That Secret You Keep

by Brenda Benny

  Emily announces that she wants to find Malik, so I tell Grace that Vanessa and I will find a place to dry off, and we’ll text them later to meet up. Truthfully, I’m just happy to avoid another lineup at this point.

  We find a spot to sit down on a patch of grass. The sun is warm, and we both stretch out on our backs, soaking up the heat into our clothes. It’s the first time I’ve been alone with Vanessa in a while. We could talk about the show, or our upcoming performances. I could ask about her new boyfriend, who I know very little about. But the hollowness of our exchanges has been unbearable. All the memories shared between us seem as distant as our interactions.

  The chasm between us seems to be growing, and I’m not sure if it’s due to the things we’ve said or done to one another, or the things we haven’t managed to say at all. I’ve largely ignored the lie she fabricated about Hayden and Max. But now that I’ve found out she’s been lying to me about her dad, I’m beginning to wonder if we’ll ever find a way to bridge this divide. Suddenly, I just come out with it, unable to hold the thought any longer.

  “I saw your dad the other day,” I say, rolling my head to look at her while shielding my eyes.

  Her shoulders stiffen, and her eyes pop open briefly before they’re forced shut again by the brightness of the cloudless sky above.

  “Oh, yeah?”

  “I heard you tell Emily he was in China,” I say carefully, giving her room to provide an explanation.

  “Yeah. He came home early.”

  “Vanessa.” My tone makes her turn her head suspiciously in my direction. “He told me.”

  She looks at me blankly, but I can hear the uncertainty in her voice. “Told you what?” Her vulnerability makes me so uneasy I almost leave it alone. But I want her to be truthful with me.

  “He told me about losing his job last fall,” I say simply.

  Her nostrils flare, but not in anger. I can hear her swallow loudly and I think she is about to cry. Vanessa hates to cry, and will end up screaming at you instead of succumbing to her tears. But as her eyes narrow in fury, I see her lip begin to tremble.

  “Don’t tell anyone,” she gasps. “Promise?”

  I’m confused by this response, yet grateful that she’s not resorted to yelling.

  “Why?” I ask, perplexed. “Why are you hiding this? It’s got nothing to do with you. You don’t need be ashamed of it.”

  She lets out a sharp, barking laugh before covering her eyes with the crook of her arm. “Tell that to my mom.”

  I sit up, sheltering her with my shadow, and shake my head at her until she peeks out from beneath her elbow. “Vanessa, it’s not like people are going to treat you differently because your dad lost his job. What are you worried about?”

  She sits up suddenly, then. It looks like she’s trying to figure out whether she should honestly say what’s on her mind. “I’m worried about not going to NYU!”

  I can’t believe she’s saying this again.

  “Vanessa, you’re going to get into NYU. You won’t have to worry about getting accepted.” But I stop. Suddenly, I understand. It’s not getting in that she’s worried about. “That’s why you need the scholarship,” I say quietly, filled with new understanding.

  She doesn’t respond, at first, focused on pulling pieces of grass from the patch between her knees. “My parents said they might not be able to afford it.”

  It all makes sense to me now. All her mood swings about the parts, and what the teachers were saying to each of us. Even though we’re friends, she’s worried that I will somehow make her look less desirable as an applicant – even if I don’t apply there. It’s a little warped, I think, but I get it.

  “Is that why you were so upset that I got the lead?”

  She barely shrugs, the corners of her mouth turned downward. “Sort of.”

  I’m a bit annoyed at all this. We’ve been friends for so long, you’d think she could have told me what was going on.

  The irony of that thought sinks in.

  The noise level has picked up around us, and I notice the crowds that have been moving steadily along the paved pathways are now stationary and lining the walkway. I can hear sounds of music and drums nearby, and sense there must be a parade on the way.

  “Why didn’t you tell me sooner? You know I would have understood. I’m not like that, Vanessa. I wouldn’t purposefully try to mess things up for you.”

