Lawless

by Ward, Tracey

  Maybe I’m just exhausted but I’m a little jealous of how together his outfit looks. I had Heather’s ‘whatever’ attitude about getting dressed this morning, throwing on the same pair of capris I wore last night, a red tank, and a pair of black flip flops. Bam! Elegance achieved.

  “Morning,” I mumble.

  “Do you want coffee?”

  I hesitate, not sure if I do. Coffee is expensive. I haven’t bought coffee since I got here and I definitely haven’t used any in the apartment. Not since Heather used Molly’s milk and we all woke up the next morning to carefully printed labels on everyone’s food.

  “Um, I would love some but…”

  Asper grins. “But you’re afraid of the consequences?”

  “I fear the label maker.”

  “Here.” He pours a mug full of black gold and slides it toward me over the counter. “You look like hell. You need this. Besides it’s mine, and I give you full permission to drink it.”

  “I love you,” I whisper, pulling the cup to my mouth.

  He grimaces. “You drink it black?”

  “I didn’t buy coffee so I didn’t buy cream or sugar.”

  “That is a sad story.”

  “Stick around. I’m full of ‘em.”

  “Is that my mug?” Molly asks from directly behind me.

  “Jesus gypsies!” I cry, nearly jumping through the roof. I spin around to face her, my heart lying dead flat on the floor. She looks at me emptily with her dark brown eyes, her thick red bangs hanging low over them. “You scared me, Molly.”

  “It is my mug,” she mutters quietly.

  She walks out of the kitchen silently, opens the front door, and glares at me as she closes it slowly behind her.

  “Oooh,” Asper chuckles quietly. “You just made her shit list.”

  “You gave me coffee in her mug?” I ask incredulously.

  “I didn’t know it was hers.”

  I look down at it, turn it in my hand, and sure enough, there it is on the front plain as day; Molly’s name.

  “Oh dammit.”

  Asper takes it from me and tosses the remains down the sink. “I’m sure she won’t kill you in your sleep for using her mug.”

  “I’m not. Girl is intense.”

  “Come on.” He waves for me to follow him. “We better get going if we want to be to class on time. We’ll stop and get you some garlic to hang over your door on the way home.”

  I grab my bag, following him out the door. “It was her copy of Twilight, wasn’t it?”

  He smirks. “Sure as shit wasn’t mine.”

  I feel myself smiling up at him. “Asper, I think I misjudged you when we met.”

  He looks me up and down, taking in my simple, casual outfit. “California, I had you dead to rights.”

  The first few days of class are pretty standard. It’s a lot of lecture. A lot of syllabus review and clarification on how we’ll be graded. You’d think that going to a music school classes would be very hands on. That everyone sits at their instrument and we play for hours on end, but that’s not how it works. You don’t go to medical school and immediately start operating on people. First you have to learn the history. The structure. The how’s and why’s of the way it works. Learning to play an instrument on your own is one thing, but getting used to the experience of playing with an orchestra or even with another person on another instrument, that’s different. It takes a different kind of focus and awareness.

  This is the part I’ve been afraid of. Finding out how good I am stacked up against other artists, and a few weeks later when I play with another pianist for the first time I get clarification on my skill level.

  I’m not good.

  In fairness, I’m not good compared to the raven-haired professor with the graying temples that I play with, which is like doing a finger painting next to Van Gogh and complaining that you suck. Of course you do. It’s fucking Van Gogh.

  “You were good enough to get in,” Katy reminds me when I call her later that night. “They saw your talent and potential. That’s why you’re there. If you were as good as the professor on the first day what would be the point of even going to the school?”

  “That’s a good point,” I admit. “But it didn’t feel like the other students who played with him were as bumbling as I was.”

  “Maybe you were just nervous.”

  “I did feel like I was going to throw up.”

  “And maybe they weren’t as good as you think they were. Or you weren’t as bad as you think. Who’s your harshest critic?”

