Virtuosity

by Jessica Martinez

  “You wouldn’t believe traffic,” Diana gasped, twirling around to hang the dress bag on the hook behind the door and tossing a Sak’s Fifth Avenue bag on the sofa in one breathless movement. “I almost forgot the pantyhose,” she added and pulled a package of sheer control-tops out of her purse.

  I grabbed the garment bag and unzipped it, in too much of a hurry to hide my shaking hands. It was like I remembered, simple but dramatic, the color of milk, strapless, with a wide blood-red sash tied around the waist. It was the kind of dress that drew eyes in and held them. I took off my jeans, put on the pantyhose, and pulled on the dress. It fit perfectly.

  I looked in the mirror again. The image was less scary. The dress was stunning. My lips and the sash looked like they’d been dipped in the same dye, and the sickly shade of my skin was definitely less noticeable.

  Over my shoulder, Diana’s reflection frowned at me. I turned away.

  My fingers. I had to stop the shaking. I picked up my violin to do one last round of shifting drills. They were ugly and whiny (according to Clark, the drills sound exactly like the noise a cat makes when you swing it around by the tail), but they helped get the blood pumping to my fingers.

  Diana changed into her own outfit, a long tight mauve dress, while pretending not to watch me. I kept up the cat wrangling and pretended not to notice her pretending not to watch me.

  A knock at the door startled us both. “Five minutes,” a muffled male voice called from the hallway.

  My stomach lurched, and my knees buckled. I would have fallen but my elbow caught the edge of the piano and I leaned into the instrument to steady myself.

  “Carmen!” Diana cried. Was her voice always so shrill? “Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine.”

  “Did you forget to eat?”

  “Um …” That was a pretty good excuse, actually. “Yeah.”

  She commenced rifling through her purse, and nattering about the physical effects of low blood sugar and the importance of planning ahead. By the time her rant had come full circle, she’d unearthed a Luna bar, three Certs, and a package of black licorice. She made me eat it all.

  “It’s time,” she said.

  I choked down the last piece of licorice and washed my hands in the sink, letting the scalding water pour over my skin. Maybe that would heat them up. But by the time I’d twisted the faucet off and dried my hands, my fingers were cold again.

  Why was I doing this? Why hadn’t I just taken the Inderal like I was supposed to? But it didn’t matter now. It was too late.

  Diana followed me down the corridor that led to the stage right curtain. A handful of people stood waiting—the conductor, Maestro Chang, giving directions to the stage manager; a new technician I didn’t recognize; a stage hand with two metal music stands tucked under each arm. I stood a little apart from the cluster, took a shaky breath, and closed my eyes.

  I tried to focus, but the music in my head had never been quite so dizzying. Rolling waves of melodic passages overlapped, Tchaikovsky’s beautiful themes all mashing together unnaturally. I felt like I was standing on a rocking boat and staring into a warped mirror at the same time. It was a discordant nightmare.

  Suddenly, my mouth felt wet and I knew. I shoved my violin into Diana’s hands and gave my surroundings a panicky search for something to throw up into. There was nothing. I was about to lose it when I saw the trash can and rushed over, reaching it just in time. Why couldn’t I be doing this alone? I thought as I retched into the can. Even in the middle of those slow-motion spasms, I was aware of at least five pairs of eyes on me, of Diana’s hand resting on my back, of the dissonant jumble of notes still swirling in my head, of the fact that I still had to perform. One Luna bar, three Certs, a package of black licorice. Of course, she had to make me eat them all. I was done. My jaw ached.

  “Feel better?” Diana asked. Her voice was small and hard like a pebble.

  “No.” I didn’t. I felt weak.

  “I wonder why.”

  She knew.

  I forced myself to look at her, still gripping the trash can, bracing for her fury. But she didn’t look mad. Her mouth was slightly open, her eyes watery, her brows arched like she was in pain. She looked wounded, like I’d kicked her in the stomach.

  “Why?” Her voice quivered as she spoke. “Why would you do this now?”

