“Let’s talk about this after class tomorrow.”
“That’s an entire twenty-four hours of wasted time! Are you even working on your part? Ever since Robertson praised you, you’ve been acting like you’re above all this. I hate to break it to you, Claire, but last time I checked, you’re not Vladimir Horowitz. Not even close. You still need to practice like the rest of us.”
“Ben, I didn’t want to have to tell you this over the phone, but …
I don’t know what else to do.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I don’t want to do the showcase with you.”
Blood bubbles up inside my brain, making my forehead hot and itchy. “What?”
“Yaz was going to tell you. Marie thinks it would be better if I paired up with Carter. He’s been working on the first movement in his private lessons and … We played the piece together last week and it just clicked. His technique isn’t as strong as yours and there’s still a lot of work to do, but when we play together, it actually sounds like music.”
“Are you fucking kidding me right now?”
“Please don’t curse at me.”
“When were you going to tell me?”
“Yaz was supposed to tell you this week. Ben, you’ve been acting so strange, and — I’m sorry. I didn’t know what else to do. I —”
I hang up.
I’m speechless. I’m fucking speechless. This talentless nothing is trying to ruin my career because she’s jealous? She’s sabotaging everything I’ve ever worked for in my whole goddamn life, just like that. Oh, and she’s been doing it for months, just dragging me along, toying with me, for fun. She must have been looking for an excuse to get me cut this whole time, so the missed classes and bad rehearsal with Robertson played right into her plan. Maybe she and Carter are having sex. They have to be. That’s the only explanation. It can’t be me. Everyone loves me. Everyone at school loves me.
The itch scatters, running over my body like trillions of spiders.
Don’t they?
* *
Yaz’s cell phone is going straight to voice mail. I call it again. Again. Again. He’s probably having dinner at some fancy restaurant with his wife, drinking wine and eating steak. He’s not thinking about me at all — he never is. He’s not on my side, anyway. Robertson’s on my side. He’ll understand. He has to listen to me.
I run up the steps at Lincoln Center and race past the fountain, past the Performing Arts Library and the little rectangular pond with the trees next to it and up to Brighton’s glass double doors. I push them open hard and they clatter. The receptionist looks surprised.
She narrows her eyes and raises her eyebrows. “Yes?”
“Dean Robertson has something important of mine,” I say.
“Okay. And?”
“I need it back.”
“I don’t think any faculty members are still here, but I can leave —”
“No, I need to see him in person. I need his address.”
“I’m sorry, but even if I had it, I’m not able to give out personal information to students.”
“This is really, really important. Please.”
“I’m sorry, but there isn’t anything I can do.”
“Please, I just need to pick up something from him.”
“You’re welcome to come back tomorrow morning — his first class is at eight.” She glances at me with a glimmer of sympathy, like there’s a chance she might give me his address after all. I keep trying.
“Listen, he has a priceless violin of mine. I took it to class and I’m so scatterbrained sometimes I must have left it behind, and I think he took it home to keep it safe, and now if I don’t get it back, my parents are going to kill me. Like, literally murder me. I just need to know that it’s safe. I’ll just drop by, ring the buzzer and that will be it.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Well, then I’d like to reserve a practice room, please.”
“What time?”
“From now until 8:00 a.m. tomorrow.”
“You know I can’t do that.”
“Then I’ll just stand here in the lobby.”
The receptionist blinks. “Well, you’re welcome to stay until the building closes at seven.”
“This is my school. You can’t tell me how long I can and can’t stay.”
“I’m sorry, but this building isn’t open to students after 7:00 p.m. You’re welcome to try —”
I bang my palm against the glass reception desk. “I need Robertson’s address. Now.”
A man in a security uniform steps out from the back room and leads me out the front door. He asks for my name, but I won’t give it to him.
I’ll just wait outside until Robertson gets here.
* *
My phone battery is at 12 percent, but I can’t stop texting Dom. She’s probably not even awake — she’s not writing back. But I think of another place I want to take her. The Brooklyn Botanic Garden. There’s this Japanese-inspired garden inside that I went to with my mom once when I was little. I was so bored at the time, and I remember grabbing my mom’s sleeve and telling her I wanted to leave. But now I keep shutting my eyes and trying to transport myself back there. The flowering cherry trees. The little wooden shrine. The still, peaceful water.
This was back when Mom used to take me to auditions, before she trusted me to get on the train and go myself. I was auditioning for the California Conservatory summer program, which at the time felt like such a huge deal and now feels so small and silly. I didn’t get in — I hadn’t practiced enough and I botched a couple of notes, lost my place and had to start again. The judges said, “Thank you,” but by the time I put my bow down I knew I hadn’t been accepted. That day I realized that unless I worked my hardest to be better than everyone else, I’d never become a violinist. I’d be someone who sat in the audience.
Mom was upset because I was upset, and she thought that if we went to the Brooklyn Botanic Garden and looked at some trees, we’d both feel better. The air made me choke and the quiet made my mind race, and I felt worse instead of better. But now, maybe because I want to be anywhere but here, I wonder if it would help. I imagine sitting on a bench by the water with Dominique, her hand on my back.
