But then I open my mouth to tell that to Milo and the words pour out and I can’t stop.
“You know what? Sometimes I feel like you guys are setting me up to fail. I’m fine. I’m eating, and I’m sleeping — probably not as much as Mom would want, but I am — and I’m doing well at school again. Like, really well. Everyone likes me. I have friends. I’m practically famous at school from the incredible concert at Carnegie Hall last week that none of you went to. A girl actually likes me — and she’s amazing. I’m doing better than I’ve ever done in my entire life. I have more energy, more power, more passion, more everything. Sometimes I look out the window and it’s like I can see each individual star aligning itself right over my head, like everything has a purpose and a plan, and there’s nowhere else I should be at this exact moment in time but right here, right now, becoming the best fucking violinist Brighton has ever seen.”
Milo puts his hand on my arm. He never does that. He never touches me. It stings, and I try to shake him off, but he holds tight.
“That’s exactly why they’re worried,” he says.
* *
I walk from Ninety-Sixth and Lex to the Vanguard because my hands are moving too fast and I know I’d just distract everyone if I took the subway. Not like other people on the train aren’t distracting — the guys doing backflips are the worst culprits, closely followed by the man who pulls a battery-powered amp around in a baby stroller and sings off-tune renditions of Carmen. Not to be outdone by the lady with the beat-up violin with a No Doubt bumper sticker on the chin rest, who absolutely screeches through “Don’t Speak.” She’s a special kind of hell all her own.
But sometimes when I’m like this, really energized and wanting to work out some violin stuff in my head, it’s distracting for other people. My arms flail, and I hum, and tap my fingers and feet, and I’m sure if you’re trying to get through this week’s copy of New York magazine it’s not exactly easy to be sitting next to me.
So I walk, all 4.7 miles to 178 Seventh Avenue South, through Central Park and past the carousel, and past Carnegie Hall and New York City Center, and right next to the towering stack of neon signs in Times Square where the ball drops on New Year’s, and then past Madison Square Garden — Billy Joel is playing again — and right by my first tutor’s apartment (she had this weird, musty coffee breath that made me nauseous, so my mom pulled me out after a year) and down past the Rubin Museum of Art, where my mom tried to make me take meditation classes last winter on my two-month break from Brighton. They told me I needed to find a healthier way of channeling my stress. I thought I was doing great, sitting on that too-hard cushion in the big, cavernous room and breathing in through my nose and out through my mouth. But then the teacher came over and asked me if everything was okay, and I realized the fingers of my left hand had been playing Stravinsky’s Violin Concerto in D on the floor.
On Third Street I pass this little old movie theater I must have seen a million times but never really noticed before. Today, as the sun is sinking behind the skyline, it’s impossible to miss. It’s all lit up with these big, old round lightbulbs I’m not even sure they make anymore. They’re playing a bunch of independent movies. With Dominique’s favorite, Singin’ in the Rain, on at midnight.
Shoot. Would she rather be going to see that instead of the show at the Vanguard? I thought she’d want to hear some of her favorite songs live, but maybe she just likes those songs when they’re in the movies. No. If we saw the midnight showing, then we’d be getting home at like two in the morning, and my mom would kill me. I’ll have to take her next time. We’ll go see Singin’ in the Rain on a Saturday, when we don’t have to get up in the morning. Maybe by then I’ll work up the courage to hold her hand for a minute. And maybe even kiss her.
My mind floods with warmth and electricity and … happiness. And before I can realize what I’m doing, I’m speed-playing the entirety of Kreutzer in my mind. I’m whipping through the toughest passages and using my heart to show me the way. This is it. This is the way I need to play it. I need to let the love shine through. When Claire and I practice tomorrow, she’s going to be shocked. I’ll sound exactly like the Isaac Nadelstein recording. If she shuts her eyes, she won’t even be able to tell the difference.
And then there’s A Train, the glittering light, right in front of me. Dominique. Walking down the street like no one has ever walked down Seventh Avenue in the history of New York City.