  She was about to cry. I stared at her, but I didn’t feel anything. At first. Then the anger came, falling on me like a flood of fire. She thinks I’m punishing her.

  “It’s not about you,” I hissed, and pulled my violin out of her hands. The venom made my voice sound like some-one else’s. I’d never talked to her like that before. “Why does it always have to be about you?”

  Diana put her hand to her cheek and wiped a tear. It was a poor me move, but it had the opposite effect. I couldn’t feel sorry for her. And did she actually think a guilt trip would fix things now?

  “Of course it’s not about me,” she said. “I know exactly who this is about. I know who inspired this, this”—she shook her head as she fumbled for the words—“career-ending stupidity. Let me guess, he told you that taking Inderal was slowing you down. Or did he tell you it wasn’t fair? Either way, you’re about to find out just how much Jeremy King actually cares about you.”

  The anger exploded in my chest, strong and hot, pushing my heart out and up against my rib cage. The passive aggressive act was one thing, but blaming Jeremy …

  Without thinking, I lifted my foot and drove my heel into the wood stage, aware as pain shot up my shin that I was acting like a five-year-old. Miraculously, the tall skinny heel didn’t snap. I turned to see my small crowd of backstage onlookers, staring, mouths open. Lucky them. They had the best, or at least the most fascinating, seats in the house: first a puke-fest and now a catfight. I glared right at them, still too mad to be ashamed.

  I took two steps away from Diana, toward the group at the edge of the stage. “It’s time,” I announced, and for the first time since I’d arrived at the Symphony Center my voice didn’t shake.

  I squeezed my fingers into balls and pumped them a few times. They weren’t cold anymore. My whole body felt hot and strong, like I could punch a hole through a wall. The feeling beat fear, but was still dangerous. I’d never played this angry before. I’d never been this angry before.

  Without looking at Diana, I walked to the curtain’s edge and stared out into the audience. Her reasoning stung. She assumed Jeremy had convinced me not to take Inderal, that somebody had to be telling me what to do. It was impossible for her to believe that I’d made the decision for myself.

  The stage manager murmured something into his microphone and the house lights dimmed. The musicians put their instruments in their laps, leaving just the sound of my own heart pumping in my ears. The concertmaster stood and signaled for the oboist’s A. The orchestra tuned.

  Even worse than the insinuation that Jeremy had talked me into not taking Inderal, even worse than the suggestion that I had told him I used it, she thought I had no chance without it. My grip tightened around the neck of my violin. For the first time in a long time I had a definitive goal onstage. I was going to prove her wrong.

  I turned to the conductor who was waiting to walk onstage too. He grimaced. The professional thing to do would have been to give him a reassuring smile. After all, he had just seen me puke into a trash can and yell at my mother, but I didn’t feel like being professional. I felt like screaming obscenities and snapping my bow in half over my knee.

  The stage manager cleared his throat and gestured to the stage. I nodded and without thinking charged forward, still squeezing the neck of my violin.

  “She’s walking,” was the last thing I heard him say into his microphone, and then an explosion of applause engulfed me. Was it always this loud? This bright? The bows of the musicians fluttered spasmodically, their own version of clapping. Was the movement always so frantic?

  My legs propelled me to center stage. When I reach
ed my spot I closed my eyes to tune, then glanced sideways across the stage to the curtain’s edge where she stood, arms folded, head bowed. She was in the shadow, but her outline was clear. She thought she owned me. She thought the success or the failure of this performance had something to do with her.

  I glanced into the audience. Was he out there? I didn’t know whether to hope so or not.

  The conductor cleared his throat, and I glared back at him. Where’s the fire, buddy? I tried saying with just my eyes. Can I not take just a second to think? I’d never been rude to a conductor before, but it didn’t feel terrible. It was kind of empowering.

  His eyes rolled up, up to the ornate ceiling, saying Why me?, then he drove his baton downward.

  The music began, and miraculously, my ear anchored itself to the sound. I’d traded fear and all its slipperiness for anger. Not a single note was going to get away from me.

