“Thank you, Ben,” Nadelstein says.
Holy crap. Nadelstein knows me. I probably shouldn’t have done it, shouldn’t have gushed so much, but I can’t stop smiling. He knows my voice. My idol knows me, just like everyone here knows me. I can’t wait to tell Dominique.
I beam at Nadelstein’s white cane until the doors open and it disappears.
The doors close.
* *
For the first time in my life I’m late to class. It’s just theory — it’s not like it matters, not like it’s a performance class or an audition or something. But when I walk in, Claire gasps and covers her mouth, and I can tell that behind her fingers she’s got a big stupid grin on her face. Maybe because she’s uncomfortable, or maybe because she hates me now, or maybe because she gets a kick out of seeing me fail, or maybe a little of all three.
And Carter is the worst of all. The only seat left is the one right next to him, so I shuffle past the rest of the row, trying not to knock anyone’s books on the floor. He takes his backpack off the empty chair and acts like it’s some big favor, sighing and huffing like I’m bothering him. I don’t understand what his problem is. I’ve never done anything to him. Well, except be a better violin player, and I don’t know what he expects me to do about that.
So I sit down in my seat — and realize my backpack is empty. Well, there’s my violin, and a notebook with some loose sheet music, but none of my theory books. Meeting Dominique (I can’t stop saying her name — Dominique, Dominique) got me so excited to work on Kreutzer I ran right home last night to practice. Then I got so caught up in the first movement that I went to bed too late. Again. And I must have slept through my alarm, because suddenly it was 9:15 and I was late and running out of the apartment without any of my books. Shit. Carter reads my mind and pushes his theory textbook onto my desk, making a huge deal of pointing with his pencil to where we are on the page. He even circles the phrase we’re looking at, like I’m some kind of moron who can’t figure it out.
“Thanks,” I mutter.
“Anytime,” he says.
Like I owe him something now. Like I’ve sold my soul to this stupid violinist destined for mediocrity.
Wright just keeps playing phrases on the stereo and ignoring the commotion, but I know she’s going to mark me down in the attendance software at the end of class, so all my teachers can see. Three lates count as an absence. Three absences and you fail the course.
Ben Tristan: Late. Doesn’t care. Not a serious student. Definitely not as serious as Jun-Yi or Claire. Or Carter.
* *
At the first break I run out to the fountain to check my phone. I don’t know why I check it there — maybe so I don’t have to have another “we’re oh so concerned and worried about you” conversation with Claire. I slept in. So what? Nobody died. The earth will continue to spin on its axis.
I press my shoulder blades into the cold stone of the fountain, trying to absorb A Train’s — Dominique’s — essence, which I know is still trapped inside. I take my phone off airplane mode. Just a text from Mom, wondering if I remembered to bring the lunch she packed me. I type back, It’s great, thank you. Probably an avocado-and-tempeh sandwich with local greens on sprouted twelve-grain bread, still sitting in a brown paper bag on the top shelf of our fridge. I’ll have to find a way to get rid of it when I go home.
Nothing from Dominique. I check my e-mails, too, just in case. There are two new books Amazon thinks I might like: Principles of Violin Playing and Advanced Scale Exercises. But nothing from her. Maybe she’s waiting for me to text. I should text her now. Or would that seem too desperate? I’m the one who asked her out, so shouldn’t she make the next move? I put my phone back in my pocket and try not to think about it. She’s going to the Vanguard. She said she would go. She doesn’t need to text every second to prove that this is real.
* *
After class Claire is waiting for me by the door. Shit.
“Everything okay?” she asks in this cutesy voice. Like I’m a first grader she needs to keep tabs on.
“Just slept through my alarm, no big deal.” God, why did I have to be late? My life has become a school-wide preoccupation. She’s found a hairline fracture and she’s doing everything she can to pry it open, to see if I’ll crack and fall apart. People love to see someone more talented than they are fail. That’s all she’s doing. It’s not personal. It’s just the game.
The funny thing is, I don’t blame her for a second. I’d probably do it, too, if I had the chance.
“When do you want to run the second movement?” she asks. “I can reserve some space if you’re around on Monday.”
“Can’t Monday,” I say. “Have kind of, well … it’s this girl I’m going out with.”
“Oh, really? I didn’t know you had a girlfriend.”
“She’s not. I mean, not yet.”
“Who is she?”
“Just a girl. She goes to NYU. It’s not important, okay?”
“Where’d you even meet her? You never do anything but eat, sleep and practice.”
“I do other things. I have a whole life you don’t know about.”
She laughs, and I can tell she doesn’t believe me.
I change the subject. I tell her I can fit in an hour to practice first thing tomorrow morning, before my ear-training class, if she feels like getting up that early.
“Don’t sleep in again,” she says, patting me on the shoulder.
This is the first time I’ve ever slept in, even once, and now she says it like it’s my freaking thing.
She seems jealous. I didn’t realize Dominique would affect her this much. Not like I want to date Claire or anything. I guess I’ve just gotten used to her having a crush on me. It’s part of the reason I think we’re such good duet partners — the tension. It hasn’t helped much recently. It’s just … I don’t know. It’s like the story of Claire and me is waiting, unresolved, like a mosquito bite waiting to be scratched.
