Chapter 5 Harper #2
Anticipation buzzed in the small auditorium where the twelve of us sat in curved wooden rows, waiting for Ezra Wolfe’s grand entrance.
A child prodigy like Mozart, he’d toured Europe, then spent his teens and twenties drifting between major symphonies, never staying long.
Scandals and rumors hounded him; he’d vanish for years, only to reemerge to perform legendary performances and sold-out tours.
He had an elusive and almost mythical aura, and yet, Castle Hill Academy had somehow locked him down for one year.
Orion sat on the other side of the auditorium, me on the other, not looking at each other as the class waited for this legend to walk in the door, all of us holding our breath…
And then the back door to the auditorium door banged open, and Ezra Wolfe strode down the aisle like a giant in black. A cloud of strong liquor trailed after him, and a lot of cologne to cover it up.
The class stared.
He was shockingly handsome and young—late thirties—and tall, with disheveled chestnut hair.
I imagined a piano virtuoso in a suit, but Wolfe wore a unisex sort of outfit: a black pants-skirt combo, and a black silk shirt, the sleeves rolled up.
Black tattoos inked his forearms, his fingernails were painted black, and black leather bracelets were strapped to his wrists.
Silver spikes pierced his ears. Blue eyes regarded us like icy daggers but were bloodshot to hell.
Ezra Wolfe looked as if he hadn’t slept in days, and was either hungover or possibly still drunk.
“So here we are,” he said with a British accent, rougher than Orion’s but slightly gravelly and melodic. “Advanced Piano. I call you up, you play, we discuss. If I work one-on-one with someone, the rest of you fuck off to the practice rooms next door. Got it? Any questions? No? Good. Let’s begin.”
The students exchanged glances and a few nervous snickers.
Piano was something I’d always been good at.
Benevolent teachers and YouTube videos kept me sharp through the years, but it wasn’t anything I wanted to pursue seriously.
I just liked to play. But the students in this class obviously wanted to make a career of it.
They took their turn at the piano and poured their heart and soul into the keys.
But no matter who sat at that bench in front of Ezra Wolfe, his reaction was the same: bland, disinterested irritation.
He listened, unimpressed, without making a comment, except to bark, “Next!” when he’d heard enough.
Until Orion.
“Your piece?” Professor Wolfe asked.
“Rachmaninoff, Prelude in D Major,” Orion said.
The professor arched a brow at Rachmaninoff, and I thought it was either really brave or really stupid to choose something so difficult.
Maybe Orion, being the son of a Big Five family, had been given lessons as part of his pedigree—like foxhunting or yachting.
Not a serious musician. Certainly not Rachmaninoff serious.
Wolfe waved his hand. “Go,” he said, clearly not expecting anything that he hadn’t already heard from the rest of us.
And then Orion began to play, and any preconceived notions went up in flames.
Even to my unprofessional ear, Orion was different. In a different league. In a different stratosphere than the rest of us.
Firstly, he had no sheet music. He sat down, put his hands on the keys, and something astonishing poured out.
Rachmaninoff was known for being insanely hard, but this piece was softer, more emotional.
This was the composer like none of us had ever heard before.
Certainly not like Ezra Wolfe had ever heard before, because instead of bland disinterest, he stood straight, his head whipping to stare at Orion.
Orion, for his part, just played. He didn’t put on any fancy manners or flourishes, he just closed his eyes, and it seemed like he and the piano were one entity, channeling the composer’s spirit from 120 years ago and bringing it into the room.
“Stop, stop, stop,” Professor Wolfe said after a few moments. “Where did you learn to play like that?”
Orion shrugged, his fingers lingering on the keys as if he were becoming reacquainted. “I don’t know. That’s just how I play.”
Wolfe nodded, and then there was a silence where no one knew what to do next.
“Where is your sheet music?” the professor asked finally.
Orion’s shoulders hunched; I could see it from where I was sitting.
“I don’t have it.”
“You played from memory?”
“I play by ear, mostly,” Orion said.
I stared. Rachmaninoff by ear? Holy shit.
Wolfe wasn’t impressed. “Do you not know how to read music?”
The class stiffened as a group, tension running through us like an electric current. I felt my own cheeks redden on Orion’s behalf.
“I can read the notes,” Orion said. “But…it’s complicated.”
“What do you mean, it’s complicated?”
“Can we speak about this privately?” Orion asked in a low voice, but the auditorium was designed for sound to carry. We all heard every word.
Wolfe frowned as if the question made no sense. “Nothing spoken here is private,” he said to the class. “You, Orion, play with technical perfection but no feeling.”
I gasped. Audibly.
Wolfe pointed to another girl, Carla Salazar.
“That one,” Wolfe said. “She poured herself into her piece, but her metering and timing were absolute shite. Yet if I had to choose between terrible metering or passion, I would pick passion every day of the week. Can you not hear that, class? The void in Orion’s playing? The emptiness?”
The room was silent and cold as space. My hands felt like ice in my lap.
Wolfe paced, his own hands behind his back.
“The truly great pianists master the craft, and then they bleed into the music the way a writer bleeds into their words. The way an actor weeps over their lines, and if you think what I’m saying is melodramatic, or that I’m being a cruel bastard, then you can leave this class right now because you’re wasting my bloody fucking time. ”
More silence.
“Based on what I heard today, I’ll email individually assigned pieces that you will play for us next time. Practice and come back Monday.” Professor Wolfe waved a black-nailed hand. “I’m done with you. Go.”
The students gathered their things and walked out, exchanging stares and mouthing OMGs to each other. Orion strode out the fastest. I hurried to catch up.
“Orion, wait.”
Now it was his turn to stop and glare at me in the hallway, and it was almost heartbreaking to see him devoid of his smile, his humor… that twinkle in his eye.
“What?” he asked flatly.
“I just wanted to say that Wolfe is full of shit—”
“No, he’s not. He knows exactly what he’s talking about.”
I took a step back, shocked.
“What? Do you think you know everything about me because I’m rich?” Orion demanded. “Do you think it’s easy being me because of my last name?”
“I…I don’t know,” I managed. It was the most honest thing I could think to say.
“Hm.” Orion looked over my head at the crowded hallway full of students, thinking, then flashed me his smile. Like a mask or a habit. It didn’t touch his eyes, didn’t light them up at all. “Are you going to the big bonfire this weekend?”
I blinked at the hairpin change of subject. “Oh. I think so. Dean Yearwood mentioned—”
“Brilliant. Perhaps I’ll see you there.”
Then he turned and walked away.