“Wow, what a crazy coincidence you both ended up at NYU.”
Shit, he’s getting suspicious again. “Oh, we planned it,” I say as casually as I can. “We had a pact — either we both got in or nothing.”
Ben looks sad for a second. I love how everything he’s feeling is visible in his eyes, like two dark crystal balls.
“You guys seem really close. I wish I had someone like that.”
We head for the train platform.
“What do you mean?” I ask. “You have friends at Brighton.” You have girls with perfect hair who hold your hand in Central Park.
“I do. They’re just … every friend I’ve ever had is a music friend. So they’re also my competition, you know? Friends with motives.”
“Yeah,” I say, even though I don’t really.
“And they’re all so stiff and rigid and uptight about everything. They’re nice, but sometimes I wish they wouldn’t be so afraid to be different. Like you are. You’re just so … effortlessly amazing.”
I look down at the big yellow line on the edge of the platform, overwhelmed by the compliment. A train whooshes in on the other side and the doors open.
Ben grabs my arm.
“Whoa, what —”
“Sh, one sec,” he says.
He points his finger at the train. The doors close, and as the train pulls away from the platform, it makes a high-pitched humming sound.
“Do you hear that?” he asks.
“Hear what?”
“That interval. It’s a minor seventh. Most of the trains in New York made after 2005 play a minor seventh as they pull away.”
“What’s a minor seventh?”
“Well, in West Side Story. You know the song ‘Somewhere’? The one Maria sings to Tony after —”
“Totally, of course.”
“Those first two notes of the song. That’s called a minor seventh.” Then he sings, in this amazing gravelly, folky voice. “‘There’s a place for us …’”
“Shoot, I didn’t hear it! Wait, I want another one to come by. When’s the next train coming?”
“It only happens when they pull out of the station. And you have to listen really carefully, before they zoom away.”
We wait six whole minutes for another train to arrive, and when one does, I shut my eyes and listen as closely as I can.
First, there’s the recorded announcement: Stand clear of the closing doors, please.
Then I hear the notes: There’s a …
“Oh, my God! There it is! That was it!”
“Now it’ll haunt you. You’ll never be able to ride the subway the same way again.”
He grins and grabs my hand. Instead of the red-haired girl, it’s me. His skin is smooth and cool, with short nails that trace the tops of my knuckles.
This is my place. Twenty feet underground, on a subway platform in Manhattan, people rushing all around us while we stand perfectly still. I’ve been searching my whole life, and I’ve finally found it.
Me and him.
Him and me.
Us.
Here.
We get on the next train headed uptown. I hold on to the cold metal pole by the door and he puts his hand on top of mine.
“Check your e-mail when you get to Penn Station,” he says. “I made you a playlist, and I thought maybe when you got home you could make me one, too. There’s no classical on it. Jazz and some Broadway standards, but also some other stuff I think you’d really like.”
“Thanks,” I say, hoping you don’t have to have a subscription or something to play it. I try to act cool, but I’m so dizzy I don’t even know how I’m even still standing.
I catch a glimpse of my reflection in the dark window. I’m beaming. Totally grinning my face off. But no matter how happy I look on the outside, it could never match the surge of happiness in my heart.
I’m not watching a movie. The charming, lovely, magnetic star is me.
{18}
Ben & Dominique
It happens as the 1 train pulls in.
Just as the doors open.
To anyone else, it would look like nothing.
We quickly brush lips, then move apart.
But to us, it’s the one thing in the world that’s ever really mattered.
The next morning, we’ll open our eyes and think of it.
And the next. And the next.
It’s what we’ll always compare every other beautiful thing to.
Because this is the moment we finally understand.
We’re limitless.
And life doesn’t need to be lonely.
It can be kind.
It can be a sweet, sparkling kiss, like a sip of cream soda.
{19}
Dominique
Before I can even register what’s happening, I’m at Penn Station, standing outside the train, and the train is pulling away and Ben is still inside it, waving. I hear the first two notes of “Somewhere” and know he’s hearing them, too.
The first thing I do when I get home is download the playlist, put my headphones into our old laptop and listen. It’s like having a direct line from Ben to my ears, and I never want it to stop playing. Mom’s in the bedroom, so I download it onto my phone and listen from the couch in the living room. I wrap myself up with blankets and put it on Repeat. I fall asleep to the glow of the songs on the screen.
For Dominique
“Willow Tree” by Fats Waller
“You’ll Never Walk Alone” by Louis Armstrong
“My Favorite Things” by John Coltrane
“Manhattan” by Dinah Washington
“Harlem Nocturne” by Sam Taylor
“Handful of Keys” by Fats Waller
“Autumn in New York” by Billie Holiday
“On Broadway” by George Benson
“My Funny Valentine” by Chet Baker
“Lullaby of Broadway” by Ella Fitzgerald
“Take the ‘A’ Train” by Duke Ellington
{20}
Ben
I don’t know if you’d call what I did last night “sleep.” It was more like a series of fever dreams followed by a frantic 3:50 a.m. run-through of the third variation, followed by four more replays of the Isaac Nadelstein recording and a few minutes of “Take the ‘A’ Train” because, well, I can’t stop thinking about her.