  “Me.”

  “Exactly. I’m sure you were fine,” she assures me. “Did the professor say anything when you were done?”

  “No.”

  “Then don’t worry.”

  “He complimented the other students.”

  Katy hesitates. “All of them?”

  “Every last one.”

  “Damn.”

  “Yup.”

  “Okay, well,” Katy rallies, “it’s only been a month. You’ll get better and you’ll get that compliment from him.”

  “What if I don’t get better?”

  “Then he isn’t a very good teacher.”

  I smile at her buoyancy. Her unrelenting optimism. It’s one of the things I’ve always loved so much about Katy.

  “You should be a teacher,” I tell her. “You’ve got the attitude for it.”

  “Do you think?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “’Cause I’ve thought about that before.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Yeah,” she says shyly. “I’ve looked into what it takes to be a kindergarten teacher. I’ve even shadowed Mrs. Halpert at our old school to see how I’d like it. She’s like a hundred years old now and ready to retire soon.”

  “You should do it,” I tell her adamantly. “You have to do it.”

  “Do you think?” she asks hesitantly.

  “I’ve never been more sure of anything. That is such a better job for you than the grocery store.”

  She laughs. “Anything is better than the grocery store.”

  “Promise me you’ll do it. That you’ll look into classes.”

  “I will, but only if you promise me you’ll give yourself a break and remember you’re there to learn, not blow everybody away on your first day.”

  “I promise.”

  “Me too.”

  We fall into a lull in the conversation and I do everything I can to not fill it with questions about Lawson. I want to ask a million things. I want to know everything he’s doing and who he’s doing it with, but I can’t. If I find out he’s dating someone I’ll be crushed and if I find out he’s not I’ll be desperate to come home to be with him.

  “Wyatt kissed me again.”

  I sit up straight on my bed. “When?”

  “Last weekend at a beach party.”

  “Those are still going on?”

  “Endless summer, baby,” she reminds me, a smile in her tone.

  “How’d it go?”

  “The party?”

  “The kiss.”

  “Oh, you know,” she sighs dramatically. “Standard panty dropper.”

  “Did you…”

  “No!” she exclaims. “Dude, come on. I’m still getting over Aaron.”

  “Fastest way to get over a guy—“

  “Is to get under another, I know. I know. It’s very clever. It’s also not true.”

  “I know.”

  “I like him, though,” she says quietly. “Wyatt. He’s a sweet guy.”

  “I’ve always thought so.”

  “Baker too.”

  I laugh. “He’s alright, I guess.”

  “They’re all alright. All of them,” she insists meaningfully. “They’re good. And they hope you’re good too.”

  I feel my throat constrict tightly and suddenly it’s hard to breathe. It’s hard to be. “That’s—it’s really good to hear.” I cough roughly, standing up and pacing my room. “I go
tta go, okay? But I’ll call you tomorrow?”

  “I’ll be here.”

  “Thanks, Katy. And hey,” I add quickly, my heart racing. “Tell them… tell them I miss them, okay?”

  “I will.”

  When I hang up the phone I have to stand there for a minute breathing evenly. The tears eventually stop trying to well in my eyes and I’m able to move again. I’m able to put my phone down, pick my notebook up, and sit at my desk to study, because as much as I want to replay the last part of the conversation with Katy over and over again in my mind, I don’t. I can’t. That’s not why I’m here.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  My first term ends and I’m drained. I’m spent emotionally and mentally. I worked my ass off but I never got that compliment from my professor. In fact, after finals he asks me into his office to ‘have a talk’. Those words have never preceded anything good. Never.

  “Sit down, Miss Mason,” he commands, gesturing to the hard wooden chair across from his cluttered desk.

  The room is dark, the shades partially drawn to block out the last of the early evening light. It’s the start of December and the sun sets around four these days. We’re lucky to get nine hours of daylight and while I know California is getting the same amount of sun, the quality is definitely different. I’m bundled up against the cold that’s been dropping steadily into the thirties and forties while I’m sure everyone back home is still in shorts and flip flops, enjoying the seventy degree heat.