  Her eyes stare heavenward in frustration, briefly, before she turns her head to look at me.

  “I didn’t think you would do anything on purpose. But, well, you haven’t exactly been… present, I guess.” She shakes her head from side to side like she’s erasing something and starting over. “I mean, I know it’s been hard for you this year, but it’s just… I didn’t want to tell you about it, at first, because my dad seemed to think it wasn’t going to last very long. But then it just went on a lot longer, and all that stuff that happened with Max, and we weren’t talking very much over the holidays – ” She raises her hands, defeated. “It just got to a point where I didn’t know how to even start talking about it anymore – so I just didn’t tell anyone. I know it’s wrong, but…”

  I want to tell her that I understand about burying the truth – more than she might realize. But I know I can’t go there. Not about this. I couldn’t even tell Max. I’m not ready to tell Vanessa. I was right about being a shitty friend.

  “Ness, I’m so sorry.” I put my arm around her shoulder, and she leans in to me.

  “It’s okay,” the strain gone now from her voice.

  I look up to the walking path in front of us where huge and colourful marionette-like puppet floats have appeared in the shape of elephants and giraffes.

  “Do you know yet? About the scholarship?”

  “We don’t find out for a while,” she replies.

  “You’ll get it. I know you will.”

  But I can’t really be certain about that. We both know this. I can also tell that this vulnerability, this uncertainty, makes her angry – and she’s doing her best to keep it under control.

  “Thanks. I hope so.”

  Her phone chimes then, and I see that it’s Emily telling us to meet her in line for an animal safari ride. It takes us a while to get around the parade crowds, but soon we spot Marianna, Lucy and a couple other guys from the orchestra who are headed in the same direction. This time, we wait in the hour-long lineup, having been assured by Lucy that it’s worth our time. The safari is totally awesome, and we see lions, elephants, giraffes and zebras, most of them quite close and roaming free.

  Eventually, we make it to the restaurant that evening and find the others milling around. Everyone is talking excitedly about the things they did that day. Vanessa is obviously in better spirits, standing among a group of unfamiliar guys, flirting with some boy with a t-shirt that says “Michigan State” on it.

  I’m listening to Marianna and Malik compare who was more freaked out on their dinosaur ride when I spot Max and Hayden standing over by one of the enormous fish tanks. Max actually looks dwarfed by the huge, silver fish swimming about the water. He’s not looking directly at me, so I steal a moment to let my gaze glide over his lanky form. He and Hayden begin to have a boyish shoving match, in which Hayden’s movements appear smooth and choreographed while Max swats at him haphazardly in return. I don’t register the implication of their scrap until my eyes snap up, and I realize Max has turned and is heading straight for me. It’s too late to run without being obvious that I’m fleeing his approach. And, for some reason, I can’t make myself budge.

  He’s suddenly standing before me, hands shoved in the pockets of his tattered, knee-length cargo shorts.

  “Hey,” he begins quietly, waiting a beat before continuing, “Did you have fun today?”

  My eyes are darting between his gaze and the faces all around us. It’s so hard to look straight at him.

  “Yeah,” I say. “You?”

  He nods, barely a hint of a smile on his lips. �
��Yeah. We had a good time.”

  He looks away from me, for a moment, and shifts uncomfortably.

  I grasp for something else to say – something normal and light under this heavy shroud of unspoken feelings. It’s still there: the secret – the lie. It’s standing between us, like a cold, concrete wall, making it impossible to talk over. I can tell he still doesn’t know what to say to me. He can’t figure out how to make things better. It’s not his fault – but I can’t tell him that, either. I’m not sure I’ve ever felt so heartless.

  “Are you nervous about tomorrow?” I ask.

  Tomorrow morning, the full orchestra plays in their competition. The rest of us will all go to watch.

  He shrugs and a smirk appears. “Not as nervous as I am right now,” he quips.

  I can’t help it. This almost makes me smile, and a sharp laugh escapes my lips. Unfortunately, it sounds more like I’m choking.

