My days were a sad mixture of practicing, eating, and googling illnesses that might put me safely in the hospital and out of the competition. I avoided Diana. Her ice queen act had thawed just enough to reveal paranoia in full flare. I couldn’t be around her. Seeing her vacillate between panic and distraction was just a reminder of her doubt, so I spent a lot of time in my room. She didn’t intrude. She was too terrified of unsettling my oh-so-delicate sanity to even punish me for lying to her.
Jeremy didn’t email or call, but that was good. The humiliation was still there, burning in my chest every time I thought about him, simmering under everything even when I wasn’t thinking about him. Fuel. It was fuel, and I had to feed it.
Anger at Diana had helped center me without the Inderal; humiliation over Jeremy might be my only hope at focusing on something outside of my own anxiety. It had to be, which was why I couldn’t forgive Jeremy. If I started to wonder if maybe he hadn’t been using me, I’d have nothing to anchor myself to when the panic set in. And then I might give in to the urge and take a pill.
I stared at the pile of dresses on my bed. Diana had already chosen one for me, but I was trying on everything in my closet anyway. The nos were on the floor, the maybes were on the bed. The dress she’d picked was fine—flowing yellow fabric with a scoop neck and cap sleeves, falling just above the knee—and she’d decided on it weeks ago, back when we’d still been talking. “It’s perfect for spring, but not too fancy,” she’d said. “It’s only the semifinals. You don’t want to look like you think you’re performing for royalty.” She was right. But now I felt like an upside down daffodil in it. I wanted to wear something else. Something I picked.
I pulled the yellow one off the hanger on the back of my door and tossed it on the floor. Then I noticed a sea-green fabric poking out of the stack. I grabbed it and pulled it out. How had I forgotten about this dress? It had a satin sheen, a deep V in the center, and flared out at its floor-length hem. It was probably too fancy.
“Carmen?” Diana’s timid three-tap knock sounded on the door behind me.
“What?” I kept my voice was perfectly even—not angry, not penitent, not anything.
She stayed in the hall. “We need to talk about tomorrow,” she said. “About your medication.”
“No, we don’t.”
She paused. I’d confused her. “So you’ll take it?”
“No.”
She exhaled and shivered. “Car—”
“Please leave,” I interrupted.
Pleading filled her eyes. “What has happened to you?”
I didn’t answer. I wasn’t sure, but it had happened, and it wasn’t unhappening.
“Don’t do this,” she tried again.
“Good night,” I said, and closed the door.
The auditorium was nearly empty. Twenty-five, maybe thirty people sat in clusters scattered across the main floor. From my view through the stage right curtains, I recognized most of them—other competitors who had already played, their teachers, a few parents or friends. The stage was bare except for a single grand piano.
I knew it was impossible, that the judges were too far away, but I swore I could hear the scribble of their pencils, slashing their critiques through the last violinist’s performance. Almost my time. I couldn’t see Jeremy, but I wasn’t expecting him to be there. I pulled back from the break in the red velvet panels and closed my eyes.
In through the nose, out through the mouth, in through the nose, out through mouth.
In one of those middle-of-the-night internet searches that only make sense at the time, I’d looked up Lamaze breathing techniques. My thinking had been: childbirth, performing—they probably weren’t that different. Both were high stakes and hugely painful. Both went smoother with drugs, or so I’d heard. Dr. Wright, the Inderal shrink, had given me some relaxation exercises, but I didn’t trust anything that came from him.
In through the nose, out through the mouth, in through the nose, out through mouth.
Again, it made more sense in the middle of the night. But I hadn’t thrown up yet, so maybe it was working.
I adjusted the bodice of my dress, tucking a wandering bra strap back under the satin. Diana usually loved playing supervisor to those details. Errant strands of hair, smudged eyeliner, loose threads—she usually had them tamed, corrected, or snipped before I even noticed them.
