“Don’t change the subject.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Cass.”
I yawn and turn on the TV bolted to the wall. It’s 7:15 a.m. and 58 degrees, with a dew point of 52. According to the lady in the red blazer on the news, traffic is already crawling on the Jersey Turnpike. Humans shouldn’t be forced to get up this early, but here we are. I have two loads to fold before Mom gets in, and Cass is drinking a giant coffee, watching me stuff clothes and detergent and color-safe bleach into the washers and not helping at all. (Not that Mom pays him.)
“You’re such a baby,” Cass says. “Violin Boy was right there.”
“What could I even have said to him? Oh, hey, I know nothing about classical music and I’ve never been to Carnegie Hall before, but I just want to interrupt your very important day and whatever important stuff you have to do so I can tell you how hot you are?”
“I set the whole thing up for you! I gave you a total in, and then you cowered by the trash can until he walked away. You practically fainted.”
“I didn’t faint, Cass.”
Okay, fine. I got that fluttery feeling in my chest and I probably did freeze for a second, but I definitely didn’t cower or faint.
Here’s what happened: Violin Boy walked out a side door, and Cass saw him, gasped and walked right up to him in his unapologetic Cass way. I couldn’t hear much from where I was, but he basically told Violin Boy he did a great job and started making all these wild hand motions to get me to come over. But I just stood there, staring like an idiot until he thanked Cass and walked right past us. He was so close I felt a breeze from some particles of air that his arm swished toward mine. He walked right past me, through my air, making it our air, as he strutted down the street, violin case in hand, to the corner. Then he was one block away. And then two. And then three. And I just stood there.
Ugh. Cass is right. I’m a huge baby.
Cass sits on an upside-down laundry basket and tugs on my wrists until I give up and flop down next to him. “I’ve never seen you get like this over a guy,” he says. “Ever. In our entire history of being best friends.”
“So?”
“So, maybe you found your soul mate.”
I laugh, but Cass ignores me.
“And you’re acting like it’s too late, like he’s dead or something.”
I get up to finish a seemingly endless pile of sock balls. “Well, he might as well be dead. He lives in New York, probably in some penthouse. I bet he has a pool. Heated, with, like, pink Himalayan salt in the water.”
“I saw a spark. He totally glanced at you for a second. I saw, like … a little eye flutter.”
“You’re calling him my soul mate over an eye flutter?”
“Well, he wasn’t fluttering his eyes at me, so at least we know he likes girls. That’s something. You’re halfway there.”
I wince as I fold a pink thong — easily the grossest part of the job, except for maybe washing baby bibs covered in spit-up. Or old gray sheets with mysterious stains. “Fine, let’s say you’re right. Let’s say that out of all the other girls in front of Carnegie Hall yesterday, Violin Boy noticed me. What’s going to happen next? He’s going to track me down in the Burg and bust into Spin Cycle and ask me out?”
“No, that’s never going to happen,” Cass admits. “That’s why we’re taking the train to New York City tomorrow to track him down.”
I make a big deal out of pretending I don’t care. But honestly? I’ve already considered it. Fine, I’ve more than considered it. For the last twelve hours the only thing I’ve been able to think about are the soft velvet chairs and the golden pinpricks of light on the ceiling. And the music washing over me. His music. And his hands that can make all the beauty in the world pour out of a violin. For the first time in I can’t remember how long, I woke up thinking about something wonderful.
So I checked out the New Jersey Transit schedule. There are trains leaving Trenton at 3:52, 4:52 and 5:52 that could get me to the city in time to catch a glimpse of him and come back before my curfew at ten. I could tell my mom I’m staying with Cass after school to watch the basketball game and head to Deep Freeze for ice cream. It’s a little over an hour from Trenton to Penn Station in New York, and it costs about $15. Plus, I’d need to take a subway to get to Lincoln Center, which is where the Brighton Conservatory is — I looked it up online. And then I could just sit on a bench or something and wait until he gets out of class and then, as he’s about to walk away, tap him on the shoulder and tell him I’m sorry for bothering him, but I just want to say how great he was in the concert. I don’t have anything planned out after that.