{15}
Dominique
He’s there.
The real, actual Ben is waiting for me under the little red awning, and my stomach lurches a mile in the opposite direction and I don’t even know how I’ll be able to say a word to this guy, let alone spend an entire night with him. I look down and do a quick outfit check. My sneakers are still tied, and there’s only one hole in my jeans — at the knee. I tug Monica Bryan’s floral shirt down over my jeans (but not so far down that my boobs pop out). I’m wearing the fake leather jacket that my mom and I share. It’s too tight when I button it but fits well enough if I leave it open. I resist the urge to cross my arms as I walk toward him — perfect, effortless, incredible him.
“A Train,” he says in the softest, gentlest voice, and nothing else.
“Hey,” I say, surprised at my own nonchalance. I sound calm and confident, like the girl I’ve always wanted to be.
“Ready to have your mind blown?”
“Let’s do this.”
At that moment I realize I have absolutely no idea what I’m getting into. I see a handwritten sign in a little glass frame next to the door, with the music lineup for the week. Tonight it’s the Vanguard Jazz Orchestra, written in block letters and shaded in with red colored pencil.
MONDAY
VANGUARD JAZZ ORCHESTRA 8:30 p.m.
TUESDAY
JOSH ROBIN 8:30 p.m., 10:30 p.m.
WEDNESDAY
THE ODALISQUE QUARTET 7:00 p.m., 9:00 p.m.
THURSDAY
ERIKA FRANKEL 8:30 p.m.
FRIDAY
JAMIE MCDONALD TRIO 8:30 p.m.
SATURDAY
LE CHAT NOIR 8:30 p.m., 10:30 p.m.
SUNDAY
HERBIE COSTELLO 7:00 p.m.
I take a deep breath and smile. We go in.
Ben gives his name to a man at the door, who stamps our hands “under 21” and leads us downstairs, to a little table near the front. The show is already in progress — I count sixteen guys crammed onto the tiny stage, all wearing suit jackets and ties. Trumpets squeal and saxophones honk and it’s all a little too loud to talk over. It doesn’t sound anything like the music Ben and his classmates played at Carnegie Hall — in fact, I’m kind of shocked he even likes this stuff. But something about how loud and frantic it is reminds me of the subway. Like how all those people are crammed in next to one another, hundreds of bodies pushing their way out, then hundreds more pushing their way in again. Then the ding of the doors and the trains screech away, over and over on a loop. Ben is tapping his fingers on the table and shaking his leg to the beat.
Ben says something, but it comes out muffled.
“What?” I ask.
“These guys have been playing here every Monday for the last fifty years,” he repeats, louder. “I used to come here a lot with my grandpa. He died a few years ago, but this place was always his favorite. I try to come every few months and request songs for him. He loved ‘Willow Tree’ by Fats Waller, so I request that a lot.”
“I’m sorry about your grandpa.”
“Thanks. I miss him, but he was old and he had an amazing life. I played ‘Willow Tree’ at his funeral, on the violin, and that was really the best gift I could have given him.”
“Is that something you have to do a lot?”
“What do you mean?”
“Play at funerals?”
“Oh, yeah, I do all the big life events. Holi
days, weddings, bar mitzvahs, the whole thing. You name it — I’ve played it. Want me to play your mom’s birthday party?”
“Yeah, do you know any Barry Manilow? She’s obsessed.”
“Really? No, she’s not. You can’t be serious.” He puts his head in his hands and cracks up.
“She loves him. She plays him constantly at —” I almost say Spin Cycle. “At home.”
“For your mom, anything. I’ll play ‘Mandy’ on repeat for three days.”
We’re still laughing when a waiter comes over and asks us if we want anything to drink. Ben doesn’t ask me what I’d like, just says, “Two Cokes, please,” and I’m secretly relieved he ordered for me, so I don’t have to worry about saying, “No, thanks,” and explaining that I can’t afford to pay for anything. But wait. Maybe he does expect me to pay for it. What if he wants us to split it? What if the bill comes and he asks if I have any cash? What if he was expecting me to pay for the drinks because he paid for the tickets?
