by Rico, Lauren
“Miss Strassman!” he repeats, with an edge, and she turns around quickly.
“Yes, Maestro. I’m ready,” she says in a voice that lacks the confidence to back up that statement.
From next to me, I sense the eyes of Cal Burridge.
“What the fuck are you looking at?” I ask him.
“I’m pretty sure I’m looking at the reason Julia just got her ass handed to her,” he replies flatly.
I snort.
“Seriously, Cal? Is that the best you can do? Don’t be such a pussy. The best man won, and it’s my bed Julia is sleeping in tonight. I suggest you get used to disappointment, man, because you’re looking at the winner of the horn division, too.”
Cal is staring at me with such loathing, like he’d douse me with gas and set me on fire right now, if he thought he could get away with it. I just smile sheepishly and shrug.
“You know, she’s a natural redhead, too,” I say, matter-of-factly.”Yeah, I had to see it to believe it. So many girls get their color out of a bottle these days…”
“Horn section!” the Maestro yells at us. “Is there a problem back there now, too?” he demands.
We both look at him and shake our heads.
“No, Maestro,” we say in unison.
32
“Shit!” Brett says, leaning toward me across the table. “He threw her out of the rehearsal? I don’t think I’ve ever seen him do that. Hell, he didn’t even kick out the trombone section after he threw his toupee at them!”
As a recent McInnes grad himself, Brett knows Maestro Hagen very well.
“How upset is she?” he asks.
I shrug and squirt a line of ketchup on my burger.
“Well, she was crying when she left. After that, I don’t know.”
“You didn’t bother to check on her?” he asks, even though he already knows the answer.
“No. Why do you think I texted you to have lunch? I want to be MIA when she has to face Sam Michaels in her lesson today.”
“Jeez, you are really committed to this thing, aren’t you?”
“I have to be, Brett. Julia’s a lot tougher than I thought.”
“The mother, that was no accident,” he says, shaking his head and then pointing the neck of his bottle toward me. “That was all you, wasn’t it?”
I smile proudly. Brett can spot my handiwork a mile away.
“Fuck, yeah!” I say, brandishing one of my French fries.
Brett is shaking his head, in awe.
“Shit. That couldn’t have been easy to arrange.”
“God, no. I can’t tell you how much time I spent online, researching birth records, marriage certificates, business licenses; then all the trips to Montauk. I had to be sure. And then, I had to decide the best way to bring mother and daughter together again.”
“Jeremy, you never cease to amaze me with the lengths you’ll go to get what you want. Did you track down the father, too?”
“Yeah. He wasn’t much help, though; he’s buried out at Pinelawn Cemetery. Killed himself a few years back.”
Brett leans forward.
“Really? That’s so fucked up! Does she know?”
I shake my head.
“Are you going to tell her?”
I shrug.
“I’m not sure yet. He did a real number on her. You should see the burns on her arm, even I was impressed.”
We chew in companionable silence for a few moments.
“And what are you planning to do about the more… immediate problem?” he asks me.
“What, you mean Cal?”
My brother nods.
“Yeah, well, I’ve got a few ideas,” I say, downplaying the situation.
“Shit, Jeremy. All this for a gold medal? It seems like an awful lot of work.”
That’s Brett, shortsighted, once again. He never has his eye on the long game, and, one of these days, that’s going to cost him.
“Dude, it’s what comes with the gold medal that really matters, like the money, the world concert tour, and the recording contract,” I reply. “Not to mention the career opportunities. Every Kreisler gold winner has gone on to either big solo or orchestral careers. Man, if I win this thing, I can have my pick of gigs anywhere in the country. Hell, around the world!” I stop to take a swig of my own beer. “I can tell you one thing for sure, I’m not going to let Cal Burridge steal this thing out from under my nose.”
“Well, I’m curious to see how this one plays out, Jeremy,” Brett says. “I guess we’ll know more tomorrow when they announce the finalists.”