I glanced over at her. She was staring through the part in the curtains, right at the judges’ table. She hadn’t said anything about the dress change. When I’d come downstairs wearing the sea green gown she’d blinked and turned away, as if she’d never cared in the first place.
I turned back to the audience. The stage lights were only partially dimmed, which meant I could see my competitors’ faces. They revealed a little of everything: nervousness, relief, hostility, hope. I checked again to see if Jeremy had slipped in the back, but of course he hadn’t. He wasn’t playing until tomorrow.
The judges’ table sat wedged between the main block of seating and the exit doors, all three judges tucked into it. I squinted, trying to make out their expressions and found myself drawn to just one.
On the far left sat Dr. Nanette Laroche, a cold-eyed French woman in her seventies. For decades she had been the teacher to study under at Juilliard. Now retired, she had been a career-maker, and according to legend, her methods made Yuri’s look gentle. Dozens of violinists had been squeezed and twisted into world-famous musicians by Dr. Laroche, but her appearance—frail frame, soft features, graying hair—was grandmotherly in every way. Except for those chilly eyes.
The other two judges were less interesting to me. There was Dr. Daniel Schmidt, musical director of the Zurich Symphony, and Dr. Yuan Chang, a professor of music theory at the Curtis Institute. Both seemed too far removed from actual violin performance to be holding all this power.
Beside the main judging table, the competition proctor sat at a little table of her own. It was her job to see that things ran smoothly, which meant ringing the bell for the next competitor, stopping performers if they went over their allotted time, and shushing anyone who got too loud. Tweed jacket, horn-rimmed glasses, excellent posture, face-lifting bun—she looked like she was auditioning for the part of a librarian. Any second now she would ring the bell and it would be my turn.
I took inventory of myself. I hadn’t taken Inderal in over a week, but the feelings churning through me were just as bad as that first performance without it.
I felt nauseous, and my hands couldn’t get colder, not even if I’d plunged them into a bucket of ice and held them there. My legs were shaky, but I could walk.
I gave the audience one last glance, and this time I saw Clark and Yuri in the far left corner. I’d been too busy looking for Jeremy and missed them before. Yuri sat slumped in his chair, his head nestled into the mountain of his hunchback, his hands folded patiently in his lap. His presence was calming. After my last lesson, I wasn’t sure he would come at all. Everything had felt so final when I’d left.
Win it for myself. That was what he’d told me. I was trying.
I’d spent the last week unraveling. Layer after layer peeled off, was still peeling off, and underneath … I didn’t really know what was underneath.
The metallic ding of the proctor’s bell jerked me out of my thoughts. It was time. I took a deep breath and stepped onto the stage. One foot at a time, slowly, evenly, I made my way to the center, barely aware of my accompanist behind me.
I’m okay. Awful but okay. The realization hit just in time. My knees were shaky, but not buckling. My hands were still cold, but I could move them.
The proctor announced me, articulating each syllable. “Car-men Bi-an-chi.”
I glanced at the judges’ table, put my violin on my shoulder and began to play. Tentative at first, the music began to flow, and then rush, and then soar. I was free, and everything else melted away. And as I lifted my bow from the strings after the final note, I knew it was enough.
S
ilence, then a thin ripple of applause sounded across auditorium.
“Thank you,” said the proctor.
Out of breath, I took one last look at the judges’ table. All three were busy writing, heads down, hands scribbling furiously. Weren’t any of them going to look at me? As if reading my mind, Dr. Laroche lifted her silver head and nodded.
Ding. The bell was my cue to exit the stage, but I didn’t want to pull away from those cold gray eyes.
Ding. “Thank you,” the proctor repeated, this time louder with a hint of annoyance.
I nodded back and left the stage.
That night I checked my email over and over, but it stayed empty. When something did come in at 10:37 it was an ad for a male enhancement product, then an H&M sale notice popped up ten minutes later.
Nothing from Jeremy, probably because I’d told him to leave me alone, and because he was practicing for his semifinal tomorrow. I was dying to send him an email and tell him how well I’d played. He deserved to know. He deserved to be scared.
