Consent

by Nancy Ohlin

  “I ordered us some appetizers. For the main course I recommend the poulet rôti or the cassoulet. Poulet rôti is roast chicken, and cassoulet is . . . well, it’s this very nice sort of casserole from the south of France.”

  “I guess you’ve been here before, then?”

  “Actually, Annaliese brought me here to celebrate after my graduation. So I thought it would be appropriate to bring you here tonight.”

  “Oh!” I flush with pleasure. “That’s so . . . wow, thank you!”

  “You’re welcome.”

  After a few minutes the waiter brings us our entrées: raw oysters, scallops cooked in cream and cheese, and a little pot of chicken liver pâté with bread. I’ve had fancy food before, mostly at the Sorensons’, but not this fancy. I stare at the dishes, not knowing what I’m supposed to do with them exactly. Do I eat the oysters with a fork? Do I dip the bread in the pâté?

  The waiter also brings us a bottle of champagne with two glasses. He pours a small amount for Dane, who tastes it, nods, and says something in French.

  After the waiter leaves, Dane turns to me. “I’m sorry. I’m not sure why he brought two glasses. I ordered you some sparkling water; he’s bringing it now.”

  “What kind is champagne is it? The bottle’s really pretty.”

  “It’s from a vineyard in Ambonnay, which is a small town in northeastern France. My grandparents, my mother’s parents, had a house there; my grandmother was French. It’s where we used to spend many of our summer holidays.”

  “Can I have a tiny little sip?”

  “Um . . . all right, yes. Just a tiny little sip.”

  He pours me half a glass, and the bubbles make a quiet, pleasant hissing sound. I raise the glass to my lips. The bubbles tickle.

  “It tastes like very expensive grapes,” I remark.

  “Yes it does, doesn’t it? My father let me have my first glass of champagne when I was eleven. I remember thinking that it was perfectly dreadful.”

  I smile. “When did you decide it was good?”

  “My sixteenth birthday. I stole a couple of bottles from my parents’ cellar so I could get blotto with my mates.”

  “Did you get caught?”

  “Unfortunately, yes. My mum and dad kept very close tabs on me.”

  I take a bite of the cheesy scallops and wash it down with more champagne. I can’t believe I’m in New York City, having dinner with Dane in a French restaurant. “What was it like, growing up with famous musician parents and a famous musician sister? Is that why you decided to study piano?” I ask him.

  A strange expression clouds Dane’s face. “How did you—”

  Stupid, stupid. He doesn’t know that I looked him up.

  “I’m sorry . . . I didn’t mean to . . .” I set my fork and glass down, embarrassed. “I, um, Googled you. I was trying to find Annaliese’s name, back before you told me what it was. I happened to see this other stuff about you and your family and . . . I’m really sorry . . . Did I screw up? I screwed up, didn’t I?”

  “It’s fine, I understand.” He looks preoccupied as he pours more champagne into his glass. “My parents wanted my sister and me to become professional musicians, just like them. They started Lisette on voice lessons at an early age. With me, it was piano. I wanted to please them, so I worked hard and took to it quickly. They, along with my teacher at the time, Rafael Silva, entered me in all sorts of competitions and arranged recitals for me at all sorts of important venues. By the time I was a teenager, they had me on a fast track to becoming a concert pianist. Then, after grade eleven, I was accepted to Juilliard, and Annaliese became my teacher. She had just joined the faculty. After I graduated, though . . .” His voice trails off.

  “What?”

  “I moved back to London. I concertized a bit. I took on a few students. But I wasn’t happy.”

  “Why not?”

  Dane shrugs. “I wasn’t sure I wanted to be a professional musician. So eventually, I stopped concertizing. I traveled; I lived in Paris for a while; then I returned to the States. I taught music at a prep school. But that wasn’t right for me either. I was a bit lost, to tell you the truth.”

  “But how did you end up at A- . . . at Andrew Jackson?”

