.

  “Oscar, this is Simon Wilkerson of the New York Times.”

  My feet slid. Holy crap.

  “The New . . .” Oscar pivoted ninety degrees, instinctively fleeing—but Nora patted his back like she was calming an anxious pony. He extended a hand, recovering his height instantly. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, sir.”

  “The pleasure is all mine,” said diminutive Simon Wilkerson of the New York Freaking Times, his accent hovering between British and American. “Shall we find someplace quiet to chat?”

  Oscar looked over his shoulder at me, eyes glowing. I felt a twinge, wishing that we were still there, locked in that ambiguous moment, away from all this.

  “There’s a great patisserie on Columbus,” Nora suggested, blinking around at everyone. “If you’ve got time for a bite—”

  “L’Orangerie?” Oscar asked.

  Nora clapped, beaming. “Look how much of a local he is already.”

  They all rose and exited the house at a glacial pace, like a ceremonial procession in an opera—Mr. New York Times already asking Oscar how his love of music began, Nora linking arms with Dad while Bill surged ahead on a tiny invisible Segway. I thought for a second Nora might stop and make good on that pinch, but she didn’t even glance over her shoulder at me as she left with the others. Only Oscar did—faint regret shining in his eyes before he turned away again, continuing the conversation.

  The door shut, the procession proceeded, the house sank into silence around me, and my brain . . . crescendoed.

  Okay, what the hell were we? What had felt nice and unique and balanced in the courtyard was now jangling in its discord. How was I supposed to feel right now?

  I cleared up the half-full coffee mugs they’d left on the dining table, determined to distract myself. Whether we were a thing or not, it wasn’t as if our individual lives were going to stop. And if anyone had a life, it was Oscar—a rammed schedule, a symphony to write—none of which could be put on hold for . . . whatever. I got it, understood it, wouldn’t let it affect me, even if I had shared something with him that felt way more vulnerable than any make-out session.

  A courtyard. A couple of childhood memories. Oscar’s secret vulnerabilities and feelings for me and—calm down, I told myself, this is fine.

  But it wasn’t until I closed the dishwasher and leaned against the counter, task completed, that another source of uneasiness hit me.

  Oscar wasn’t just some guy I was ambiguously hanging out with. Somehow, along the line, I’d started blanking who he was—Dad’s protégé, Amberley’s most gifted recruit, a bottomless font of brilliant music. Now he was officially someone the New York Times wanted to interview, and I was still . . . a blur.

  Oscar was right to put the brakes on. This summer was his moment. It was in no way mine.

  A knock sounded in the entryway. I thought for a confused second it was Oscar back already, but when I opened the door to the street, Nora stood three inches away, shrugging broadly.

  “Am I right?”

  Oh God. I couldn’t stop my cheeks from flaming. “About . . . ?”

  She shot me a playful glare as she walked past me into the house. “I could be wrong, but I’m usually right about these things. I have an eye for gossip.” She peered at the Steinway for a second as if searching for Mom on the bench, then turned. “So. You? Young Oscar Bell? Is this a thing?”

  “I . . . duh . . . he . . . um . . .”

  “I am good!” She walked over to wrap me in a dancing hug while I continued to express myself with startling eloquence. “Listen, you don’t have to tell me, but if it’s the start of something . . . ? I could not be more pleased.”

  I felt a spark of surprise, but couldn’t pinpoint why. Maybe because of what Oscar had said—or because last week she’d been a tap away from setting me up with somebody named Charlie Weatherby.

  “As much as you want to get away from Amberley, my dear, it’s in your veins. I knew we’d get you back.”

  Amberley? What?

  “It’s practically your birthright.” She brushed off one of my shoulders. “And I, for one, am glad you’re finally claiming it.”

  As my stomach started a slow descent, her phone rang. She peeked at it.

  “Ugh, I have to run, again, but . . . lunch soon? Monday? Meet me at my place at one and we can jet from there.” She blew a kiss and was lifting her phone and out the door before I could so much as squawk a reply.

  It took me the whole walk up to my room to connect the pieces of that disjointed conversation.
Oscar. Amberley. Claiming it.

  I sat on my bed, stinging.

  Oscar didn’t need to worry about public perception. The board chair herself applauded the idea. Dating a musical genius was my birthright, as far as she was concerned. Proximity to Greatness: The Ruby Chertok Story.