  My entrance came and I nailed it. The strings felt razor-sharp beneath my fingers, but the pain was reassuring, fueling even. Being mad and strong meant being in control.

  Anger propelled me through the first movement, but dissipated into self-pity by the time I reached the slow second movement. The sadness behind the melody suddenly made sense. My own pitiful life—hating Jeremy, then not hating Jeremy, kissing him, then realizing that the Guarneri made an us impossible, and of course Diana’s accusations—gave me a tragedy to feel. Maybe for the first time.

  The final movement was a wild one. I’d always pictured galloping horses, the way my bow bounced reminding me of hooves striking the ground and kicking off again and again. Tonight the horses were on a death-sprint. From beyond my scroll, the conductor shot me an alarmed look. We hadn’t rehearsed it this fast—I’d never even heard anyone play it this fast—but his baton followed my pace. Finally, the exhilaration of the music took over and I realized I wasn’t angry or sad anymore. The blur of notes flew from my own hands, faster than I could even think them. This was what Jeremy had been talking about, the almost-done.

  I tossed the final chords of the concerto upward into the hall with a gasp of relief. It was over. The cries of “Bravo!” began before I’d even opened my eyes and my entire body rang with the adrenaline. I was flying.

  I emailed Jeremy as soon as I was alone in my bedroom, before I even took off my dress.

  Are you still looking for a tour guide?

  -C

  The minute I pressed send I wanted to take it back. Why didn’t email have a sixty second take-it-back option? This was the downside of the adrenalin high. I was too wired to sleep and too giddy to think things through.

  The wait for a reply was agonizing. Maybe I should have texted instead. He was probably already asleep. Still, I checked my inbox every two minutes. In between hitting the refresh button I hung up my dress, put my pajamas on, listened to Clark make himself a snack in the kitchen and Diana brush her teeth, reorganized the shoes in my closet, replayed the highlights of the performance in my mind … and then there it was.

  Of course. I’m kind of surprised you’re offering—I thought the leash was too tight.

  Jeremy

  I typed my reply quickly.

  I’m rethinking the leash. It might only be as tight as I let it. Were you in the audience tonight?

  I stared at the screen for a full minute before I pressed send. Asking seemed so desperate. If he had been there he probably would have come backstage, but maybe he had been there and just hadn’t stayed. Maybe he’d had to leave right away. I pressed send.

  It felt like an eternity before he responded.

  Wasn’t there. Sorry. I’ll explain in person.

  How’d it go? When do I get to see you?

  He hadn’t come. That was probably good, preferable even, as far as the Guarneri was concerned.

  Except that tonight’s performance had been so personal. If he’d been there, maybe he would understand me completely, understand things I could never just explain with words.

  It didn’t matter.

  It went well. Want to see a baseball game?

  The White Sox play on Wednesday and my stepdad has season tickets.

  A brutal silence followed. I stared at the blinking cursor, wondering how this had gotten turned around, how I’d ended up feeling like the one doing the chasing. He was the one who’d wanted me to take him around, he was the one who had kissed me …

  I’d love to. He’s not using them?

  Interesting question. It was opening week and Clark did love his Sox. He’d already sacrificed tonight’s game to go to my concert, but Wednesday night was a CSO fund-raising banquet and Diana was on the organizing committee. They had debated it all the way home from the concert, but I’d only been half listening. I’d been too busy savoring my victories: I hadn’t taken Inderal; I hadn’t bombed; the Tchaikovsky was alive again; and Diana had been so, so wrong. I was only vaguely aware of Clark’s losing battle in the background. He argued that he spent more time at the symphony than any tone deaf man in the world, so he didn’t see why he had to give up another Sox game to listen to people talk about the symphony. She got passive aggressive, then he called her on it, and so on, until she ended it with, “I’m co-chairing the damn thing. We’re going to the benefit.” And then things had gone quiet.

  I typed my response, feeling bad for Clark.

  No. He has leash issues.

  So, I guess I’ll see you on Wednesday.