  “Lord Stanley School Group!” A voice booms over the loudspeaker into the gift shop waiting area.

  He turns his head back towards where Hayden stands, any trace of his smile now disappeared.

  “I guess we better go in,” he says.

  “Yeah,” I agree.

  He takes a deep breath and turns away, walking in the opposite direction.

  “Serena!” Marianna’s voice calls from the other direction. “Come sit with us!”

  I stay rooted to the spot for a moment, trying to make sense of what just happened. The sight of him turning away from me is like a gaze from Medusa, leaving me as rigid as stone, but eventually, I respond to Marianna’s friendly overture with a smile and join them at their table.

  For the rest of the night, I am hyper-aware of where Max is at all times. I don’t know if I’m worried that he will approach me again, or if I’m silently begging him to do just that. Is it possible to just start again? Call out “From the top!” and begin the song over? It’s still so awkward. There are just too many things that need to be said. And I don’t know how to say them.

  It’s an early curfew tonight, and despite the time difference in our favour, I fall asleep instantly. I’m exhausted from the day – exhausted from thinking about Max.

  I wake up earlier than everyone else, restless, my throat feeling dry and prickly from the air conditioning. Managing to sneak away quietly, I make my way over to the restaurant to grab four coffees.

  When I open the door to our room, Emily and Grace squeal in delight. Vanessa is looking at me, her expression softened with sleep, a half smile under her tired eyes.

  “You’re awesome!” she says.

  Things may not be back to normal between us yet, but certainly the coffee offering helps. There’s a flurry of activity in the room, each of the girls maneuvering around the small space, trying to get in and out of the bathroom and get dressed before we rush out to meet the buses. As soon as I see Max standing in line, I can tell he’s nervous – or as nervous as Max gets about performing, anyway. His fingers twitch like a daddy long legs hurriedly dancing across the black pant legs of his band uniform.

  The buses drop us off at the back entrance to Hollywood Studios at The Premier Theatre. This is the auditorium where the full orchestras will play. We’ve arrived early so that our class can watch the first two performance groups before it’s their turn.

  It becomes immediately apparent that the competition is fierce. The first school is from somewhere in North Carolina. They’ve clearly brought their full orchestra, from all grades, whereas we’ve come with only our senior class. Up on stage, I count eight flutes. We have two.

  There’s only a short warm up and rehearsal allowed for each group. The twenty-minute performance is then followed by a critique and short lesson from the musical adjudicator. Today’s adjudicator is from the University of Michigan, with a name even I recognize. He is one of the reasons we came all the way to Florida instead of going to a competition closer to Vancouver. Having him evaluate a performance will be a big deal for some of the students here.

  The first school plays four different pieces. With all those flutes up there, they start with Tchaikovsky’s “Dance of the Reed Flutes” from the Nutcracker before moving onto Verdi’s Il Trovatore “Anvil Chorus”. The pieces are all very serious and intense. The next school, not quite as large as the first group, plays several show tunes, including Copland’s Our Town and Leonard Bernstein’s symphonic dance variations from West Side Story.

  Marianna and Lucy fidget beside me, and I can see the anxious thoughts crossing their faces, worrying if they will measure up. Emily told us just how worried Malik is about showcasing our group on Verdi’s “Vieni, o Guerriero Vindice” from Aida.

  Soon, it’s our turn, and our classmates file out of their seats to make their way to the warm up room. They are uncharacteristically quiet, attesting to the nerves coursing through them. It’s a feeling I know all too well. I wish Marianna and the others good luck. I can’t help but watch Max, his shoulders skimming above the group, moving to the side exit. At the last moment before passing through the doors, he turns, and our gazes meet. His lips don’t move, but there’s a flash of something in his eyes – surprise mixed with relief. I don’t look away this time, trying to wish him good luck somehow with only a lingering glance. Urged on by Boris, behind him, he finally breaks our connection and continues through the doorway with the others.