Cass goes into this whole speech about how I’ll never know if he’s the one for me unless I track him down and find out for myself. I shake my head and look down until my hair falls in my eyes and tell him, “No way. That’s so stupid.”
But I’ve already decided.
I’m going.
* *
But here’s the thing that sucks: money. It’s not like I have $15 and another $5 for the subway just lying around. That’s our food budget for the whole week. I’m almost eighteen, and I don’t even have a bank account. Mom’s always made sure we live in an apartment on a safe street no matter what, but sometimes that means eating rice and beans three days in a row or taking the laundry no one picks up to the thrift store to sell. After a bag of clothes stays unclaimed for thirty days we can do whatever we want with it, and it happens more often than you’d think. You’d figure people, especially in this neighborhood, would want to pick up their laundry, but sometimes they just disappear. Who knows what happens to them. They get arrested or evicted and have to move. I hate to think about it, but maybe they die. Or maybe they’re so messed up they forget they dropped off their clothes in the first place.
So every couple of months, Mom scours Spin Cycle and the apartment for things we can sell or trade in. Sometimes she’ll take a few extra shifts at the Dollar Plenty, where she used to work before she bought the laundromat. Or she’ll make a deal with Ronaldo, the super, to do odd jobs around our apartment building, like paint the hallway or pick up trash on the front steps. He won’t give us cash, but he’ll sometimes let us pay late, or even give us a break in our rent. We’re lucky. Mom moved here with my dad right before I was born, so everyone knows us and Ronaldo knows we’re good for the rent. Sometimes that’s all that keeps us afloat from month to month: faith that we’re good for it. And we are, eventually.
Sometimes I wonder if Mom should just give up — sell the laundromat and go back to the Dollar Plenty full-time, even though she’s invested so much money in her business. She keeps hoping sales are going to pick up, that miraculously the town will turn around and there will be a bunch of new families moving in. We wait and hope, and nothing changes.
Anyway, $20 isn’t easy to come by.
* *
Mom comes in at 7:45 with a half-eaten apple in one hand and a bag full of delicates from Mrs. Fisher in the other. She picks up Mrs. Fisher’s things once a week, no charge — Mrs. Fisher is eighty-six and lives around the corner in a six-floor walk-up. My mom doesn’t want her climbing the stairs and breaking a hip, which I think is so sweet of Mom. She’s always doing nice stuff like that for everyone in the neighborhood. She’s been teaching me kindness by example since I was a baby, but I’m still not as good at it as she is.
“Sorry I’m late,” she says, giving both me and Cass kisses. Cass’s mom has issues. She’s not really much of a parent to him. So my mom knows it means a lot to him when she treats Cass like he’s a member of our family. Sometimes I wonder if he only hangs out with me in the mornings because it’s one less hour of the day he has to spend in his apartment, with the dirty clothes in the hallway and the leak in the living room.
“You guys better get out of here,” Mom says, “I heard the first bell on the way over. Oh, Do
m, can you pick up a jug of white vinegar on the way home? The change machine is looking pretty cruddy.”
“Sure. Anything else?”
“Yeah, there’s frozen spinach on sale at C-Town. Can you pick up three packages?”
“Sure.”
“And try to get Sal on the register — he gives double coupons if you ask.”
“I know.”
Cass looks at me expectantly. I can tell he wants me to ask my mom about tomorrow night. I roll my eyes and grab my backpack.
“Oh, um, Mom?”
“What?”
“I’ll get a receipt,” I say under my breath, and try to bolt out the door, but Cass is too quick for me. He grabs my elbow and puts his arm around my shoulder so I can’t escape.
“Also, Ms. Hall, do you think Dom could come with me, Jasmine and Francesca to the basketball game tomorrow after school? They’re playing Hopewell.”
“You have study hall tomorrow after music?” she asks me.
“Yeah.”
“So you’ll get all your homework done then?”
“Yeah, definitely.”