  I pulled my eyes away from the computer screen. Sometime during the last hour my head had started to ache and now it was approaching pounding. I had forgotten about this feeling. The adrenaline that had carried me all night was finally waning, which meant I would crash. I smiled. The postperformance low—more evidence that I’d done it. Without Inderal.

  A surge of energy coursed through me. Never again. I wasn’t ever taking that drug again. I grabbed the pillbox from my bedside table and ran to my bathroom. I was done being a coward. I twisted off the lid, held the open pillbox out over the toilet, and tipped it. The pills hit the water and sank like orange confetti. One flush. They swirled and swirled and swirled and disappeared.

  I climbed into bed, curled my body around my pillow, and started replaying the best parts of the night. Then the best parts of last night with Jeremy. This time, I remembered it as it had happened, without any of the doubts and second-guessing and sabotage Diana had thrown in. That was over.

  The sound of my phone from across the room pulled me from my thoughts. Heidi was the only person who would call me this late. She was either calling to see how the performance went or to tell me about some lame Lifetime Network weekend movie she had just watched. She had a weakness for those. I crossed the room and fished the phone from my purse.

  It wasn’t Heidi’s number. It was Jeremy’s.

  I took a shaky breath and pressed talk. “Hi.”

  “Did I wake you?”

  “No.”

  “Are you lying?”

  “No, I performed tonight. I’m still jittery.”

  “Good. I mean that you weren’t sleeping, not that you’re jittery.”

  “Yeah.”

  Silence. Was I supposed to say something now? My mind was blank. Phone to my ear, I crawled back into bed and stared at the ceiling.

  “So, I don’t really know why I’m calling.”

  “Hmmm,” I said, then laughed.

  Then he laughed too. “Awkward, huh?”

  “Email’s easier,” I admitted.

  “But different,” he said. “It’s nice to hear your voice.”

  I wanted to say it was nice to hear his. I almost let myself.

  “I guess that’s why I called,” he said, “to hear your voice.”

  “Actually, I was just sitting here thinking about the other night.” Had I just said that? Less honesty, Carmen. I could hear him smiling in the silence, if that was even possible. He was thinking about the kiss too.

  “So we’re on for Wednesday?” I asked.

  “The baseball game? Yeah. T
hat sounds great. But …”

  “But what?” I braced myself for an excuse. Something along the lines of: but I think spending time with you is pure poison to my competition head game.

  “But Wednesday seems like a long ways away.”

  Four days. It did seem like a long ways away, like forever. And he thought so too.

  “Can I see you tomorrow?” he asked.

  “Tomorrow?” What did Diana have set up for tomorrow? The thought wiggled its way in before I remembered I didn’t give a crap. I had to do better than that. Ten minutes ago I’d been basking in my glorious freedom, and now I was looking to reattach the severed apron strings? “Yeah, tomorrow is good. What do you want to do?”

  “I don’t know. Is it warm enough for the beach?”

  “Are you kidding? It snowed yesterday.”

  “Yeah, but it warmed right up afterward.”

  “It’s too cold to swim, but not too cold to go to the beach and make fun of the Canadian tourists for swimming.”

  “Tempting,” he said, “but I’ve got a better idea.”

  “Okay, let’s hear it.”

  “I think I’m keeping it a secret.”

  “How am I supposed to know what to wear?”

  “That’s easy. Wear something sexy.”

  “What? Where are we going that I would have to be wearing something sexy?”

  “Has nothing to do with where we’re going. I just think you should wear something sexy.”

  I couldn’t quite come up with a response.

  “You’re blushing, aren’t you.”

  “No. Why would I be blushing?” I was blushing.

  “Because I think you talk tough but that you’re shy, and I just embarrassed you.”

  “I … I …”

  “It’s okay. You’re blushing. Don’t worry about it.”

  “Shut up.”

  “As soon as you agree to meet me tomorrow night at the State and Lake train station.”

  “What time?”

  “Nine.”

  That would be tricky. Diana and Clark would be home. Good thing I no longer fear confrontation? “Nine it is.”

  “Good. Still blushing?”