I lean against the fountain. Luckily it’s not freezing tonight. According to my phone, the low will be 52 degrees. That’s manageable. I can handle that. Now my phone’s only at 9 percent, but I put on Kreutzer anyway. My fingers are still. I don’t play along. I just listen. I’m hearing both parts, not just my own. But Claire is still wrong about the pacing. It’s not written into the music — she was slowing down.
My phone dies around half past three. Aside from a homeless man sleeping in the alcove near the Vivian Beaumont Theater stage door, I’m alone. Completely disconnected. I glance up at the sky. For the first time in I don’t remember how long, I can see two stars cutting
through the darkness just above my head. Clouds pass and they disappear.
A siren blares avenues away. Cabs drift by, looking for a fare. The streetlights turn green, then yellow, then red, then green again. Yellow. Red. Green. Yellow. Red. Green. Maybe none of it matters. Whether I’m out on the street or at home, or if I end up headlining a concert in Prague when I’m twenty-five or I go tie myself to the subway tracks with violin strings right now, it’s all the same. It all goes on.
Yellow. Red. Green. Yellow. Red. Green.
If I’m not the best violinist at Brighton, who am I?
Nobody.
* *
Robertson rushes past the fountain, paper coffee cup in hand. I’d tell you what time it is, but I have no idea. It’s light out, and some students have already gone in to practice, so I’d guess it’s somewhere between 7:00 and 7:45.
I chase after him, which isn’t hard because I’ve been running around the perimeter of
the fountain for the last two hours. At first I was just trying to beat my record of 5.3 seconds, and then I started trying to see how far I could run, like how many miles I could log just running around the same cement circle over and over and over. I lost count at 354 rotations and was too dizzy to figure out the perimeter of the fountain and calculate the total distance. But the point is I’m totally warmed up, ready to chase Robertson across the entire campus if I have to.
“Dean Robertson, wait. Hey, Dean Robertson —”
He turns and sees me just as he reaches the glass doors. There’s an initial beat of recognition, and then there’s an additional beat of shock, like he didn’t expect to see me here this early. I run up to meet him, but he takes a step back.
“You’re soaked, Ben. Is everything okay?”
“Claire told me she’s auditioning for the Sonata Showcase with Carter now.”
“Have you spoken with Yaz?“
“It’s not fair to tell someone you’re going to work on a piece with them and then leave that person completely out of the loop while you rehearse with someone else. What the hell is that?”
“It sounds like she didn’t handle it properly. But if not the Sonata Showcase, there will be lots of opportunities for you here. There’s an incredible violin solo in —”
“What about Carnegie Hall? You told me I have what it takes to be one of the best violinists in the world. Why the hell would she pick Carter over me? Just between us, Dean Robertson, he’s really been struggling recently. He barely got through the Mendelssohn concerto. He’ll butcher Kreutzer and he’ll bring Claire down with him. His technique is all off. He rushes. His vibrato is all over the place. I don’t understand why no one else sees that. Why can’t anyone else actually listen? He’s not even playing music. You told me I was amazing. So why am I the one being punished?”
I wait for him to reassure me. To give me some advice, something. Instead Robertson takes a sip of his coffee and stares at me.
“What?” I ask. “Am I not talented? Do I not belong here? Someone please just tell me. I’m begging you. Please.”
He takes another sip of his coffee.
“Yes, you have to be the best to get into this school,” he says at last. “You’re a supremely talented violinist — you know that. But it’s your inconsistency I’m worried about. You and Yaz have discussed this at length. You missed your Queen Elizabeth audition, and then those … issues with Professor Nadelstein began to surface. You took a break, you got some rest, and there isn’t any shame in that. Over the last few months you’ve seemed more focused, and you had an amazing concert at Carnegie Hall. That’s wonderful. But your work since then has been hit-or-miss. Technically, you’re astounding. But this isn’t healthy, Ben. I need to look out for your well-being and that of every other student at this school, so it’s time for me to step in here.”
“She’s just jealous — that’s all this is. She’s upset at me because I’ve been dating this girl, and she’s been acting strange ever since. I guess she’s just been in love with me for all these years. But I shouldn’t be punished because she can’t handle rejection. And she is definitely sleeping with Carter, by the way.”
“You and Claire have two different versions of this story.”
“If you think I’m so supremely talented, just convince her to work with me. We’ve come so far. She can’t just decide to start working with someone else one day and not even tell me. What the fuck is her problem?”
“Ben, please remember what we agreed on after your probation.”
“This has nothing to do with that. I haven’t gone anywhere near Isaac Nadelstein or his apartment in six months — well, one time we were on the elevator together, but that was an accident. I saw the therapist for the prescribed two months, I’m going to class, I’m practicing, my performances are incredible, I’ll be ready to audition for competitions again this season — what else could you people possibly want from me?”
My whole face is wet and stinging. I can’t tell if it’s sweat or tears.