{13}
Dominique
You can’t wear an old T-shirt on a date to a jazz club with a Brighton violinist. You just can’t.
So I have to up my game and get really creative if I’m going to make his eyes bug out of his head tonight. Usually I’d just throw on my cleanest pair of jeans and call it a day. But that’s never going to work on a date with Ben.
So I call in reinforcements. Cass comes over before school to help me piece together some semblance of an outfit, but I can tell he doesn’t think any of the stuff I own is even remotely right.
“What about the purple shirt with the black leggings?” Cass asks me.
“I was wearing that the first time I met him.”
“He’s a guy — he probably won’t remember.”
“There has to be something else. What about this black shirt?”
“There’s a bleach stain under the boob.”
“Damn.”
Cass rummages around in my bottom drawer, where I keep all my reject clothes — the stuff I’ve grown out of, or the stuff that has a hole in the crotch, or the stuff that Mom has tried to patch up a few too many times.
“What about this?”
He holds up a black silk camisole with a plunging neckline, adorned with lace. It’s so wrinkled it’s hard to tell it’s even a shirt, but I know what it is immediately. I got it at Forever 21. For Anton. He was always asking me to dress sexier. To wear more black. To be like the girls he saw on TV. On my birthday he drove me to Quaker Bridge Mall and he told me we were going to pick out my present. I remember being so excited it might be a ring or a necklace, or even just a nice picture frame for my room. Something I could show everyone and say my boyfriend got for me. But instead he convinced me to get the camisole. Something only he could see. I haven’t worn it since.
“I didn’t even realize I still had that,” I say.
“It’s gorgeous! I don’t think I’ve ever seen you wear anything low cut before in your life. Have you ever even worn this?”
“It was a dumb impulse buy. Never had the guts to wear it.”
Cass holds it in front of me and gasps. “Dom. This would look astoundingly gorgeous on you. Come on, just try it on.”
“That’s okay.”
“Why did you even invite me over if you’re not going to let me help you? Trust me. You’d look incredible in this. Won’t you at least try it on?”
“No.”
“Please, please, please, just try it on, just see —”
“I said no, Cass!”
I never yell at Cass. In fact, I don’t think we’ve ever gotten into a real fight. Unless you count that time my mom gave him the red ice pop I’d specifically been saving in the freezer when we were ten.
He carefully puts the shirt back in my drawer. “Wow,” he says. “Okay, forget it.”
“Sorry. It’s just not something I’d feel comfortable in, that’s all.”
“Well, tonight is about breaking out of your comfort zone. It’s about smashing it on the ground into a billion little pieces and never looking back.”
“Okay,” I say. “You win. Whatever.”
“So you’re going to wear that hot lacy thing?”
“No. I have a better idea.”
* *
Mom’s still asleep, so we have to tiptoe past the bedroom, avoid the creaky floorboard by the coffee table and open the front door in slow motion to keep it from squeaking. Outside, the sun is just starting to peek over the roof of the brick apartment building across the street. It casts a dreamy glow on the cracked blacktop as we walk. In the morning Trenton actually feels peaceful.
“Are we doing what I think we’re doing?” Cass asks as we turn the corner.
“Probably.”
“You know I’m sneaky, but even I have my limits, Dom. Are you sure you want to do this? If your mom finds out, won’t she be pissed?”
“She’s never caught me before.”
He jabs me in the arm with his elbow. “You’ve done it before?”
“Only once, before my first date with Anton.”
“And we all remember how well that turned out.”
“It’ll be fine. We’ll borrow something from one of the loads that won’t be picked up until Friday, so I’ll have plenty of time to return it.”
“We?”
“Me. This is my decision.”
“It’s up to you. I thought you would’ve looked freaking incredible in the camisole, but what the hell do I know? I’m only your best friend and fashion consultant.”
I jiggle the key in the lock of the laundromat and pry the door open. I turn the lights on and head to the back room. The bundles of dirty clothes are on a shelf on the left, and the bags of clean items are on the right. I look at the tags on the clean bags until I see the bright orange one I’m looking for.
Cass stands in the doorway, shaking his head. Maybe I shouldn’t have told him, but it didn’t seem like that big of a deal at the time. I’ll wash it afterward. It’s not like I’m going to wear it, get it all sweaty and then just put it back in with the clean stuff. Besides, it’s not like it belongs to a total stranger or something.
I pull a silky floral shirt out of the bag and Cass gasps.
“Wait, is that … It’s not!”
“Yep. Her mom brought in their laundry yesterday.”
“Her” is Monica Bryan, a senior at Trenton that Cass and I are completely in awe of. She has this bouncy, shiny black hair that looks like spun silk, and when she passes you in the hallway, she smells faintly of strawberries. In fact, the entire damn hallway smells like strawberries for five minutes after she leaves, like the air is still longing for her.
She doesn’t walk — she floats. Her laugh is like golden wind chimes. She looks like she could be at least in college, but not, like, old or anything. Her skin is smooth and beautiful, like it’s permanently frozen in that sweet spot between breakouts and wrinkles. When Cass and I spot her in the hall, we follow her to her next class, at least ten paces behind, so we can observe her, like a rare bird in the wild.
