“Has Carter played Kreutzer?”
She unzips her bag, opens the binder with her sheet music and puts it carefully on the music stand. “Oh, I don’t think so. We were just looking at some of the passages.”
“Since when do you and Carter hang out?”
“He’s a good player. His tone is a little hit-or-miss, but on a technical level he’s incredible. I don’t understand your problem with him, to be honest.”
I suck air through my teeth, but it ends up coming out like a snort. “You haven’t had to sit next to him while he butchers Mendelssohn.”
“Maybe not everyone takes everything as seriously as you do — did you ever think of that? Maybe he was letting you take the lead because he had more important pieces to work on. Maybe he was prioritizing.”
“Prioritizing something else over a Carnegie Hall performance — that sounds normal.”
“God, why do you twist everything I say into a sarcastic comeback?”
“I just don’t understand why you’re defending him all of a sudden.”
“You don’t give him a chance. You don’t give anyone a chance.”
“I guess not.”
She sets the metronome and we start the piece without saying another word.
{25}
Dominique
I knew this was coming. It couldn’t possibly last forever.
It’s not like Cass has a lot of money. Honestly, I’m not sure where the cash he’s been giving me these last few weeks has been coming from. Every time I’d go see Ben, Cass would slip me a twenty, like it was nothing for him. I know he told me he had some birthday money saved up, but I’m not even sure I believe him anymore. So when he finally tells me he’s broke, a pain shoots through my chest, even though it’s not my money and I don’t deserve it and I was lucky to have him to lend it to me in the first place.
But now I don’t know what to do about Saturday.
I don’t need a lot. The opera ticket is paid for and I told Ben I wouldn’t be able to get there in time to eat lunch first, so I won’t have to worry about paying for that. It’s just the round-trip train ticket and two subway rides. And maybe Ben will even end up paying for one of them.
Just $20. That’s all I need.
I look around the house to see if there’s anything I can sell at the thrift store. Besides a sapphire ring my mom gave me for my fourteenth birthday, I don’t really own anything valuable. No brand-name clothes, no video games, no electronics, no nothing. Unless someone wants to buy Trunkie, the ratty purple elephant with one eye my mom gave me when I was three, I doubt I have anything worth even close to $20.
I walk by the Dollar Plenty after school and consider asking Rico, Mom’s old boss, to let me work a couple of hours this week. But I know he’d tell my mom, and then my mom would ask me what I needed the money for, and I’m a terrible liar.
Even though I’ve gotten better at it recently.
I wish my dad wasn’t such an asshole. He should be paying child support, so at the very least my mom could afford to give me an allowance. Then I wouldn’t have to go begging my friends and trying to sell things in order to take a stupid trip to New York City.
So I’m sitting in the store alone on Friday night while Mom goes home to grab our dinner: rice and beans (again) with canned tomatoes and warmed-up green beans from a frozen bag. When I was little, I used to call this masterpiece “rice and beans and beans and beans,” and right when Mom thought I was done, I’d add one last “and beans,” for good measure.
She’s heating up everything in the microwave, which will take at least five more minutes. Then she’ll do the five-minute walk back to Spin Cycle. So basically, I have ten minutes to decide if I’m going to go through with it or not.
I hate that I’m turning into someone who lies. When I was a kid, I always used to confess to everything, even if it was just using the last Lego when Cass and I were building robots. But as terrible as I feel, I can’t even imagine how much worse I’d be if I stayed here. Should I just fold laundry while Ben goes to La Bohème alone — or worse, with that red-haired girl? Should I tell Mom that instead of helping her I’ve been sneaking off to the city? No. I deserve this. I belong there. I do.
Mom always hides a wad of small bills for the cash register inside a blue zip-up pouch at the bottom of a red laundry bag. It’s hidden under some old T-shirts that we use as dusting rags so it looks like just another bag full of laundry. I dig around until I find the pouch, then unzip it and take out $20. I stuff it in my pocket, then grab the dress from the dry-cleaning rack and put it in my backpack.
Then Mom is back with dinner, and we eat rice and beans and beans and beans in silence.
{26}
Ben
Dominique is always right on time. Not that I’d mind if she was late. It’s just that I can count on her, and I like that. The minute we’re supposed to meet she always appears with her hair blowing gently behind her. Like she’s always being professionally lit by a movie crew. Incandescent. Luminescent. All the “escents.”
For Date Number Four (I’m counting our first two fountain meetings as dates), Milo doesn’t help me get dressed. Operas, concerts and Broadway shows are easy. I’m wearing my typical uniform, the same basic outfit I’ve worn to recitals and auditions since I was seven: suit pants, a suit jacket, a white-collared shirt and a tie. At first I’m nervous she’s going to wear her leather jacket again. She’s never been to an opera — does she know she’s supposed to dress up? Not that I don’t like the leather jacket, but I’m afraid we’re going to be totally mismatched and it’s going to look weird when I try to put my arm around her. Which I totally, definitely will work up the nerve to do before Mimi dies in act 4.