Now it’s 6:30 and I can hear Mom in the kitchen, opening cupboard drawers and making coffee, and I know everyone will expect me at breakfast soon, but I don’t want to go. I need to buy tickets to La Bohème. I’ve seen it with my parents and Milo a few times, and it’s one of my favorite things ever. But it’ll be so much better with her. It’s been playing in rep with La Traviata, and I know Dom will love it. There isn’t any dancing, but that first day when she was asking for directions, she said she’d always wanted to go to a show at Lincoln Center. And I want to be the one sitting there, holding her hand, when she does.
I go to the Metropolitan Opera website and type in my credit card number. Well, I guess it’s technically my dad’s, since he’s the one who pays for it, but it’s under my name. He says it’s important to build up credit when you’re young, so when I graduate and I’m auditioning for symphonies, I can buy a ticket to Vienna or China on short notice, or throw down a first month–last month deposit on an apartment. Having my act together is so important — they don’t pass out concert violinist jobs to just anyone. You have to be perfect. Educated, mature, confident, well-read, well-traveled, well-spoken, everything.
I get two eighth-row tickets to the matinee of La Bohème on October 13, this Saturday, which I’m not sure Dom can even go to, but I hope I can convince her.
And then, right when I’m about to send her a text to ask, I get an e-mail from her:
To: [email protected]
&nbs
p; From: [email protected]
Subject: Good mornin’
October 9, 6:28 a.m.
For Ben
“Good Mornin’” from Singin’ in the Rain
“America” from West Side Story
“The Red Blues” from Silk Stockings
“Big Spender” from Sweet Charity
“Cabaret” from Cabaret
“Dancing in the Dark” from The Band Wagon
“Hot Honey Rag” from Chicago
“Diamonds Are a Girl’s Best Friend” from Gentlemen Prefer Blondes
“Anything Goes” from Anything Goes
“I Got Rhythm” from An American in Paris
At first I think it’s just a playlist, like I sent her, but then I realize the song titles all link to videos. I watch the first one — it’s from Singin’ in the Rain, which I realize I probably should have watched by this point but haven’t. There are two guys and a woman tap-dancing all over the place — up a flight of stairs and on top of tables and over a couch. I never realized this before, but tap dancers are basically playing miniature drums with their feet — and they’re doing it on top of all the regular dancing and singing. I wonder if Dominique can dance like that. I wonder if she’ll ever dance for me.
Mom calls me into the kitchen for oatmeal, and I eat a few bites before going back to my room and playing “Good Mornin’” two more times. Then I feel so inspired I have to try the third variation of Kreutzer again. I play it three more times before I have to leave for school. My fingers are flying. Every phrase is more beautifully painful than the last. Robertson has no idea what he’s talking about.
{21}
Dominique
After school Cass and I stop by Lombardo’s Pizza. I want to catch him up on everything that happened last night without anyone hearing us. So we’re splitting an order of garlic knots and a cherry Coke, and just as I’m about to show him the playlist, my phone buzzes on the table.
“It’s your boyfriend,” Cass says. “Open it, open it.”
I check the text.
“He bought me tickets to something called ‘La Bo-heeme’ this weekend. At the Met?”
Cass stands up and pounds his palm on the plastic table.
“It’s pronounced ‘Boh-em.’ It’s an opera! It’s the one the musical Rent was based on.”
“I’ve never seen an opera before.”
“Me, either.”
“What’s it like?”
“Well, in Moonstruck — did you ever see the movie Moonstruck?”
“I don’t remember.”
“Okay, so in Moonstruck the guy from National Treasure is obsessed with opera, and it’s, like, his favorite thing in the world, so he takes Cher to see an opera at the Met, and it’s La Bohème, but, like, there’s this thing where he doesn’t have a hand, and there’s all this drama, and —”
“Wait, what? Back up a sec.”
“Dom, focus.”
A woman in a floral housedress comes up to our table. “¿Me daría una servilleta?”
“No hablo español,” I say apologetically.
The woman looks surprised, just like everyone always does when I say I can’t speak Spanish. I look like the freaking cover model for Spanish Speakers of Trenton magazine. But I took French in school and my mom has no time or interest in teaching me about my Ecuadorian side. She’s not on speaking terms with my dad, and it’s not like he’s exactly banging down our door to teach me about South American history. Sometimes I wonder what it would be like to go to Ecuador and meet my dad’s relatives. But then I remember I’d have no way of getting in touch with any of them, anyway, and the thought passes.
“A nap-kin,” the woman says, over-pronouncing every syllable like I’m the world’s biggest idiot. “Do you have a nap-kin?”
“Oh! No, sorry,” I say. My face gets hot. I need to learn Spanish.
The woman moves on to the next table. Cass is tearing at his paper plate, looking at the floor. I can tell something’s wrong.
“What’s up?” I ask.
He sighs. “So, Moonstruck. There’s this guy, right? And —”
“What’s wrong, Cass?”
“Nothing. I’m happy for you.”
I try to grab his hand, but he waves me away. He shakes his head, and I realize his eyes are getting wet.