If Cass were here, he’d laugh, put his hands on my shoulders and tell me to stop being such a spaz. I try to relax — to ooze confidence, like Monica.
Ben’s focus turns back to the stage. He bops his head to the music, hair flying, eyes closed. It reminds me of the moment I first saw him onstage at Carnegie Hall. I try to concentrate on the music, but it’s tough when he’s sitting there right in front of me, so tangible and beautiful.
Everything is exactly as I hoped it would be, right at this exact moment. I try not to breathe — maybe I can preserve it, just like this, forever.
“You know, this isn’t really allowed,” Ben whispers in my ear.
“What do you mean?” I whisper back.
“Classical musicians and jazz musicians aren’t supposed to mix. Technically, I’m not supposed to like this stuff. I keep it a secret from most people. Sure, Stravinsky borrowed from jazz, and I guess you could say Leonard Bernstein was an amalgamation of the two, but most classical musicians believe jazz improvisation totally taints the piece. That jazz musicians are hacks, using the same generic riffs over and over again, like they don’t have the skill or dedication to learn a real piece as it’s written. At least, that’s what my teachers would say. And most of my friends. I can’t really talk about jazz with anyone.”
Cass would be proud of me, because I take a deep breath and decide to say something totally out of my comfort zone: “That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard.”
Ben’s eyes widen and his grin gets huge, flashing eyeteeth, molars, gums, everything. “Why?”
“Because. I mean, I don’t know that much about this — you’re the expert — but isn’t that the cool thing about art? That you’re not supposed to follow the rules? What if someone told, I don’t know, Beethoven, that he couldn’t do anything that hadn’t already been done by Mozart?”
He looks at me with these brilliant bug eyes, like I’ve just invented pizza and offered him a slice.
“Ooh, A Train, you’re such a bad influence,” he says.
“Sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry, I love it. My music theory teacher would hate you.”
I wonder what everyone else in his life would think about me. His mom. The red-haired girl.
And then the lights come up and the set is over, and we’re sipping our Cokes as people order more drinks, go to the bathroom and step outside to smoke. I realize we’re the youngest people in here by at least ten years, and we’re definitely the only ones not drinking scotch or martinis or white wine. Ben excuses himself to the bathroom, then I do (even though it’s only to reapply my lip gloss and give myself a pep talk in the mirror). When I get back, he’s ordered us another round of Cokes.
“Do you drink?” he asks.
“Once in a while. Not really.”
“Do you smoke?”
“No. Why, do you?”
“If I wanted to kill myself, I’d find a more interesting way.”
“Tie yourself to the subway tracks with violin strings?”
“Couldn’t tie myself down alone. I’d need an accomplice.”
“Don’t look at me.”
“It’s hard to look anywhere else.”
If Anton had said those exact words to me, they would have sounded like a line. Leering and invasive and cheap, like a catcall instead of a compliment. But Ben’s eyes are soft and kind and his voice is wavering, and I realize he isn’t the pickup-line type. I look down at his hands and they’re shaking, just like mine.
I open my mouth to respond. The music begins again in a cacophonous blast, totally dissolving any awkwardness.
His eyes linger on mine for another second, then he grins and turns back to the stage. “This is it,” he says.
“What is?”
“It’s your song, A Train.”
{16}
Ben
Her wavy hair spills out over her shoulders and onto this silky blouse that I could keep looking at forever, but it’s rude to stare at girls like that and it’s probably creepy, and I don’t want to be that weird guy who gets caught staring. But she has seriously incredible boobs and I’m not sure what else to do. I look at the stage. Just keep looking at the stage.