“No guesswork about it, Brett.”
****
“Jeremy, how can you be so calm?” Julia asks from the seat beside me.
“What have I got to be nervous about?” I ask with a laugh.
She shakes her head and punches me playfully.
“I wish I had just a little of your self-confidence. Life must be so much easier.”
“You have no idea,” I say with a grin.
“Ugh. It’s like a sauna in here.” I pull on the collar of my shirt, trying to loosen it a little “There must be close to a thousand people in this hall.”
“You’re probably right,” she agrees, craning her neck to look around us. “There are a hundred of us semi-finalists in this section alone. Then there are the families, the Kreisler judges and staff, music teachers… And every one of them hoping to hear a familiar name called.”
“Well, most of them are going to be disappointed,” I observe. “Four names out of a hundred isn’t great odds for anyone.”
“Except you, maybe,” she says, poking me in the ribs. “You have so got this. Everyone’s been saying you’re the horn favorite by far.”
“That’s the plan…” I mumble. “Have you seen Matthew?”
She shakes her head quietly.
I know he’s here, somewhere. He can’t stay away from Julia, and she hasn’t been home in nearly a week. It must be making him crazy.
When the house lights start to dim, a hush falls over the crowd. If you didn’t know any better, you’d think you were waiting for the conductor to come out on stage and lead an orchestra. Only this time, there is no orchestra. And it isn’t a conductor who enters from stage left, but a tall, fifty-something-year-old man who strides out. He’s impeccably dressed and groomed. Everything about him screams ‘Old Money.’ I recognize him as Lester Morgan, a regular in the society pages, one of the biggest supporters of the arts in New York City, and Director of the Kreisler International Music Competition. Lester. Of course his name is Lester. Christ, all that money and you can’t buy yourself a better name? Lester’s shoes, which are worth more money than most musicians earn in a year, do not make so much as a click as the hand-tooled Italian leather soles glide across the stage floor. He stands easily in front of the mic, looking from one side of the audience to the other and then up to the balcony, smiling broadly as he does.
“Good evening,” he says in a soft, genteel voice.
There is a collective mumbling of ‘good evening’ back at him.
“My name is Lester Morgan. For the last decade it has been my honor and my privilege to stand on this stage and announce the four brilliant young musicians who will perform head-to-head, shoulder-to-shoulder in the quest for classical music’s highest honor.”
Lester looks down for a second, clears his throat and looks up.
“I won’t lie to you. I’d give my right arm to be able to do what these men and women do every day. They give life to all of the musical geniuses who have walked this earth before us; the Bachs and the Prokofievs, the Coplands and the Beethovens. In the hands of these amazing young people, the life’s work of these composers is reborn every day. And they do it with an ease and effortlessness that belies the years of sacrifice and dedication needed to perform at this level.”
He pulls a small envelope from his coat pocket and pulls out a slip of paper. He holds it up for us to see while he speaks. These dilettantes and their rid
iculous appetite for drama. Just make the Goddamn announcement already.
“And now, I’d like to introduce you to this year’s Kreisler International Music Competition finalists. If I call your name, please join me on stage.”
Next to me, Julia grabs my hand and squeezes anxiously.
Lester smiles as he looks at the list.
“In the piano division, Lucy Kim from the International Conservatory in China.”
No surprise there, the girl is flawless. She’s the hands-down favorite for the next Tchaikovsky competition, too. But a pianist has won the last three Kreisler Competitions and rumor has it they don’t plan on choosing a pianist this year, no matter how good she happens to be. Sorry, Lucy. Better luck next time. The tiny girl, who looks like she’s about twelve, stands to acknowledge the applause before climbing the steps onto the stairs. Lester shakes her hand.
“Next, in the violin division, our finalist is… Mikhail Fedoseyev of the Moscow Academy of Music.”