“Do you have any tests?”
“No, just the geometry pop quiz from yesterday.”
“And you’re caught up on chores? You’ll vacuum on Saturday?”
“Yeah.”
“Okay,” she says at last, then grabs Mrs. Fisher’s delicates and loads them into the washing machine in the corner.
And that’s it. I’m going to New York City to track down Violin Boy tomorrow. Easiest thing in the world.
Cass and I get to school just as the last bell rings.
“Don’t stress about the train,” Cass says before we head in opposite directions to homeroom. “My grandma gave me some birthday money, and there’s nothing I’d rather spend it on than the promise of true love.” He bats his eyes.
“You’re ridiculous,” I say, and shove him, but I can’t stop smiling. Today there’s a brightness in my life. A glow around the edges I’ve never felt before. And now that I feel it I can’t let it go away. I go through six classes and a trip to C-Town, then back to the store to help Mom clean and close, with a big stupid grin on my face. Maybe I’ll wait at Lincoln Center for three hours and Violin Boy won’t even come. Maybe he’ll be sick tomorrow. Maybe he’s on vacation. Maybe he only has class until three on Thursdays. Maybe he has a doctor’s appointment or another concert, or he’s going to meet his family for lunch, or he has a friend’s recital across town or another music lesson somewhere else entirely, in Harlem or Queens or Park Slope.
Or maybe he’ll be there.
{4}
Ben
“Let’s take it again from the B section. And try it this time with a little bit more … I don’t know. Agony.”
Yaz waves his hand at us indiscriminately. I wish teachers would be more specific.
Our orchestra repertoire class (or orchestra rep, for short) is supposed to be a chance for Yaz’s private students to all get together and dissect symphonies, but today I’m the only one paying attention. The others are all sitting up with their backs straight, but I can see it in their eyes. They’re exhausted. They were up too late, or they had an early class, or playing eight-plus hours a day has finally started catching up with them. Thankfully Carter has a different private teacher, so at least I don’t have to hear him ruining Paganini.
Yaz stops us. “Wait, Ben, what are you doing?”
“What do you mean?”
“Your fingering.”
“I thought I’d go up the string instead of crossing.”
“Why? It doesn’t change the sound of the phrase and it’s twice as difficult.”
Because I can.
“Why not?” I smile.
“Again from B, please, and we’ll go on to the end of the movement. Crossing is fine — no need to get fancy.”
He shakes his head at me, but I see him smirking behind his music stand.
Yaz is a former Sydney Symphony Orchestra first chair, and I’ve been going to his apartment for lessons since I was eight. My parents picked him because he teaches at Brighton. He rarely takes on students so young, so I knew I had a good chance, but there was still no guarantee I’d get into the conservatory. My audition had to be perfect. And it was. Because I’ve been going to him forever, he never lets me get away with anything — even though playing up the string would be way more exciting than a boring cross, and he knows it.
When we make it to the end, Yaz calls a twenty-minute break, but I don’t want to stop. I want to go over the B section a dozen more times just to make sure it’s ingrained. But then I see Yaz reviewing the second ending with Lilly, and I realize that’s more important — it could take her days to master — so I leave them alone and go outside. At least I can practice my fingering.
I cut across the Lincoln Center campus — a majestic, cream-colored sprawl of theaters, opera houses and concert halls that takes up three entire city blocks. It’s mostly empty today, except for a few people sitting on benches and eating late lunches, plastic clamshells resting in their laps. And the tourists. Always the tourists, wearing fleece jackets and giant backpacks and taking photos of everything with their phones, like they can’t just download a way better photo of the Metropolitan Opera House online. But today even the guy in the Montana State hat who is balancing on top of a ledge and trying to snap a photo of a squirrel isn’t bothering me. Everything in my life has clicked into place. I’ve always known I have what it takes to be the best violinist at Brighton. And now everyone else knows it, too. All I have to do is get Kreutzer right, and I’ll be unstoppable. Then all the millions of hours alone in my room will have been worth it.