“Claire has asked to work with Carter because she no longer feels comfortable working with you.”
“What? Why?”
“I’d like to schedule a meeting with you, Yaz and your parents as soon as possible so we can discuss this in detail,” he says. “I’ve left a few messages for your mother and haven’t heard anything back. Will you —”
“But why? Please. What did I do wrong?”
Robertson wipes his forehead with his shirt cuff. I’m making him nervous for once, instead of the other way around. My lips curl up into an involuntary smile. I can’t help it.
“Claire told me you’ve been calling her obsessively,” he says at last. “Going to her apartment unannounced. Her doorman reported a person who fits your description standing outside her building for three hours.”
“It wasn’t three hours.”
“But it was you.”
“Yeah.”
“Ben.”
“I just want us to be the best.”
“I know you do. But this is a problem. You have a problem.”
“But I have the opening. I can play it in my sleep. It sounds as good as it does on the Nadelstein recording — better. Whatever you were hearing at the rehearsal, whatever is making her doubt me, it’s not me, it’s not my playing. Maybe it’s my strings. Maybe if I restring the E and try something a little different, everything will click. Just let me try it one more time. Let me play for you again.”
“Don’t worry about coming to the rest of your classes today. I’ll give you an excused absence. Go home and get into some dry clothes.”
I look down. My clothing is soaked all the way through. Even my jacket. Like I spent the whole night swimming in the fountain.
He puts his hand on my shoulder. “Get some sleep, okay? I’ll try your parents again. We’ll sort this out.”
“Okay,” I say, even though I don’t believe him.
It’s weird. You think I’d storm off, or start crying or yelling, or kick the side of the fountain. Instead I shake my head and laugh. I laugh all the way down the stairs, all the way to Lexington Avenue. I’m laughing so hard I can’t stop.
{31}
Dominique
I start with the easiest stuff first. Slowly, like easing into a frigid swimming pool. I don’t want to involve Cass in this, so I sneak into the library during lunch to use the computer.
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Subject: Confession
October 15, 12:46 p.m.
Ben. Hi. What I’m about to say is really, really tough for me … but you deserve the truth. So I’m just going to type it out as fast as I can, before I change my mind, okay?
I haven’t been entirely honest with you. Actually, I haven’t been honest about anything. You know when we first met at the fountain, when I asked you for directions? Well, I’d actually seen you before, performing at Carnegie Hall. I almost came up to you then, but I didn’t have the guts. You were so amazing I just couldn’t bring myself to do it. So I tracked you down and pretended I was lost so you’d talk to me. You just seemed so wonderful and brilliant and kind I got swept up in the whole thing. You asked me if I went to NYU and I just said yes. I didn’t know what else to do. I wasn’t thinking. And then it kind of spiraled out of control from there.
So, the truth. I’m still in high school. I’m seventeen. I live in Trenton, New Jersey, in a not-great part of town. My mom owns a laundromat and my dad isn’t a consultant. I don’t know why I told you that. I don’t even really know him. He left when I was little and I’ve seen him, like, four times since then. All I know is that he’s Ecuadorian, he lives in Spanish Harlem and I can’t remember the last time he paid child support. My mom works twice as hard to make up for it, but it’s never enough. God, I want you to meet her. She’s amaz
ing. She’s like a superhero. My dad, on the other hand … some days I wish I could go to his apartment and punch him in the face.
I don’t know why I did this. I just wanted you to like me, I guess. I wanted to be a part of your life. I wanted your life, and everything beautiful and magical that came with it. When I’m with you, it’s like all the wonderful stuff, all the art and love and music, floats up to the surface. And all the terrible things sink to the bottom. You make me feel like I’m deserving of happiness. So that’s why I haven’t told you the truth. But we’re in too deep now. And you deserve to know every part of me. Even the things I’m ashamed of.
So if you never want to talk to me again, I understand. It would kill me, but I deserve it. I’m so, so sorry for lying. I just couldn’t go another minute without telling you. I’m sorry.
Love, Dominique
The rest of the day is complete and total torture, as I wait for him to respond.
Nothing after geography.
Nothing after music.
Nothing after study hall.
Nothing, nothing, nothing.
* *
Before I leave school, I check my e-mail one more time. Nope. Still nothing. That’s it.
Ben probably doesn’t want to date someone who would lie to him. He probably thinks honesty is the most important thing in the world — which maybe it is — and he’s wondering if he should go out with me at all. If I’m worth his time.
He’ll probably never speak to me again.
I walk past Smokers’ Corner and there’s good old reliable Anton, sucking on an e-cig with Raf and his stupid friends. They spot me immediately, and I look down at the pavement, trying to pretend I don’t see them.
“Baby,” Raf yells across the crowd.
I don’t answer.
“Hey, baby, Anton has something to tell you.”
Then his voice takes a gruff tone that makes my stomach flip.
“You answer me when I’m talking to you.”
I walk right past them without even looking up. They don’t have power over me anymore.
Behind me I can hear Anton: “Leave her alone,” he says. “She’s not worth it.”
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