Now that one is a surprise. He’s quite good, but he’s got a nasty disposition. Idiot can’t hold his temper long enough to win anything. Usually by this point in a competition, he’s already had a meltdown that’s gotten him booted. Right now, he’s practically sneering as he stomps heavily to Lester and offers him a hammy hand.
“Okay. Now for our two rotating divisions,” the older man says, glancing down again at the card.
“Please join me in congratulating our cello finalist...”
He pauses and Julia grips my hand like a vice. She’s pretty strong, considering her size.
“…Miss Julia James of the McInnes Conservatory here in New York City.”
The applause is huge, and Lester peers down at our section, waiting for someone to standup and claim the honor. Julia doesn’t move.
“Julia, stand up,” I whisper loudly. “Stand up!”
I let go of her hand and give her a push forward. She stands up, clearly stunned, and gives a small smile to the audience around us. I can actually see her trembling as she takes the stage next to the other two. The concert hall is deathly silent now as everyone waits for the last name to be announced. I lean forward in my chair a little and straighten my tie.
“Our final division is the French horn,” Lester says, “and I understand this was an incredibly close call. The judges spent hours deliberating over the winner before finally coming to the conclusion that the fourth and final Kreisler competitor will be…”
I take a deep breath. Julia is smiling at me from the stage, just waiting for them to say it.
“… Calvin Burridge, also of the McInnes Conservatory.”
I have to physically stop myself from getting to my feet. Did I just hear that right? Did he just say Cal is the winner? He must have, because from behind me, there’s a disturbance, and I look back to see Cal making his way out of the row. As he passes my chair, he puts a hand on my shoulder and gives it a squeeze. I suck in my breath. On stage, Julia looks stricken. Cal shakes Lester’s hand and offers his ridiculously goofy smile to the applauding audience. He looks down and scans the rows of seats until his eyes settle on mine. And then he winks.
Wait. What? What the hell just happened?
I’ve been blindsided, that’s what happened. And I don’t do blindsided.
33
I’ve managed to make myself scarce for a few days, not wanting to hear any bullshit from Cal. Unfortunately, there’s no avoiding him tonight at our year end concert, a conservatory tradition that draws a huge audience. While the other college orchestras around town are doing the usual ‘holiday pops’ themed concerts– complete with schmaltzy, sentimental Jingle Bells sing-a-longs, we’ve got a whole different kind of schmaltz happening at McInnes. Each year they put together an impressive program of compositions. Audiences have been known to demand multiple encores at the end.
When Julia finally emerges from our tiny bathroom, she’s wearing the traditional all-black uniform of an orchestral musician. She’s got on a long black skirt and silk blouse. Black heels give her a bit more height than I’m used to seeing. She’s actually managed to wrestle all of her hair into submission with a bun at the nape of her neck.
“Is this okay?” she asks, giving a little twirl so that her skirt flares out around her.
“Here,” I say, reaching around to fix the collar of her blouse. I step back and look at her, head to toe and back again.
“Hmm.”
I can see the self-consciousness as it creeps up Julia’s entire body. She slouches a little, runs her fingers through her hair and looks down at her feet, as if to make sure her shoes aren’t scuffed.
“What?” she asks nervously. “What’s wrong?”
“Isn’t there anything you can do about your nose? You know, with makeup or something? I thought you girls could camouflage anything with that stuff you plaster on your face.”
She puts a hand to her face and instinctively covers the offending feature.
“What’s wrong with my nose?” she asks from behind her five-fingered shield.
I shake my head.
“You know what, don’t worry about it,” I say with a placating smile. “Nothing you can do about it now anyway.”
She’s still standing there in a daze when I get up and grab my horn case from the hallway.
“Coming?” I ask over my shoulder.
She looks up.
“Oh. Yes, sorry,” she says, hurrying to sling the cello case over her shoulder.