It’s cold and the sun’s setting, casting a blinding glare on the windows of Avery Fisher Hall. I walk over to the fountain, my favorite people-watching spot, and lean against the stone ledge to try to soak up some of the warmth. My mission isn’t too successful, because it’s a little windy, and droplets of water from the fountain keep splashing the back of my neck. I’m about to get up and go back to class, when there’s a subway map in my face.
And a stunning girl standing in front of me, holding the map with both hands.
“Hey, can you help me find the A train?” she asks.
It’s weird she’s holding an actual paper map. There are a million subway apps. This map is torn and soft like it’s been folded up and carried around inside thousands of pockets.
“How Duke Ellington of you,” I say, then immediately realize this girl probably knows nothing about jazz. For all I know, she thinks Duke Ellington is the newest guy on The Bachelor. For all I know, she’s just another tourist, heading uptown to find more squirrels to photograph.
“I’m more of a Frank Sinatra girl, but if he can help me get to Washington Square, sure.”
Wait. Frank Sinatra? Who is this girl? I give her a glance up and down but pretend to cough so she won’t notice. She definitely doesn’t go to Brighton. No way. She has thick, curly hair, springing out in all directions and this casual, cool look that all the girls at Brighton try to do but none even come close to pulling off. Kids at conservatories aren’t casual. This girl is relaxed, not trying too hard. NYU, maybe?
“Over there,” I tell her, pointing toward the Apple store. “Just go down the steps and straight down, then turn right at Seventy-Second and you’ll see the station a few blocks over. Just don’t cross Seventy-Second, that’s for uptown. Stay on this side of the street, and then look out for a green lamppost — although I don’t know if it would even be considered a lamppost, because I’ve never seen it lit up. It’s more of a globe.” I’m doing my usual talking-too-much thing and have to will myself to stop. Nothing good ever comes from adding a second sentence. Or a third. Or a fourth.
“Thanks,” she says, and smiles.
She has these huge white teeth — and one of the
m, the left eyetooth, is twisted in the wrong direction, kind of like her hair. She’s wearing tight jeans and you can tell she’s got a great, curvy body and a really nice butt, but then she has a billowy, too-big purple T-shirt on that somehow looks amazing, anyway. She’s not trim and tiny and neat like Claire or Jun-Yi or the other classical-music clones at school. She’s flowy and messy and jumbled, but in this totally beautiful way. Like jazz.
“Were you seeing a concert?” I ask. Just to keep the conversation going.
“Huh?”
“The recital at Avery Fisher or something?”
“Me?”
Like there’s anyone else I could be talking to.
“No, but I’d love to see something here one day,” she says.
“So you’re just killing time after class?”
“Uh, yeah, I don’t —”
“Let me guess. NYU.”
She smiles. “Yeah. Yes.”
“And you think Frank Sinatra was a better performer than Duke Ellington?”
“No, I just don’t know that much about jazz. Old movie musicals are more my thing. Like Singin’ in the Rain and West Side Story.”
“And Porgy and Bess? Well, I guess it’s technically an opera, but it was on Broadway and was written by Gershwin, so whatever. Anyway, there’s a song in it — ‘Summertime.’ ”
Her eyes glow. “I know ‘Summertime.’ ”
“Well, Frank Sinatra covered it, but so did Billie Holiday, who was, hands down, the greatest female jazz singer of all time. She also sang ‘I Loves You, Porgy.’ Jazz and Broadway aren’t that different.”
“Like how Louis Armstrong sang ‘Hello, Dolly.’ ”
Oh. My. God. This girl knows Louis Armstrong.
“Exactly. And John Coltrane covered ‘My Favorite Things.’ ”
“From The Sound of Music, right?”
“You know more about jazz than you think.”
She grins this big, wide, earth-moving smile, and I realize I’m grinning, too. This is the first time I’ve felt relaxed in I don’t know how long. When I look at her — whoever she is — I don’t think about school or competitions or codas or strings. She’s all I can see, for miles and miles and miles.
Someday, Somewhere Page 3