“What is it?” I ask, suddenly afraid. “Please tell me.”
“It’s just … This is all the stuff we’ve always dreamed of. It’s actually happening for you. You’re getting to go to the city and see operas and get dressed up and eat in nice restaurants and do everything we’ve always wanted to do, and I’m so, so thrilled for you. I just thought we’d be doing it together. It’s only been a week, and everything’s totally changed. You have a boyfriend and this whole new universe, and here I am, waiting for my life to start. I’ve never even kissed anyone, Dom — did you know that?”
I didn’t know that.
“I don’t know if I’ve ever even met someone I want to kiss. How the hell am I supposed to know who I like in this stupid town? I can’t even wear that Humphrey Bogart trench coat we spent years searching for — how the hell am I going to get the courage to be myself here?”
Damn. It’s the first time he’s ever admitted this to me. I’ve always figured he was gay and he’d tell me when he was ready. But it never occurred to me that he might not even really know — because he’s never felt safe enough to figure it out. Since fourth grade, Cass has saved me. He’s protected me. He’s given me hope. Now he’s the one who needs me. More than I even realized. And I have no idea what to do.
“Don’t worry,” I tell him. “The best part is you have tons of time to figure it out. As soon as we make it to New York — both of us — you can kiss whoever you want, I promise.”
“I just miss you, that’s all.”
I run over to his side of the table, scoot into the booth and give him the biggest hug I’ve ever given anyone in my life. We sit there together for a minute, arms around each other, watching the old Italian men in the corner who are engrossed in the soccer game on TV. The lady in the housedress plops down at a booth in the corner. The counter guy slides a new pizza into the oven. Cass takes a bite of one of my garlic knots and then I offer him a sip of soda.
“Okay,” Cass says, putting on a big smile. “Let’s figure out a plan for this weekend. For your Met moment.”
I had no idea Cass felt so trapped here. Even more stuck than me. But then he’s helping me figure out outfits and the moment passes, and the topic feels too sensitive to bring up all over again. So I just play along, pretending everything’s okay, and after a few minutes everything really feels like it is okay, and I’m so grateful I can’t breathe. Because I can’t lose my best friend. He’s so much more important than any of this.
But I can’t let him hold me back, either.
{22}
Ben
Yaz, my private teacher, has one of those cavernous, dusty Upper West Side apartments with built-in bookshelves all the way up to the ceiling, and I’m not sure they ever get cleaned. I always sneeze about fifty times when I’m in there. It’s more like a used bookstore than an apartment. I wonder if he’s read all the books. I wonder if he’s even read a third of them. Sometimes I think I should take one after every lesson, just slip it into my messenger bag, and see if he ever notices. After a year, fifty-two books would be gone. After two years, 104. Would he actually miss The Rest Is Noise or Revolution in the Head or Evening in the Palace of Reason?
Going to Yaz’s has been exactly the same since I was eight years old. The doorman opens the front door for me, and he tips his flat doorman hat and asks me if I’ve performed in any concerts recently. I usually say no, just so I can get upstairs, but sometimes when I’m in the mood to talk, I’ll tell him about my trip to Austria or my solo in the annual youth
orchestra concert. I know he’s humoring me, because he always says, “Great, man, great. I’ve got to see you play one of these days,” but he never does. Sometimes I wonder if I should just drop off some tickets, but it might be embarrassing if he was only trying to be nice this whole time. He probably doesn’t care about classical music at all.
Then I take the elevator up to the seventh floor, open the unlocked door to Yaz’s apartment and sit in the living room until he’s ready. He’s usually in his study, practicing his own stuff. He only has a handful of other students. Yaz doesn’t tolerate violinists who aren’t serious. But ever since eight-year-old me sat down and started sawing away at “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star” (which Mozart arranged, by the way), he knew I wasn’t going to let him down.
And I never have.
I sit in the living room, practicing the fingering to the third variation without making a sound.
Yaz calls me to the study, and I sit at my usual spot on the stool next to the piano.
“Ben, how has your week been?” he asks.
He’s wearing an argyle sweater and brown corduroys, and his curly gray hair is all over the place. I bet he doesn’t even own a comb. He just wakes up and lets it do whatever it wants, like the weather. How’s Yaz’s hair today? Springy, with 40 percent humidity and a 25 percent chance of frizz.
“Everything’s amazing, great,” I say. “I’m flying. I’m at the third variation, and I’m at the point where I’m just sailing through it. It actually feels easy. I feel like technically I’m the best I’ve ever been. I can say with complete confidence I’m practicing as much as humanly possible. I’m —”
“Okay, let’s put your money where your mouth is.”
He tells me that a lot. I think it’s probably because it’s nicer than telling me to shut up.
I play the pain of Robertson’s feedback and the sparks stirring in my stomach from Dom and my confusion about Claire and my frustration with my mom and Milo’s weird judgy-ness, and I take it all and funnel it right through my fingers and into the air. It bounces across the spine of every single one of Yaz’s dusty, old books. I’ve been playing for at least twenty minutes, but it feels like a flash of a few seconds. Then it’s over. I rest my violin on my shoulder and my bow on my lap.
Someday, Somewhere Page 11