  “It was a favor for an old classmate. She called me and said she wanted to take some extra months off for her maternity leave. But the school, your school, was having a hard time finding a replacement. She asked if I knew anyone, and I thought, why not me? I didn’t have anything else going on, and I thought the change of scene might do me good.”

  “Wait, what? Mrs. Singh is your friend? And she went to Juilliard?”

  “Yes. She plays the viola, didn’t you know?” Dane downs his champagne. “But enough about me. Let’s talk about you.”

  I really, really want to ask him more personal questions. Like how his superstar parents feel about his being a sub at a middle-of-nowhere American high school. Or what he plans to do with the rest of his life. He’s such an incredible pianist; I can’t imagine him not being a professional musician.

  Also, what did he mean, lost? I thought only people like me felt that way.

  But I guess he’s done sharing for the night. “What do you want to know about me? My favorite color? Blue. My favorite dessert? Coffee ice cream with a big, huge swirl of whipped cream on top. My favorite composer? I have, like, six—no, seven—of them.”

  Dane laughs. “Actually, I want to know what you think of Juilliard.”

  “Are you serious? I loved it!”

  “You’re probably wondering what happens next, then.”

  “With what?”

  “With Annaliese. She and I spoke briefly after your meeting. She told me that she would be happy to have you as a student.”

  “Is that a good thing?”

  “It’s a fantastic thing. She only accepts one or two new people into her studio every year, if that.”

  I let this sink in for a moment. “Wow. Okay. So, how does that work?”

  “Well, to begin with, you will have to apply to Juilliard for next fall. That means filling out a lot of paperwork, making a prescreening recording, and so forth. I can help you with the recording. If you pass that stage, you will be asked to appear for a live audition, in March, I believe.”

  “A live audition? That sounds completely terrifying.”

  “Yes and no. The entire piano faculty will be there, including Annaliese. Afterward, she will indicate on a form that she would be willing to have you as a student in her studio. Some or all of the other piano faculty may do the same. Other things will happen that day—an interview, sight-reading, et cetera. Then your file goes to the admissions committee, and the final decision is up to them.”

  “Okay. Wow.”

  “If you wish to apply to other conservatories as well, I would suggest New England Conservatory, Curtis, Peabody, Manhattan School of Music. Possibly some other schools. I can recommend teachers at each of them. I’m happy to take you for visits too.” Dane adds, “Ultimately, you should pick your school based on whom you wish to study with. So if you want to study with Annaliese, you should aim for Juilliard. Do you want to study with Annaliese?”

  “Definitely, yes. Except . . .”

  “Except what?”

  I pick up my champagne glass. It’s empty. “Can we change the subject? I really just want to enjoy dinner and gab about random stuff, like movies or Mr. Yo-Yo Ma or why that woman over there is wearing a dead fox on her head. And maybe later, after I’m nice and drunk, I’ll tell you my life story.”

  “You are not going to get nice and drunk. I’m cutting you off.”

  But when I reach for the bottle, he doesn’t stop me.

  He’s definitely not acting like a teacher anymore.

  The waiter clears our plates and gives us more plates. The food looks amazing, but I’m not sure I can keep eating. There’s so much to process: Juilliard, prescreening recordings, live auditions. It’s like my very own version of Plum’s Golden Noteb
ook.

  But am I deluding myself? I’m deluding myself. Even if I could get into Juilliard, there’s no way I can go. Dad really would have a stroke, and Theo . . . well, he’d probably never speak to me again. Or he’d punch me in the face. Or all of the above.

  The sky is a dark, velvety blue. An autumn chill has descended on the evening. The woman with the fox hat holds hands with a guy who looks way too young to be her husband or boyfriend.

  I tip back my champagne. “Is there an ocean near here?” I ask Dane.

  “Yes, of course there’s an ocean near here. We’re on the East Coast. That’s the Atlantic.” He nods in some vague direction.

  “Can we go? Please?”

  “Can we go . . . to the ocean?”

  “Yes. I’ve never been.”

  “But we have a long drive ahead of us.”

  “I know. But can’t we stop at a beach on the way?”

