13. Emerson
THIRTEEN
EMERSON
Here goes nothing.
I burst through the double doors at the back of the classroom, just like Bryce suggested.
Except now it feels … ridiculous. Too loud.
Too extra. But I toss my nonexistent hair over my very real shoulder and stride down the steps toward the podium like I belong in one of the overproduced pop videos Bryce watches on his phone.
The students look up, confused but not exactly amused. One student actually snorts. Another mutters something under his breath. My pulse hammers.
“Hey, how’s it going? Hey, how are you?” I clap a young man on the shoulder, hold my hand up for a high-five, which another student reluctantly meets. “Glad you all made it.”
I can feel the crash coming. Abort mission. Go back to PowerPoint. Talk about Mozart’s patrons and call it a day.
But then I remember Bryce’s words—don’t half-ass it—so I swallow the embarrassment and keep marching.
“Beautiful day out, right? ”
A few scattered laughs. A woman near the front raises an eyebrow, amused. That’s a start.
I reach the podium and plant my feet, even though I want to run.
“I’m Dr. Emerson Grant,” I say, voice shaking just a little. “And today’s lecture begins with two subjects you probably never expected to hear together.”
I pause.
“Carly Rae Jepsen,” I say, then raise my hand dramatically. “And syphilis.”
Heads shoot up.
Someone in the back actually chokes on a drink.
I take a breath, the smallest bit of adrenaline kicking in. “What do these things have in common with Mozart, you may wonder? Stick with me.”
I nod to Will at the soundboard. The opening sax riff of “Run Away With Me” spills into the room. A few kids chuckle. I turn my hearing aid up, and I swear one of them whispers, “No way.”
I move away from the podium and start bobbing my head awkwardly, robot-style. “This is Carly Rae Jepsen,” I say. “This song is a modern miracle. It’s pure joy, bottled. Pop magic. And … now?—”
Will cues the layered track. A classical music piece slips into the beats of the song. “We have Mozart’s ‘Eine kleine Nachtmusik’ layered on top.”
Students move slightly in their seats. They can’t fight the rhythms.
Some blink. Some of them sit up straighter. One starts unconsciously tapping her pen against her desk in rhythm.
“Many of the themes in Miss Jepsen’s song can also be found in this piece by Mozart, which uses repetition to build on the beat. The first movement’s string sections and driving rhythm evoke a vibrant atmosphere. It’s a stylistic trick formalized in the Viennese Era, which we’ve been studying.”
A few heads nod.
“And the strings in Mozart’s piece?” I push my glasses up the bridge of my nose. “As the youth say, they slap.”
A student giggles. Another groans. I point to the one who groaned. “That was a fair response.”
Now I’m moving more, spinning on my heel—a move I stole from Bryce—and someone claps. I actually hear a clap.
A hand goes up. “Um … what does any of this have to do with syphilis?”
Bless you, brave student.
“I was hoping someone would ask that. Syphilis was rampant in Mozart’s time. Before antibiotics, late-stage infection often led to dementia. And some researchers argue that the neural degeneration might’ve influenced creative expression in composers like Mozart.”
The class listens, astonished, mouths agape, heads bopping.
They don’t realize that while Mozart’s piece is in G Major and Jepsen’s is in C Major, both utilize diatonic melodies and a 4/4 time signature, so naturally, they sync up.
Bryce was dancing to “Run Away With Me,” and the similarities were astounding.
Silence. But then someone near the front speaks.
“No way.”
“Way,” I reply. “Music history is messier than we pretend. And sometimes, incredibly human.”
The music plays on. A few heads start bobbing. Shoulders sway.
“You’ve been sitting for fifty minutes. Why don’t you get up and dance? Seriously. Your blood flow will thank you.”
At first, no one moves. Then a woman in a green hoodie shrugs and stands. Two of her friends join her. A guy from the back leaps out of his chair with an exaggerated shimmy .
The room cracks open.
They dance.
And so do I.
Even Will throws up his hands and joins us.
It’s not perfect, but it’s real. And for the first time since I started teaching here, I’m not the only one sweating.
I practically dance through the front door of the apartment later that afternoon.
After class, I was so inspired that I went back to my office and worked on my paper some more.
It was flowing out of me. Oddly enough, the weird angle I took for class gave me new ideas and concrete examples.
My coworkers came by, as word quickly spread about my banger of a lecture.
One of them even invited me to attend a picnic in the park this weekend, and I said I’d bring Bobo.
With Bobo, it’s always love at first sight—for everyone.
I immediately texted Bryce to make sure that was okay, and he replied with a heart emoji.
The weather outside might be gray and cloudy, but I’m all sunbeams and rainbows.
“Hello, gorgeous,” I burst through the front door with a big whoosh. But I don’t find my usual sunshine there.