  If anybody needed to worry about looking like an opportunist, it was me.

  Tell the truth. If he were a nobody, no talent, no connection to music whatsoever—would I like him better?

  The simple answer: Hell. Yes.

  But then his music started playing in my head, that snippet from the other night, and I felt so overcome that it took lying down and staring at the ceiling to get my own gravity back.

  Whatever we were, whatever this was, we’d left simple behind in the courtyard.

  15.

  the cure for buzzing thoughts was busy hands. The kitchen was done, the study too daunting, so I tackled Dad’s room, making the bed, placing columns of bedside books back onto shelves, removing cups and mugs, throwing away an old flower arrangement, cleaning the pile of dry petals beneath it.

  I was surveying the now orderly room from the doorway with a slow, calm breath when I noticed that the drawer of one of the nightstands was closed at a funny angle.

  Mom used to sleep on that side.

  I went very still. Then I crossed the room in a full sprint to wiggle the drawer back into place and push it shut. It was full of random papers—one of them stuck in the back. I tugged it loose, wary of looking too closely.

  Too late. It was a glossy program from a concert in Vienna, a full nineteen years ago. Mom was the headliner. Grieg’s Piano Concerto in A Minor. A newspaper clipping was stapled to the back of it—a review from a German newspaper, presumably glowing.

  I picked up another scrap of paper from the drawer. And another. These were all hers, interviews, programs, flyers, reviews. The earliest ones were all pasted into a little notebook at the bottom of the pile—her recital at Amberley, her philharmonic debut—but then there was a gap, nine years, ten, and everything since was just tossed in here, sloppily. Almost angrily.

  Why had she kept it like this? What was the point? And she hadn’t cleared it out before leaving. Neither had Dad. He just kept sleeping next to it, night after night.

  I climbed up to my closet, grabbed the shoebox my new sneakers had come in, ran back down, filled the box with paper scraps of Anna Weston-Chertok, shut the lid, closed the drawer, took the box back to my room, and stared at it.

  What now? I could mail this to her. I didn’t even know where she was.

  I put the box in my closet and shut the door.

  The sun was going down. I wandered to the kitchen to forage, and a text came in from an unknown number.

  I immediately started grinning. I hadn’t even put his name in my contacts yet.

  I’m conducting till 8:30 but do you want to get together after?

  And then . . . If you’re up for it. I can hang out wherever.

  I started typing a reply, then let my finger hover until—another message: If you’re busy tonight I totally get it.

  Then: Blather on, verb (See above)

  I flopped over the kitchen counter, typing fast. Are you conducting your piece?

  Nonononononooooooo Then: Not ready yet. At all. Tonight is THE MAN

  I turned my phone upside down, like that would make his message make sense.

  Eine kleine Nachtmusik

  Nice! I replied.

  They’re not killin it but we’re getting there, then: aaa break’s over, text you when we’re done

  I typed as quickly as I could. Are you leading the orchestra tonight

  He didn’t reply. Either he’d switched his phone to silent or he didn’t know how to answer such a pleb question. Of course the conductor would lead. But it seemed like he was describing the job of a real conductor, not a student—the musical director. Were they really giving a kid with next to no experience, running on pure instinct and enthusiasm, free rein with the Amberley summer orchestra?

  I couldn’t picture it, but found myself desperately trying, eyes closed, stomach pressed tight against the counter’s edge. For the first time in months, I allowed into my mind the image of Lilly Hall and Lincoln Center—light spilling in interlocking pools, gorgeous crowds clustering around each building’s doors, silhouetted figures waiting by the fountain for their dates to arrive while, inside, musicians listened with bated breath for the first chair oboe, tuning their nerves to match its perfect A.

  I swiped on mascara, an arbitrary nod at respectability, and headed over. The traffic was synched, letting me walk the entire way without waiting for lights. My hands clenched as I left the common sidewalk, but I could barely feel my feet hit the ground.

  The rondo echoed in the Lilly Hall lobby, and only then did my step falter. I knew the music; everybody knew it, right? But there was a new energy underneath—a sense of having fallen through time and stumbled into Mozart conducting his own piece.

  It was a work-through, the orchestra’s main conductor, Emil Reinhardt, hovering in the wings, arms crossed over his Amberley T-shirt—but there was still a scattered audience here watching in rapt silence. Oscar was dressed in the shorts he’d worn earlier today, the orchestra members similarly casual. Aside from that, this could have been a season opener of the philharmonic.