Naturally, she has no idea we exist. We’ve never had the guts to introduce ourselves, and even though she seems nice enough, Cass and I are both sure she’d never want to be friends with us.
So when I came in yesterday and saw that Mary Bryan, Monica’s mom, had dropped off a bag of laundry, I immediately dug through it to check out the tags. Turns out Monica’s stuff mostly has no tags, or old, weird ones from places like Strawbridge & Clothier, so I can only assume she gets her clothes from thrift stores. Maybe even vintage places in New York or Princeton.
She’s the same size as me. Of course I could never wear any of her clothes to school. That would be stupid. But she’d never know if I wore just one of her shirts to the Village Vanguard for a few hours, just this once. And for some reason, even though I don’t know her, I feel like she wouldn’t mind.
Cass raises his right hand, like he’s being sworn in: “I, Cass, hereby approve of this terrible decision.”
{14}
Ben
I tear through my closet. The Brandenburg Concertos tie, navy with stripes, and the button-down with the pattern like gray graph paper? The black silk Jupiter Symphony bow tie? The itchy wool tie Mom got me when I played Vivaldi’s The Four Seasons — at the Four Seasons Hotel — for some stuffy donors’ brunch the youth orchestra was hired to play on Christmas three years ago? Wrong, wrong, wrong.
I have the perfect thing to wear to a million concerts, but nothing to wear on an actual date.
Mom’s been organizing every item of our clothing according to some book she read, which involves being a total freak about having everything in the closet arranged by color and length. There’s supposed to be a finger-width of space between every shirt and sweater. And when you get rid of something, you’re supposed to take the pair of old tuxedo pants or whatever in your arms and hug it, and thank it for serving you well all these years. Sometimes I wonder if my mom has too much time on her hands.
My entire life I’ve never had a say in how my room looks. Mom wanted our apartment to look like an actual suburban house, so she had plush, cream wall-to-wall carpeting installed in our bedrooms. On the wall opposite my bed there are framed posters from every major concert I’ve performed in since I was eight: Stravinsky, Strauss, Mahler, Tchaikovsky and Mozart judge every move I make. I wonder what they’d wear on a date.
What if she’s wearing jeans and a T-shirt and I’m wearing a wool bow tie?
I settle on a plain, gray-and-white striped button-down and a blue tie. I comb back my sticking-up black hair so it’s neat and glossy and slick, then change my mind and mess it up again. She’s not neat. She laughs in the face of neat. She’s probably going to wear a giant purple T-shirt to the show, and I’m going to embarrass her, all slicked and polished like some mannequin in the window at Barneys. I hate my clothes. I hate that I have to dress up all the time. I don’t even know if I own any T-shirts that weren’t from some stupid orchestra camp.
“Whoa, it’s actually open,” I hear Milo say from the hallway. He peeks his head through the door crack.
“What do you think of this?” I ask him. “Honestly.”
“Looks a little casual for a concert.”
“Not for a concert. For, uh …”
“For a date? You?”
“Shut up. She goes to NYU. What do you think?”
“Where are you guys going?”
“The Vanguard.”
Milo leads me to the mirror, takes off my tie and instructs me to unbutton the top two buttons of my shirt. I button one back up again. He unbuttons my cuffs and rolls up the sleeves so most of my forearms, and the gold watch my dad gave me after my concert in Vienna, are expos
ed. He runs into his room to get this weird pomade he bought at Bumble and Bumble and rumples my hair with it.
“Much better,” Milo says. “You look more like a regular guy now. Wouldn’t want her to get to know the real you until at least the fourth date.”
“Shut up.”
“Who is she?”
“Just some girl.”
“The girl from the flyer?”
“How do you know about that?”
“Saw one in your recycling bin. And then four of them on my walk to school. And five on the way back. Couldn’t you have just asked for her number, like a normal person?”
“Shut up.”
Milo sits cross-legged on my bed. He’s not wearing shoes or anything, but I still hate him doing that, messing up the comforter and getting his feet all over the place. I’m mortified that Milo has had more dating experience than I have. He’s never had a problem finding girls to go out with him. Aside from Juliette, the clarinet player from youth orchestra who barely said five words to me the entire five months we dated, I’ve never actually had a girlfriend. I mean, I’ve held hands and made out with girls from camp and whatever, but that doesn’t really count. I don’t like thinking about it, because Milo’s my younger brother and everything, but I bet he’s already beat me in the sex department, too. He probably did it with his first girlfriend, Maddie, from tennis camp, and with Jennifer, who he only started dating this summer.
“Just be careful, okay?” he says.
“You sound like Mom.”
“They’re worried again. You’d built up their trust, and now, I don’t know. There’s this weird energy in the apartment. I just don’t want you to get in over your head.”
He’s wrong. I’m fine now. I just didn’t understand the balance last year. Being at a new school, I wasn’t used to the routine and I went a little overboard with practicing. But I’m fine now. I’m happy. Everything’s going right.
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