Bryce sits by the fireplace, throwing pieces of paper into the empty nook.
“You know it’s customary to light a fire in one of those things,” I tell him.
He turns to me, his usually buoyant face droopy and dismal.
“What’s wrong? Is everything okay?” I ask.
Bobo plays with a chew toy in the corner, oblivious to his owner’s hurt.
“Oh, don’t mind me. My career is just a sad dumpster fire at the moment.” He throws another piece of paper in.
“What are those?”
“Old playbills from my productions. Guess I don’t need them anymore.” He raises one to toss, but I stop his hand.
“This sounds like a fun show. Don’t throw this out,” I say, reading the front page and taking a seat next to him. “What happened?”
“Another failed audition,” he says, hurt filling his voice. “I made it to the last round, too.”
“Oh Bryce. I’m sorry. Did they say why?” I asked.
“No. They never do. That’s show business—you get crapped on until you’re a big celebrity. Then you crap on others. It’s the circle of crap.” He extends his arms and lifts the playbill above his head. “And it moves us all.”
“Man, I’m really sorry. It’s their loss.”
“I know. But will I get the next one?” Bryce sighs. “There’s only so much rejection a person can take—in my career, my love life …”
“Well, hey. Who’s talking about rejection in your love life?” I say. “Anthony didn’t sound dependable. Leaving you and Bobo without notice? Not a stand-up guy.”
“It’s not just Anthony. It’s all of them.
They say they love me, then they bolt. I think I’ve hit my rejection threshold.
Maybe I should get one of those account manager jobs.
What does an account manager do? Manage accounts?
I can do that. I can say words like ‘Excel’ and ‘run it up the flagpole’ and ‘circle back.’”
I take his playbills, wipe them off, and put them in the plastic baggie on the floor. “We’re saving these.”
Bryce sighs. “What’s the point, Emerson?”
“This is just a setback,” I say. “Can I tell you about my day?”
Bryce raises an eyebrow. “You sure know how to read a room, but go ahead.”
“I promise I’m not being obtuse.” I sit back down next to him. “I had the best class of my career. The students were engaged, asking great questions, having fun—and it was all because of you. Your inane tips actually worked.”
“You got lucky. You would’ve figured it out on your own eventually,” Bryce mutters.
“No,” I insist. “Without your advice, I’d still be struggling. You turned things around for me. And you can turn things around for you too. All it takes is one audition.”
Bryce softens. “What’s gotten into you? Cheery, positive Emerson. It’s weird.”
“Well, this sour Bryce thing you have going on is weird too.”
We lock eyes. I smooth a loose lock of hair behind his ear, then pull my hand away as if I’ve touched a hot stove.
“For the first time since I’ve been here, I feel the power of the city—the excitement that luck can change in a New York minute.”
“God, you’re corny. But I’m listening,” Bryce says.
“There’ll be other stuff. You’ve got a place to stay for as long as I’m here. Don’t give up, because I was about to—and you didn’t let me. So, I’m not letting you.”
“It wasn’t even a good show.” He laughs. “It’s like getting rejected by an ugly guy you sleep with to improve your confidence.” He bites his lip. “Not like I know about that from personal experience.” A smirk pulls at his lips.
I’m not here to judge. I’m just happy that he’s more himself. The world makes more sense when he’s smiling.
It’s hot in here, and I pass Bryce’s bag to open the window. I spot an envelope with the Met logo peeking out from his bag.
“What’s that?” I ask.
“Oh, those are from work,” Bryce says. “I get comp tickets from time to time.” He shrugs. “But I never go. Only stuffy people go to the opera. You have to dress up.”
“Bryce,” I say. “You’re a fan of the arts!”
“I like Broadway,” he clarifies. “Opera’s different. It’s all in German.”
“And French. And well …” I grab the envelope and pull the tickets out. “Italian! This is Puccini’s Turandot . Even the name is beautiful.” I run my fingers through my beard. “It’s one of the best—gorgeous music. You’ll be transformed.”
“You really like opera?”
“Of course. And tonight, we’re going.”
“I don’t know.” Bryce hesitates. “If I wanted to get sung at by women with garish costumes and obscene cleavage, I’d just go to the drag show around the corner.”
Bryce deserves a night on the town. I doubt any boyfriend has taken him anywhere worthwhile, and he deserves better. “You, me. We’re going. Find something nice to wear. Or borrow something of mine.”
Bryce narrows his eyes. “Are you asking me on a date, Dr. Grant?”
I freeze. Nerves hit. Is this a date?
“It’s … friends cheering each other up,” I stammer.
Bryce smiles slightly, if a bit defeated. “I guess … you’ve twisted my arm.”
A mix of relief and disappointment swirl inside my chest, unsure if I’ve just dodged a bullet or missed a golden opportunity. Either way, I’m determined to make tonight special for Bryce.