  When the lights finally dim for their turn, we watch them stride onto the stage to take their places. My heart is racing for them. It’s hard not to notice Max, even taller than his already enormous instrument. But my eyes are drawn to him, regardless. During the dissonant instrument tunings, I can see he’s fiddling with the double bass, still trying to get a feel for it. The competition supplies instruments that would have been far too cumbersome to transport – like the timpani, piano, drum kit, and double bass – so he’s dealing with a brief introduction to a new partner where he’s used to an intimate rapport with his own. Musicians develop a unique relationship with their instrument that is probably a lot like being the lead in a dance partnership. They become attune to its idiosyncrasies, respond to its subtle changes, and protect its safety. But it’s more than that. They know exactly what they need to do to coax out the best movements – or sounds in this case – how to hold it, where its vulnerabilities are, and how to nurture its beauty. Max seems like he’s on a first date with this bass – awkward and paying careful attention not to make any wrong moves with it. It makes me remember our first night out at the blues show, and that memory blossoms into a silent grin that seems to grow from the pit of my stomach.

  Our conductor walks to the front of the stage, and the announcements and applause follow. His stick declares their readiness and there’s an even more pronounced hush just before they launch into a Canadian composer’s overture. The beginning is strong, but I can hear their shakiness mid-piece, like nerves made audible through reeds and strings. In the short break between pieces, the orchestra shuffles their musical scores, and I notice Max’s disconcerted look. When they begin, I recognize it as the movie score piece with his solo in it.

  The violins begin pianissimo and crescendo towards the entry of the flutes and clarinets. The timpani drum roll then announces the break in the piece where the bass can be heard above all the rest. Max’s fingers wrap around the long slender neck of the bass, and he leans into it, gently persuading it to tell its tale – while hanging on its every word. My throat tightens, and I feel an itch crawling everywhere under my skin. His left forearm oscillates to create vibrato from the pizzicato of his opposite fingertips. His eyes close and his lips begin to curl up in pleasure, as though from the story he’s charmed from the curvaceous beauty in his arms. A flush of warmth fills my chest, but it’s quickly met with a flash of some unexplained irritation, as I wonder what secret lies beneath his smile. I’m so confused by this conflicting response. And then it hits me: I’m jealous. Not of his bass – not even of someone in particular – but I’m jealous of someone who might eventually trigg
er this reaction from Max – someone other than me.

  People begin applauding Max’s solo, and I quickly join in the clapping. Suddenly, an abrupt whisper startles me from behind.

  “Enjoying the bass player’s performance?” It’s the formal cadence I recognize – the one he uses to patronize others. I feel Vanessa’s sideways scrutiny, questioning from the seat to my right. She’s noticed Hayden’s brief encroachment over my shoulder. The heat crawls up my neck. I’m thankful that all other eyes seemingly remain fixed on the stage. I feel as though my embarrassment has coloured my cheeks in red like a child’s messy scribbling across the page. It must be written all over me: and Hayden’s read it there. The ache I feel for Max makes me shift in my seat. I want to reach out to him, then and there.

  When they arrive at the final piece, it’s there, in the Rossini Overture to The Barber of Seville, that the musicians really find each other, as my mom liked to say. When my mother first described to me how harmonies and melodies interconnect, she explained that performing music is about listening to one another. It’s about discovering both where we’ve been, and where we’re going – and finding the common path each heart is longing to travel. She’d tell me we needed to pay close attention to one another, or else risk moving at different speeds, and in disparate directions, straying from the path without the satisfaction of reaching our destination. Music is about the journey, she’d say, but it’s always about the journey we take together.

  My parents insisted that their areas of study were quite similar – theology and music. Each involved a quest for “a religious experience” to share with others. It’s that feeling of unity, the sharing of intense practices and love that can expand your heart, and bring tears of joy to your eyes. This swelling sense of connection with one another: that’s the magic of music. Great music, like unconditional love, unites souls and makes our spirits soar.