We meet at our usual fountain spot — I love that I can call it that. And just like I knew she would be, she’s there right at 1:45, leaning against the stone ledge. I wonder if I should kiss her again. Probably not. It’s weird to just all of a sudden kiss someone you haven’t seen in a week, even if you’ve already kissed them once before. You have to ease into it. She has to remember why she even agreed to kiss me in the first place.
She is wearing her leather jacket again. But underneath it is this beautiful, flowing black dress that’s kind of tight, but not so tight that it looks wrong to wear to the opera. I’d never expect anyone to wear a leather jacket with a fancy dress like that, but somehow, because it’s her, it’s stunning. One of a kind.
“Hey,” she says, smiling so hard it makes me smile, too.
“Hey,” I say. “So remember the playlist? Now I’m now realizing I put the songs in the wrong order. Like, you really should start with Ellington and then transition into Coltrane and then maybe save the Waller for a day when you are feeling down and need to laugh. And then maybe Louis Armstrong. Sorry, I should have told you. You listened to them in the order I sent them, didn’t you?”
She squinches up her nose at me. “Well … yeah.”
I’m already talking too much. Stop. Talking. So. Much.
But I don’t know what else to do. It’s not like we can just stand there in silence, so I lead her past the fountain and over to the Metropolitan Opera House, talking her ear off about Puccini and why he’s one of the best opera composers of all time, besides Mozart and Verdi and Wagner, obviously.
And then she does it first.
She grabs my hand.
I can feel her pulse. Her fingers dance against mine, and then she takes in a sharp little breath of air. I look at her and she squeezes my hand harder.
“What’s wrong?”
She looks like she might cry.
“Every time we meet here I stare at this building and watch all the people in nice clothes go in and out, and I always wonder what it would be like to sit inside. And now I get to be one of those people.”
At first I’m confused — if she wanted to go this badly, why di
dn’t she just ask her parents to take her? Princeton’s only an hour away. Something doesn’t add up. But then I remember that not everyone’s parents are as committed to music and the arts as mine. Her parents were probably too busy to take her to stuff like this. I get chills and realize how thankful I am that she’s getting to do it all with me. And through her eyes, I get to see it all for the first time again.
I squeeze her hand tighter.
{27}
Dominique
THE METROPOLITAN OPERA PRESENTS
LA BOHÈME
By Giacomo Puccini (1858–1924)
Libretto by Giuseppe Giacosa & Luigi Illica
Based on Henri Murger’s novel Scènes de la vie de bohème
Conducted by
Dennis Wilcox
Director
Thomas Harding
Set Designer
Anders C. Schmidt
Costume Designer
Georges Joly
Lighting Designer
Danielle Guernon
CAST
(in order of vocal appearance)
Marcello
Alessio Nucci
Rodolfo
Alfred Pouliotte
Colline
Marcel Freud
Schaunard
Nathan Arenas Romero
Benoît/Alcindoro
Jared L. Ring
Mimi
Camilla Alexeyeva
Parpignol
Ronald N. Larson
Musetta
Victoria Thorton
Customhouse Sergeant
Donald M. Peterson
Customhouse Officer
Jordan Felton
I’ve never seen so many rich people in one place before. A bunch of them are decked out in suits and dresses that probably cost more than our apartment in Trenton. They’re all bathed in this golden glow, like the reflection of the fountain has somehow worked its way into the auditorium and is glinting all over the place. It’s like watching celebrities on TV when they’re all dressed up at the Oscars. It’s so weird — the room is packed, but everyone’s so cultured and dignified that it’s still quiet, even when everyone is talking at once. And no one is eating. You’d think they’d have popcorn and all kinds of snacks, like in a movie, but no one even has a candy bar.
The inside of the theater looks a little bit like Carnegie Hall, but instead of gold, this has more of a deep-red vibe. And instead of a chandelier that looks like the sun, there are these little starbursts made of twinkling crystals everywhere. A few big sparkling clusters hang from the center of the ceiling, and smaller ones are suspended in midair all around. It’s just as beautiful as Carnegie Hall, but different. Like a new flavor of ice cream. I wonder if one day I’ll ever be lucky enough to see a show at every theater in New York City.