  He was . . . electric. Such an overused word in music criticism, but I swore there was lightning bursting from his fingers, his baton, his incredible hair. I sat in one of the velvet seats, tucking my knees under my long skirt so I could clutch my legs tight.

  I couldn’t see his face but I knew what it would look like. Joyous. Rapturous. A man in love. There was nothing unformed about Oscar in this moment, nothing of the nervous boy he’d shown me in the courtyard. Up at the podium, he was himself, powerful, unapologetic. He was Mozart and he was Oscar Bell and he was every member of the orchestra and he was the audience, and, right now, he was the entire world, because he was this music that was playing, lanterns in a night garden, stolen kisses, laughter.

  The final notes resounded. The twenty people scattered through the house burst into applause—and I headed for the lobby. I can’t.

  A man walked out ahead of me, holding the door so I could pass. He looked dazed too, like he’d been kissed by a supermodel. It took me a second to recognize him as the New York Times reporter from earlier today. This would go in the piece he was writing. Oscar’s brilliance. His promise. His work with the great Martin Chertok and this prestigious school. His incredible future.

  As the reporter left the building, I stood in the empty lobby, excitement and despair coursing through me in alternating currents. And something else. Something dizzy.

  This was an obvious mistake. Coming here, listening to this . . . I wasn’t ready. But at the same time, I’d needed it. Everything looked sharper now. The air was charged in my lungs. I’d missed it and I hated that I felt this way, but anger still felt better than the awful numbness I’d endured since April. I loved this. I had no right to, but oh God, I did.

  My phone buzzed, a text. Done now, you home? :)

  Oscar must have picked up his phone the instant he put down his baton.

  I’m here, actually, I texted back, swiping for the right, charmingly sheepish emoji. Lobby.

  The door swung open from the hall. I pivoted, but it was a few people from the audience chatting quietly as they left. They looked familiar—friends of Dad’s?

  The door behind them creaked again and Oscar burst through, holding the top of his head with both hands. “I had no idea you were here.”

  The audience members turned, curious, and I realized they were Amberley board members. They must have turned out to see Oscar in action and found a bit more gossip than they’d bargained for.

  They would talk no matter what we did.

  Oscar ru
bbed his eyes, like he’d sleepwalked here. I could feel energy pulsing off him—macho, wired, massively distracted.

  “You wanted to hang out?” I lifted my cell phone, entering it into evidence.

  “Yeah, I’m done, let’s . . .” He pressed his fingertips to his lips.

  I knew that expression—the look Dad got when he was listening to something only he could hear. Still, it was jarring, seeing it on Oscar.

  I stepped back. “Do you want to grab dinner, or—?”

  “I ate earlier.” His eyes met mine, fuzzy around the edges. “Could we hang out in my room? Is that . . . would that be okay?”

  His room. My pulse quickened, deepening until I could feel it everywhere.

  “I just . . .” He scratched his face. “I’ve got an idea for how to spice up the recapitulation and if I don’t get it down quickly, I’m afraid I’ll—”

  “Oh!” I let out a tight laugh. “Right, yeah. That’s fine, let’s . . . get back.”

  He sprinted out of the hall with me, waving vaguely to the board members as we passed them on our way to the sidewalk.

  “Sorry to be so frantic,” he muttered. “I’ve never worked on something with this scope before and I usually have my school notebooks with me, you know? Something to jot the idea down on.”

  “Write on me,” I joked, extending my arm as we hurried around the corner. “I’ve been trying to get a tan, but it hasn’t worked, so you might as well take advantage.”

  “Do you have a pen?” Oscar asked, dead-serious.

  “Oh.” I stopped walking and fished one out of my bag. “It’s purple. Is that weird?”

  “Purple is stupendous.” He took the pen and twirled it idly between his fingers, squinting to himself as I scanned the road.

  A cab pulled up at the taxi stand, dropping off a late operagoer. I raced to snag it.

  “Seventy-first and Central Park West,” I said, slamming the door behind us. Then I offered my arm to Oscar.

  He cradled my wrist, smoothing one finger along the bone, like he was worried about breaking me. Then he bit the cap off my purple pen and started to write. I closed my eyes, enjoying the rocking of the taxi, the tickling, sliding touch of the pen marking me. Oscar’s music, covering me.