Finally, I turned off my computer and stretched out across my bed. I missed him. That didn’t make any sense, considering how mad I was at him and how hurt I still felt. But that didn’t make me miss him less.
I pulled up onto my elbows and grabbed the dog-eared competition schedule off my nightstand. Jeremy played at five p.m. Only one person followed him, then the judges took an hour to deliberate before they announced the three finalists at seven o’clock sharp. Part of me wanted to go early and hear Jeremy play again, but the rational side nixed that idea. I needed to do exactly what I’d told him to do: focus on my own music. I’d show up just before seven.
My head suddenly felt heavy, too heavy to hold up. My performance had been … perfect? No. Nothing was ever perfect. But it had been close, nerves and all. I smiled and stretched my arms over my head. The memory of it made everything else unimportant. Or at least less important. I let go of the schedule, letting it fall to the floor and slide under my bed. My head dropped to my pillow and my thoughts glided halfway into dreams, through the different pieces of music I’d been practicing, and then strange music I didn’t even recognize. The sound of my violin was beautiful, but it echoed in an empty concert hall and finished to no applause at all.
Chapter 16
I ended up sitting alone waiting for the results to be announced. Diana, inexplicably, needed to use the ladies room. “Right now?” I said, not even attempting to hide my disbelief. I was starting to consider other explanations for her weirdness: Was she sick? Was she depressed? Was she losing her mind? “You’ll miss the results,” I said.
“Don’t worry, you played beautifully yesterday. You’ll make the finals,” she said, and wandered off in the wrong direction, as if she didn’t know exactly where the bathrooms in this building were.
But I wasn’t worried. As annoyed as I was with her, I just didn’t want to sit alone. When they called out the names of the finalists, everybody would clap and I’d have to stand and smile, and people would see I was by myself. I dug my fingers into my arm, mad that I even cared. I looked around the auditorium, half-filled with all the competitors, their teachers and parents and friends gathered around them. Yuri wouldn’t come (he hates this side of competitions—no music, all shmoozing) and Clark had a meeting he couldn’t change.
The other competitors all seemed to know each other. They were all older, mostly in their twenties, and … and what? Unfriendly? Not exactly. Maybe I was the unfriendly one. Or were they afraid of me? That’s what Diana would say.
I took my cell phone out of my purse and pretended to be actively engaged in organizing my contacts.
“If I sit beside you, are you going to tell me to bugger off?”
Jeremy’s voice startled me. I moved my purse from the chair beside me. “Go ahead.”
He sat down. My insides swirled and twisted over themselves. I couldn’t help it.
“I should warn you,” I said, glancing at the door. “My mom will be back in a minute.”
“You don’t think she’d like me?” He gave me an ironic grin. “You’d be surprised. I do pretty well with mothers.”
“I’m sure you do. So how did your semifinal go?”
A smile covered his entire face. “Great. Really great.” I could see he wanted to say more but held back. A fine line separated postperformance glee and bragging.
“I’m sorry I missed it.”
His eyes caught mine and held them. “We waste way too much time apologizing to each other.”
I looked away.
“I heard yours was pretty spectacular too,” he continued.
“Heard?”
“Yeah, you know …” He waved a hand at the people around us. “Backstage buzz.”
I nodded, preferring he didn’t know how little backstage buzz I was in on.
“My time slot didn’t help me much. The judges probably barely remember yesterday.”
“You don’t have to pretend with me, Carmen,” he said, and shrugged disarmingly.
He was right. We both knew we were making the finals.
Suddenly the noise around us was gone, and I realized everyone was looking up at the stage. The proctor stood slightly pigeon-toed with one hand on her hip and the other tapping the microphone, wearing the same tight bun and tweed suit combination as yesterday.