  “I suppose so.”

  Apparently, I have decided to wander off the map.

  Apparently, so has he.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  After dinner Dane drives us to a place called Whiterock Beach. I’m not sure how long the drive takes—maybe an hour, maybe more. I am too busy admiring the scenery through my giddy champagne haze: the glittery lights, the neon signs, the grid of buildings packed one against the other across forever. At some point we drive over a bridge, and the landscape loosens, becomes more suburban.

  When we get to our destination, Dane parks the car on a street lined with colorful row houses. “It was a toss-up between Long Beach, Brighton Beach, Far Rockaway, and here,” he explains. “This place was always my favorite. My Juilliard mates and I used to come out here on weekends when we needed to get away.”

  “Get away from what?”

  “Practicing. The pressure. There’s something about the ocean that makes your problems seem very small and trivial.”

  “Like nature’s Valium?”

  He grins. “Yes, like nature’s Valium.”

  We leave the car and follow a sandy, grassy path. The air is cool and salty and intoxicating. My shoes—my one good pair of shoes, with the black patent leather and sensible heels—sink softly as I walk. As we near the beach, I can hear the waves rolling in.

  “Watch your step,” Dane says, holding my elbow.

  We seem to be the only people around. “Are we allowed to be here?”

  “Yes, it’s fine. It’s a public beach.”

  We climb a small embankment, and as we come down the other side, there it is. The ocean—finally, at last. It is endless and dark, stretching from here to beyond. The waves lap against the shore with a steady, then not-steady rhythm that is at once jarring and hypnotic.

  “I can’t believe I’m here,” I whisper.

  “I gather you like the ocean?”

  “Not just like. This has been my . . . I’ve wanted to see the ocean, any ocean, ever since I can remember.”

  “So your family didn’t go on beach holidays?”

  “My family didn’t, doesn’t, go on any holidays. Except to fly out to Arizona to visit my grandma once in a while.”

  He doesn’t say anything. Instead, he drapes his arm around my shoulder, and we walk toward the water together.

  “Can I take off my shoes?” I ask.

  “Yes, you can take off your shoes.”

  “Turn around.”

  “What?”

  “Turn around. Please.”

  He does so, and I quickly remove my heels and panty hose. Then I hoist up the hem of my dress and run into the waves.

  The hit of cold makes me shriek and giggle simultaneously.

  “Are you all right?” Dane calls out.

  “Yes, I’m great! You should come in!”

  He hesitates for a moment before taking off his own shoes and socks and rolling up his pants. He steps tentatively into the water and makes a face.

  “How on earth can you stand this temperature?”

  “Wow, you are such a wuss.”

  He kicks water at me. I kick water back at him.

  “All right, stop that now. I’m completely drenched,” he orders me.

  “You started it!”

  We stop splashing and catch our breath. A tiny boat appears out of nowhere and drifts slowly across the horizon, its red sidelight blinking on and off.

  Then fast-forward . . . and Dane and I are standing side by side, our hands brushing lightly against each other. How did that happen? Is ocean-time different, less linear? Or maybe everything seems less linear after drinking champagne.

  I swoon a little, and he grabs my wrist.

  “Are you all right?”

  “Yes. Are you?”

  “Yes. Beatrice, can I ask you something?”

  “Hmm.”

  “Has your father forbidden you to go to Juilliard? Because it’s where your mother went?”

  “Um . . .” I drop my gaze. In the moonlight I can see the faint traces of the last pedi Plum gave me, which alternates pink, purple, pink, purple. I wonder what she’s doing right now? She hasn’t texted me in a while. Also, I think my phone battery may have died.

  “I understand that the memories may be painful for him. Losing someone you love . . . it’s . . . Still, I would think he would be proud that you’re a pianist, that you’re carrying on her tradition,” Dane continues.

  Maybe I should have gone to Boston with Plum after all. Fake-smiling my way through all those college tours, acting like I really wanted to be there . . .