She clops down the stairs behind me, trying to keep up. Julia hasn’t had to carry her own case for a while now, and I see she’s struggling with the weight of it in combination with her shoes and the stairs. No elevator here, baby. And certainly no doorman to hold that heavy door open for you. I’ve already got a cab when she finally pushes out of the building and steps onto the sidewalk.
“Come on, slow poke!” I tease.
She gives me a half-amused, half-irritated look.
“You could help me, you know,” she calls back to me.
I could. But what fun would that be?
“Nah, you seem to be doing fine all on your own.”
34
“Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God! Julia! You made it!”
I think that Mila Strassman communicates on the same frequency as the dolphins. Her voice is shrill enough to shatter glass, and I watch Julia actually cringe as her stand partner comes running up to us back stage.
“I’m so happy for you! Who’d have thought it? Who’d have imagined it’d be you? I can’t believe it! Can you believe it? I mean this is so crazy!”
Julia levels an irritated glance at her, but Mila is, as always, oblivious.
“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” Julia says with a bit of an edge.
Somebody’s a little grumpy this evening.
“Oh, no! I’m sorry, but you know what I mean! I just think it’s so fabulous that it’s not just one, but two musicians from McInnes in the final round! That’s like half the finalists! I just know that you and Cal are gonna nail it…”
Her voice trails off and I catch her darting a glance my way. Motor Mouth Mila realizes that it’s me she’s offended now. I think that bothers her more than the prospect of hurting Julia’s feelings. She’s just another little tart who wants to bang me. I’d do it too, if I could gag her first. I mean, she never shuts up. Never.
“Jeremy, I’m sorry. Jeez! I keep sticking my foot in my mouth. I really need to talk less, you know? That’s what my mom tells me all the time, anyway. Okay, well, I’m going to go warm-up on stage. I’ll see you in a few minutes, Julia. Sorry again, Jeremy. It definitely should have been you. Too bad about that woman.”
“What woman?” Julia asks before I have a chance to.
Mila claps a hand over her mouth.
“Oh! I wasn’t supposed to say anything!”
She looks from me to Julia and back to me again.
“Not supposed to say anything about what?” I demand in a loud hiss that stops her cold.
>
She’s flustered.
“Uh… well… I heard that the committee was a split between you and Cal and they were deadlocked half the night. Finally, it came down to the one woman to make the decision.”
Why am I just hearing about this now? And why am I hearing about it from this crazy chick? I take a step closer to her and she instinctively steps back, her widening eyes locked on mine.
“Who told you that?”
She shakes her head.
“I... I can’t say… I shouldn’t have mentioned it…”
“Who?” I demand.
She squirms.
“Umm… really, I don’t…”
“Mila, was it a professor?” Julia asks as she puts her hand on my forearm and gently guides me back a step.
She’s right, I’m scaring the little blabbermouth.
“No. I’m really sorry,” she says imploringly to Julia. “I wasn’t supposed to tell anyone that. I wasn’t supposed to say…”
Julia smiles at her comfortingly.
“Mila, Jeremy isn’t going to say anything to anybody. He just wants to know,” she says, looking back at me over her shoulder. “Isn’t that right, Jeremy?”
I take a deep breath and put a forced smile on my face.
“That’s right, Mila. I’d just like to know. You’d want to know if it were you, right?”
She seems to relax a little.
“Yeah. I would,” she nods.
We’re waiting for her to say something else, but she doesn’t.
I raise my eyebrows expectantly. She gets the idea.
“Um, yeah, so I know one of the pages for the competition, right? And it was his job to collect the final decision from the horn committee and bring it back to the office in this sealed folder thingy. It’s all very official the way they do it, you know?”
I feel one of Mila’s epic digressions coming on here.
“I mean, did you know that there is one person whose only job is to open the sealed results and write each of the winner’s names on one of those tiny slips of paper? You know, the paper in the little envelope that that guy Lester has in his pocket on stage?”
“Mila, please just get to the point,” Julia says before I can interrupt with something a little less civil.