“If I can have everyone’s attention,” she began. The comment was completely unnecessary. She already had every eye in the room. A few chairs squeaked as people sat down, and then the air tightened with silence. She gave a quick nod then lifted her stack of papers up to her face and began reading a list of instructions, explanations, thank yous, and apologies. She could have been reading our horoscopes for all anyone cared. We all kept listening, leaning just slightly toward her. Beside me, Jeremy’s leg bounced up and down, the energy practically jiggling out of him. I resisted the urge to put my hand on his knee to hold it in place.
“We’d like to remind competitors that complimentary tickets to the Final Gala Concert on Friday can be retrieved at the …”
Jeremy leaned over and whispered in my ear, “My family’s flying in tomorrow afternoon. Do you want to go out to dinner with us?”
His breath tickled my neck. And the words, once I could actually think about them, made no sense. I’d just suggested that he wouldn’t want to be within ten feet of my mother, and now he was inviting me to meet his family. But besides that, tomorrow night was the night before the finals. I certainly wouldn’t be out for a night on the town, and I’d have thought Jeremy would want to be home, or in his hotel room, practicing and sleeping too.
Unless his performance prep had more to do with derailing me than getting a good night’s sleep. I clenched my teeth and stared straight ahead. Did he think I was the most gullible idiot in the whole world? Did he think that because I’d let him sit beside me I’d forgotten he begged me to lose the competition on purpose?
The proctor rattled off a list of contributors to the Guarneri Foundation, while I imagined what Jeremy had planned. One last attempt to guilt me, or sway me, seduce me, or bully me, that’s what he wanted. I shouldn’t have let him sit down.
The bitterness in my voice was impossible to disguise. “I don’t think so.”
“Not everything I do is part of some evil master plan to destroy you, Carmen. Have you even considered the possibility that I’m not a bad person?”
I’d seen through him. That’s why he was annoyed.
Across the hall, the door swung open and Diana’s slender form entered. Our eyes met, then she noticed Jeremy and scowled.
“And finally on to the announcement you have all been waiting for.” The proctor’s voice was suddenly louder, and everyone’s focus went back to the stage. “Our three finalists for the 2012 Guarneri Competition in random order.” She shuffled her pages, pulling a green cue card to the top. “Luc Portier.”
A little shout of triumph burst from Luc’s father, who then attacked his son with a bear hug. Once free, a
grinning Luc stood and turned around to acknowledge the applause. There was backslapping from those around him and a stifled sob from his mother, while everyone else did their best to clap politely and look happy for him.
The proctor cleared her throat. “Alex Wu.”
My heart stopped.
Jeremy’s leg stopped bouncing. “What …” he whispered, but couldn’t find the words to finish. There were only three positions, and the first two belonged to Luc and Alex.
This was not supposed to happen. This had not even been a possibility. Everyone knew the competition was between me and Jeremy. Then shock became fear.
I wasn’t going to make the finals.
The fuss around Alex continued, but gradually, I felt all the eyes in the hall pulling away from him and onto me. No, not just me. Us. I looked around. Stare after stare met my gaze. People leaned toward each other and whispered, not even bothering to look away when I stared back. Who could blame them? We were the ultimate spectacle: Jeremy King and Carmen Bianchi, sitting together but apart, waiting for one career to end and the other to take off. I would have stared at us too.
Please God, let me have the last spot. I’ll start going to church and I’ll stop hating my mother and I’ll never ask for anything again.
The proctor cleared her throat, then said, “Carmen Bianchi.”
I tried to breathe, but there was no air. Thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you! I wanted to jump out of my chair, but my legs were too shaky to lift my body.
“Stand up,” Jeremy whispered.
Jeremy. I turned to him. A good-natured smile held up his face, a perfectly composed grin beneath lifeless eyes.
“Stand up, Carmen,” he repeated, pressing gently on my shoulder blade, pushing me from my daze. I stood just as the rush of applause crested around me. They were all clapping. Jeremy was clapping. It was loud and percussive, more like a firing squad than applause, but I didn’t care.
I was going to the finals.
Virtuosity Page 15