  “It’s Rachel,” I tell him, getting settled. “If you don’t mind.”

  He smiles faintly. “I don’t.”

  “Did you want to talk to me about my test?”

  “No. I want to talk to you about your audition tape.”

  “Oh,” I reply numbly, taken aback. “What about it?”

  “How often did you practice those pieces?” He consults a note on his desk. “Dohnanyi's Concert Etude #6, Gershwin’s Piano Prelude #1, Bach’s French Suite #4, and Liszt’s Années de Pèlerinage.”

  “Every day.”

  “Every day,” he repeats thoughtfully. He puts his note down, sitting back in his seat to observe me. “I don’t doubt it. I reviewed your tape just last night and you were good. Very clean, precise.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Was that your first audition?”

  I feel myself start to flush with embarrassment. “No.”

  “You applied before with the same pieces, I assume?”

  “Yes.”

  “How long did you wait between applications?”

  “Two years. I applied while I was still in high school.” I spread my hands helplessly. “I was denied. Then I spent two years practicing, I applied again last January, and I was accepted.”

  “Do you know why you were accepted?”

  “Because I showed promise?” I ask slowly.

  He shakes his head. “No, because you showed talent. You had four pieces learned down to a science. You could probably play them in your sleep.”

  “I think I do.”

  “Yes. But what else can you play with that level of skill?”

  I open my mouth to answer but nothing comes out. I close it, try again, and still nothing. Finally I answer with just that; “Nothing.”

  “So I’ve seen,” he agrees bluntly. “I won’t lie, you’re a very good pianist. Very expressive and reasonably well trained.”

  “Reasonably well trained?”

  Is he talking about me or a border collie who occasionally shits on the rug?

  “I do believe, however, that you’ve done yourself and the school a disservice by repeating your audition pieces.”

  “There were no rules against it.”

  “No, there aren’t, but audition tapes are difficult to judge. We prefer live performance because believe me, if you’d performed in front of me I would have asked you exactly what I’m asking you now. I would insist you play something new. I would have encouraged you to choose a piece off the cuff and judged your talent by your ability to adapt. By the depth of your arsenal. As it appears, you have no arsenal. You possess but four bullets in your chamber. Hardly what it takes to go to war.”

  “I thought the point of coming here was to gather more bullets. More weapons. I thought the entire point was for you to teach me how to be better,” I argue, my temper flaring.

  “And I can. I could. You’d get better than you are now, but I have to ask you what your end game is. Where do you see yourself in four years?”

  I already know where this is going. What he’s going to say, and I take a steadying breath before I speak to keep from shouting at him. “The Boston Philharmonic.”

  “No.”

  “Fine. I’d go home. The Los Angeles Philharmonic.”

  “No.”

  I breathe again, deep and slow. “Do you want me to name every orchestra in the country or should we cut to the chase?”

  He nods, sitting forward to put his elbows on his desk. “I’ll teach you. Every professor here will teach you and we’ll do our best to refine your talent, because I strongly agree that you do have talent, but what you don’t have is the right kind of talent. You’re creative. Dreamy. You’re not disciplined. You’re not concise, meaning you’re not orchestra material, and if that’s your goal in all of this I feel it’s important to warn you of it now.”

  “You think I should drop out?”

  “I think you should give stark consideration to your future. A law student who has no head for facts will never be a lawyer. He’ll spend a lot of time and money on school, but he’ll never get hired. He’ll never pass the bar. If being a lawyer is his dream, he’d better find himself a new dream.” He raises his eyebrows at me, thick and bushy. Like crooked spined caterpillars. “Do you understand what I’m saying?”

  I stand abruptly, snatching up my bag from the floor. “I’m undisciplined, not dumb. Thank you for your time and words of wisdom.”