Ben keeps talking about all the other operas he’s seen at the Met with his family — Tosca and Manon Lescaut and Otello and Falstaff. All at once I feel shy. He’s so smart and cultured and confident and energetic and magnetic and exciting. And I’m …
The usher shows us to our seats and they’re perfect. For the first time in my life we’re not in some cramped balcony all the way in the back — we’re on the main floor, where the stage is. At first I try to play it cool, like I’ve seen a million shows and operas before, but then I notice my hands are fluttering. I press them together to keep them still, but they’re cold, so I sit on them to try to warm them up. It’s not like I’m nervous, exactly. I feel at ease in the plush, red velvet chairs, surrounded by soft-speaking people. Then I notice something weird: most of the people are white. A few are Asian, and I think I see a black guy in the front by the exit, but for the most part, I’m in a sea of pink faces. I wonder why white people like opera so much, anyway.
Sorry, Cass, but La Bohème has nothing to do with Cher or the guy from National Treasure. It’s this beautiful story about a group of starving artists in Paris on Christmas. Two of the guys are roommates, and the poet, Rodolfo, falls in love with his neighbor Mimi. And then just when it seems like they’re all going to live happily ever after, Mimi starts coughing a lot, and you just get this feeling something bad is going to happen.
And then it snows.
I know it’s probably just some guy sprinkling scraps of paper onto the stage from the ceiling, but it’s the most beautiful, real thing I’ve ever seen onstage. One white flake falls onto the singers, then another and another and another, and then the whole world is covered and I can almost feel the cold on my cheeks and eyelashes.
And that’s when Ben puts his arm around me.
* *
After the opera, Ben really, really wants me to come to his apartment. But I don’t think it’s because he wants to get me into his room and shut the door, like Anton would. Like most guys probably would. Then my nerves start to set in. Why does he want me there? To meet his parents? But then we’re walking side by side out of the opera house, and none of it matters.
As we turn the corner onto Seventy-First Street, a guy in a big, puffy coat pushes past me and I almost wipe out. Ben grabs my arm and steadies me as I get my balance.
“Are you okay?” he asks.
“How do you do this all the time?”
“Do what?”
“It’s like you have to get into a big boxing match with the city just to walk down the street. I mean, I know I’ve lived here awhile, but I don’t know if I’ll ever get totally used to it.”
“That’s so weird. You know what, A Train? I’ve never really thought about it. I’ve always lived here, so this is what it’s always been like.”
“And how do you deal with the sirens?”
“Wouldn’t be able to sleep without them. They’re like a lullaby. Well, not that I sleep much, anyway. I’m kind of chronically sleep deprived, actually.”
The city is so small for a minute, just Ben and me walking uptown, alone together.
We stop at a light on Fifth Avenue.
“What do you want to do after you graduate?” Ben asks out of nowhere.
“Is this a job interview?”
“It’s a life interview.” He grabs my hand, and I feel a rush of relief. It fits better there than it does anywhere else.
“I want to be a company member at Alvin Ailey.” I can’t remember the last time I let myself say that dream out loud. Maybe not since fourth grade.
“That’s for sure gonna happen,” Ben says. “Definitely. No doubt in my mind.”
“Ben, you’ve never even seen me dance.”
“But I’ve seen you walk. And I’ve seen you run across the street to make a light. And scoot around people who text on the subway stairs. You’re a vision. I know you can do it.”
“You make it sound so easy.”
“It is easy. You’re a hard worker and you’re talented. You’re doing all the right things. I know you’ll make it to exactly where you want to be.”
If only. I change the subject.
“What about you?” I ask.
“Yeah. Well, it’s complicated, actually. I’ve waited my entire life to go to Brighton. I thought once I got there everyone else would be just like me and I’d finally understand why I have this deep fire inside me that never wants to burn out. But after two years I still don’t feel like I fit
in there. So many people at school are just content to get the notes right, and if they’re in tempo, that’s it — they’re happy. But I have this — this thing inside me. Something else. I just know there has to be something more. And this is usually the part of the conversation where you’re supposed to tell me I sound totally cocky and arrogant, and I’m supposed to get embarrassed and apologize, so I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry. I think you’re right.”
“You do?”
“If you’re not going to devote your whole heart, mind and body to a piece, what’s the point of even doing it?”
“Exactly! Exactly. Art is worth giving up everything. If you want to stay safe, you’re never going to be vulnerable enough to create something real. So that’s it. That’s my plan. To be vulnerable. To be real.”
As we’re walking, I can’t help but wonder if his plan includes me. And then I realize something: until I’m vulnerable and real, it can’t.
* *
We walk up to the green awning of Ben’s building, and the doorman welcomes us in. The marble situation in the lobby is completely out of control. The floor is marble, the desk is marble, even the round containers that hold potted plants are marble. I can’t help but wonder if the doorman would have given me the same treatment if I’d walked in alone. He has dark skin, too. Would he have glared and asked for my ID?
I’m hit with a jolt of nerves.
“Um, hey,” I ask. “Do your parents know I’m coming up?”
“No. Why?”
“So they’re okay with you just bringing a random girl upstairs to your apartment?”
“You’re not some random girl. You’re A Train.”
“You know my actual name is Dom, right?”
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