  “Also, and not to be insensitive to your father’s feelings, but . . . you are an adult, or you will be soon. You should be able to choose your profession and what college you go to. And if you’re concerned that he won’t pay for a conservatory education for you, well, there are scholarships we can look into—”

  “Mismatched earrings,” I cut in.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Mismatched earrings. Like, one silver and one gold. Or one heart and one moon. That was my mom’s pre-performance ritual. She thought it was good luck to wear them. That’s what my grandma told me, anyway.”

  Dane’s gaze shift to my ears. He reaches out and touches the right ear, then the left. “One diamond and one emerald,” he notes.

  His cool fingers on my earlobes make me dizzy with pleasure. I want him to keep touching me like that. “One faux diamond and one faux emerald. See, I know French,” I murmur.

  “I can’t tell that they’re fake. You look beautiful in them.”

  “Oh!”

  His hand drops to my cheek and caresses it. “Beatrice, I want so much to help you. Please let me help you.”

  He is so earnest and caring and kind. I don’t know what to say. Besides Grandma Min, he is the only one who has ever encouraged me to pursue my dream.

  Also, I think I’m falling for him.

  Overcome with emotion, I lean my head against his chest. His cashmere sweater is as soft as I imagined it would be, and I want to lose myself in it.

  In response Dane wraps his arms around me and holds me close. It feels . . . perfect. Meant to be. We stand like this for a long time, listening to the ocean.

  And then I tip my head up, and his lips are right there, first pressing against my hair, then my forehead, then my eyelids, then my lips. He kisses me . . . I kiss him back . . . we are kissing. Oh my God, we are kissing. We are tentative at first, and then more urgent, as though we have to fit everything, all of this, into a few precious seconds.

  His mouth tastes warm and sweet and slightly salty. His body envelops mine as his hands find the low curve of my back and pull me closer . . . closer.

  He pushes away abruptly. “We can’t.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you’re . . . Listen, love, this can’t happen.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I could get into a lot of trouble. Come on, I’m taking you home.”

  But he doesn’t move, and neither do I. I reach out and trail my fingers down his arm. I have no idea what I�
�m doing or where this is going, but it really doesn’t matter. When his lips find mine again, I surrender completely.

  “We should—,” he whispers.

  “Yes,” I whisper back.

  He takes my hand and leads me to his car.

  TWENTY-NINE

  We go to the Whiterock Motel, which is down the street from the beach. I wait in the car while Dane registers us at the front office.

  While he’s gone, I fluff my hair in the rearview mirror. My eyes are bright, and my cheeks are flushed. I can’t believe this is happening. I’ve thought about him and wanted him for so long, and now, finally . . .

  He slides into the driver’s seat and hands me a plastic card.

  “What’s this?” I ask.

  “It’s the key to your room. It’s next to mine.”

  “Two rooms? But I thought—”

  “I know, but . . . you need your sleep.”

  “I don’t want to sleep.”

  “Neither do I. But it’s best this way. Come on, I’ll show you to your room.”

  “But, Dane!”

  “Please, Beatrice. We can talk about this in the morning.”

  Confused, I scoop up my backpack, which contains my sheet music, wallet, and a few other random items. My only clothes are the outfit I’m wearing and my jacket. Dane is already out of the car, hands stuffed in pockets, striding across the nearly empty parking lot with his messenger bag.

  I catch up to him, and we walk in silence to the end of the one-story building that has palm trees painted on it. A sliver of ocean gleams dully in the distance. Across the street are a forlorn-looking diner and a drugstore, both with OPEN signs.

  I follow Dane to a turquoise door marked 18. He stands aside as I insert the plastic card in a slit above the doorknob. Nothing happens.

  “Here, allow me.” Dane takes the card from me and inserts it. The door makes a click, and he pushes it open.

  He waves me inside but remains stoically in the doorway. “I’ll see you in the morning. We can have breakfast at that diner over there before we head for home. Make sure you call or text your father and let him know you’ve been . . . delayed.”

  Dane doesn’t know that Dad thinks I’m in Boston until Monday.