  He doesn’t respond to my outburst. He lets me leave, hurrying out of the room as fast as I can go. I nearly run down the long hall toward the exit. I burst through the thick double doors and into the cold that stings my eyes. It pierces my last defenses until I crack. Until I try to breathe in deeply but my lungs fight against the frigid air and I cough, hiccup, and burst into tears that spill hot down my chilled cheeks.

  I nearly run home, my head down and my burning face hidden under my hair. It looks so dark in the coming night. More brown than blond and I choke on a sob that climbs up the back of my throat and reaches greedily for my lips.

  I just want to be alone. I want to cry and get over it and move on, but I’m shit out of luck. The second I step inside they all look up at me. Asper from the couch, Heather from the kitchen, and Molly from her laptop at the dining table. I hesitate, door open behind me, and I consider going back outside. But my phone is here and I have to call Katy. I have to call someone and more than anything on this earth I want to call Lawson, to have him pull me through the phone to the other side where the sun is shining and the beach is frothing. Where his skin is warm and gritty from the sand. Where my scars are beautiful and my heart is home.

  “What happened?” Asper asks, concern creasing his brow. “Are you okay?”

  I wipe at my face and close the door behind me. “Yeah, I’m fine.”

  “You’re crying,” Molly points out.

  “I know.”

  Heather leans against the counter with interest. “Why?”

  “It’s private.”

  “Oh come on, we don’t keep secrets here.”

  “You mean you don’t,” Asper corrects. “The rest of us do. It’s called privacy. Now let her have it.”

  Heather rolls her eyes. “We all know what your secret is.”

  “I only have one?”

  “You’re gay. Get over yourself. No one cares.”

  Asper laughs in amazement. “I’m not gay!”

  “I am,” Molly says in her perfect monotone.

  We all look at her for half a second
before Heather starts to laugh.

  “What do you mean, you’re not gay?” she demands of Asper. “I call bullshit!”

  “What have I ever done that made you think I was gay?” he spits back.

  “Um, only everything? You wear Mr. Rogers sweaters, your underwear always matches your socks—“

  “How the hell do you know that?!”

  “And you haven’t hit on me even once since you got here.” She points at him accusingly. “Gay!”

  “Sorry to break it to you, but I’m straight as an arrow, and the reason I haven’t hit on you is because you’re a rich bitch and I don’t care how hot your body is, your personality is repulsive.”

  “Hey, you guys,” I say slowly, looking between the two of them, “let’s take it easy.”

  “Whatever,” Heather barks at him, steaming down the hall.

  She slams her door, making Asper and I jump slightly. Molly keeps clicking away on her keyboard like nothing happened.

  “So, I’m gonna… head to my room for… just for a bit to… yeah,” I tell the room awkwardly, not even sure who I’m talking to or what I said.

  I spin on my heel and hurry back to my bedroom, closing the door and resting my forehead against it. I stare at my feet on the floor, blinking rapidly, replaying what just happened in my head.

  I’m surprised as shit when I start to laugh instead of cry.

  ***

  Almost a week later and I haven’t told anyone anything. Not my roommates, not my family, and not even Katy. I’m still trying to sort it out. I want to know how I feel about it before I tell anyone, and that bit – my feelings – is what has me confused.

  I’m not sad.

  I cried when my professor told me I wasn’t good enough to be in an orchestra, but it was more humiliation than anything else. When I really thought about it, when I lay down that night to sleep, what I felt was relief. It’s the shark bite all over again. It comes with a freeing sense of euphoria. A weight lifted from my shoulders.

  I’m not good enough.

  End of story.

  So what do I do now?

  “Hey,” Asper says quietly. “You’re still up?”

  He’s standing in my doorway in his pajamas (full fucking pajamas with lapels and everything), his hands on the frame and his body leaning inside. His glasses are off and his hair is casually mussed. A little too casually to be real. But his face is open and earnest and I find myself smiling at him from my seat at my desk.