Everyone’s always criticizing me for talking too much, but the way Dominique looks at me, it’s like I could keep talking forever and she’d just keep listening. And she really hears me. Like I’m enough, right here, exactly as I am. And she doesn’t want anything back. She’s not trying to get a solo, like Claire; or constantly worrying, like my mom; or trying to convince me to be normal, like Milo. I wonder if she even cares about the violin stuff at all. Maybe she’d still want to go out with me even if I was just a regular college kid. At first I’m nervous, but about halfway through the second set I take a deep breath and relax.
{17}
Dominique
He buys the drinks. After all that worrying, it isn’t awkward at all. He just sticks a $20 bill on the table and we leave, like it’s nothing. I wonder if he has a job besides going to school. I wonder if he’s putting himself through college, or if his parents are paying — and if they are paying, are they also covering his room and board. I wonder if he lives in dorms, or if he has his own apartment. I guess I wonder a lot of things.
“Can I walk you back to your place?” he says when we’re back outside, under the red awning.
“No,” I say quickly, abruptly, way too suspiciously. “I’m taking the train.”
“But aren’t you just over by Washington Square? It’s five blocks from here, just down Waverly.”
“Um, I’m actually going to my parents’ house tonight, in Princeton. Taking the train from Penn Station. My mom needs some help at her store — she runs an antique shop. Did I mention that before?”
He takes a step backward, and a muscly guy walking down the sidewalk with a big gym bag almost runs into him. “Sorry, man, sorry,” Ben says. Then to me, “Oh, I didn’t mean to keep you out so late. Are you sure you’re okay taking the train all the way to Jersey so late?”
“Oh, yeah, I do it all the time,” I say, flipping my hair in a way that seems totally natural in my mind but might look totally ridiculous.
“And where’s all your stuff? Don’t you need a bag or something if you’re spending the night?”
“Nope, I still have a bunch of clothes at my parents’ house. There’s a ton of space there, so …”
Ben looks at me funny, and for a second I think it’s all over. He knows. He knows I’m making this whole thing up.
Then he just says, “Huh. Okay. Well, great. I get to spend a few more minutes with you. I’m up on the East Side, on Ninety-Sixth, so we can take the train a few stops together. Ready to go?”
I mentally run over all the new lies I’ve told. Princeton. House. Parents. Antique store. I hope I can keep everything straight.
We start to walk, and every sw
eat gland on my body feels like it’s shooting out like a fire hose. I wonder if I should take my jacket off, then decide against it. What if I have sweat marks? What if I’m getting horrible pit stains on Monica Bryan’s shirt? And worse, what if Ben notices? I keep it on.
Ben talks too much. Like, I think he says fifty words to every one of mine. Meanwhile I’m thinking a billion words a second, but none of them are coming out of my mouth. I’m not sure if he’s nervous or just talkative or what, but it makes me feel more at ease. Maybe he just loved the jazz show, or he really likes hanging out with me — I’m not sure. Maybe he’s always like this — effervescent and exciting.
We walk down the subway steps and he swipes me through the turnstile on his MetroCard. There’s something so nice about getting on a train without thinking about what it’s going to cost me.
He’s still talking about music, lips moving so fast they’re a blur. ‘The best thing about jazz is that there’s no right and wrong,” he tells me. “The skeleton is there — whatever standard. ‘My Favorite Things,’ let’s say. Coltrane.”
“Yeah.”
“So when you’re playing jazz, you have what’s on the page — a tune and some chord progressions — and maybe you glance at the page, but you just … go. And that’s the music. The music isn’t trapped on some page. It’s in the air. It only happens that one time, right in this moment, and then it’s over, and you can never have it back again. Like a beautiful mistake. Kind of like dance, actually. What’s your favorite song to dance to?”
“I used to watch the song ‘America’ from West Side Story like, every day after school for years. Cass and I used to do the dance routines in my living room. There are so many to choose from, but I’d say hands down, it’s that.”
“Wait, I thought he was your friend from college. You guys knew each other before?”
“Oh, yeah, we’ve known each other since we were kids. We grew up together. In Princeton.”
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